the big'un
short fiction
Pa appears in the door, his hair alive, Rory's perched penguin-like on the vamps of his steel toes, a hairy arm seat belted 'cross his lil' chest. Ma's got the transistor tuned and cranked, pressin' the grill flush 'gainst her ear, free hand swattin' her roilin' robe.
The three of us stand watchin'. Rory's swirlin' a finger 'round his nose 'til a thunderclap shocks him ramrod straight—his lil' index smears the booger on his khakis as he looks up to Pa with gosh-wow stupor.
Pa's tryin' to holler somethin', but the sirens chew his voice into ortolan pulp. The screen door flops sunfish-like in his hand as errant leaves skitter by his feet. On any other day, Ma woulda gave him hell for lettin' them leaves dirty her kitchen, and Rory woulda gotten the What I say 'bout pickin' your nose? speech.
I'm tryin' to suss the wrigglin' in Ma's brow, but the window's gone seafoam and the air smells funny. She pulls the transistor from her ear, shakin' her head and signin' the cross—in the brief sonic trough between siren wails, she turns to Pa, "They sayin' she comin' to Hominy!"
She swirls into action, delegatin' Full Metal Jacket style under a helmet of Goodwill curlers. I choke up; the whole scene hops a froggy in my throat—that dewey-eyed, I guess nothin' changes typa chuckle that bubbles up reflex-like when ya come upon somethin' ever-constant.
My fist comes to mouth for a frog-clearin' cough and I start stuffin' IKEA bags to the brim with whatever's in arms reach.
Pa's got his free hand cupped in a C 'round his mouth, yellin' "We're gonna check in on Dale!"
The siren starts its Gershwinian ascent to sinusoidal ear rape, makin' the loose flesh jiggle 'round my jaw, and my ears pop—I freeze up with a half-empty Wheaties box in my hand. Dale—the name sinks my gut. I whip 'round to face Pa, fixin' to tell him to leave that freak be, but he's gone. I catch him in the window holdin' Rory overhead like Superman, his lil' fist out and stoic, his Skechers flashin' red and blue, flyin' off to save the day.
It's the two of us now, waltzin' about in roaring silence. Every now and again, Ma'll look up at me, a Pisa tower of spam cans liltin' in her stout palm, flashin' her sheepish 'It warms my heart you're home; I'm sorry it ain't no fun' smiles.
I return my toothless 'Don't worry 'bout it, Ma' grin, as I shove cans into the bag's blue maw.
The seafoam comin' through the window makes us both look ill.
It's not that Dale's a bad fella, not in the slightest, he's just plain odd—and not that hardy har, funny typa odd, no, those folks can be quite endearin', but Dale? Dale ain't exactly the endearin' type. He's ripe with that I don't know why but somethin' in my gut compels me to keep an eye on this fucker no matter how nice he may be typa odd Sheriff Doyle tells ya 'bout on Stranger Danger day.
As far back as I 'member, he's lived next door with his ol' Ma in that parma-dilapidated ranch—that sorry, shit brown log us neighborhood boys christened The Turd.
He'd bum 'round behind The Turd, dawn til' dusk, sprawled out on his neon chaise lounge—the only bit of furniture ('cept for a half-broke cherub statue) visible in the unkempt weave of savannah grass passin' as his yard.
He'd sit shirtless, pale hairless torso peekin' through that garish yellow raincoat he always wore, rockin' jorts so short and skanky you could see rancid plaid boxers crownin' through the leg holes like air-starved porpoises.
He'd just sit there, all day, every day, cig butt twitchin' in his chapped lips as he mumble-sang some diddy to himself. Huge insectoid sunglasses hid his eyes; his dainty hummingbird hands whittled foraged twister debris with bovine force, festoonin' his gut with lil' dunes of curled wood.
Problem was, in our neighborhood, all the houses were right up, flush 'gainst one another. To get down to the yard, we had to go through the livin' room and down some concrete stairs—and when you'd stand at the tippy top of them stairs you'd see clear over the fence into Dale's yard.
This arrangement pleased Dale. He'd catch me standin' there every time, turnin' his black mantis eyes with I've been expectin' you confidence to offer a lil' limp-wristed wave.
