The Groof

             Larson leaned his chair back and forth. He set his pen parallel to the notepad in front of him. The clock on his cellphone read 6:58. Larson uncrossed his legs, turned away from his desk, and placed elbows on his knees. He rocked his feet to and fro from balls to heels, and the cellphone showed 7:00. He collected wallet, phone, and keys and left his office.

            He stepped out into the hall and heard a voice from the living room.

            “Dad, where’s the Groof?”

            “I put him in the box with your all your other old toys last night,” Larson said, checking his necktie in the hall mirror.

            “Why?” asked his son, arms crossed.

            “Because you’re a big boy now, Lenny, and it’s time you let go of kid stuff like that.”

            Lenny ran down the hallway and Larson could hear the bedroom door click open, followed by the creak of the old toy chest. Apparently he hadn’t piled enough toys on top of the stuffed animal, because Lenny reemerged into the dark hall clutching a doll a third of his size that resembled a cross between a man and a flightless bird, like a kiwi. Larson turned from the mirror.

            “Why do you think you still need him?”

            “Because,” said Lenny.

            “That’s not an answer. Why won’t you make real friends at school?”

            “The Groof IS real! And just because you go out all the time with a new friend doesn’t mean I have to, too!” The bedroom door slammed after the boy, and Larson rubbed the bridge of his nose. He heard tires crunching on gravel in the front yard, and walked to the window.

            Outside, a Ford Focus had pulled in into the driveway next to Larson’s Buick. A young woman emerged, slung a backpack over her shoulder and rummaged, bent over, in her messy car. Larson went outside to greet her, tried not to look at her behind, and fidgeted with his tie instead: he could not get the length right.

            “Found it!” said Margie, hefting a chemistry textbook over her head.

            “He’s in a mood tonight,” Larson warned. “We had an argument.”

            “Good thing I brought Nemo, then,” she winked.

            “You’re so good with him,” Larson said, exhaling. “Why can’t it be that easy for me?”

            “Don’t worry about it Mr. Larson. Now you go have fun tonight, you deserve it,” Margie said, and hugged him. He did not expect the hug, and so he stumbled backwards a bit, making the hug off-balance. They both chuckled, and to Larson's dismay made brief eye contact, and then she went inside while he got into the Buick.

            Larson lived in a small town of no significant name, far removed from the city, and had to drive nearly ten miles to get to the highway. He wound through roads flagged by pines and could not settle on a radio station. It was a full moon in a clear sky that night and the moonlight opened the woods and reflected in the eyes of deer who wanted to challenge Larson’s authority of the road but didn’t.

            He relaxed, he was almost to the highway, and maybe he’d pressed his suit correctly after all. Then, Larson ran out of gas. The sound came first, as if his car were grumbling and nodding off to sleep. Luckily, Larson was able to steer the car to the shoulder of the road before it did so. He deflated in the driver’s seat, any buoyancy gained in the ride now lost, and stared at the gas gauge, dipped below “E”, willing it to rise, even if just by a little.

            His Plan B was to retrieve his cellphone, and the absence of bars in the corner of the screen did not surprise him. He flipped it closed, turned on his flashing lights, and sat on the hood of the old, black car. A pair of headlights leered around the bend ahead, but promptly ignored Larson as they passed. The second pair slowed, yet only for a moment before going on, and by the passing of the third pair he had slid down from the hood of the car and yelled an obscenity. He kicked at the dirt which scuffed a shoe, which brought another obscenity, but then he began to calm down. Fed up with the lack of roadside generosity, he stamped his feet and holstered his hands in armpits to stave off the cold.

            He peered around the woods occupying either side of the road, looking for any sign of light from houses down private roads. He knew he’d seen many such roads around here before. Larson turned off the flashers, took his keys and phone, and set off south, since he was sure he’d seen houses closer to the highway. It wasn’t long before he caught sight of a glow in the woods in the distance. He blew into his cupped hands and decided to brave whatever denizens of the woods owned the light source.

            Larson followed the main road until he came to a private dirt path. There was a road sign, but it was engulfed in the overgrowth that formed a tunnel extending twenty or so feet like a hallway into the woods, the sides of the passage gnarled and impassable tree branches and trunks.

            He stood there and weighed the chances of entering the tunnel. The light at the end was welcoming like a campfire, and besides, he needed to make it to this date. He didn’t know how many more times he could be set up by family or friends from the office. At some point their address books and friend lists would run dry of women his age, and what would he do then, dating sites?

            Larson straightened his tie once more, buttoned his suit jacket, and started down the wooded path. He had to duck at some points and the brush forced him to crouch here and there as he walked. And as he went on the foliage became so thick that he had to navigate by touch, pushing the leaves out of the way to be able to make out the light. Eventually it became so much that he was unsure whether the tunnel was going straight, or had he changed directions? He hunched down low to get his head out of the branches, and sniffed a kerosene scent straight ahead of him. He followed the smell, and the vegetation became less and less, and soon he could make out a front porch where a large oil lamp hung from the ceiling.

