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Pickle was running away.
She wasn't sure where she was going, just so long as it was away. Aways away. Way way away. Far away as possible. The farther the better. Farther than that, even.
She had only a few things with her that she'd bothered too pack -- she had much too much stuff, and it all wouldn't fit. Oh, if Onion were to see her now, but no, she mustn't think of Onion or of Rabbit (especially not Rabbit) or of Elmer or of the way Onion rides his bike with his nose pointed up just so slightly in the air so that he looks like he might fall off any second ... no.
Stop it Pickle. You are running away. Keep your mind where you body isn't. Let your body run away and let your mind stay put. There. Better.
Where to go? At first it was easy, just like beginning anything is easy. You can't mess up when you're first starting. Since there was a railroad track out back (and so was Elmer, how convenient?) she went that way. She gave Elmer a quick hug and kiss goodbye. She had her blue backpack strapped over her shoulders. Her mother was in the kitchen ... well, it doesn't matter. What matters is now. Here she is now. She has her backpack, which is good. She has a plastic bottle with some orange juice in it. Also good. She has some poptarts. Okay. And a sweater. And a fuzzy green beret. "Never go anywhere without a hat," her mom would say. Well, once less thing for mother to worry about when she finds out I'm gone, Pickle thinks.
"Okay, here I am," Pickle says aloud. She is walking now, not running, but still her steps carry her away. Away from home. From her dog and her bike and her friends and her school. She should probably feel more sad. But she doesn't. Not yet. There is still that anger burning there in her gut. There's a word for it. She can't think of it right now, but it gets her every time. That word. She hates it when that word happens. What is it? Hippocrates? No. Hypnotic. Nope. Hip-something. It's not hippopotamus so don't even guess that. Hip ... hip ... hip ... aha! That's it. Hypocrisy. She can't stand it! Her own mother! Well, no more of that.
Off she goes into the great big world. The world is such a big place. Where should she go? So far all she's done is walk down these train tracks. Surely there must be more to running away than just walking down a train tracks. Surely. The afternoon sun is starting to set behind her, which is giving everything in front of her a strange orange glow. Which is why she didn't notice the gentleman sitting on the tracks until she was almost on top of him. He was wearing all orange!
"Oh, excuse me, sir, I didn't see you there," Pickle says, polite even under duress. "Always be polite," her mother told her, "because you never know." You never know what, she asked her mother. "You just never know," she said, winking. "You never know good. You never know bad. You never know what might happen. But if you're polite, you won't make it worse." Her mother did have her moments. But...
"My fault completely, madam, it's just that the world is so big."
"What?" Pickle asks. Her heart flutters briefly down to her stomach. She had just been thinking such a thing.
"Well, madam, it's just marvelous how big the world is, and yet how small, don't you think?" The man was certainly an odd fellow. Besides being dressed in all orange, meaning, starting at the top, orange sunglasses on orange-ish face, orange turtleneck, orange corduroys, which were slightly too short, thus showing off nearly knee-high orange tube socks, and finally orange sneakers with orange laces. His nose was easily the most noticeable thing about him though, as it was pale white and much larger than noses normally are on people. His nose was almost beak-ish, she was thinking, when he continued on, saying, "For example, young lady, if I should happen to introduce myself to you." Here he stuck his hand out, and his fingernails were painted orange too! "Good-day, I am Mr Peckins. F.D.. Peckins." Although it appeared that he wished to go on with his speech, Mr Peckins froze, with his hand held out. Pickle obliged him by curtseying slightly and then shaking his hand. He shook it back vigorously. "My name is Pickle, um, Pickle Patty," Pickle added. She didn't want to use her real last name in case someone came looking for her. She was not going to be found.
"Yes, quite good, then, you see, madam, how small the world is."
"Well, I beg your pardon. But I don't really, sir, er, Mr Peckins."
"You don't?" Mr Peckins removed his sunglasses, and his eyes (orange of course) glowed with a certain sort of curiosity. Or was it mirth? Was Mr Peckins teasing her about something? It was hard to say.
"You don't, do you? But how can you not? Why, at this very moment, at the beginnings of your goings, your leavings, what a strange coincidence has occurred! You have just run into someone on the train tracks who you know! What are the chances?"
