The Garbage Times - White Ibis

by Sam Pink

  The headset walkie-talkie.

  The fucking grapes on the sign.

  He asked what I’d been doing for work and I said, ‘Freelance,’ without laughing.

  But by that point the interview had become purely a formality.

  I had the urge to say, ‘Hey, I don’t even want this bullshit’—partially standing, hands still on chair—‘zat cool?’

  ‘All right, well, I still have a few people to interview and then I’ll let you know.’

  Mm-hm.

  We shook hands and I left.

  I, of course, didn’t get the job.

  But they did send me an email a couple weeks later about a hiring fair they were having at the store.

  Perhaps to admit they’d made a mistake, perhaps not.

  Either way, there was no way I was going to that fucking hiring fair.

  Fuck that place and the fucking grapes on its sign.

  11

  My girl’s cousin came over.

  ‘Hey, y’all! Ch’all dewn?’ she said, striding in and setting down her massive key chain.

  Bam came out and licked her leg, tail nub wagging.

  She held on to my shoulder and fixed a flip-flop, adjusted her bra.

  She reminded us that her daughter Chelsea’s gecko/lizard-themed birthday party was that weekend and that we were both, of course, invited and that we were, of course, going.

  Also, hey, what a coincidence, she wasn’t able to find a swimsuit with a gecko on it.

  And, given her daughter’s intense love of geckos—she owned one and it would be attending the party—coupled with the pool-party atmosphere and me being ‘Mr. Artist and all’ … well, do the math.

  She took a swimsuit out of her purse and tossed it to me.

  I held it up.

  It was aqua-colored with no graphics.

  She said, ‘Think you could draw a gecko on that for Sunday, Mr. Artist?’

  When people find out you like to draw at all, it means not only are you available for free work, but you also have to constantly prove yourself.

  No one ever believes you.

  Oh yeah? If you’re such a fucking artist, let’s see you draw a gecko on a swimsuit.

  ‘Sure, yeah,’ I said, holding the small swimsuit.

  ‘And one for Sheldon,’ she said, tossing me a white T-shirt.

  They were celebrating both her daughter’s and her son’s birthdays at the same party so I also had to make her son a shirt.

  Classic two-for-one move.

  ‘Ok, what should I draw on it then?’ I said.

  Some video game he likes.

  Something.

  Look it up.

  Just pick a character.

  Ok.

  I was, of course, panicking from the moment she left.

  Fuck.

  I had to come up big.

  And not just for any situation, but a dual birthday/massive party situation, at which there would be not only close family but friends and their families, and, I assumed, not to say it was my chief concern, the employees for the reptile show also promised.

  ‘Hey, what’s that supposed to be?’ someone will surely say, as the birthday girl holds up her new swimsuit, her face slowly changing from an ecstatic smile to shock, then dread.

  This?

  This is my gecko swimsuit?

  This is what I have to wear?

  ‘It looks like a rabbit kind of,’ someone says in the background somewhere, as I fade to tunnel vision.

  And I dryly try to speak, ‘No …’ I say, croaking, holding my throat. ‘No it’s a geck—’

  ‘Lemme see it! Huh. Not really that good.’

  I went out to get fabric markers.

  I couldn’t fuck this up.

  If I fucked up, that was it.

  I couldn’t afford fabric markers and a new swimsuit/T-shirt.

  So it was on me to come up big.

  Here we go again.

  Let’s see what you got, old man.

  At the craft store, I took a sales flyer, but only out of nerves, as I’d already been receiving it by email for, hell, months at that point.

  Yes, I had been reaping the benefits of THAT arrangement for quite a few months.

  And this month’s flyer was no exception, boasting the lowest prices in what had already been an absurd year.

  50% off all craft pumpkins.

  Pumpkin dioramas.

  Papier-mâché witches.

  Lotta action on fall florals … 40% off scarecrows too.

  Candy-corn-themed shit.

  Leaves.

  Frankensteins.

  Fall was here, people.

  I found the fabric marker aisle.

  The cheapest pack would be costing me eight of my last twelve dollars.

  Shit.

  I got in line, behind an old lady arguing about a coupon.

  There was a standoff between her and a young, angry-looking girl at the register.

  ‘That’s for the papier-mâché candy-corn wall decal,’ said the employee, pointing at the coupon. ‘Not the papier-mâché witch outdoor cutout.’

  The old lady continued to argue in a manner so annoying she was destined to succeed.

  I looked at some Florida attraction pamphlets near the register by the candy.

  Florida seemed to be a theme park state.

  A ‘fun center’ place.

  A place where people go to the trouble of locating and centralizing fun for you.

  I saw one for Congo River Adventure Golf.

  Voted BEST miniature golf.

  A panel of serious-looking six-year-olds, filling out surveys, or made to play miniature golf wearing various electrodes.