            He emerged into the driveway of a small, white, one-story house. The front porch of which was wide with several rocking chairs and a couch laden with pillows, all bathed in the orange light of the lamp. A garage was open on the left side of the house, revealing a Volkswagen Beetle circa the nineteen forties. The car was white and half-covered with tarps, surrounded by heaps of helpless lawn furniture, backyard toys, and tools. Between the garage and the porch was a red door with a half-circle window at the top. Larson could see a shape moving in what would be the small foyer and decided to approach the house before he looked any more suspicious.

            The outside of the house looked friendly enough, so he told himself that the residents must be the same. He climbed the stoop and rapped the door twice. He was checking the time on his cellphone—7:45 and still no bars—when he heard heavy footsteps up to the other side of the door. Larson let the phone slide into his pocket as the door opened and he looked up into the face of a seven, maybe eight foot tall man-creature covered in brown, needle-thin feathers.

            “Hello,” it said, removing a pipe from its thin, curved beak. “I’m the Groof. And you are?”

            Larson stepped backward down the stoop slowly and stared back up with wide eyes.

“Ran out of gas.”

“Is that a local name?” asked the Groof, replacing his pipe and puffing.

“No, it’s Larson,” he replied, rudely looking the oversized kiwi-person up and down.

“Well come in, then, and we’ll see if we can’t do anything about that name,” the Groof said as he turned and went into the house.

            Larson followed into the entryway and stood with arms dangling at his sides, mouth lolling slightly open. There was an oriental rug on the hardwood floor, and a small desk filled with stationery and strewn with letters.

            “My son,” Larson managed to say, “my son has a doll. It’s you, you’re it.”

            “I’m sure he does,” the Groof said, fumbling in the kitchen. “Whenever a human sees one of us, he runs off selling merchandise and photographs. I even pose for them sometimes, I don’t know why nobody ever believes them.”

            The Groof went on to tell Larson how lucky he was to have found him that night, for the homes of Groofs are always moving, and he told him about how Groofs live, all while Larson tried to collect himself in the chair by the tiny stationery desk.

            “And I get all I need from friends in the woods. Food, firewood, and water I can find from around wherever I happen to find myself, but I rely on woodland creatures to bring me things from town. As you can see, Groofs have grown very fond of human customs over the years.”

            “That’s all very interesting, Mr. Groof,” Larson said, rising.

            “Just Groof is fine, thanks.”

            “But I’m late for a date, and as much as I’d love to hear more stories for my son, do you think you could give me a lift into town or let me use your phone for a cab?”

            “They’re stories for you, too, Mr. Larson.”

            “Call me Larson.”

            “Very good. I believe I’ve got a tank of gasoline you can use in the garage, no cab needed.”

            “Thank you so much, Groof,” Larson said.

            “The pleasure is all mine,” said the Groof, wiping his talons on a towel as he finished putting the tea on. “Please, follow me to the den.”

            “But what about the gas?”

            “Already? But I’ve just put tea on, and it’s nearly done!” the Groof clucked.

            “I’ll have to come back another time.”

            “Oh, no, that won’t do. I’ll be on my way by then,” the Groof said, making Larson a place in a rocking chair near the fireplace of the den. “Stay for tea and then I’ll give you the gasoline after, hm?”

            Larson couldn’t believe that he was being blackmailed into tea time by a giant bird, much less that he had accepted the offer, rolling of eyes or not. He sat, and inspected a chess set on a high table, high enough for a Groof, wherein each piece resembled something bird-like or owlish in nature, the kings being miniature reproductions of Groofs wearing crowns.

            The life-sized Groof reentered the den, carrying a tray with teapot and cups, sugars and milk. They poured their tea and before the Groof could settle into his monolithic, red armchair, Larson had gulped half of his tea down. The Groof had only begun sipping with his pointed beak, not unlike a humming bird, when Larson set his saucer and cup down and stood to button his jacket.

            “You make a fine cup of tea, Groof, but I’m afraid I must be on my way.”

            “On your way where? We aren’t yet finished,” said the Groof, balancing his teacup between his talons.

            “Oh, I’m afraid I‘m quite sated.”

            “Well I can see that, but I’ve only just started.”

            Larson looked the Groof squarely in his golden eyes.

            “Look, you promised to help me, and I’ve met your conditions. This is ridiculous, I have a date tonight, a chance to make something real happen for me and for my son, and instead here I am, having tea with an imaginary friend.”

            The Groof’s avian eyes wandered in his teacup.

            “Very well, I’ll finish quickly,” he said and shuffled his chair away from Larson to face the chess board.

