Every time you go in a public place and something ISNâT disgusting itâs because somebody cleaned it. Every time you feel comfortable using a public bathroom or sitting at a restaurant table or setting something on a gas station counter or playing on a playground itâs because somebody cleaned it.
Thank you to everyone who cleans the world, especially those who are underpaid and under appreciated.
Warnings: very brief mention of firearm, some dude being creepy
Word Count: 4.5k
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Masterlist
Author's Note: Fun fact about meâI have a degree in physics. Writing this chapter was fun because, even though I'm a full-time science teacher, I rarely get to use my degree to its fullest capacity.
I say this because I consulted some of my old college notebooks as inspiration to write some moments of reminiscence. What Ford writes in the classical mechanics textbook is something I legitimately read in one of my professors' notes my sophomore year. I may have paraphrased it slightly, but I am not kidding.
If you know which professor I'm referencing, go [univeristy mascot redacted]! You're a fucking nerd, too.
P.S. If you liked that line and are interested in studying physics further yourself, I would recommend reading any of Griffiths' textbooks. He's a hoot and a holler. Also, on a more serious note, his footnotes are really great for contextualizing the material.
You heard the rush of water through the pipes above your head. Stan was just getting into the shower. In the meantime, you had free reign to wander the corridors of your former abode. Things had certainly changed, but you were curious to see what had remained. Surely there was still unhidden evidence of your existence somewhere in this house, right?
You'd already seen the living room, but only briefly, so you returned once more to get a better look. You had mixed feelings about Stan's choice of side tableâas a science teacher, you were aghast at the prospect of an actual bonafide tyrannosaur skull stained with coffee rings, but as a fleshy sack of bones hurdling through space on a spinning rock, you thought it fun in the grand scheme of things. One thing was for certain: you knew Ford wouldn't like it.
In fact, Stan had done a thorough job of encroaching on his brother's space. According to your memories, the living room was host to all the lab equipment Ford didn't have the space to leave in the basement anymore. Now, most of that stuff was gone, either having been tossed into a dumpster or peddled as gimmicky junk at the 'Murder Hut', if you had to guess. You were appreciative of the change. Your dark wood dining room table was on display again. Despite the many alterations you were sure this room had seen, it did seem that Stan, and therefore Ford, had decided to keep a few familiar artifacts.
The bookshelf appeared mostly untouched, though the arrangement of the titles was out-of-order. Who would place "Introduction to Electromagnetism" before "Classical Mechanics"? Stan must have flipped through some of them at some point and misplaced them.
You slid the mechanics textbook off the shelf to put it in its proper place. Your fingers grazed the worn cover, and before you knew what you were doing, you were staring at the first page of the chapter on universal gravitation. This was your copy, and the margins were covered in ink. Some of the scrawls were legitimate notes you'd taken while cross-referencing other texts, reminders that would help you work through various proofs. Others simply served as documentation of life as a fresh-faced eighteen year old at Backupsmore University.
On this page in particular, "I wonder if Ford knows anything about Laws of Attraction."
You turned to a page on tides. "I'd rather be torn apart by a black hole than take my next midterm."
Then, turning to the chapter on non-inertial reference frames, you spotted Ford's cursive. âPeople jumping off of tall diving boards into large pools of jello neednât worry about the Coriolis force.â
That was enough for now.
You slipped the book in its rightful place in the sequence, and moved on to explore the parlor. It was a simple seating room with a fireplace and a turntable, and it was your favorite room in the house. It was also the one room in the house that Ford had left untouched even before you made your exit, so it felt like it was yours. It looked more or less just as you'd remembered it, except for one small detail. You'd specifically chosen the antique umber curtains to contrast the walls, and now they were an awful shade of mustard. You didn't have a problem with the color itself, but it certainly did not go with your cushions.
It had also seemed, at first glance, that your vinyls were left as they were, resting comfortably in their crates. You kneeled on the floor and began to flit through your collection.
Well, these were definitely Ford's. Miles Davis, Beethoven, Simon & Garfunkel, Beethoven, Eurythmics, The Beatles, Beethoven, Beethoven, BeethovenâChrist, how many Beethoven vinyls did one person need?
Then, there were McGucket's Grateful Dead albums. 'A taste of Palo Alto', as he put it.
You were surprised to see Ford had kept all of your titles. You figured he would keep your BABBA record, which he swore he felt indifferent about despite knowing all the words to their hit song 'Disco Girl', but you assumed your Johnny Cash & June Carter album would be long gone by now. To put it lightly, Ford wasn't the biggest fan of folk music, regardless of your attempts to convince him it was as much about the relationship between the two musicians as it was about the music they were making.
