QOD: Now that you’ve got your big Hollywood contract, what weapon will you carry?

The difficulty with any weapon is the chance that someone will wrest it from your grasp and use it against you. I took a big chunk of change and went to visit the Princess Nofilda, who lives about a mile from my grandmother’s summer home. Gran swears by her, and while I’m not the least bit superstitious, I definitely felt in need of advice. Hollywood is a scary place.

From Gran’s stories about the old woman living all by herself in the middle of the woods, I had always supposed the Princess bit was, shall we say, a stretch. Though I said nothing about it, even to Gran, I stopped short of the little cabin to take a look at a piece of paper held down by a rock on the wood chopping stump. It was a birth certificate. Last name, Nofilda. First name, Princess. Chewing my lip, I folded the paper and took the last few steps to her front door.

As I raised my hand to tap on the door, it opened to reveal a rather pretty woman of perhaps thirty years. She accepted the birth certificate, waved me in, and ushered me to a chair. “You needn’t speak,” she said with a wry smile. “I’ve been thinking about your problem for several days.”

“Impossible,” I said. “I haven’t mentioned my problem to anyone.”

She rolled her eyes. “Some of you people are so slow.” She took a seat opposite, crossed a pair of lovely bare legs, and picked up two blue stones from the small table holding the reading lamp. She rolled them in one hand, her eyes on me. “I know what your problem is, but you can waste my time stuttering it out if you like.”

Annoyed, I straightened my back and leaned forward. “I’m not telling you anything. I came to see Princess Nofilda.”

“So who do you think I am?”

“Look, my grandmother said she’d known the Princess since she was a girl. Where is the old lady?”

She laughed, stood, and banged the stones on either side of my head. “There you go, you silly thing.”

I rubbed the stinging spots above either ear. “What the hell?”

She shrugged as she about-faced and returned the stones to the table. “You’ll know when someone means you true harm.”

“What?”

She opened the door, lifting her eyebrows expectantly. “I have things to do, puppy. You’ll know, and you’ll be able to deliver a squeeze commensurate to the harm intended.”

I stood, my reluctant feet obeying her indication to get the hell out of there. “I don’t get it.”

She gave me a little shove. “Try to keep your mind open. You’ll know, and you can think a little squeeze to the gray matter, just enough to get rid of any thoughts directly harmful to yourself.”

I didn’t believe her, naturally, but walking back to the bus station the next day, I suddenly realized a man loitering up ahead meant me no good. I thought a little squeeze, he looked dazed, and then walked off. I’ve discovered that the squeeze generally doesn’t hurt much. Probably because most the harm directed at me is simple jealousy.

You, on the other hand, despite your smiles and flattery, are simply filled with malice. I’m not sure you’ll remember your own name afterward, but that’s okay. I don’t think you mean well toward anyone. Go ahead, smile. You don’t believe in this kind of nonsense. You know, neither do I. Bye.