The Imagination Resettlement Program

Abstract

The Imagination Resettlement Program Eli Barrett The first one I saw was a tiger with golden stripes—shiny gold, like metal—breathing fire in my front yard, scorching the hell out of my Bermuda grass. I still don't know where that thing came from, maybe a folk tale or a kid's cartoon. All I know is it scared the bejeezus out of me. I hunkered down in my house for days afterward, watching the news. At first, no one could figure out where all these strange creations were coming from. Then they started finding famous ones, like Tarzan and Tom Thumb, until finally a government spokesman came on and told us that centuries of creating characters had caused a crisis. The world of imagination was overpopulated and overflowing. The displaced characters had to live somewhere, and the government thought it would give the economy a boost to pay people to board them in their homes. For years I'd been scraping by on disability checks, so in spite of that bad brush with the tiger, I decided to apply to the program. Some people got lucky. Imagine having Winnie-the-Pooh living in your house! Or Cinderella! I got Mary. She was a simple advertising character, but she turned out to be better than any fairy tale princess around. They dropped her off on a chilly morning. She must have been freezing, because with my bad leg it took me a long minute to walk to the door. There was an icy sort of rain falling, like frozen sand, and it glistened all over her coat and blonde hair. "I'm Mary," she said, "the bridal detective." "I'm Carl," I said. Normally I have the manners to welcome someone to my home, even though I haven't had visitors for a while. With her, I couldn't get the words out at first. I kept thinking, What the hell is a bridal detective? Maybe I motioned for her to come in, because she stepped inside and handed me her coat. Underneath, she was wearing a strapless silk dress with a brooch shaped like two church bells. She held out her hand, and when I touched it, it was warm despite the cold. When she smiled, it was the most perfect thing I'd seen in a long time. Like every other day for the last four months, Mary makes lunch while I watch TV. It's deviled eggs again. Most of her cooking is finger food and has gotten repetitive, but I don't mind. She lays a napkin on my lap and sets the tray beside me. I ask her to stay and talk. Nothing is on TV except boring documentaries anyway. "Do you want to see the gown you bought me?" she asks. She twirls around, her new dress swishing around her legs. "It's perfect for a semi-formal rehearsal dinner." I chew an egg and watch her pose with her hands on her hips. "It's gorgeous," I tell her. Not long after she moved in, I went to a bookstore in town and sat down with a stack of bridal magazines, trying to find where she came from. They were all on the factual straight-and-narrow by then—real brides telling real stories, painfully dull ones at that. Then a few weeks later, I was in a thrift store that sold old magazines for a dime apiece. I dug through them until I found her. She was in a half-page ad for a traveling bridal show, wearing the clothes she'd come to me in. Under her outstretched hand was a list [End Page 51] of cities and dates. "I'm Mary the bridal detective," the tagline read. "I search for the best deals in bridal fashions." I stared at that page until I noticed damp spots were pimpling the paper. "Maybe soon we can go shopping for a wedding dress," she says. "The new collections are out now." The house could've surely used a little feminine touch, but since she's arrived, it's been more than just a touch. The windows have silk curtains, the tables have...