simple pleasures
don't worry, be happy | short fiction
I met Ms. Tannon a year after the orangoutang ripped her face off.
Even before I met her, I felt I knew everything there was to know. At work, she was a water cooler constant, so every damn day was about her face ripping or how nuts she was or how the caregivers assigned to the “Krueger-faced bitch” never lasted more than a month.
Most of my coworkers were rat bastards, so I’d learned to take their rat gossip with colossal grains of salt. I’d seen some lousy piss and vinegar fucks in my day, and I wasn’t buying their pansy-ass jabber—so what if the broad looks funny? Poor thing had her damn face ripped off…that don’t make her crazy or nasty…ain’t no way she’s any worse than our average crusty fucks…
I’d tell myself this shit but truth be told, the daily gossip and all the damn turnaround had me shaking in my boots—I figured it was only a matter of time till the muckety mucks punched my ticket and threw me in hoping I’d stick.
I must be the modern-day Nostradamus or whoeverthefuck cause, lo and behold, another live-in quit, and those skeevy mucks came a-callin’. That call was one of those things you kinda forget but never forget. Like, I remember the call—I remember it happening, but not really; it’s all blurry. I remember my heart playing house in my throat and my legs going all noodley. I don’t remember who I spoke to or what they said or where I was—I just remember how my student loans made me squeak, “Yessir!” and the next day—the next fucking day, I’m on her porch with my little duffel, asshole yo-yoing like a motherfucker as I rang her bell.
Hell, on the quiet days, I still hear the metallic hee-haw of her rinky-dink chair chugging closer and closer to the door. Those squeaks tickled fight-or-flight awake and I damn near tucked tail, but I was in no position to lose another gig. I had no choice but to clench my teeth and stick it out and, damn, let me tell you…death itself ain’t enough to make me forget that 3lb-shit wave of relief I felt when that door opened and I saw that little old gal smiling up at me with a beam so bright Icarus woulda creamed his pants.
As expected, the grapevine chitchat was horseshit. Turned out, the post-orangoutang reconstruction was swift and immaculate—some crème de la crème docs fixed her up real good, leaving no Krueger blotches or gnarly grafts, no Bond villain scars or Lost Ark melting. Sure, her face wasn’t perfect (it was a tad kite-shaped, and her nose was slightly off-center), but by no means could Ms. T be considered an ugly mug.
In fact, her new map was semi-famous—the lead doc got a whole-ass write-up in Time, his handiwork dubbed “Surgery of the Decade,” and you know what? Even though he saved her from Kruegerness, the whole hullabaloo around her salvation was only half-deserved cause, for some reason, despite his “brilliance” and “trailblazing” and whateverthefuck, the doc sewed her face up so it looked like she was constantly smiling.
Smiling—doesn’t sound so bad, right?
Fuck off…or, sorry, my bad, you don’t know—when I say “smiling,” I ain’t talking about your subtle, oh, hello fellow human! smirk we break out when we lock eyes with a rush hour stranger, nor am I talking about that self-assured, all-knowing grin some enlightened monks or simple-minded folks wear all the time, no siree…Ms. Tannon’s smile was that big toothy ass shit eater your grandma makes when you surprise her in the hospital after not seeing her for god knows how long—that edge of laughter, joy incarnate smile where the time-melted eye skin puckers up into two mirth squints and her neck muscles writhe worm-like under papery skin trying their damndest to ground that parade float Cheshire to her face.
So, let us recap: Ms. T’s face…ugly? Nah uh.
Monstrous? Hell no.
Unsettling? You bet your sweet ass “unsettling.”
You see, to top the whole shit show off, the surgeons tasked with the rest of her weren’t as divine as those face docs. Those losers ended up amputating her left leg all the way to her cooch and snapping off seven fingers. Luckily, Ms. T had some stellar insurance. They hooked her up with a state-of-the-art plastic gam, crutches, and physical therapy. But, she—being an older gal—couldn’t muster that square one verve, so she opted for the wheelchair and a live-in…and that’s where I came in.
Anyway, back to her porch…she was a helluva thing to witness. When she opened that door, my mind went wild—Everything I’d heard about her was shit! She’s so grateful I’m here! She’s an inspiration, a joyful warrior who’s probably spent all morning fixing a batch of “welcome” cookies! Seeing her calmed me down; my asshole stopped flexing, and my gut filled with the salutary warmth triggered when one is the recipient of such a grin.
