The Shaker

by Miles Efron

An Honorable Mention from the 2024 Fiction Contest

The lady with the cat-eye glasses asked Douglas how much he wanted for his mug from the blood bank.

“All the mugs are a quarter,” Douglas said. “There’s a sign with the prices.”

The lady put the mug back on the table.

From his lawn chair, Douglas watched the lady and her husband as they handled his belongings. The sun was coming out from behind the overnight fog, so Douglas put on his sunglasses. It occurred to him that he should probably sell the sunglasses, too.

“How much for this cocktail shaker?” the lady asked. She held up the Hank Williams cocktail shaker Douglas had won shooting a BB gun at the State Fair.

Douglas looked at his copy of the price sheet.

“Two dollars,” he said. “See that price sheet there? All the prices are listed.”

The lady frowned and put down the cocktail shaker. She continued milling around Douglas’s possessions. 

Douglas sat in his lawn chair, watching a cargo rocket from the Air Force base pierce the atmosphere.

“How much for this set of steak knives?” the lady asked.

“What does it say on the price sheet?” Douglas said.

“I’m not asking the price sheet,” the lady said. “I’m asking you.”

“The steak knives are five hundred dollars,” Douglas said. “Each.”

The lady set the knives down and glared at Douglas. She said to her husband, “Come on. Let’s go.” As they decamped up the sidewalk, she whispered to her husband, “So rude.”

Douglas sighed and picked up the newspaper. As he read yesterday’s basketball scores, a black sedan pulled up to the curb. Douglas’s heartbeat quickened at the sight of its arrival. But then a young woman with blonde hair got out of the car, and he calmed down. After all, he still had twenty-four hours before Barry would send anybody after him.

The blonde lady expressed interest in Douglas’s record player. It was a beautiful machine, which he bought for nearly a thousand dollars—the crown jewel of his apartment furnishings. She offered a hundred dollars.

“I was really hoping for three hundred,” Douglas said.

“Sorry,” the blonde lady said. “A hundred is as much as I can offer.”

Douglas considered this, and quickly said. “Okay. A hundred then.”

The blonde lady handed Douglas five twenty-dollar bills. He put the money away in his aluminum cashbox as the lady wrapped the electrical cord around the record player. 

“Do you want a receipt?” Douglas asked.

“No thanks,” the lady said. She was holding the record player and reading the spines of Douglas’s books from college—Jane Eyre and Marcus Aurelius.

As the lady put the record player in her car, she said, “I’m sorry I couldn’t offer you more for this. I feel kind of bad.”

“That’s fine,” Douglas said. “I need the money.”

“Yeah?” she asked. Then she got into her car and drove away, up the palm tree-lined street.

It was already getting hot. Douglas sat on his lawn chair and sipped ice water from a thermos. He took his shoes off and grabbed at the crabgrass with his toes. An ant crawled over his foot. 

Douglas opened the cashbox and tallied his sales for the day. Counting the record player, he had netted just under two hundred dollars. 

For a moment, Douglas toyed with the idea of taking the money to the racetrack. A place bet would win him more than enough to pay Barry his thousand before the leg-breakers started showing up. Enough to put a modest bet on the basketball game, too.

 But before Douglas had a chance to consider this idea in depth, a man ambled up the sidewalk and began browsing the merchandise. The man was tall—freakishly tall—and thin. He was bald, with no eyebrows, nor any evident eyelashes. He wore loose-fitting shorts, a long T-shirt, and flip-flop sandals.

“Is this for sale?” the tall man asked, holding up the Hank Williams cocktail shaker from the State Fair.

“Yes,” Douglas said. “Everything is for sale.”

“I don’t mean to seem dense,” the man apologized. “But what is it?”

“That? That’s a cocktail shaker. You use it to mix drinks.”

“Oh, I see,” the man said. “It’s just beautiful.”

Douglas squinted. “I suppose it is,” he said.

“What’s it made of?” the tall man asked.

“Just chrome,” Douglas said. “Nothing special, I don’t think.”

The tall man smiled and bit his lip. He rotated the cocktail shaker, examining it from every angle. Its polished surface reflected the sun, tossing white clovers of light around the yard. 

Douglas continued to watch the man—so tall, hairless, and awkward—as he marveled at the cocktail shaker. He seemed both familiar and strange all at once. 

“I don’t mean to pry,” Douglas said. “But can I ask you a question?”

“Sure,” the man said.

“Are you—I mean, did you come from—”

“Am I a Martian, do you mean?” the man asked, smiling. “Yes, that’s exactly right.”

“Wow,” Douglas said. “That’s amazing. I’ve only read about—” 

Douglas paused, unsure what else to say without sounding insensitive. In the pictures he had seen, the Martians were tall, but he had not realized how tall.

“I came last month,” the man said. “With the Fourth Sortie. They have us staying on cots at the gymnasium, just a few blocks over.”

Douglas stood up. “That’s just amazing,” he said, somewhat lamely. 

The two of them shook hands.

“My name is Hans,” said the Martian.

“Hi, Hans. I’m Douglas.”

For the first time in days, Douglas forgot about Barry.

Gesturing to the cocktail shaker, Hans asked, “How does this work, anyhow?” 

“Do you have a few minutes? I could show you,” Douglas said.

Hans smiled broadly. “I have all the time in the world,” he said.

Douglas ran inside his apartment, which felt dark after a morning spent outdoors. He fetched a tray and loaded it with two juice glasses, a bowl of ice, and a bottle of gin from the freezer. Douglas took the tray and shut the door on his way outside. 

When he returned to the lawn, Douglas explained, “I don’t have any vermouth, so these aren’t going to be proper martinis. But it will get the basic idea across.”

Hans was amazed to find that the cocktail shaker opened into pieces. “Absolutely incredible,” he said.

