The Shortcut

The mannequin, whose name was Jerome, was significantly heavier than he looked. Tim had assumed, foolishly, that 'hollow silicone shell' meant 'light as a feather', or at least 'manageable for one person with zero upper body strength'. It did not.

Jerome was dead weight. Literally. Or, figuratively. He was plastic weight. And he was currently digging his rigid, unyielding heel into Tim’s hip bone as they navigated the treacherous, mud-slicked path behind the Science Block.

"Just... stay," Tim grunted, hoisting the torso up. Jerome’s left arm swung loose, the joint screeching like a dying crow, and slapped Tim squarely in the ear. "Ow. Okay. Rude."

It was a Tuesday afternoon, the kind of mid-October day where the sky couldn't decide if it wanted to rain or just be aggressively grey. The air smelled of wet asphalt and rotting maple leaves—that distinct, earthy funk of things decaying on the sidewalk. Tim’s breath puffed out in little white clouds. He should have taken the long way. He knew that now. The paved walkway around the quad was safe. It was dry. It didn't have a thirty-degree incline covered in wet mulch.

But the paved walkway was crowded, and carrying a naked, anatomical model of a man through a crowd of freshmen was a level of social exposure Tim wasn't ready for before his second coffee. So, the shortcut. The mud. The regret.

He adjusted his grip, fingers slipping on the smooth, cold surface of Jerome’s waist. He was hugging the thing like a dance partner who had passed out. A gust of wind whipped around the corner of the brick building, stinging Tim’s cheeks and blowing his hair into his eyes. He tried to blow the strands away, stumbled, and felt his sneaker lose traction.

It happened in slow motion. The slide of rubber over slime. The tilt of the horizon. The realization that physics was about to humiliate him.

"No, no, no—"

Tim’s feet went out. He tipped backward. Jerome, loyal to the end, came with him.

They hit the ground with a wet, squelching thud. It wasn't graceful. It wasn't cinematic. It was just wet. Tim landed on his back in the mud, the air knocked out of him with a wheeze, and Jerome landed directly on top of him, face-down, his cold plastic forehead bonking against Tim’s chin.

"Urgh," Tim groaned, staring up at the grey sky past Jerome’s stiff, unmoving shoulder. Cold mud was already seeping through the back of his denim jacket. He could feel the dampness spreading, cold and gross, against his shoulder blades.

He tried to shove the mannequin off. Jerome didn't budge. The strap of Tim’s messenger bag had somehow wound itself around the mannequin’s neck and left arm during the fall, effectively tying them together in a grotesque embrace.

"You have got to be kidding me," Tim whispered to the plastic ear.

He wiggled. The bag strap tightened. He tried to roll. The mud made everything slick, and he just slid a few inches downhill, dragging Jerome with him. He was trapped. He was actually, physically trapped under a doll in the mud behind the chemistry labs.

He lay there for a second, considering his options. He could yell for help. But then someone would come and see him like this. He could wait for death. That seemed dramatic, but appealing.

Then he heard the crunch of boots on gravel.

Steps. Coming closer. Heavy, rhythmic steps. Not the scuffing of a hurried student, but a leisurely, solid pace.

Tim squeezed his eyes shut. Maybe if he played dead, they’d go away. Maybe they’d think this was an avant-garde installation piece about the futility of man. *Title: Idiot in Mud.*

The footsteps stopped.

Silence. The wind rustled the dry leaves in the bushes. A distant car horn honked.

Then, a voice. Deep, hesitant, and very confused.

"Um. You okay down there?"

Tim opened one eye. Standing at the top of the small incline was a guy. A tall guy. He was wearing a dark green parka that looked excessively warm and boots that were actually made for this terrain, unlike Tim’s tragic canvas sneakers. He had a backpack slung over one shoulder and a look of genuine concern mixed with profound bewilderment.

"I’m fine," Tim said. His voice came out as a squeak. He cleared his throat. "I’m... great. Just. Resting."

The guy blinked. He looked at Tim. Then he looked at the naked, bald, beige man lying on top of Tim.

"Right," the guy said. "And... your friend?"

"Jerome," Tim said defensively. "He’s... he’s sensitive."