I couldn’t help but smile back and chat it up. We traded intros and all that crap, but as we chatted, that smile hung around. A smile like that should last a coupla seconds...five tops. Her smile showed no sign of slowing after fifteen seconds and all that relief? All that gut warmth that had me on cloud fucking nine? All that crap soured into a full-body nervousness that took weeks to clear up (it’s amazing what we can make ourselves get used to when our feet are to the fire, amiright? It helped to imagine her smile as one of those crusty, I’ll never die Chihuahuas. I imagined adopting the thing as a pup, and twenty years later, the fucks still kicking; I’m stuck with the damn thing cause who else would take it? But, it ain’t hurting anyone; it’s trying its best, so I tolerate it—I learned to simultaneously kinda love the cute fuck while fighting the constant urge to drown it in the sink.)
I’m glad I powered through cause, turned out, once you get past the weird-ass perma-smile, she was a sweet ol’ thing.
Old school? Sure.
Crotchety? Yup.
Bad Company? Not in any sense of the word.
Best of all, she didn’t need much from me. Besides the par for the course ass-wiping and spoon-feeding, the “work” was quite chill. Most days, we’d just lounge about binging those Food Network gladiator shows where pudgy cooks battle it out and get all teary-eyed when some freeloading judge tells them their chicken is overcooked.
Ms. T and I would pass around a bag of Doritos and heckle the poor fucks: “Hey dipshit, cool it with the paprika…how about some tilapia with that paprika, for Christ’s sake!” or “…no garlic? What kinda motherless dweeb cooks without garlic?!”
She may have been a low-maintenance hang, but she had her own set of challenges. Like, how still, after a few weeks on the job, it was impossible to get a read on her just by looking. At any given moment, I could tell you the consistency of her latest shit, but if you asked me, “How’s she doing?” I’d stare at you fish-eyed and opened mouth.
I’d be tempted to say “happy” cause that’s how she looked—how she always looked, but I know now she wasn’t happy.
I’d stare at her sometimes, watching her cartoon smile chomp Doritos, wondering what was going on in there. She was like the second biggest nesting doll—the No. 2 Matryoshka waiting in the wings for the big, visible gal to fuck off. I felt her in there, her muscles and sinew and whateverthefuck panicking under that smile-washed face like rats in a wall, lashing at the palatable gal’s drywall with their puny paws, desperate for a sincere scowl.
I could never tell how she fit in the town either. She’d lived here her whole life but had no friends or family or lovers to show for it. After I settled in, I started hearing the rumors about how and why she was so close with the orangoutang.
It was obvious that the orangoutang thing made her famous (“famous” in the sense The Biggest Ball of Twine or Charlie Manson’s grave are famous.) Like, I’d be staring out the window, doing the dishes, and folks would slow down as they passed the house. They’d linger at the curb and gawk, leaning out their windows to snap pics. In the summer, when the frat bros were home from their date raping and boozing, they’d drive past making monkey hoots and prank call the house asking for “Jane Goodall.” And then there was Halloween—fucking Halloween was the worst of it; as you can imagine, it was a night of countless asshats in monkey costumes scratching their armpits and asking for bananas. It was impossible to tell if she was simply hated or if the people here were grade-A assholes.
What I do know is that her celebrity made mundane shit like rolling her through the supermarket a coin flip away from spectacle. We’d be chugging along, Ms. T reading from her chicken scratch list, directing me this way and that; we’d pass folks ignorant to the lore of her face, and they’d light up in that I’m a recipient of joyous energy way (the way I did when I first saw her.) These good folks would offer clothed mouth smiles of appreciation or nod their heads and offer greetings (“Hey there,” “How are ya?” etc.), effectively turning the bread aisle into an ’80s sitcom title sequence.
These were the good moments, the nice side of the coin. I could tell the interaction meant something to those lucky bastards. I never got tired of seeing that “oh wow, here is this poor woman with a missing leg and three fingers—the back nine of life sure dealt her a shit hand, but here she is, smiling, full of life, and generous enough to share it with us” sparkle in their eyes (and yes, “lucky bastards” is what they were—these folks didn’t stick around long enough to learn her smile had nothing to do with them, they never had their warmth sour into disgust or terror or disdain…)
As is the nature of coins, sometimes the shit end came up…sometimes we’d run into those asshats who knew all about her face and the orangoutang, and the whole thing became a circus of laughs, hoots, and pictures. In the moment, Ms. T would stay strong, reading from her list and ignoring it, but on the ride home, she’d cry her poor eyes out.