"I just ran...?" But Pickle trailed off. Then started again, "But Mr Peckins, sir, I don't know you." Pickle looked at him suspiciously then. Mr Peckins had put his sunglasses away in an orange glasses container and then slipped the container into his pants pocket. Pickle, meanwhile, had carefully taken a step backward, in case there was something the matter with Mr Peckins, something of the wrong-in-the-head sorts.
"Of course you know me, Pickle. It's me, Mr Peckins. F.D. Peckins. We met a few minutes ago. Why, I feel as though I've known you my whole life. Or at least I could say that, if I felt it. Now where did those dratted sunglasses get off to?" At this, Mr Peckins began rummaging around in his pockets. Pickle was mildly alarmed at first, thinking he might pull something dangerous out. But first he pulled out a handkerchief. Then a few playing cards, wrinkled beyond use. Then a big piece of lint. All this was coming out of his right pants pocket, but Pickle had seen him put the glasses in his left.
"I believe they are in your left-hand pocket," Pickle said helpfully.
Mr Peckins smiled, shifted his attention to that pocket, and began pulling out all sorts of interesting widgets and gizmos and whatsits and whatnots.
"This here is for seeing in the dark," he pulling out a pair of glasses shaded so dark that they almost looked like they sucked light in. He also had ... one solar-powered toothbrush, two pills for breathing underwater, three combs that also cleaned, four empty picture-frames used for "uploading and storing," five eggs ("Now how'd those get in this pocket," he wondered aloud), and six candy bars that were bigger than any Pickle had ever seen. He described each item as he pulled it out, and it was with some growing doubt that Pickle heard him say, "Ah, here are my never-real glasses." He pulled out the orange sunglasses from the orange-sunglass case and put them back on.
"There, that's much worse," he said, and smiled.
The sun was nearly setting, and Pickle still hadn't gotten very far from home. She needed to be moving, not standing around listening to an old man talk gibberish.
"Well, sir, it was nice speaking with you," she began. She wasn't sure if it was, But it was a polite way to excuse herself so that she could get moving.
"That's a funny way to put it," Mr Peckins said. "I would have said something like, 'You're a funny bunny.' But to each his throne. Let me share a little secret with you before you go. You'll thank me for it. Besides, why be late when you can be early?"
Pickle smiled slowly, and waited, but he seemed to be waiting for her to say something. It was hard to tell with his sunglasses covering his face. The sun was just settling in behind the trees in the distance, and you could see it reflected twice, one in each little orange circle of the sunglasses. Pickle almost got dizzy trying to look at both of the suns at the same time. "What say you, Madam Pickle. Early, or late?"
"Um. Early, I suppose. I'm not sure what you mean."
"But you will, dear, you will." Mr Peckins smiled, took off his sunglasses and handed them to her.
"Here, a gift, from one traveller to another."
"Oh, I really couldn't. After all, they match your outfit so well."
Mr Peckins seemed confused. Looking down at himself, he started giggling. "Hee hee, so they do. Hee hee. I'm sorry, I must look an awful fright, all the same color. I just got back, you see. You'll see, anyway. But take the glasses. They're yours, anyway. You gave them to me to give to you."
Instead of trying to decipher any of his last statement, Pickle simply took the glasses.
"Thank you, sir. I'm not sure I have anything to give you in return. I have a few pieces of fruit..."
"Don't say it!" Mr Peckins jumped in! "You'll ruin the fun! Okay, my dear, I must run. It is always nice meeting you, again and again. Oh, and don't forget, it runs in quatrains."
With that, Mr Peckins started shovelling all his things back into his pockets, which were laying on the ground. His arms zigged and zagged and swooped and scooped, and soon his pockets were full and he was rushing away.
"What runs in quatrains?" Pickle shouted at him as he rushed through the brush. "The Number 4," Mr Peckins shouted back. And then she heard him no more.
What a strange, strange man, she thought. And what's a number four, and why is it running? But before she could continue pondering her meeting, something caught her eye at the edge of her feeting. A note. No, an envelope. Tied with a ribbon. Oh, Mr Peckins will surely miss this.
"Mr Peckins! Mr Peckins!" Pickle called after. But no sound or response was heard coming back. So Pickle sat down on the dirty train tracks and slowly opened up her blue backpack. She put the pretty note inside, and then, on a whim, she put the glasses on. Nothing looked much different, at first, she thought. The grass and bushes looked leaner and greener. Then she turned to look at the orange sunset, and that's when she got her first upset.
She gasped.
"No, it can't be. It can't be true."
For in place of one, there now was two.