As a kid, I thought nothin' of it. Pa always went on 'bout being neighborly, so I had no qualms 'bout wavin' back with full-throated jazz hands or curlin' my face up into that TV Land Howdy neighbor! shit-eater.
As I grew, the older kids taught me Dale was a textbook weirdo, but I'd still wave hello with neighborly vigor. I was young, and weird ain't bad when you're young, hell, weird is fun!—it's somethin' to snicker at when ridin' bikes with the boys but, with each passin' year, the sight of him slimed my tongue with an increasingly pungent sourness.
It took a good year of post-high school city-slickin' for my body to define that Dale-induced sourness. Turns out, it's the same sour that seeped outta my gums when I passed my first street-crazy tuggin' at his pecker—that same Sour Patch shoulder angel makin' me keep straight eyes and cross the street when I pass a questionable vagrant.
When I reached the unrefined pallet of tweendom, somethin' in my bones told me to heed the sour. If I wanted to play in the yard, I'd open the livin' room door and haul ass down those stairs, makin' sure my feet touched grass before the screen door latched.
Pa was different, though. He's always been a fella's fella, the Messiah-type capable of turnin' strangers into confidants with a single wry wink. He'd stand on the stairs, wavin' and smilin' over at Dale. If feelin' particularly garrulous, he'd stroll up to the fence and shoot the shit.
Sometimes, I'd get curious and press my ear to the fence. From what I heard, Dale's voice was surprisingly girly and posh—chock full of what Ma woulda called "expensive vo-cab-Uuuuuuu-lar-y." His intonation was odd, perhaps Brownian, risin' from anhedonic flatness to YouTuber over annunciation at the drop of a hat. I 'member Jimmy laughin' when I told him Dale sounded like a canary with a Tyson lisp.
Matter of fact, Pa liked Dale just fine; he'd call him up two or three times each summer to come by and fix the mower when it'd shit the bed. Dale'd lurch up the driveway carryin' his banged-up toolbox, peppered lunch box-like with ripped stickers. Layin' in my dorm at night, I still hear his flip-flops slurpin' at his sweaty pedal underbellies as he bow-legged up to the doorbell.
One of those days, I was lookin' for Pa. Ma told me he was out in the driveway tinkerin' with the car. I ran out yellin' "PaAAaa! Oh, PAAAAAaaaaa!", doin' that excited tyke with somethin' important or perhaps even salacious to report skip. As I rounded the corner to the driveway, I was met by a yellow, pustular mass—Dale on his haunches bent over our conked mower like a feastin' hyaena. I gulped and hightailed it right quick before he had a chance to turn 'round.
My personal run-in with Dale happened the summer before Freshman year at Hominy High. Ma and Pa were out somewhere with Rory; they'd left me behind to water the plants Pa put in the weekend before. I had my earbuds in as I approached the livin' room screen door, readyin' myself to barrel down them stairs. I glanced over the fence and was shocked to find Dale's yard empty. I let myself relax and filled the waterin' can, hummin' along to 'Sympathy for the Devil' as I scooped in some Miracle-Gro.
I trudged 'round our small yard, goin' plant by plant, tryin' to 'member Pa's detailed instructions for each of the finicky bastards. It was a ripe ol' dog day, and I was zonin' out, doin' a lil' Jagger shuffle—peckin' rooster-like and singin' when the Blitzkrieg rage and the bodies stank…
To this day, I don't know how long he'd been there; he must've been crouchin' behind the fence and endowed with a God-like ability to manufacture coincidence 'cause just as the can belched empty, and I turned 'round to walk to the spigot, there he was—Dale, peerin' right at me, just as I belted pleased to meet you… with Carnegie-confident verve, at the top of my lungs, hunched over mid Jagger peck.
My gut just 'bout fell placenta-like outta my ass.
I shut my eyes, scrunchin' them tight, prayin' I was dreamin'. My arm went limp, and the can dropped.
I opened my eyes. For a split second, I didn't recognize him. I'd never seen him without those glasses. His eyes were the puffy-kind, overly moist and shaky, seemingly burdened by the mass of over-due apologies. There were shiny black splotches of mower oil on his right cheek, and his ears were flushed red with exertion from doin' lord knows what.
