“There’s something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about,” Breetcha said without fanfare despite the glistening trumpet in her fist. She seemed nervous.

Grimes didn’t look up from the biblerix. It wasn’t working today and this was the last thing he needed. “Uh huh. What’s that?”

Breetcha blinked, then proceeded with a sigh that had been rehearsed in the studio. “I'm worried you're getting bored of me.”


Grimes paused in his work. His work on the biblierixr. Which was not working because Breetcha had broken it. He looked at her. “Honey. Can we talk about this later? I'm fixing the blibliejrex.”

“Sometimes I feel like you see right through me.”


“Sorry, honey. Can we talk about it another time? Working on the bibiliierx here.” He pointed to the collection of parts at his feet. His dark hair was wrapped in a hood to prevent accidents.

Breetcha sighed again, and this time it was unrehearsed. That bothered her like a busted bone. “Okay.” These things never went the way they were supposed to. "Maybe later then."


Grimes and Breetcha Almanicky lived in Parston, CA, a small suburban town famous for its pine trees and nothing else. The “Parston Pines” were a tourist attraction, emblazoned on the license plates and town welcome signs, and Grimes saw the opportunity to capitalize on it. That’s what he liked, exploiting nature and making money doing it. He himself wasn’t good at it because he had no mind for the work involved. He’d been told all his life he was a ferocious intellect and then developed an angry attitude because he saw others succeeding before him.


As a result he invented the bilbirlifex, a long device that accomplished everything he claimed it would, and more. Parston residents loved him for it and granted him a small celebrity status for his contribution to the town's tourism industry. He’d made a bilbieirehx for Breetcha just to show her he could, but didn’t tell her how to use it because he secretly wanted no one else to have his knowledge, so she discarded the incomprehensible mess. 


Grimes fancied himself a scientist but in Parston there ain’t much use for them kindsa folk so it was more a quiet pipe dream than anything. He was an inn manager down the street. His younger brother Miller worked in Pasadena at the Jet Propulsion Lab, doing big things for big people. That was how Grimes thought of it: his younger brother worked FOR people, not the other way around. At least he wasn’t married. He wasn’t even seeing anybody as far as Grimes knew. Grimes still had that distinction to himself. Miller didn’t have EVERYTHING!!

“Your brother stopped by yesterday,” Breetcha continued, unwilling to end the conversation but equally unwilling to make it interesting.


“Uh huh.” Grimes resumed his work and dialed his wife down to a mere sound blip, a sound all married men loved.


“Seems he’s been fixin’ to move back to Parston or somethin’, I dunno.” Breetcha fidgeted with her fidgets. She was proud of her collection of fidgets and was astonished to discover they could fetch a handsome price in the city. That was ages ago of course, back when fidgets were new and exciting. “I dunno, Grimes, might be nice to have an extra hand ‘round here, huh, what with the bibileriex breakin’ and the winter comin'?”


Grimes pulled his protective goggles back and looked at his wife. He gave her a look that said, “About when was he thinking of moving back to Parston? What, his glamor business in LA starting to buckle under the pressure?” That was an old joke of theirs that they shared frequently. Breetcha didn’t pick up on it this time for some reason.


“Oh nothing of the sort,” replied Breetcha, donning the matter-of-fact tone she’d purchased at the mall yesterday. “He mentioned it in passing, off the cuff, really, at dinner yesterday.”

“Mm.” Parston was not far from Pasadena so Miller visited them once in a while. Grimes had not been at dinner because he’d been out playing with the biblierielx. He usually did that during dinner and missed the last three thousand dates because of it. He just didn’t want to see “the lil bro” but couldn't articulate it. He wiped sweat from his eyes. “You think he was serious?”

“I think so.”

“Maybe I should call him?”

“I told him you would.”

Grimes blinked. “You did? When?”

“Yesterday at dinner. You would know if —”

“Honey, you know the biblieriex is broken.” Grimes sighed in exasperation. How many times… “How can I talk to him when this thing is still on the fritzy fritz?”

“Well I don’t know! Look, is something wrong?”