"C'mon, Ford. Can't you feel how much they love each other?"
"I can hear them playing the same three chords over and over again."
Perhaps Fiddleford's proclivity for the banjo brought him around to the concept of Tennessee country. Maybe he just didn't care enough to get rid of it.
You'd reached the end of your catalogue when you found a few albums you didn't recognize. Chuck Berry, Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin, KISS. Not bad.
You must have been looking through your collection longer than you'd realized because soon enough you heard footsteps approaching you. You acknowledged Stan with a turn of your head. Shaggy hair still wet, he now donned a crisp white shirt, a maroon tie draped around his neck awaiting proper knotting.
"What'cha up to?" he asked.
"I'm just looking around," you said, pushing yourself up from the floor. "Things have changed a little bit... What happened to my curtains?"
Stan's eyes shifted slightly, puzzled. "Most of the windows here didn't have any curtains. Ford likes blackout shutters, I guess. They made the place feel like a prison, so I got those at a yard sale."
"How much were they?" you asked, considering whether or not it was worth it to buy new ones, as if you had any money left to spend.
Stan cleared his throat with a cough. "Don't remember, but I definitely paid some amount of money for them."
Strange.
"... Why did you say it like that?"
"Yâknow, people use money in exchange for goods and services is all I'm sayinâ. Don't think about it too much. Speaking of, I've still gotta give you a tour of the Hut, where we provide goods and services people exchange their money for."
Stranger.
So, he was a fast-talker. You supposed it was safe to assume he was likely quite the salesman as well. You were anxious to see the spectacle he had made of your home because, at the very least, this was sure to be an interesting experience. You wouldn't push it any further for the time being.
"Lead the way," you said.
Stan began leading you to the showroom, outlining his general business model on the way. The way he spoke, you'd think he was talking about fixing races rather than making legitimate sales. According to him, he was 'curating a one-of-a-kind experience for patrons, in which they could safely interact with the magical, weird, and mysterious offerings of Gravity Falls'. In other words, he was stitching together stray taxidermy parts and spinning tales to scam people into believing they were worth the price of admissionâso basically what every other tourist trap in a hundred mile radius was already doing.
"Now, this is why people pay the big bucks." he said, pushing the door to the showroom open. You stepped into the room, eyes immediately assaulted by the various abominations Stan had bred on display.
It was worse than you thought it would be.
Of course, there were a few trinkets that you recognized from your time living with Ford, but those mainly served as filler, a background for the main attraction: a hodgepodge of mounted creatures and dumpster treasures.
First, there was the elusive 'Pnome'. The little guy had a thermometer sticking out of his poor, stuffed mouth, supposedly because it had been afflicted with pneumonia. How clever.
"You know gnomes actually exist, right?" you asked him. "Wouldn't you be better off getting some real attractions?"
Stan huffed out an amused grunt. "You'd think so, but people don't want real attractions. Real attractions never meet expectations," he explained, "so I create ones that do. Also, that sounds like a lot of work, and I don't feel like it."
You nodded, now examining 'Mouthman', a man constructed out of the left-over beaks, muzzles, and snouts of animals who never asked for this existence.
Then, there was the 'Legasus', the 'Clockatrice', and the 'Basalisp'. Stan sure loved his wordplay.
Surely, people weren't actually falling for this bullshit, though, right? You thought about it for a second more. Considering some of the students you'd had the pleasure of teaching, perhaps the prospect wasn't so farfetched after all.
"Anyway," Stan started, "you don't have to worry about all this. I'll be the one giving the tours."
Stan jerked his head toward the door, signaling you to follow as he stepped back out into the sun. Crunching through the light layer of snow on the ground, he led you around the corner to your old storage space, now home to the Murder Hut's giftshop.
This was another part of your home you'd already gotten a chance to meet again. Unfortunately, the most you could recall was the barrel of your revolver and the tacky bobbleheads on display.
"The tours will naturally end here," Stan explained. "Your job should be easy. I'll have âem nice and buttered up, so all you have to do is take these suckers' money."
"I think I can manage. In my profession, I'm usually dealing with a less than captive audience, but it sounds like you have no problem with that."
You drifted from shelf to shelf, examining the myriad of cheap trinkets lining the walls. You shook a snow globe you considered anything but remarkable and watched the silvery glitter flutter about the question mark figurine enclosed in the dome. You turned it over to look at the price tag hidden beneath the base. Twenty dollars for this hunk of junk? Yeesh.