He didn't speak or wave; he just stared at me, smilin'—using those peppers and bright yellow coat to make my soul Swiss cheese. My throat itched, and my eyes yo-yoed. Weird proteins fled his pupils, travelin' like bats to my sinuses. I snuffled, taste-smellin' notes of synthetic rose and sulfur as his proteins calcified my tonsils.
I averted my gaze to the can. I felt naked—jaybird nude and stumblin' 'round the Walmart, feelin' the stale AC tickle my taint like a Disney scent finger—the cancerous fluorescence of his gaze beatin' down upon my virgin skin, sproutin' up tumors and mushrooms on my thighs and buttocks as classmates, towns-folks—the whole damn state points and laughs while my candid, pubescent singin' pumps through the metallic intercom: hope you guess my name, oh yeah...
After a damned eternity, that lazy fight-or-flight bastard finally showed up. I ran inside, arms crossed in a tight X self-hug, rubbin' my shoulders like Ma used to. I tripped on the stairs, throwin' out my hands to catch myself, feelin' the greedy concrete collect its skin tax from my knees and palms. I scrambled up fast and ran to my room, feelin' some phantom nip at my heels. I threw up the covers and jumped into bed; they settled upon me with a large gulp, becomin' my skin.
I lay there, facedown, for hours, skin itchin' like a seen thing. I knew it was all over, but I didn't cry or nothin'; I didn't feel like doin' much of anythin'; I just kinda laid like a vegetable, lettin' the damn song parade on a loop as some essential thing withered away inside—I've…stole million man's soul an faith…and I laid traps for troubadours…in need of some restraint….
I stayed in the rest of the summer, mostly keepin' to myself and readin'. I performed a version of my live ol' self 'round the house, but Ma's like a damn truffle pig when it comes to despair: "Why aren't you out with your friends, hon? Jimmy was just here ringin' the bell, and you told him you can't play 'cause you're busy, but all I see is you layin' around..."
...ah, what's puzzling you...
"I just don't feel well," I said.
...is the nature of my game...
She was quite relentless. A few weeks into my retreat, she invited the Carloughs from down the lane for some BBQ, and of course, they brought Jimmy with 'em. Ma ushered Jimmy into my room to play some Halo. He went on and on wonderin' aloud what high school will be like and doin' remember when? memory lane horseshit. I sat dolin' out the occasional "yes" or "no," shootin' up aliens and countin' down the moments 'til I was out from under the microscope of other eyes.
When school started up, my retreat was total. If my mouth so much as twitched within twenty feet of another body, my eyes burned with Dale's yellow, and his sour slimed my tongue. Most days, I haunted the halls without sayin' word one.
In class, I'd sit in back, scibblin' my notes, never raisin' my hand. Come lunch, I'd toss the baloney sammie Ma made in the trash and avoid the cafeteria's social chess by nappin' in the library.
Those who didn't know me thought I was autistic or brain-dead. I'd catch 'em whisperin' 'bout me, "Yeah...apparently, he's retarded or somethin'...a real weirdo." If, god forbid, I'd make eye contact with someone, they'd avert their gaze like they were just caught oglin' a wheelchair-bound cripple. On the rare occasion some big-hearted soul tried to connect, they'd speak usin' that slow, patronizin' baby voice reserved for dementia patients and wounded animals.
School called Ma a few times that first year with their "concerns" about my "social conduct"—or, more accurately, lack thereof. At first, Ma would get off the phone and come into my room, goin' on about how "these are the best years of your life, you gotta live 'em full!" Sometimes she'd get broke up 'bout it and start cryin' about how she don't understand what she done wrong and that she's savin' up for some shrink a girlfriend of hers swears works wonders for "angsty youths."