“Yeah the GOD DAMN BILBERIEEX IS BROKEN!!!!” Grimes screamed with the force of a gale. Nearby windows rattled and concerned birds outside called to their fragile, unfortunate young. Breetcha cringed. He gathered himself and then continued. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”

“No, it’s okay. Look, I’ll leave you to your work.”

“Thanks. We can sort this out in the morning.” Breetcha left. Grimes nodded and sipped his morning coffee. Then he nodded again. Sipped more coffee. Nodded. Finished his coffee. He continued nodding for five more minutes, enjoying the swaying, swan-like movement he imagined his neck made. Then he went back to his work. How was he going to fix this thing? He laughed, but not because it was funny. Grimes cared about his place in the world and the imprint he would leave on it. That’s why he’d created the biblierilx, but if it was broken for good what had he done with his life?

As he worked, his mind wandered. It was not necessary to focus entirely on repairing the bileirierx. Many of the tasks were automated, of course, and self-adjusting. He only had to supervise the patterns. If it went asynchronous, the command terminal would output the appropriate logs. He thought about Breetcha, and how his life might have gone if he hadn’t married her, and what sort of opportunities would be open to him. He’d been thinking about that more often lately. Instead of shutting down those emotions and wayward thoughts like he used to he lived with them now. Played out small fantasies of alternate lives where he made stronger decisions, took better action, said what he felt and felt what he said. If he could fight the impulse to shrink into the background he could turn his life around. Add some excitement. A little uncertainty. Like the real people. In Pasadena. And he could make progress with Marsha, whatever that entailed.

Grimes and Marsha. She was a friend but was she really? Just seeing his and her names written down like that sent his thoughts down wistful electric corridors. Maybe their names would share a mailbox, or an envelope, or a lease agreement. Something that bound those names, and the people behind them, to one another. Sometimes he would write the two names down and rearrange the letters to form an anagram that might describe the relationship they could have. G-R-I-M-E-S-M-A-R-S-H-A. Nothing meaningful ever came to mind so he would use their initials instead to create a short adjective.

Like so: Grimes Almanicky & Marsha Eames. G-A-M-E. Grimes's breath quickened at the revelation.


He’d known Marsha for a short time but an intense one-sided passion had erupted since her father had died. Her presence turned his thoughts into a heady pink mist. They’d been spending more time together and it affected even his dreams. She once laughed at his joke and he still replayed it, three weeks later, reveling. Grimes's biggest fear nowadays was that Marsha felt nothing for him. He'd never known such devastating anxiety. He could not stand to have his fantasy punctured. He would not allow it. He would destroy the friendship before admitting this feeling consumed his waking moments.

“Grimes?”

He jerked and blasted the back of his head on one of the biblieriliex’s truculators. “Ah god DAMMIT, WHAT?”

“Are you okay in there?”

“I’m fine, why?” He was seething. He seethed. He felt alive. The pain in his skull sent red rivers into his vision.

“It’s been quiet down there. Just checking on you.”

He didn't respond. Grimes rubbed his head like a carpenter on cocaine. He could use some cocaine. He’d never done it but he knew it would make repairing the biriblerlix a breeze. Something about its chemical makeup and interaction with the brain made it the ideal substance for bilierilxer-related repairs. Grimes studied drugs in his spare time and understood nothing of what he read. Still, it made arguments fun. As long as he won those arguments it was fine.

“Rain’s on the way,” Breetcha offered plaintively, suggesting a pain in her voice that was absent from her words. Grimes would not pick up on it. He was sick of this marriage, and maybe Breetcha was too.

“Yeah I heard,” replied Grimes in a toneless manner. Wonder if the kids are excited? They didn’t have kids but Grimes imagined they did every so often, such as now. Are kids excited by rain? No idea. He had no memories of his youth.

There were times when Grimes wished Breetcha would get cancer and die. The husband who stands by his ill wife is a martyr, you know? He's a selfless hero. After it was over people would treat him differently, give him a greater latitude, respect him for sticking by her to the end. Marsha would open up to him, and he would have a better reason than unfocused desperation to reach out to her more often. You can't turn down a grieving husband. Come on over, Grimes, of course, need a drink?

The biblierix blinked and whirred. That was a good sign. It was coming online, and not a moment too soon; he would need it later.