  There was a picture on the front of a man and presumably his son on a putting green, the dad with his hands up, club in hand, and the son pointing at where a red golf ball was about to go into the hole.

  Both were wearing the same color shirt.

  Underneath that, it said, ‘More than a game!’

  ‘More than a game’ seemed ominous.

  An older man with slicked-back hair in a weird futuristic suit, pacing around a lineup of shackled six-year-olds wearing electrodes.

  ‘As you are well aware, gentlemen, what you are about to enter is far more than a game.’

  Another brochure was for two dolphins: Winter and Hope.

  Hope had survived getting caught in a fishing net and having her tail amputated.

  They made her a prosthetic tail, which allowed her to swim.

  It reminded me of my friend back in Chicago who had a prosthetic leg.

  We worked at a bar together.

  One night we were walking to the subway and it was summer and he was wearing his original prosthetic, which was basically just a pole.

  And we walked by a fast food place.

  A couple dudes were sitting on the curb out front, smoking a blunt.

  One said, slapping his friend with the back of his hand, ‘Ayo, check out stickleg-ass.’

  And all of us, Stickleg-Ass included, started laughing.

  It even became his nickname.

  And now this, a sea-stickleg-ass.

  It made me feel so happy to know there were sea-stickleg-asses too.

  And that there were probably outer-space-life-form-stickleg-asses and whatnot.

  Microbial stickleg-asses.

  A whole world.

  A whole beautiful world.

  Always more than everything right now.

  ‘Is that everything?’ said the girl working the register, putting my markers into a bag.

  Yes, that is everything.

  I walked out of the store into the sunlight, collecting myself.

  Ok.

  No turning back now.

  Spotlight on me.

  Go time.

  Kill or be killed.

  The truth.

  At home, I got really stoned and shut myself in a room.

  This was it.

  Let’s get real, old man.
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  Let’s see what you got.

  I had my girl’s phone open to a picture of a gecko, on the bed next to me.

  I opened the markers, kneeling down to use the bed as a desk, with a binder to stretch the clothing over.

  I was focused on producing something consistent with my talent—which should be adequate for any sixth-grader/parent of a sixth-grader—but also fucking sweet in general.

  And so I powered on, producing two very nice articles.

  I must say.

  A beautiful and highly realistic gecko swimsuit and then a shirt with a pixelated-looking spider from a popular video game on it.

  Beautiful.

  I went and showed my girl.

  Naturally, she was amazed.

  Bam started wagging his tail in the commotion and I slapped his ass, basking in anticipation of the excitement I’d be providing two children.

  Fwack.

  Shlip shlip.

  Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand—

  Everyone at the party agreed.

  There were many ‘wows’ as I produced it, walking in with my girl.

  The party was at her parents’ house, which—along with her brother’s house—was a family party hub.

  My girl’s cousin said, ‘Wow. Chelsea, look!’

  Chelsea smiled, squeezed it, said, ‘My gecko,’ in a baby voice, then ran to the bathroom to put it on.

  I held up my hands, smiling, going to dip a piece of broccoli as cover for not knowing what to do.

  The spread was very good.

  Truly.

  A marvel.

  Real nice.

  Excellent spread.

  Luxurious, but also hearty.

  Thematic, but not impractical.

  A couple stromboli snakes, with the pepperoni tongue and green-olive eyes and everything.

  Beautiful.

  Quite simply: a victory.

  Cake from the nearby bakery, with lizards and swamp-themed shit on the top.

  All very nice.

  The birthday girl even had her prized gecko in a small plastic cage on the kitchen counter, overlooking the food and, I assumed, partying its nuts off.

  My girl’s cousin said, ‘Hey, actually, I’ma need your art skills again, Mr. Artist Man.’

  Man.

  I really just wanted to lie low, have some stromboli snake, maybe a little cake, see a reptile or two, and call it a night.

  But there I was.

  We went into the office and she handed me a marker and asked me to draw another lizard on a huge piece of green paper so they could play ‘pin the tail on the lizard.’

  ‘You can’t just summon the beast whenever,’ I said, sitting down.

  She patted my shoulders and walked away, saying, ‘I’m sure it will be greaaaaaaat.’

  And it was.

  Another W.

  I knocked out a realistic but pleasantly cartoonish enormous lizard with no tail.

  Even adding a little flare with the definition.

  But just a little.

  I quietly said, ‘Ooooooh,’ making a face and capping the marker.

  I went to get some food.

  I talked to a couple moms about ‘being an artist’—which is what my girl’s mom would announce about me every time someone mentioned the gecko swimsuit.

  ‘Is anyone else going to get into that stromboli snake?’ I said, to change the topic again—but also, in no uncertain terms, to get into the stromboli snake.