That wasn’t the worst of it, no siree…Ms. T’s most fucked up quirk was making me wheel her smiling ass to (at least) one funeral every month.
Whose funeral, you ask?
Didn’t matter.
Apparently, this shit had been going on long before my time with her, so I couldn’t tell you how it all started. All I knew was that all of a sudden, she’d get like a dog in heat, horned up by a weird, funereal hunger. She’d send me all over town to pick up one of every newspaper. When I came back, she’d sit in silence for hours, scanning the obits until she “resonated” with one of the poor dead fucks.
I wasn’t a fan of this shit, but in my capacity as caregiver, I couldn’t do squat. The muckety mucks said I could only get involved or correct behavior that would fuck with her health. A stranger’s funeral was weird but harmless, so I was in no position to put my foot down. Even if I was, I would’ve thought twice about it cause Ms. T was not one to be trifled with. She was nice enough, yes, but challenging her in any way would summon her Karen side—the side of her that would bitch to homebase and poof! I’d be out on my ass…again.
I tried my best to low-key steer her away from this urge, but she’d just brush me off. Besides, when she explained it, it kinda made sense. After the millionth time I asked, “Why funerals?” she flipped a shit and went on a long-ass rant about how when she was lying in the ER getting her face rebuilt, she felt like a fresh corpse being gussied up for her service. When she closed her eyes, she’d see herself alone, tits up in comfy cedar surrounded by flowers but no mourners in sight.
She said the vision/dream/whateverthefuck made her lonely and hungry—it made her feel like it was important to be close to and keep an eye on death by honoring those who die alone or with little fanfare, not only because it’s the right thing to do, but perhaps these acts of kindness will convince (AKA guilt) some poor fucks to sit through her service when it came around.
She sensed my anxiety and assured me she’d done it a bunch of times, and there’s never been any drama. She said there are two types of funeral-goers. The first are those sad fucks so broke up by the loss that they’ve become human and neighborly again for a brief instant. The second are the leave me alone brooders—the sad fucks so far up their own asses in grief they wouldn’t piss near you if you were on fire. Ms. T said it didn’t matter which type we’d run into; neither one would give two shits about her face.
Despite her assurances, I couldn’t sleep the night before the first funeral. I spent the night flipping coins, wondering if we’d get the shit side—wheeling a smiling quasi-vegetable with no relation to the deceased into a hive of grief is a match to a gas rag, right? I should prepare for the worst, right? I’ll probably have to punch someone…for like, self-protection…right?
In the end, Ms. T was right; we got in and out unscathed. Some people did stare. A few pointed, and some kiddos giggled at her, but no one bothered or belittled her like usual. After the service, Ms. T made me wheel her up to the corpse’s relatives so she could pay respects and give them some flowers. Oh, the look on these poor fucks’ faces! They couldn’t help but curl up in confusion. I could practically hear them thinking What the fuck is she doing here? How did she know mom/dad/grandma/grandpa/uncle/aunt/son/daughter/cousin/whoever?
On the drive home, I’d peep at her in the rearview, catching her staring out the window. It was like what they say about broke clocks, how they’re right twice a day or whatever, her smile seemed to beam extra after the funerals like there was finally some harmony between her face and self. I’d keep looking back at her on these drives, half admiring, half expecting her to ask what she always asked:
“Take me to Burger King, dear.”
“You got it, Ms. T.”
The incident in question began with funereal hunger.
Like always, she sent me on the ceremonial, paper-gathering goose chase.
Like always, she spent the day picking a random stiff to visit.
This time, it was a twenty-one-year-old girl.
It wasn’t mentioned in the obit but, turned out the poor girl died ‘cause she needed an abortion, and the docs around here were too chickenshit to give her one, so she bled out in a parking lot somewhere.
Usually, Ms. T picked the loners—the homeless, widowers, swept-under-the-rug fuckers like that—safe choices that inspire low turnout…this wasn’t that.
The whole thing was fucked from the get-go. We drove up to find a metric crap-ton of mourners entering the church. Across the street, a group of born-again cum stains were hollering and protesting in the street, calling the dead girl a “murderer”—saying God was just to strike her down and condemn her to hell for even thinking about…blah blah blah.
