Afraid to risk the important hidden items from being stolen, he fused the car locks with his hand. Now if anyone tried to break into the flashy car, they would have to do it by smashing the window or cutting through the cloth roof. And let's assume the people strolling on the streets of Roswell would be Good Samaritans and stop the thief before he got in.
Leaving the car behind, Michael went into Garrison's.
«Where do you keep your rope?» he asked, grabbing the first employee he saw as he stepped into the store.
Naturally, it was the only store employee, since the place was both owned and run by the somewhat Elderly Old Man Garrison. The nickname wasn't an insult, as the man wore it like a badge of honor, preferring to go by the
title Elderly Old Man without believing the phrase to be even remotely redundant.
He was one of the oldest living residents of Roswell, and as such acted even older than his true age out of a desire to be treated like the oldest living resident in Roswell. It was rather unfortunate for Michael that Elderly Old Man Garrison was in one of his more eccentric moods when he woke up that morning and was apparently planning to stay that way for the rest of the day.
«What kind of rope?» Garrison asked.
«Rope," Michael said, wondering why he had even bothered to ask. The place was one of the smaller stores on Roswell's main drag. It wasn't like it would have taken him hours to find the item he was looking for on his own.
«Well, what do you want to do with the rope?» Elderly Old Man Garrison asked. «Different kinds of jobs take different kinds of ropes.»
«Right now, I'm thinking of a hanging," Michael suggested.
Elderly Old Man Garrison's laughter turned into a wheezing attack. Granted, he wasn't actually having a real breathing problem, it was all just part of the act.
I hate these quaint colorful small-town characters, Michael thought. Why couldn't ours have been the set of pods that was transported to New York? At least there the crazies are actually crazy-Garrison recovered from his false asthma attack and set into his routine. «Now, for small jobs, you can use some twine or maybe even some fishing line. Fishing line is good because it's strong but lightweight. Now, we don't actually carry fishing line, but we do have twine-"
«Listen, Old Man-"
«That's Elderly Old Man, sonny.» He was having the most fun he had had in a long time. His favorite playmates were the kids who never seemed to have any interest in playing along.
Michael lamented the fact that he had not brought Maria along, because she was much better suited to handle these types of characters. In many ways, she is one of these types of characters, he thought.
«Sir," Michael stressed the word, which apparently impressed the Elderly Old Man. «I'm in a bit of a hurry, so please either tell me where the rope is or I will have to take my business elsewhere.»
Never one to let his fun get in the way of turning a profit, Garrison pointed Michael in the right direction. «Aisle three, sonny. And you let me know if you need any help.»
«Sure," Michael said, having absolutely no intention to ask even if he had to climb the shelves himself to reach, what he was looking for.
Hurrying down aisle three, Michael found a huge collection of rope of all different varieties. Good thing I cut the old man off, he thought, or we'd be here all afternoon.
Grabbing a bag of fifty-foot-long, one-inch-wide rope off the shelf, Michael hurried back to make his purchase. He had taken too much time in getting the first items on his list and he could already hear Maria complaining about his disappearance. He didn't need to take any longer.
For once the delay wasn't Michael's fault. If Kyle could learn to fill his car with gas once in a while, he cursed his friend one more time. Michael had considered just driving
along without any gas in the car. It was possible to do that with his powers, but it didn't really do nice things to the engine. Instead, Michael had to use his powers to push the car to a gas station for a fill-up.
Luckily, he only had one more stop on the list before he could head back to Isabel's side. Of course, he still had to have another run-in with Elderly Old Man Garrison at the checkout.
«Found that rope?» Elderly asked the obvious as Michael dropped his purchase on the counter in front of him.
«Yes.» Michael decided to keep his answers short and sweet.
Apparently where money was concerned, Elderly Old Man Garrison was just as happy to keep the transaction quick and efficient, and Michael easily paid for the items and rushed out of the store.
«Come back soon," the store owner hollered with a wave.
Ignoring the man, Michael continued walking down the Roswell main shopping district to a store called The Pottery Place. The store window was full of more knick-knacks and dust collectors than he ever imagined anyone could possibly need. Quite frankly, he had never expected to see the inside of the store in his lifetime in Roswell, but he had certainly done stranger things in the unending quest to combat strange alien phenomena.
Bracing himself for the smell of potpourri and the sounds of wind chimes, Michael entered the curiosity shop. The things I do for my friends, was the last thing he thought before the kitsch overwhelmed him.
If Michael had taken just a few more seconds to prepare himself before entering the store, he would have run into Jim Valenti coming out of Moby Disc, the music store attached to The Pottery Place. Valenti was carrying a bag full of sheet music and a hastily purchased guitar, still humming the same happy tune that had been stuck in his head all day.
Loading the items into his SUV, Valenti checked to confirm that his earlier purchases were still on the front seat, then pulled out onto the street. He drove his car through town, passing the Evanses' home, entirely unaware of the drama going on inside involving his son and his friends. Continuing several blocks over, he pulled up in front of a house with the garage wide open.
As he got out of his SUV, Valenti heard familiar music coming from the garage that, not so coincidentally, happened to be the very same tune he had been humming for the better part of the morning. Good, they started without me, he thought as he pulled his bags and his new guitar out of the vehicle.
From the open garage, the band saw him walking up the drive and stopped playing their song. The three remaining members of the group formerly known as The Whits looked at one another with a growing sense of anticipation.
«Sorry I'm late, fellas.» Valenti entered the garage, carefully setting down his guitar. «I rode out to a music store in Hondo first thing this morning. Had to pick up some sheet music I'd special ordered. There are some really great rockabilly tunes in here.» He held up one of his bags.
«Rockabilly?» the drummer, Chris, sounded skeptical.
«We're really more of an alternative band," Marcus, the rhythm guy, added. «Kind of a younger sound.» He had stressed the word younger when he said it.
«I know, I know," Valenti said. «But you have to try these songs. I promise you, it will be a great new sound for us.»
Chris and Marcus looked to their new leader, Mickey, silently willing him to have the conversation they had previously talked about that morning. Being trained in detective work, Valenti caught the glares and started putting things together. It wasn't a difficult case to crack.
«Is something wrong, Mickey?» he asked.
«Can you guys give us a second?» the lead guitarist asked his other band members.
Without another word, Chris and Marcus fled the garage.
«Let me guess.» Valenti saved the teen from the difficult job he had been left to do. «It's not working out.»
«Look, Sheriff-"
«Jim," he corrected the boy. «I haven't been a sheriff for over five months now.»
Mickey was uncomfortable calling him by his first name. «Mr. Valenti, the guys and I have been having a great time the past few days. I mean, all the jamming we've been doing has really been fun.»