A gnome visited our house yesterday.
Before we met him, we wondered what he did for money, as he was evasive over the phone.
“Maybe he’s a dealer,” I said.
“Or a criminal,” the Director said.
“He has a dog so maybe he’s ok.”
We waited, anxious, hopeful for him to fall in love with our house like we did ten years earlier, back when it was fugly.
I had stepped out of my temporary office in the attic when I saw his car, a new subaru, different than mine. Taller. More chatchkis like a roof rack. Other stuff I couldn’t identify. It looked cool.
Out of the back of the car came the supposedly elderly Golden. She bounded around, eluding the leash until our potential renter caught up to her. I spent a lot of time talking to her; so it wasn’t until I was back outside with just the dog so the dude and the Director could talk terms that I realized something.
He’s a little person, but taller. And his nose looks like the guy in Game of Thrones. I felt like a southern racist talking about bones and feet and noses and hair and whatnot.
The Director pronounced it like Gnocci. Gnome. “Nyome. He’s a drummer! It’s good luck, I’m convinced.”
We sat around the fire after he left and then noticed the first mushroom of the season. The first flowery mushroom ever on our property. A portent, perhaps, of other mythical creatures taking over the house and setting us loose.