The guy’s lips twitched. A small, barely-there smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He took a few steps down the slope, his boots digging securely into the mud. He didn't slip. Show-off.

"Need a hand? Or are you two having a moment?"

"I’m stuck," Tim admitted, the dignity leaving his body faster than the warmth. "My bag strap. It’s... it’s tangled on his neck."

The stranger crouched down next to them. Up close, Tim noticed he smelled like coffee and sawdust—something dry and clean that cut through the smell of the damp earth. He had dark hair that was messy in a way that looked accidental but worked, and there was a small, white scar cutting through his left eyebrow.

"Alright, let’s see," the guy said. He reached out, his hands large and rough-looking. He didn't seem bothered by the mud. He grabbed Jerome’s shoulder with one hand and tugged.

"Careful," Tim said, instinctively clutching the plastic waist. "His arm pops off if you pull it wrong."

"Noted," the guy said. "Okay, hold still. I’m going to lift him up, you try to unhook the strap."

"Ready?" the guy asked.

"As I’ll ever be."

The guy lifted. Muscles shifted under the green parka. Jerome rose a few inches, dead weight yielding to actual strength. Tim scrambled, his fingers fumbling with the canvas strap. It was pulled tight, wet and stiff.

"Got it?" the guy strained slightly.

"Almost—it’s jammed in the... the armpit joint," Tim muttered, frantically tugging. "Okay, twist him left. No, your left."

The stranger twisted the mannequin. There was a loud *CLICK*, and Jerome’s head rotated a full hundred and eighty degrees to stare directly at the stranger.

The guy jumped, startled, and nearly dropped the whole thing back on Tim.

"Jesus!" he laughed, a startled, breathless sound.

"Sorry! He does that!" Tim yanked the strap free. "Okay! I’m out!"

The guy hauled Jerome upright, setting him on his plastic feet in the mud. Jerome stood there, listing slightly to the side, looking judgemental. Tim scrambled up, slipping once before regaining his balance. He wiped his hands on his jeans, which was pointless because his jeans were covered in sludge.

"Thanks," Tim breathed, brushing a clump of wet leaves off his jacket. "Really. I... that could have been my life for the next three hours."

"No problem," the guy said, straightening up. He looked at Jerome, then back at Tim. He was grinning now, properly. It was a nice grin. It made his eyes crinkle at the corners. "So. Jerome. Art project? Or just a very quiet date?"

Tim felt the heat rise in his cheeks, and for once, it wasn't the windburn. "Sculpture class. I have to... modify him. Add textures. I was bringing him from the storage locker to the studio."

"Through the mud pit," the guy noted.

"I thought it would be faster!" Tim threw his hands up. "I was wrong. I have been punished for my hubris."

The guy laughed again. "Where's the studio? The Arts Annex?"

"Yeah. Just... up the hill and across the car park."

The stranger looked at Jerome, who was currently sinking slowly into the soft earth, leaning precariously like a beige Tower of Pisa. Then he looked at Tim, who was shivering slightly, covered in muck, and clearly dreading the second leg of the journey.

"Grab his legs," the guy said.

Tim blinked. "What?"

"I’ll take the torso. You take the legs. It’ll be easier with two people. Unless you want to wrestle him in the mud again?"

"You don't have to," Tim said quickly. "I mean, you’re clean. Relatively. I’m a disaster zone."

"I’m Sam, by the way," the guy said, ignoring the protest and grabbing Jerome under the armpits in a comfortable, fireman-carry hold. "And I’ve got nothing to do for the next twenty minutes. Grab a leg, disaster zone."

Tim hesitated, then grabbed Jerome’s ankles. "I’m Tim. And you’re a lifesaver, Sam."

The Procession

They walked in silence for the first minute, mostly coordinating their steps. Carrying a mannequin horizontally between two people required a surprising amount of synchronization. It felt a bit like they were pallbearers at the world’s weirdest funeral.

"So," Sam said, adjusting his grip as they reached the top of the slope and hit the pavement. "What kind of textures?"

"Hm?"

"For the project. You said you have to add textures."

"Oh. Yeah. Organic matter," Tim said, watching his own feet to make sure he didn't trip again. "Moss, bark, dried fungi. We’re exploring the relationship between the artificial and the natural. Decay and permanence. That sort of thing."