I knew this wasn't sustainable for her and Pa, their firstborn, a shut-in, their precious seed turned putrid wallflower—I had to sanitize my retreat with a story, somethin' to make 'em leave me be but also makes 'em feel good: "Ma, Pa—everyone at school is doin' drugs and drinkin' and fightin', and I don't want any of that. My friends have all changed! I don't want to be dragged down into the muck with 'em! 'Member lil' Jimmy? From down the lane? He's doin' that fentanyl stuff these days. Can ya believe it? Jimmy? On drugs? No...I have big plans; I'm fixin' to be in that Ivy League, so I gots to focus and ain't got no time to be foolish, etc... you and Pa raised me better, etc., etc…after all, don't the Bible say…yada yada…2 Thessalonians 3:10-12…blah blah blah…"
A few months into the school year, as those stellar grades started comin' in, Operation Anxious Retreat From the World Made Palatable to Those Who Love Me By Ingeniously Disguisin' My Aloof Behavior As Some Form of Type-A Ascetic Rigor In Order to Bring Our Folksy Family Name to Harvard Yard (or some such hallowed place) was a resoundin' success.
Come January, if the school yokels even bothered callin', Ma brushed 'em off like dandruff, sayin', "… he's fine! He's as goofy as ever when he's home, so I don't quite get what you're goin' on about, but thanks for your concern, hon," winkin' at me as she hung up on 'em mid-sentence.
That part was true; I was "goofy as ever" at home, just the same ol' me—helpin' Pa get the Christmas stuff from the attic, cookin' with Ma, crackin' wiseguyisms at the table every night, havin' popcorn fights with Rory durin' family movies. However, there were some small but palatable changes—birthday parties went from a dozen friends runnin' around to just the four of us, and I tended to clam up if Ma or Pa or Rory brought home an intruder. I'd warm up to 'em after a while; I could be social and warm so long as I was behind that door—unseen by the hoard of jostlin' eyes, waitin' for me right beyond its threshold—eyes that don't love me or check under my bed for monsters or rustle up soup when I'm sick, eyes that'd tear me limb from limb at the drop of a hat for no reason other than shallow entertainment.
The school kinda gave up tryin' to pull me into the mix after that first year. Ma and Pa seemed to accept my monkish behavior; it gave 'em somethin' to brag about. I’d catch 'em sayin' shit like “…he's just so, unbelievably focused…takin' the world by the horns; god love 'em!” The four years at H.H. are one big smear. Come graduation, after years of claimin' I needed help and labelin' me a “loner,” the school yokels circled 'round and offered me Valedictorian, sayin' they'd "never seen anythin'" like my grades. I turned 'em down. Hell, I'm the loser who refused to sit for his damn yearbook photos, avoided prom like the plague, and had no intent to walk come June; what did they expect?
Ma had a big problem with this. We butted heads for weeks and ended up with a compromise: no Valedictorian speech, but I'd work up the nerve to sulk through the ceremony so she could flash her pictures for the damn fridge and whatnot. I made good on my end, keepin' my head down the whole time, scurryin' across the stage, scannin' the risers for yellow; assurin' myself I was bound to trip ass over teakettle over my flowy gown, and everyone would start laughin'.
I can't bring myself to tell 'em that ever since movin' to pie in the sky Harvard, things have gotten worse—exponentially worse. At Hominy, I at least felt that social tickle—that motherly animal want pushin' the small of your back sayin' go play, hon—If I’m bein' true, I heard it loud and clear but kept myself from dippin' toes in them risky waters. Nowadays, that social tickle is gone; there's no hand on my lumbar—all I know is smiles are self-servin' predators. When my dorm-mates smile What’s up? they're invitin' me to lower my guard, to get all fuzzy and comfy so I say somethin' stupid—somethin' tasty the smile can lap up to sustain itself.
All I know is when starin' down a smile, never let it peep the self's red meat. Stand strong. Stun the outer self into a silent skin; this silence must smell sweet like it wafts from a busy, full life—never let your fear or hatred or weirdness sour the smell of your silence; one whiff, and the smile will pounce on ya. If the smile appears hungry, itchin' to pounce, hold your ground—don't thumb the nose or strike out or name-call. To survive, one must have “no thanks” on the tip of the tongue; one must let lips fuse immobile; one must cultivate the sweet, busy silence; if one is forced into speech, it must be confident, brief, and uneventful; one must call their Ma every week, tellin' her the world is amazin'; one must train their body to shit once a week, holdin' business til' Tuesday at 3 a.m., so one is assured no smiles will be 'round Holworthy to gorge on the sounds of one's gut.