This became a problem because Ms. T always wore a bigass cross around her neck. Everyone was amped up and cagey as it was, so as soon as I rolled Ms. T in, heads were tuning. Most of the bereaved were people from outta town. They didn’t know Ms. T and seemed to think that, because of her cackling ass smile and shiny cross, she was one of the protesting Jesus freaks coming to dance on the poor girl’s grave.
I could tell Ms. T felt the bad vibes too cause she fumbled about with her lobster claw hands, trying to tuck the cross under her shirt and will her face into the dead-eyed nausea expected of her.
We tried to be stealthy as fuck; we kept quiet and I wheeled her way in the back, angling her face towards the wall. It didn’t help. A few minutes in, most of the crowd was shooting daggers. I stood there, getting sweaty, pretending to admire the stained glass or whateverthefuck, mumbling under my breath to Ms. T, begging to get the fuck outta there. She was about to rub my arm in that nonsense, it will be fine way when some tomato looking man—the girl’s father, as I later found out—started going ape shit.
He was sob-yelling at the top of his lungs, but the echo of the church made him incoherent. It sounded like he was cursing us out, something like: “How dare you goddamn hypocrites come in here and judge my daughter! All you motherfuckers are full of shit; if you love your neighbor so damn much, why are you here laughing at her? What the hell did she do to you?” (I’m paraphrasing and (I guess) projecting a bit onto the poor guy, but that’s the vibe he gave off.)
He tried to storm closer to us, but a crowd formed to hold him back. Some more subdued family came up, whispering coffee breath in my ear, saying we should leave; their mouths saying “please,” their faces saying, “get the fuck out.” I nodded and wheeled her to the van. Ms. T kept her head down as a crew of mourners perp walked us the hell out. Their eyes clung to us like barnacles as I loaded Ms. T in the van and peeled out.
That was a shit show, yes, but it was only the tip of the cock that was about to rage-fuck me.
A week later, Ms. T saw some Food Network Rachel Ray wannabe make a bomb-ass gumbo; it got her all riled up, and she begged me to copy down the recipe and head to the market. I loved cooking, and Ms. T was right; the gumbo looked good as hell, so I made like a good boy and drove my hungry ass to the Acme.
The place wasn’t busy, so I breezed through the produce section and had the fish dude wrap up some fresh shrimp. I was scanning the meat freezers for some andouille when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw something big coming at me. I turned to find a tomatoey man hauling ass towards me.
I recognized him as the dead girl’s daddy when he punched me in the face. The fucker hit like Ali, so I went down like a sack of shit. I remember the sharp heat in my face and curling fetal-like with my back against the cool meat freezer, feeling the electric hum wiggle my fat as the tomato curb stomped my face and kicked my ribs. I remember a crowd rushing towards the dude, but that’s it—that’s when I blacked out.
The next few days, I was outta my skull on morphine, drifting in and out. I remember coming to a few times and seeing a group of faces in baby blue masks shining bright shit in my eyes and prodding me with metal tools; I remember freaking out cause my eyes were open, but the yellowy mummy bandages made everything blurry; I remember my dimples feeling sore, and how, when I tried to call out I couldn’t.
When I came to for good, the mummy shit was gone. The first thing I heard was the humming of that fakeass light and the sonar beep of my heart. The chip clip thing on my finger made my mouth water; I ran my tongue over the teeth I had left—they tasted like Cool Ranch Doritos and made my tummy growl. The tang made me want to pucker my lips, but they wouldn’t budge.
I looked around the room for the first time. It was white and sparse. The only non-medical thing was a lop-sided ficus or whatever and a framed picture. As my eyes got used to the light, I made out the framed thing was a cover of Time with this pasty-ass nerd standing with his toothpick arms crossed over his chest like an anime hero and the words “Surgery of the Decade” floating over his yamaka burn.
In the hall, I heard a metallic hee-haw and the swishing of soleless shoes coming to my door. A masked, tight-ponytailed nurse knocked on my already open door. I turned and saw Ms. T wheeling in, that smile as infectious as ever. She wheeled herself right under the framed Time. I wanted to smile back, but as my eyes ping-ponged between Ms. T and Time, I realized what I wanted didn’t matter; I already was.
I will also say that the voice in this is so captivating. i want to hang out with this guy and get him to narrate the obituaries. All the language just feels exactly right. Loved all the parentheticals and quips too. Always enjoy reading your work so much.
Those damn rat bastards. Loved the voice of this one.