Gnome and Unknown Stockholm Syndrome

Shelly and I plopped down in the front room at the boarding house. We were exhausted and just back from our first day on the job. Covered in sweat and grime, we were now experts at picking up trash along the freeway for minimum wage. We started our new careers hung over from a night of drinking Wild Turkey. What a way to live! We were two college-grad losers both pushing forty. What a way to die... I predicted one of us would be smashed by a semi-truck on the interstate.

Shell, with his beaked nose and thinning hair, was fidgety and fat. I wasn't exactly the model of fitness either, but I could still hold my own in pick-up basketball game.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" I pressed him and walked over to the fridge for a cold beer.

"Two things... One: I got to take a big shit... Two: I swear to Christ there’s something living in the walls."

I laughed, saying shouldn’t taking a shit be number 2. He shot me a cold look.

Shell stormed into the can and I could hear him grunt. "This is a man’s true catharsis. The best novels were written in the crapper. You should start writing more in here," he hollered through the door. "I think Crime and Punishment was written that way."

I was always open to new avenues to inspire my writing. I was about to reply when I heard a noise on the other side of the wall. "What the fuck is that?"

Shell ran out of the bathroom, his pants dangling from his knees. "You see, you just heard it too. Something’s in there."

"First, pull up your drawers, dude. And second, it’s probably a rat or some rodent. We live in Cleveland, you know," I said sardonically.

"Sorry, I'm forgetful. Einstein was forgetful, too. He forgot to wear socks. I forget to pull up my drawers. Anyhow, a rat has four feet, this thing has two feet, I swear, I’ve been listening to the walls for the last week and a half."

I pictured Shell with his ear to the wall and bottle of beer in his hand. What a ridiculous way to spend one's time! But what the hell, I thought, and I put my ear to wall.

Nothing.

"You have to wait, it is not going to happen until we’re quiet."

I was sucked in. Five hours later, and a lot drunker, I was about to call the whole thing off. Then the pitter patter of little feet, I heard it inside the walls.

"What the fuck?" I mouthed to Shell.

"Believe me now," he whispered back.

Whatever it was, we had to catch it. Build the perfect mousetrap, so to speak, we did. Shell had this idea of sticking a hose in one vent and blasting water inside. We’d remove another vent and whatever it was would be forced out.

Little feet and a big blast of water… A 3-foot-tall gnome rolled out of the vent and onto the kitchen floor. The little guy was sopping wet. He had one of those red caps on and green tights. We both stood up in shock.

"That fucker has been living in the walls… Jesus," Shell said, having a nervous fit.

My eyes were wide like a fish’s. The gnome tried to run and slipped past Shell. I dived and tackled him in the hall. I screamed for Shell to get something so we could hold the gnome. He brought out a blanket.

"What are we going to do with that?" I asked as the gnome kicked and clawed for freedom.

"Roll him up like a burrito."

An hour later, I was taking a real big swig of whiskey and Shell was drinking hard too. We were in the living room staring at this gnome wrapped up in a blanket Shell's great aunt Mable had sewn.

"No one will believe us," Shell said. "Who is going to believe we captured a real gnome. They don’t even exist!"

"What do you mean they don’t exist? We’ve got one right here…" I shot back.

The gnome was silent. He stopped trying to escape and was seemingly resigned to his fate. He had a white beard and grayish eyes. The words that came from him were incomprehensible to us.

"I can’t understand him," I said. "But I'm going to make sure he isn't going anywhere." I tied his ankle to the couch.

"He’s talking gnome, duh. I think gnomes talk in Danish… We could call the library and see if they have a book about talking in Danish," Shell insisted.

"How do you figure he talks in Danish? I never read that in any fairy tale."

"All the fairy tales come from over there, my uncle Maury knows all kinds of stuff…" Shell proclaimed.

"Just like he knew which horse would be the winner and we blew a grand at the track," I said in disgust, dredging up a bad memory.

"Let bygones be bygones. I’m going outside to the pay phone to call the library."

I guarded the gnome, listening to his gibberish – his Danish - whichever. Shell returned with a big grin on his face. "Hey, the library has these tapes that teach Danish people to talk English. We can play them all night and he’ll learn to talk to us."

OK, it seemed plausible, if in fact the gnome spoke Danish. Otherwise, another colossal waste of time. We left the tapes playing all day. When we came back from the job, he’d escaped from the blanket but his ankle was still tied to the couch. He had the TV on and was watching one of those raunchy talk shows.

"Let me go, you sons-of-bitches," he yelled. "Your mother was a whore and your father was a hamster."

"Shit, he learned perfect English," Shell said, happy that his theory had been proven correct.

I was overwhelmed and grabbed a cold one.

"You can’t keep me like this… it’s illegal," the gnome groaned and cast supercilious eyes upon me.

Shell and I discussed all possibilities of keeping this gnome. We could make him clean the house and do other chores.

"I can hear you assholes talking. I’m only 3-feet-tall. I will suck at cleaning. I can’t reach any major appliances, and my legs are too short to be good on a ladder. Plus slavery is illegal. I know it is. You can’t kidnap me. I’m going to call the cops."

Everybody thinks they have rights, I thought to myself. And this little shit had an annoying way of letting us know about them. Neither Shell nor I wanted an international incident. I could already see this gnome demanding representation from the Danish consulate.

We crafted a compromise. The gnome would have to paint the walls and when he was done, we'd set him free. This took about a week, but the gnome didn't want to go once he was finished. He was pleading to stay, getting on his hands and knees. I hated seeing that kind of begging.

"It's Stockholm syndrome," Shelly said in between stuffing a sub sandwich down his throat.

"Now he's Swedish?" I asked.

"No, it's when a captive develops an attachment for his captors."

Well, neither of us knew what to do. And they say once you touch something from the wild, it can't go back. So we let the gnome stay under the condition he gets a job. The keen little bastard was a Dunkin Donuts assistant manager in no time. I didn't mind a fresh dozen donuts and warm coffee every morning. We all sat around the TV watching the morning news. We talked about heading up to Windsor to gamble and to meet chicks.

That's how we got through life. All talk... Fantasies... Little people with big plans. Things couldn't stay this chummy forever. I knew that the Stockholm syndrome would get old. Sooner or later the gnome would start making demands, wanting a pint-sized toilet and a miniature bed, that type of deal. Shell would see it and get prissy, too. Now that would be hell! Suspicions, accusations and tensions... But for now we had peace.

I took Shell's advice and slipped into the writing studio. Cracking open a cold one, I wondered: Did Doestoevsky have a gnome and a broke buddy around all day to inspire him? My mind wandered. Would I be punished for my crimes? If so, I'd like to be executed by firing squad. No blindfold or cigarette. I'd spit on the ground and say, "Viva Denmark."

Just before I could die as a hero, my daydream was interrupted. Shell and the gnome dragged me into the living room. They told me to peak through the curtains. Shit, there was Don Rumsfeld standing in the front yard with a clipboard. He was reading meters for the gas company. How the mighty have fallen! I knew we owed on our bill, but I didn't know how much. That was a known unknown.

Well, an hour later all four of us were on the basketball court. Me and Rumy versus Shell and the gnome. In between my three-point jumpers, Rumy was telling us how his new crusade was to rid the world of bad pop music.

"Boys, I'm tough on Cher," he said, looking really fucking serious.

Shell and I excused ourselves to a bar. We agreed never to fuck with gnomes or a former Secretary of Defense. That mix is bad Instant Karma. Who has time for that shit when Monday's work along the freeway comes too quickly?

Coming Soon: The Installation Art of War