"Do people actually buy this stuff?" you asked, setting the snow globe back on the shelf. This question earned yet another knowing chuckle from Stan.
"You can sell anything if you're wearing a tie and sound like you know what you're talking about," he replied.
"Still, the price seems kind of steep."
"You'd be surprised. Sometimes the price tag does my job for me. If you have the gall to sell something for a hundred bucks, it must really be worth something."
Your brain was short circuiting. You had spent years in a profession that required you to believe in and nurture the intelligence and abilities of every individual. Now, you were being thrust into a role which required you not only to believe in the exact opposite, but to prey on the gullible nature of said individuals. How you were expected to sort out your feelings on the matter, you weren't sure.
"But I only need you here at the end of tours. You'll probably be spending most of your time in the office back here," said Stan as he began to lead you through the living room to the backroom hidden by the staircase.
You'd previously used this room as a coat closet, but Stan had fashioned it into a modest workspace complete with a wooden desk, a corkboard, and an official 'Miser & Son' safe. Mounted on the wall were more of his taxidermied atrocities. If they weren't already dead, they'd probably be begging you to put them out of their misery right about now.
"This is where you'll be cooking the books," he said, laughing at his own joke. "But seriously, I'm going to need you to sort out our expenses and balance the budget."
Swindling schmucks wasn't exactly in your wheel house, but this? This you could do. If anything, organization was the most valuable skill you'd honed while teaching. Here, you would be in your element.
"I'm on it. Just show me the ledger," you said, breezing past Stan to seat yourself behind the desk. You began pulling open various drawers to inspect their contents. "Where do you keep your invoices? Also, do you have a list of your distributors?"
Stan began to laugh nervously. "Yeah, so, I don't exactly have a 'ledger' per se."
You looked at him quizzically. "What do you mean?"
"Remember how I said I was already thinking about hiring help?" he asked. Your eyes followed him as he sauntered over to the corner of the room directly to your left. He picked up a stack of shoeboxes and dropped them on the desk. "This is why."
Hesitantly, you lifted the lid off the first in the stack. Inside was a jumbled amalgamation of post-its, index cards, receipts, and napkins. Written on each scrap was a date, a dollar amount, and a short note detailing the circumstances of the income or expense.
"Are you kidding?" you asked incredulously. "How am I supposed to account for..." you trailed off, reading Stan's purple crayon scribbles, "an 'IOU for 12 pugs'?"
Stan snatched the napkin out of your hand and stuffed it in his pocket. "Sorry, I don't know how that one got in here. Anyway, since you got your hands full in here, I'll cover the giftshop today. You know where to find me!" He was already out the door before you could get another word in.
Stan was lucky you were still feeling guilty about the day before.
You were lucky you still had a few blank ledger books stowed away in your bedroom.
You had previous experience being in-charge of household expenses, and while you were not formerly responsible for running a business, you were responsible for stretching Ford's research grant year-to-year. That meant you kept a thorough record of all money going in and out. Now, you were quite particular when it came to this record-keeping, so when you found a book you liked, you bought it in-bulk, lest it went out-of-print.
At last, your neuroticism had paid off.
You retrieved one of your unmarred copies from your bedroom, still tucked away in a box on the floor of your closet, then dumped the contents of the first shoebox on the office's hardwood floor. You lowered yourself to the ground and began sifting through the heap. All of them were dated between December and February, including a receipt for Stan's new bobbleheads that he had apparently purchased sometime last week.
This gave you a better idea of the care this task required. You sorted the mess of papers into two piles: one for the current fiscal quarter and another for the previous quarter. You repeated this process with the other shoeboxes until you had five piles in total.
From there, you shifted your focus on the smallest pile, further inspecting each record so you could sort them in sequential order.
Transferring the information into your ledger was a more difficult task than you'd anticipated. Stan's handwriting sometimes veered into hieroglyph territory. Luckily, teaching had also given you plenty of practice deciphering chicken scratch. Still, some of these notes were completely lost on you, and you wanted to make sure your record was accurate and clean.
You looked at the clock above the door: it was twenty past ten. Stan was probably giving his first tour of the day by now. You didn't know how long those usually went, so you'd just have to listen and wait until you heard Stan corralling customers into the giftshop. Then, you could consult him yourself. That made you a little nervous. You could recount many instances in which a student would inform you that they 'didn't actually know what they were trying to write there'.
In the meantime, you kept sorting your piles into a proper transaction timeline, setting aside the scraps featuring illegible runes.
