Brown Paper Packages

Who: Pandect
where: Room 7, Lamplighter Motel
When: late night

According to the United States goverment Pandect Garnier was a 98 year old World War Two veteren that was living in a nursing home in Boise. The pension checks went to P. H. Garnier for the purpose of paying for Pandect's support and health care. Every once in a while, Pandect would discard the previous P. Garnier and make a new one. A new falsified driver's lisence to hide behind, a new identity. Once he had been sure there was no one looking for him he had no effort to leave a trail. Sweeping aside one identical identity after the other.

The point being, no one knew where he was. Except for Amy, but Amy didn't count. (Amy was self sufficent. Amy didn't need him.) If she had wanted to give him something she would have frolicked in to give it to him so she could see how he would react, so she could preen with the attention. He didn't mind the preening, it was part of who she was, she flustered and flitted like a little bird, begging for attention. Or some sort of smallish, rodent based woodland creature that enjoyed preening.

But this, this had... He didn't know. Nearly three hundred years old, what felt vaguely like an oncoming midlife crisis, a town that seemed to want nothing more then to catch him for whatever mysterious purpose towns had for nomadic handymen, but for all of that his knowledge of people, of any sort, was frankly lacking in the extreme. The gift could be anything from a tease, a taunt, anything at all really, the only thing he was sure of was that someone was making a point.

Pandect wasn't sure what his counterpoint should be. He was a man who knew how to use his hands not playing social games. Aching muscles, weary bones, ripped shirts, trousers worn at the knee, scrapes, scratches, burns, loneliness, karma, these were things he knew now, these were the things he understood.

He almost hadn't realised he had recieved a package in the stress and worry and odd meetings (why was it he was always meeting odd people in Marquette?) and exploding electrical systems. It wasn't until he had finished up and closed up for the night that he saw the little package, wrapped nonchalantly in brown paper on the front desk and took the time to look at it seriously. After pacing and staring and making a pathetic mess of himself Pandect finally took it back to his room to stare at it. He sat cross-legged on his bed and studied it the only way he knew to, with his hands. His narrow fingers tapping along at a slow and serious pace. He set his fingertips on the paper as if he could somehow feel what was inside.

Nothing to it, but to do it. Couldn't quite remember where he heard that, but it worked well enough for him. He opened the package slowly, turning on its back first and using his truck key to slowly cut through the tape holding the package together and gently pulled back the brown paper.

Books.

Someone had sent him books, books about Marquette. He laid them out, only three, not that large, pocket sized tourist books, of a shape to nearly be able to fit in his back pocket, in fact they probably would fit into his pocket. His jeans were old and stretched out enough he could probably slide them in. Pandect sat back on the bed. Setting everything out, like settings at a table, he let his fingers float over the paper and the books. His fingers were shaking, his whole hand, his whole body. He was afraid. Afraid of being found. In shock that there might be someone, somewhere looking for him. No one had looked for him for so long...

Pandect curled up aganist the headboard, giving the paraphenalia of his gift space, as if they might attack him and watched them until he fell asleep.