The blue bags overflow with dry goods and batteries. Ma steps away for a sec to take her curlers out—apparently, we're havin' company now.
Pa comes back to the kitchen, holding Rory's hand—their feet crunchin' leaf bits into the tile grout.
"Dale and his Ma are comin' to the cellar with us—we gots enough to go 'round?" Pa says, competin' with the siren.
"No," I say, hands curlin' into fists, "we're stretched thin."
Pa scans the hoard of IKEA bags. "Looks good to me; we ain't fixin' to be down there long," he says, "ain't the apocalypse just yet, boyo." He winks.
Sour bile pumps up my throat. "How come they don't got their own cellar?"
Pa shrugs, "Who knows, it ain't no matter anyhow—it's good to be neighborly now and again."
Rory nods in absent agreement, investigatin' the contents of the IKEA bags, pettin' them like German Shepherds.
The seafoam sky turned pitch black, and spilled marbles of hail pitter 'gainst the windows. The siren's troughs reveal a roarin' whistle comin' from the woods.
"Where's your Ma?"
"Comin'!" She yells, burstin' into the room, brushin' her hair, and smoothin' out her robe. I pick up the IKEA bags while she grabs the radio and her toiletry bag. A wallop of thunder cracks so close I can taste it. Rory runs over and clings to Ma's leg, startin' to bawl. I see Ma's pursed lips shushin' him.
"We gotta go!" Pa yells from the door, "Rory!"
Rory runs over and takes Pa's hand. I let Ma go out first, and make sure the porch door is latched tight. I catch the approachin' yellow of Dale's billowin' coat; he's got his arm 'round a corpse-like woman propped up by a tennis-ball dotted walker. My head turns down against my neck, and the rolls of double chin feel warm as I turn and haul ass towards the cellar.
"Go help 'em out, will ya?" Pa hollers.
I keep runnin', two IKEA bags in each hand, their potbellies kickin' up dirt bits into the gale. Rory sees me runnin' and follows; he catches up, tuggin' at my shirt.
"Why we goin' down there?" He says, his flaxen hair a busy Medusa mop. Over his shoulder, I see Pa runnin' over to help Dale.
"C'mon Ror, help me with these doors," I say, scootin' him along by the small of his back; his lil' shirt's soaked through, and I feel him shakin'.
Dale hasn't said much of anythin'. He's exchanged pleasantries with Ma and Pa, but mostly, he's been tendin' to his ol' Ma. We're all sat Indian style on rumblin' concrete, a battery lantern flickerin' shadows' cross the floor. We shiver in the vegetal cool as Dale's Ma lays fetus-like under a U-Haul blankey.
Pa just finished lockin' up and joins us; the metal doors thrash above like jumpin' beans. The siren sounds shrunk from down here, some puny thing yellin' at a void. Ma can't get the radio to work. She's pokin' at it as Dale looks on smilin'. "Piece a junk!" she mumbles, settin' it behind her.
Pa clears his throat, "It'll pass," he says, "they always do."
We all nod absently, havin' retreated into ourselves, performin' our routines and prayers. Rory's got his head in Ma's lap. She's pettin' his head with her eyes closed, breathin' big and slow. In her free hand, she's rubbin' a pale blue fabric strip. Her index and middle fingers pressin' together lengthwise, makin' a flat surface; her thumb's become a herbivore's jaw, grindin' the cloth into a bolus of frayed fibers. I'm nauseous and dead-eyed, distactin' myself by watchin' the thin strip flop 'gainst the cold floor like a soggy spaghetto.
The wind's tearin' at the doors, and Rory starts cryin'. Ma's eyes shoot open. She tosses the fabric and shushes him into comfort, givin' him the bum radio to play with.