Douglas loaded the shaker with ice and poured in an oily helping of gin. He twisted the lid back on and handed it to Hans. 

“Here, shake it up,” Douglas said.

Hans took the shaker and sloshed its contents tentatively.

“Go ahead,” Douglas said. “Really shake it up. It’s not a Tiffany lamp; you won’t break it.”

Hans shook the bottle more vigorously, smiling at its rhythmic chunking sound. When Hans finished, Douglas took the shaker back and strained the chilled gin into the glasses. He handed a glass to Hans and took one for himself.

“To an amazing world,” Hans said. 

They touched glasses and drank. 

Douglas unfolded a second lawn chair and invited Hans to sit. Hans lowered himself into the chair and looked around the grass.

“Is this typical?” Hans asked. “Selling things this way?”

Douglas laughed.

“I don’t know about typical,” he said. “But money got tight. So—”

Hans nodded gravely and sipped his drink.

Douglas asked, “How have you found it here so far? Is it very different from home?”

“People have been so nice to me,” Hans said. “Very generous.” 

Douglas considered his last conversation with Barry. The nicest thing Barry told him was, “Family or not, you’re a degenerate gambler, and the outcome with you people is always bleak.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Douglas said.

“There is no future back on Mars,” Hans said. “Too crowded. And too crowded means too expensive.”

Seated on the apartment lawn, they watched as a pair of teenage girls examined Douglas’s record albums, the classical LPs from his dad. One of the girls wore roller skates, and the other pushed a bicycle. The girls bought nothing, eventually wheeling away up the street.

Douglas fixed a second drink for each of them. 

As Douglas shook the cocktails, Hans said cautiously, “I know it must be very expensive, and I don’t have much money to spend. But do you think you would sell the cocktail shaker to me? I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.”

Douglas laughed. “Of course,” he said. “I’d just give it to you, but I’m a little hard up. How much money do you have? I’m sure we can work something out.”

Hans looked through his pockets while Douglas poured the drinks.

When he finished counting his money, Hans said, “I have just under two thousand dollars. I don’t suppose that’s enough?”

Douglas paused and his neck flushed. He thought of Barry and his gang of collectors. He also thought of the gymnasium full of cots. Buying himself a minute, Douglas handed a drink to Hans and said, “Let me just think about this for a second.” 

Douglas sat on his lawn chair and sipped the cold gin. The liquor had gone to his head a little. He watched as Hans ran his index finger along the sweating flank of the cocktail shaker. Douglas looked at his wristwatch and considered the meager funds in his cashbox. 

“If you don’t mind my asking, Hans, how did you get all that money?” Douglas asked.

“Part of the agreement. Our coming here,” Hans said. “There’s a mining company that is interested in the minerals under our homes.”

Douglas sighed.

“I don’t want charity,” Hans stressed. “If the shaker is worth more than two thousand dollars, just tell me. No hard feelings.”

“Well—” Douglas said.

“I might also be able to borrow a little more from my friend,” Hans said hopefully.

“No, no,” Douglas said, stopping Hans. “That’s not necessary.”

Blushing hotly, Douglas finally said, “I’ll sell it to you for a thousand dollars. How’s that sound? I think that’s plenty.”

“Really?” Hans said. “Are you sure?” His face was full of delight.

“Yes. A thousand will be fine.”

Hans beamed as he sipped his drink.

“Oh wow!” Hans said. “This is incredible. My friends are going to be so jealous when they see this.”

Douglas closed his eyes and touched the chilled glass to his forehead. He reminded himself what good fortune this was for him. Barry would get his pound of flesh. Douglas would have to endure no more gawkers handling his property.

Hans counted out a thousand dollars in rumpled bills of various denominations.

“Here, Douglas,” Hans said as he handed the money over.

Douglas put the cash in his pocket and tossed the melting ice out of the shaker. His stomach felt queasy.

“Let me get a towel from inside so I can at least dry the shaker off for you,” Douglas said.

Inside his apartment, Douglas found a dish towel. He paused in the kitchen and rested his hands on the counter, closing his eyes. Before heading back to the lawn, Douglas washed his face in the kitchen sink. But he still felt dirty.

Hans was visibly excited when Douglas got back to the yard sale.

“Let me dry this off for you,” Douglas said. He patted the beads of moisture away from the shaker.

Hans said, “I have a friend, Kris. He sleeps in the cot next to mine. He’s going to be amazed when he sees my new shaker. Kris appreciates beautiful things.”

Douglas did not feel like talking. He finished drying the cocktail shaker and passed it to Hans. More than anything, he wanted to be done with this sale.

“Thanks again,” Hans said. 

“You’re welcome,” Douglas said.

Hans tucked his new cocktail shaker under his arm.

“Goodbye then,” Hans said.

Douglas waved.

Hans walked away, taking his time, admiring the other yard sale items. He picked up a paperback novel—a legal thriller—that Douglas read last year. He inspected a glass sculpture of a seal that Douglas’s sister gave him. Hans was looking over the collection of mugs when something else caught his attention—the price list that Douglas wrote out when he set up that morning. 

Douglas felt goosebumps rise on his arms as Hans read through the list. Douglas wanted to beg Hans to stop reading. He wanted to explain, “I’m a degenerate gambler. My back is against the wall. I didn’t want to victimize you.” But in the end, Douglas said nothing.

Hans finally glanced up from the price list, meeting Douglas’s eyes. Hans looked sober and emotionless. 

Douglas blinked. 

Then Hans turned and walked away. As Douglas stood on the lawn, feeling the heaviness of the money in his pocket and the gin in his blood, Hans walked up the street in the sunlight, carrying his chrome cocktail shaker.

Published September 8th, 2024