After another thirty minutes or so of sorting, you heard the chime of a bell, followed by a grizzly voice barking on about mind-blowing curiosities. You gathered the set-aside stubs and book in your arms. It was go time.
"This is gen-u-ine fool's gold here," you heard Stan say, now wearing a fez atop his head. He leaned on the display, closing in on his mark. "You won't get a better deal anywhere else!"
"Is it real gold?" the customer asked.
"Why else would the word 'gold' be right there in the name?" he replied.
At first, you were convinced your eyes were deceiving you because the naive patron began shoveling the glittery rocks into the front of his tee shirt. The scene made you forget why you had come in here in the first place. For a few mesmerized minutes, you watched by the wall as Stan masterfully crafted his narrative, never once telling a direct lie.
Then, Stan's eyes met yours, pulling you out of your trance. Right, the receipts.
"I just had a few questions," you started, walking over to him. "Is this a two or a seven?"
Luckily, Stan could still read his writing. Once you had the information you needed, you headed back into the office and began tallying the first quarter's revenue in the ledger. It was quick work given Stan had begun tracking expenses the previous March, the final month of the quarter.
You were genuinely impressedâhe had turned a net profit of seven cents his first month in business. That didn't sound like much, but turning any amount of profit within the first year was a feat in and of itself. He must really be milking these poor, unsuspecting sightseers for all they're worth.
Afterward, you returned to the task of sequencing, each subsequent quarter more tedious than the last due to the quickly growing number of transactions. Stan put almost every cent he earned back into the business, only keeping enough for himself to pay the mortgage, keep utilities running, and afford a measly ration of groceries. Before you knew it, hours had passed.
Every so often, you'd make a run into the shop with more questions for Stan. During one of these trips, in particular, you noticed him getting especially friendly with a woman, first resting a hand on her shoulder, then caressing her elbow before taking one of her hands into both of his, his grin as charming as ever. You scoffed. He shouldn't be making passes at other women. Didn't we just talk about this?
Before you had time to react, you saw him drop something into his pocket. Suddenly, his defensiveness about the curtains was starting to make sense.
You charged over to Stan and began dragging him away from the woman by the crook of his elbow.
"Sorry, ma'am. I just need a second to discuss something with my husband," you said, smiling at her. You whipped your head to look at him, mask dropping.
You took him to a far corner of the shop, where you hoped no one would hear you, and crossed your arms.
"Give it to me," you demanded with a whisper, holding out your hand.
"I don't know what you're talking about, toots," he said.
You shouldn't be surprised. Any man willing to steal his brother's identity and earn his living as a professional grifter wouldn't be above lying about petty theft.
"You just took something from that woman. Give. It. Now,â you reiterated more sternly.
Stan looked around for a moment, as if he was trying to map out the perfect escape plan. Then, he groaned, reaching into his pocket and dropping the diamond bracelet into your palm.
"What? A man can't steal in his own house anymore?" he complained, not meeting your eyes.
"No, you knucklehead!" you whisper-shouted, giving him a frustrated push on the shoulder. "You have no idea what this means to her. What if this was her late grandmother's bracelet or something? Besides, do you really think this is how youâre going to retain customers?"
You searched his face for any indication of remorse, but he just stood there, gaze averted, looking irritated like a petulant teenager getting reprimanded in the dean's office.
"Whatever," you resigned, "I'm giving this back."
You waited until the customer was turned around, inspecting the same snowglobes you had been looking at earlier. You bent over behind her, feigning as though you were picking something up off the ground.
"Excuse me, ma'am? Is this yours?" you asked, holding up the bracelet.
"Oh my goodness! Thank you so much," she exclaimed, slipping the jewelry back onto her wrist.
You shot Stan a look from across the room before returning to the office to continue your work, now doing so with an air of moderate annoyance.
Finally, Stan was concluding his last tour of the day. You had a few final clarifications to request, so you found yourself waiting in the giftshop as Stan checked out one of the two remaining stragglers. You were leaning against the wall, tapping your foot impatiently, when the other customerâa manâapproached you.
âHey there. I was just passing through, and you seem like someone who's familiar with the place. Would you mind showing me around?â he asked in a pseudo-friendly tone. You could practically smell the sleazy desperation seeping from his pores, but maybe that was just the stench of alcohol. Regardless, the day was almost over, and you were still exhausted from a sleepless night. You were not about to entertain his obvious advances.
âDidnât you just take a tour?â you asked flatly.
âI mean, the âMurder Hutâ was alright, but I want to get to know Gravity Falls a little more intimately. How about a drink?â
âYeah, thatâs not gonna happen,â you stated. âThanks for stopping by,â you punctuated, gesturing to the door.
