You would think a creature as old and worldly as a gargoyle might have picked up a few fashion tips over the centuries. Of course, I knew his attire lacked flare, but I thought it was a personal choice, like choosing to drive a classic car instead of a new one.
It wasn't like I asked him for a couture dress in payment for cooking his meals and cleaning the house. Nor did I ask for a Hermes bag because he failed to take out the trash. No. All I asked for was for him to personally exert the time and effort to buy me a nice leather handbag in turquoise. A nice leather bag is always a good investment, and I've always wanted one in turquoise.
He owed me at least that much for picking the slugs out from between his toes during a particularly burdensome summer. You have no idea how difficult it is to get slug slime off your fingers once it has clung there, and the smell is beyond atrocious.
Rassmussen grumbled and groaned about the request. He put it off and tried to bargain his way out of it, but in the end, he assented and stormed off to the closest mall, or so I thought. I went about my evening, anticipating my new gift, half afraid it would be a total disaster and halfway planning the great bag swap out, which was as great of an event as a music festival.
I'm not the night owl Rassmussen is. I typically conk out about eleven, but I held out until midnight before my head nodded onto my pillow. I found a crumpled paper bag on the pillow beside me in the morning. To say I was less than overwhelmed was an understatement, but my disappointment was nothing compared to when I opened the bag, which coincidentally smelled of french fries.
The bag inside the bag was not leather nor in pristine condition, and while it may have once been some shade of blue, it had faded to a muddy gray. The size wouldn't accommodate much more than my cell phone and a lipstick. Had the gargoyle never noticed the pen and paper I took with me everywhere? The water bottle I always had handy when he was thirsty and the dozens of other little things that I liked to keep near me? The beading was broken, as was the clasp, and the leather strap had dried to the point of cracking—the leather disintegrating in my grasp.
I picked up the nasty thing with two fingers and held it away from my body as I carried it to the garbage, but then I paused. Knowing Rassmussen, there must be a story behind such a gift. Instead of trashing it, I spread a towel on the kitchen table and left the bag there, thinking it would make for a good conversation starter for our evening meal.
Dinner consisted of chicken soup and bruschetta. I'm not sure Rassmussen noticed the bag as he slurped down the soup. He had a ballgame to watch and a poker game later with his buddies.
When I pointed it out to him, he shrugged in true Rassmussen style. "You wanted a bag. I got you a bag."
"I wanted a usable bag, leather to be precise, and turquoise. You left this instead. What gives?"
"Anyone can buy a handbag. There were hundreds at the store. I spent hours tossing this one, rejecting that one, but you could buy any one of those purses for yourself when it came down to it. You didn't need me to do it. You certainly couldn't depend on me to pick something to go with one of your frilly things. Why I can't even tell when you're wearing a house frock versus a nightgown."
"But Rassmussen, surely you've picked up some sense of fashion over the centuries. I mean doesn't it come with being a supernatural creature? All the books and movies I've seen depict vampires and werewolves with the most meticulous of tastes and yet you really thought this rotted thing was an appropriate gift? Is a fashion gene missing for the gargoyle DNA?"
"Blast it!" Soup spilled from Rassmussen's mouth and further stained an already stained t-shirt. "Why would you paint all non-humans with the same brush? You need to expand your reading and viewing habits. Better yet! Get out of this cottage and experience life. Find out for yourself what other creatures are like."
"Then why did you bother with this thrift store reject?"
"Thrift store reject?" Rassmussen roared. "A thrift store would be lucky to get their hands on that bag."
He pointed at the offending object. "That reject, as you called it, was my mother's bag. The last memento of her I have. That reject is the closest thing to a leather handbag that I had to give you that you couldn't buy for yourself.
"Woman! I couldn't have given you anything more precious had it been my own heart than that bag. So, either accept it in the spirit it was meant or give it back. Whichever. But for the love of all that is holy, leave me to my dinner."