"Sounds itchy," Sam said.

"It is. My dorm room is full of dried lichen. My roommate hates me."

Sam chuckled. "I can imagine. I’m in Landscape Architecture. We deal with moss, but usually outside. Where it belongs."

"Oh, so you’re a plant guy," Tim said, looking back at him. Sam was walking backward now, leading the way. He looked effortless, holding the heavy end of the mannequin without breaking a sweat.

"I guess. I like dirt. Designing parks, urban spaces. That kind of thing."

"Hence the boots," Tim said, nodding at Sam’s footwear.

"Hence the boots," Sam agreed. "And the knowledge that the path behind the Science Block is a death trap in October. Poor drainage. The clay content is too high."

"Now you tell me," Tim sighed.

They crossed the car park. A few students stopped to stare. One girl took a photo. Tim tried to hide his face behind Jerome’s plastic calf muscle.

"Ignore them," Sam said, his voice easy. "They’re just jealous they don't have a plastic friend."

"Jerome is very popular," Tim mumbled.

"I can tell. He’s got a very stoic quality. Very strong jawline."

"He’s a nightmare," Tim said affectionately. "But he’s my nightmare."

They reached the heavy double doors of the Arts Annex. Tim had to do a weird one-legged hop to hold the door open with his hip while keeping his grip on Jerome’s ankles.

"Second floor," Tim grunted.

"Elevator?" Sam asked hopefully.

"Broken since 1998."

"Stairs it is."

By the time they reached the studio—a large, airy room smelling of turpentine and sawdust—Tim’s arms were burning. They deposited Jerome onto a worktable with a collective exhale.

Jerome clattered against the wood, looking serene and completely unbothered by the effort he had caused.

Tim leaned back against the table, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. He realized, suddenly, how awful he must look. Mud on his jeans, mud on his jacket, probably mud on his face. And Sam... Sam looked fine. A little windblown, maybe.

"Well," Sam said, dusting off his hands. "He is delivered."

"Thank you," Tim said. He felt a sudden, sharp pang of anxiety that Sam was about to leave. "I really... I couldn't have done that. I would probably still be in that hole."

"Don't worry about it," Sam smiled. He lingered, though. He didn't immediately turn to the door. He looked around the studio, at the half-finished canvases and piles of scrap metal. "Cool space."

"It's messy," Tim said.

"I like messy," Sam said. He looked back at Tim, his gaze dropping to Tim’s mud-caked sneakers and then back up to his eyes. There was something direct in his look, something that made Tim’s stomach do a funny little flip that had nothing to do with the fall.

"I..." Tim started, then stopped. He didn't know what to say. He was usually better at this. Or, well, not *better*, but louder.

Sam checked his watch. "I should probably get to class. Soil Science. Thrilling stuff."

"Right. Yeah. Don't want to be late for... soil," Tim babbled.

Sam laughed. He took a step towards the door, then stopped. He reached into the pocket of his parka and pulled out a marker. A permanent marker. He uncapped it with his teeth.

"Here," Sam said, grabbing a scrap of paper from the table—the back of a flyer for a gallery opening. He scribbled something on it.

"What's this?" Tim asked.

"My number," Sam said, sliding the paper across the table towards Tim. "In case Jerome decides to attack you again. Or, you know. If you want to get coffee. With a human."

Tim stared at the paper. The handwriting was jagged and all caps.

"Coffee," Tim repeated. "Coffee would be good. I owe you one. For the rescue."

"You can buy me a latte," Sam agreed. "And maybe explain why you have so much lichen in your room."

"It's for the texture!" Tim defended.

"Sure it is," Sam grinned. He walked backward toward the door, hand on the frame. "See you, Tim."

"See you, Sam."

Sam disappeared into the hallway. The heavy door swung shut with a click.

Tim stood alone in the studio. The silence rushed back in, heavy and smelling of paint thinner. He looked at Jerome. Jerome stared blankly at the ceiling.

"Don't say a word," Tim told the mannequin.

He picked up the scrap of paper. His thumb brushed over the black ink. He looked down at his ruined jeans, the mud drying into a stiff, grey crust. He was a mess. He was cold. He probably smelled like a swamp.

But he smiled. A genuine, small smile that felt warm in his chest.