7. Napolionel

The café on Alder Street had three things: weak coffee, clients with strong opinions, and a view that made people sit longer than they planned.

Sharkiesha and Latesha had occupied the same table for forty minutes and had already solved several neighborhood mysteries, none of which the police had asked about.

Sharkiesha leaned toward the window. “There he go, doin’ that thing again.”

Latesha didn’t need to ask who. “Marching?”

“Marching.”

“Chin up?”

“Chin very up.”

Latesha nodded. “Yes. Classic Lionel Grant.”

They watched Lionel Grant cross the street with the determined posture of a man walking into history, even though he was only going to the grocery store.

“Ya know,” Sharkiesha said, “I been tryna figure out what he be so mad at.”

Latesha stirred her coffee. “Altitude.”

Sharkiesha laughed. “Gurl, you straight-up terrible.”

“I’m deadass serious. Some folks is cool with they height. Others treat it like it stole they lunch money.”

“Well, he be fightin’ sum every morning.”

Latesha leaned back. “Gurrrl, I seen him argue with a parking meter one time. Not complain, argue. Like it had feelings or somethin’. Like it was gonna clapback at him. Girl I had to look away while laughing. He finna whoop my a**.”

Sharkiesha shook her head. “Poor Vivian.”

“Oh, she good. That woman calm like she already peeped the wholeass script.”

They watched Lionel stop to correct a delivery driver’s parking angle with unnecessary authority.

Latesha added, “Men like him ain’t only out here tryna control the world. They also out here arguing with they reflection. He gat a Napoleon Complex.”

“What’s that?” Sharkiesha was curious.

“You know...it’s when a short dude overcompensates with bossiness, arrogance, always tryna prove he’s bigger than he is. Classic textbook stuff: controlling, aggressive, quick to argue, gotta dominate everything,” Latesha explained.

“I heard he racist as fu*k, too,” Sharkiesha added.

Latesha replied, “Bruh, I know. That man racist to the max. He ain’t even hide it.”

Far away, in The Arkhecosm, Myrra hovered before her shelf like a bored collector reorganizing souvenirs. A new figurine stood there: small, stiff, chest pushed forward as if arguing with gravity. Lionel. Myrra touched it lightly. Thin threads of dim red smoke wrapped around its shoulders. On Earth, Lionel in his home suddenly felt irritated for no clear reason, which was impressive because he already had several clear reasons.

“Why is the toaster here?” Lionel asked, standing in the kitchen like a man discovering a crime scene.

Vivian didn’t look up from the newspaper. “Because that’s where it lives.”

“It used to live on the other side.”

“It relocated.”

“Toasters don’t relocate.”

“This one has ambition.”

Angel sat on the floor pushing a toy truck across the tiles. She had learned that when her parents spoke in very calm voices, something loud was coming soon.

Lionel picked up the toaster and moved it to the other side of the counter with ceremonial seriousness.

Vivian glanced at it. “Congratulations. You’ve restored balance to the universe.”

“You joke, but organization matters.”

“Of course. Civilization depends entirely on toaster placement.”

Angel drove the truck into the cabinet and whispered “boom,” which felt appropriately-timed.

In the Arkhecosm, Myrra nudged the figurine forward slightly. The red threads tightened, then loosened, then tightened the more like someone adjusting the volume on irritation.

Later that evening:

“Why is the TV volume at twenty-two?” Lionel asked.

“Because that’s where my ears can hear it,” Vivian replied.

“Normal people watch at fifteen.”

Vivian blinked. “Did the government issue a decree?”

“It’s excessive.”

“You’re excessive.”

Lionel crossed his arms. “Everything in this house is becoming undisciplined.”

“It’s a living room, Lionel, not a boot camp.”

Angel sat on the carpet coloring a sun that was mostly purple. She wasn’t trying to be artistic; the yellow crayon had rolled away.

Lionel paced. “You always dismiss my concerns.”

“You always submit concerns about appliances.”

He stopped. “This is exactly what I mean. You undermine me.”

Vivian looked around the room. “If your authority depends on a television remote, we have bigger structural problems.”

Angel carefully colored outside the lines, sensing that precision was not the mood tonight.

On the shelf, Myrra fed another thin strand of red thread into the figurine’s chest. It glowed faintly, like a small heater turning on.

The next argument arrived right on schedule, like a daily broadcast.

Lionel opened the fridge. “Why is the milk on the middle shelf?”

“Because that’s where I put it.”

“It belongs on the top shelf.”

“Does it get a better view there?”

“It’s about order.”

Vivian sighed. “Lionel, if milk placement is the hill you want to die on, at least pick a hill with scenery.”

“You don’t respect systems.”

“You invent systems five minutes before defending them.”

Angel stood near the doorway holding a stuffed rabbit by one ear, quietly observing the adult species in its natural environment.

Lionel pointed at the fridge. “This house would function better if people listened.”

Vivian smiled politely. “This house would function better if people rested.”

He stepped closer. “You think I’m the problem.”

“I not only think so,” she said. “I also strongly affirm it.”

Myrra rotated the figurine slightly toward the edge of the shelf, watching with mild curiosity, the way someone watches a toy car approach the edge of a table just to see what happens.

Lionel rubbed his forehead. “Maybe I should just leave. Wisdom is quitting environments that don’t match the integrity of your standards.”

Vivian shrugged. “If you’re expecting me to scream ‘don’t go,’ I’ll need a decade of rehearsal time.”

“You think I won’t do it?”

“I think you enjoy announcing it.”

Angel looked from one parent to the other, unsure whether to sit, stand, or become invisible. Lionel walked into the bedroom and pulled a backpack from the chair: the sleek one he rarely used, the one that looked like it came with a lecture about success.

Vivian called from the living room, “Take the black one. It looks dramatic.”

He stepped back into the hallway. “You think I’m a joke?”

“Yes,” she said calmly. “Jokes are just as short.”

Lionel began stuffing clothes into the backpack with the intensity of a man packing for an expedition across the living room. His hand punched the clothes into the backpack like he was kneading a dough that’s trying to escape.

“You’ll regret this,” he said.

Vivian leaned against the wall. “Lionel, the only thing I regret is that you’re packing socks like they insulted you.” Lionel finished zipping the backpack.

“Remember this moment,” he commanded.

Vivian nodded. “I will. It’s the day the toaster finally gets some peace.”

Lionel walked to the door, opened it, paused long enough to see if anyone would stop him. No one did. He stepped outside and closed the door behind him with dramatic restraint, the kind that makes a statement, and at the same time hopes someone notices.

In the Arkhecosm, Myrra lifted the short figurine and placed it slightly apart from the others, like a piece removed from a game but not yet discarded. The red threads dimmed, still glowing faintly, patient and waiting.

Far below, Lionel Grant stomped off down the street, carrying a single backpack, convinced he had made a grand, unforgettable departure. The street, unfortunately, did not seem aware of the performance.

Or it did. There was an audience of two watching him through the window of the café.

“Gurl,” Latesha exclaimed. Sharkiesha lifted her eyes and locked them with Latesha’s. They laughter that followed made the rest of the people in the café to turn their eyes and stare at the girls.

“You need to leave. That’s ghetto,” a disgruntled old lady with a blonde hair mountain shrieked from the corner of the café.

“Oh no, Karen, that’s not,” thundered Sharkiesha as she charged towards the yeller. Latesha heroically flew across the floor like a late Spiderman to catch up with Sharkiesha. Latesha grabbed Sharkiesha’s raised hand, just a few moments before impact.

“Oh. Oh my God. Sharkiesha,” wailed Latesha as she drove her friend away from the pre-scene of the action movie the café was about to witness.