âCâmon, babe, donât be like that. Whatâs one drink?â he insisted, taking a step toward you. Your back was pressed firmly against the wall now.
âLeave me the hell alone,â you bit, attempting to push him back. He didn't move much.
That's when you saw a hand clap the man on the shoulder from behind, spinning him around. It was Stan, shoulders squared and chest puffed.
âYou heard the lady. Leave her the hell alone,â Stan bellowed.
Stan, still gripping the creep by his shoulder, seized the man's opposite wrist, jerking him away so that he now stood firmly between the two of you.
âRelax. We were just talking,â the man barked back.
âReally? Because to me it looked like you were bothering my wife,â Stan replied, enunciating his words with more bite.
âWife?â the man laughed. âI donât see no ring on her finger.â
He was right, after all. You wanted to make sure the whole marriage facade was believable, but you were so careless, youâd forgotten to put your ring back on. That was stupid.
âDoesnât matter. You better get the hell out of here before I break yours,â threatened Stan, using both of his hands to push the man closer to the exit.
âFuckâfine!â he surrendered. âWhatever.â The man grumbled as he stormed out, and the sound of his cursing faded away as the door fell shut behind him, bell chiming.
Once more, you and Stan were alone in the giftshop. You didnât want to admit it to yourself, that such a pathetic excuse of a man had actually scared you, but the rapid thumping in your chest couldnât lie.
âThanks for the assist,â you said.
âNo need to thank me,â said Stan. âLosers like him piss me off, and Iâm always ready to blow off a little steam.â It seemed that it didnât matter if you were apologizing to him or thanking him, he wouldnât hear it either way.
âStill, I really appreciate it,â you said, hoping heâd accept your gratitude this time. He looked at you for a moment, blinking, then raised his hand.
âDoes that mean youâll let me keep this?â he asked, a flashy gold wristwatch dangling from one of his fingers.
You tried to maintain a disapproving look, one youâd mastered during your tenure as a teacher, but a small smile broke through your lips anyway.
âFine,â you conceded, âbut only because that asshole deserved it!â
Stan smiled at you with all of his teeth, then tossed the watch into the air before catching it and dropping it back into his pocket.
You asked your questions, he counted the money in the till, then you retreated to the office to finish tidying up the ledger while he swept the floors.
After a long day like today, you were eager to retreat into another old routineâa ritual of sortsâyou'd long missed. In the kitchen, you brewed yourself a cup of black tea. It was only a little after five thirty. Usually, you'd opt for chamomile this time of evening, but you needed the caffeine to keep you upright.
Warm mug in hand, you propped yourself onto the couch situated on the back porch. Wrapping a blanket around yourself, you looked out into the darkened forest, the early moonlight dancing along the crystalline structures peppering the ground. You took in a deep breath through your nose, lungs filling with the chill evening air, then breathed it out again. You had to admit, you missed the way Gravity Falls looked at night.
You languidly sipped your tea for a while, your mind blank except for the numbers and dollar signs you saw behind your eyelids whenever you blinked.
Behind you, you heard the door creak open. Stan joined you on the porch, standing beside you with a bottle of beer in hand. He took a deep swig.
"Have you eaten anything since breakfast?" you asked.
"No. Why?"
"Because you should probably eat something before you drink."
Stan grumbled in indifference. "It's more economic this way."
Stan sat himself on the edge of the porch steps. He set his beer down beside him and began to fish around in his coat pocket. His hand reappeared holding a carton of cigarettes. He pulled one out of the carton with his teeth and clicked open a zippo lighter with a free hand while the other stuffed the carton back into his pocket. You watched as he lit the cigarette, cupping his palm around the flame to protect it from the evening breeze. He took a long drag, plucked the cigarette from his lips, and let out a sigh. You wondered if you were witnessing a ritual yourself.
The two of you continued to sip your respective beverages in silence before he spoke up again, stamping out the cigarette in the dirt and tossing the filter in an empty coffee can perched on the top step.
"Take a few minutes to breathe, but don't get too comfortable," he said, then downed the remainder of his drink. "Day's not over yet."
You watched out of the corner of your eye as he pushed himself to his feet and turned around to head back inside. You heard the click of the screen door opening, then another click when it closed. You were alone again, left to steep both in mind and in reality.
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thinking about when i mentioned tom and jerry by title alone to my 65 year old father and his only response was to laugh REALLY hard and say "him and that fucking mouse.." while staring into the distance. and then the conversation was over
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