            Larson stood, watching the Groof go over what looked like a memorized game for a moment before sinking back into his seat. The clock on the wall ticked and the fire crackled as the Groof moved his pieces. Larson’s gaze washed around the room, trying not to look in his host’s direction, when his eyes settled on a photograph on the shelf. It showed the Groof accompanied by a smaller version of himself, with the white house in the background, although instead of pines, the trees were oaks.

            Larson cleared his throat and said: “Is this your son?”

            “Hm? Oh, yes,” said the Groof, setting down a knight shaped like a falcon. “I haven’t seen him in years.”

            “Why not?” asked Larson. “Where is he?”

            “Groofing about somewhere with a house of his own, I’m sure. You see, Groofs are a solitary species after reaching adulthood.”

            “But what about your wife, or I mean, his mother?” Larson asked, holding the picture frame.

            “Groofwives also set out on their own after the Grooflings are all raised,” the Groof said, back at his game.

            “That sounds lonely.”

            “It is. But such is the life of a Groof. And such is our desire for good company from time to time.”

            Larson put the picture back in its place, and looked up and down the lineage of Groofs in portrait, some gray, some black, some chestnut or downy white. He picked up his chair and took it over to this Groof at the other end of the chess set.

            “Would you like to play a game?” Larson asked.

            “I would!” the Groof hooted. “Let me put on another pot of tea.”

            The Groof told Larson of his family as they played, nieces and nephews and uncles. He told him about Groofish cuisine, and important Groofs from history who had influenced the human world. All this and more Larson listened to as they played, but before long, the Groof had tired himself out in his excitement and dozed off, warbling as he slept in the big red armchair.

            Larson finished his second cup of tea and set it down. The fire had been reduced to cinders in the fireplace, and when Larson checked his phone it read 9:00. They had missed the movie, but perhaps there was still time to get dinner if he hurried. The Groof still murmured in his sleep, his great plumed chest heaving up and down as he snored. Larson crept out of the den, but hesitated at the front door, and scrawled a quick “thank you” on a note lying on the small desk before leaving.

            He found the gas canister in the garage buried under unused pool toys, even a small trampoline. He took what gas he needed and returned the rest, leaving the orange glow of the little white house behind as he drove into the city.

            Larson was two hours late in picking up Sophie, and if he thought the car ride was bad, her face when they pulled into the parking lot of the Olive Garden was something far worse.

            “Look, everything else was booked up after our reservation expired. That’s finding a last minute babysitter for you,” he said.

            “Let’s just eat, ok?” she said as she got out of the car, red dress and all.

            Inside Larson poked at his pasta and listened to the family with kids seated nearby. His date was eating at a steady pace and avoiding eye contact.

            “So how well do you know Mike and Laurie?” he attempted.

            “They’re good people. Been trying to set me up for a while now. I’ve known them since college. Real good at finding babysitters on time, too.”

            He nodded, and set his fork down when the waiter came with the check.

            “Ok, look. I made the babysitter thing up.”

            “Oh, really?”

            “What if I told you what held me up tonight was something amazing. That I ran out of gas and had tea with a giant man-bird at his house in the woods?”

            “I’d tell you to save stories like that for your kid,” said Sophie, finishing her chicken carbonara. “Look, I’m sure you have a perfectly good reason for keeping me waiting for two hours. I get it, I really do. But I don’t have time for this, I have to get up in the morning. Would you take me home, please?”

            “But you don’t understand, I—”

            “Just save it, Larson, for both our sakes.”

            It was midnight when Larson got home. Margie was asleep on the couch, surrounded by chemistry notes. When Larson woke her he started to explain his lateness, but she shushed him and gave a congratulatory punch on the shoulder. He went to Lenny’s room, and on the way he found his Groof doll, left behind in the hallway. Its beaded golden eyes stared back at him. He picked it up, and entered his son’s room.

            “Lenny, wake up,” he said, gently shaking his shoulder.

            “Mmm, what is it? Dad?” he said, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

            “Guess what? I was wrong, Lenny, the Groof is real. You were right!”

            “What? What do you mean?” the boy sat up in his pyjamas.

            “Come on, I’ll show you. Get dressed, quick!” Larson went downstairs to find a gift for the Groof, he settled on donuts. Lenny was by the door, doll in hand.

            “Where is he? Did you meet him?” asked Lenny.

            “He lives in the woods, you’ll see.”

            They drove down the highway to where the wooded tunnel had been, but when they arrived, there were only normal trees.

            “It was right here, I promise. The Groofhole must have moved like he said,” Larson said, pulled back onto the road, and checked up and down the wooded road. But he found nothing, and stopped again in the shoulder.

            “I’m sorry, Lenny, about what I said before I left,” Larson said, laying his head on the steering wheel. “And about this too, I swear I met him. And he had a car, and pictures and a chess set, and—”

            “It’s ok, Dad. I believe you,” Lenny said, as he climbed into his father’s lap. And he sat there, a miniature version of a huge bird monster stuffed between them.

            “I love you, son. Do you know that?” asked Larson.

            “I know, dad. I love you too.”