Dale's Barbie pink toenails sparkle in the lamplight; I can see all of us in his glasses. His Ma's sleepin' and dyin' in the corner just over his shoulder. When Rory starts cryin', Dale starts hummin' softly to himself. I can barely hear it over the wind and sirens, but it's growin' steadily, from low raspy gobbledygook into stilted tunehood. I hear it now. His voice burns my eyes and stops my throat. I make out the lyrics despite them bein' garbled up by his closed mouth:
Let me please introduce myself I'm a man of wealth and taste And I laid traps for troubadours Who get killed before they reached Bombay Pleased to meet you Hope you guessed my name, oh yeah But what's puzzling you Is the nature of my game, oh yeah, get down, baby
Dale rifles through his duffle as he hums, pullin' out some grimy puppet— damn thing's a roadkill Frankenstein, part squirrel corpse, part Joanne Fabrics. He slips it over his hand and starts singin' the guitar solo, open-mouthed and full bore, tryin' his best to crackle his voice with '60's distortion—imbuin' the stiff puppet with Muppet verve as it air-guitars along.
Ma and Pa smile in recognition. Rory's sittin' up now, payin' attention, wipin' snot from his nose, mouth corners twitchin' with a burgeonin' smile.
Dale's goin' between the guitar solo and the girly woo woooos, havin' the puppet Jagger peck 'round the cellar, its mismatched googly eyes clackin' as it runs to the edges of an imaginary stage, makin' I can't hear you! gestures with stiff-furred arms, pausin' to wait for the crowd to answer it:
Woo! Woooo!
Woo! Woooo!
Ma starts wooin' and clappin'.
Woo! Woooo!
Pa joins in scattin' the congas and shakers, clappin' with Ma. The puppet seems pleased.
Woo! Woooo!
Rory's smilin' now, beamin' at everyone, bringin' his hands together.
A school of fish spawns in the barrel of my diaphragm, dartin' 'round, pokin' me inside out with hot pangs—bile slithers up my throat.
Woo! Woooo!
Dale starts singin' with a Kermit-Jagger hybrid voice as the family band continues clappin' and wooin':
Pleased to meet you Hope you guessed my name, oh yeah But what's confusing you Is just the nature of my game
I'm doused in cold sweat, Pa's play-shovin' my shoulder, tryin' to get me to look up from the floor. I look up. Ma's shootin' daggers at me, and Pa's tiltin' his head towards Rory with a C'mon, do it for the lil' guy look. I swallow bile and bring my moist hands together, strugglin' to find the beat.
Ma stops clappin' and sings along with Dale, using her arms to marionette Rory into a dance. He giggles, unaware of the thunderclap and the flickerin' lantern:
Just as every cop is a criminal And all the sinners saints As heads is tails Just call me Lucifer 'Cause I'm in need of some restraint
The puppet looks alive, movin' on its own volition. I stumble into the beat, and my mouth starts movin':
So if you meet me Have some courtesy Have some sympathy, and some taste Use all your well-learned politnesse Or I'll lay your soul to waste, mm yeah
We reach the chorus, and I'm beltin' along, smilin' at Rory, puttin' "name" and "game" in the back of my throat to make him giggle:
Pleased to meet you Hope you guessed my name, mm yeah But what's puzzling you Is the nature of my game, mm mean it, get down
We're swept up in groove, watchin' the puppet dance, peepin' our pale selves fisheyed in Dale's glasses. Rory's all smiles. Ma and Pa are wrigglin' with nostalgia. There's the sound of our voices, our Woo! Woooo!s, and our clappin'—the warm feelin' of Pa's flannel as he pulls me close—there's the flickerin' lamp and the thunder claps, Dale's Ma dozin' in the corner—there's the smell of eggs and rumblin' concrete 'gainst our butts, then dirt gets in my eyes and the siren becomes loud and Dale goes quiet and Rory looks to Ma and the doors swing open and—
This was fucking terrifying. Per usual, I’m on a ride that I’m not entirely positive I want to be on (tossing my eyes frantically around: Is this ok? Are we ok??) Also per usual, the whole end was such a satisfying payoff. And like “Dueling Banjos,” I’ll never hear “Sympathy” the same way again—congrats, sir, you’ve toppled Interview with the Vampire!
Well there goes my peace of mind. Or piece of mind... because it's done been blown!