  ‘Yeah, take summa that one,’ said my girl’s mom. ‘I’ma put the next one in soon nuff, sweetheart.’ Then she said to the kids, ‘Y’all excited about the reptahl show comin up?’

  A bunch of kids screamed.

  One kid held up his hand and said, ‘I’m looking forward most to the um, barking tree frog.’

  Somebody else yelled, ‘I hope he brings a horned gecko.’

  ‘How about you, baby?’ my girl said, smiling.

  ‘I am excited for the reptile show as well,’ I said, then held up my hand for the birthday boy, who, having just donned his new shirt, pointed to it while doing a thumbs up, then high-fived me while making a face and dancing away towards the pool area.

  All the kids finished eating quickly, distracted by the looming reptile show.

  It was too much.

  They went outside to swim.

  I started talking to a mom who co-ran a Girl Scout troop with my girl’s cousin.

  ‘Hi, I’m Cindy,’ she said, setting her toddler down as he tried to squirm out of her arms.

  We again confirmed how nice the party was, specifically mentioning the stromboli snake.

  ‘Did you try a piece of it?’ I said.

  ‘Oh the snake thing? No, is it good?’

  Her son sat in place on the ground, waving both his hands around and smiling.

  The mom talked about her daughter’s recent birthday party and how they’d had a ‘bubble-ologist’ there.

  She explained how this bubble-ologist would come to your home, bringing his or her chemicals with, and perform bubble-related feats for the kids, which, no doubt, mesmerized them.

  If I had kids I wouldn’t let them experience a bubble-ologist though. It would not be allowed.

  No.

  No, I think not.

  They could, perhaps, at a certain age, do it on their own, like if a friend much later in life was having a bubble-ologist party, then, I guess, fine.

  ‘A bubble-ologist,’ I said. ‘Wow.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s a thing now,’ she said, putting some hair behind her ear.

  A thing now.

  The mom took a bite of cake, staring at me.

  ‘They have everything now,’ I said pointlessly.

  Her kid started crawling away.

  He was moving with slow but concerted effort, having—clearly—just learned to crawl.

  Every time he hauled himself forward, he said, ‘Ehp’ or ‘Hep.’

  Ehp.

  Ehhhhhp.

  When he got a couple feet out, he paused in the middle of the room and lifted a hand and leaned his head back, making a very touching gesture towards a ceiling fan.

  ‘Ehhhhhhh-EPP,’ he said, then extended his bottom lip and blew out.

  ‘Oh, he loves ceiling fans,’ said his mom, rolling her eyes.

  He held the pose for what seemed like—in terms of being a baby—a long time.

  Then he lowered his hand and continued on, pulling himself forward.

  Hep.

  Hep.

  EHHHHHep.

  The mom set down her cake and followed him, saying, ‘Where you going, mister?’

  I went to get some more chips.

  My girl walked past, holding a stack of red Styrofoam plates. ‘You partying?’ she said.

  I ate some chips, looking around. ‘I’m partying my fucking nuts off.’

  She dumped the plates and grabbed more off the counter.

  Thrills.

  Pure thrills at the gecko party.

  I went outside and stood by the pool talking to my girl’s dad while all the kids swam.

  He was smoking a cigar, barefoot and shirtless in gym shorts, gut out in full glory.

  ‘You ready for this lizard show?’ he said, scratching his elbow.

  ‘I’m ready.’

  The birthday boy was walking around the pool, wearing water wings, shooting a squirt gun at people in the pool and laughing.

  Two people in similar shirts walked into the backyard.

  They were talking to my girl’s mom, who directed them where to set up.

  Some of the kids noticed and began getting out of the pool.

  ‘Reptile shooooow,’ one yelled.

  They swarmed, and I saw the reptile guy motion for them all to stand back a little.

  It was here.

  It was time.

  The reptile show.

  The very reason for attending.

  Sure, there were other kids, a pool, stromboli snakes, cake, and games, but what was any o
f it without the reptile show?

  All pretty meaningless.

  Everyone gathered in the lawn area of the backyard.

  One man in a staff shirt, a goatee and a fishhook on his hat, was stacking different-sized plastic bins, with the help of a young girl.

  The kids sat up front in their dripping swimsuits.

  The birthday girl sat next to her boyfriend, Owen (who I’d mistakenly called ‘Larry’ one time and had since continued to do so because she HATED the name Larry—‘How’s … LARRY’ or ‘So, you and … LARRY still a thing or what’).

  The adults stood on the outskirts.

  I stood on the outskirts, my girl next to me visoring the sun with her hand.

  Her cousin stood on the other side of me, holding my shoulder to fix her flip-flop.

  The reptile-show guy introduced himself and began taking out different lizards/snakes/frogs.

  He would ask questions, like ‘Does anyone know why this is a [x]?’ or ‘What can you tell from feet like these?’ or whatever.

  There were two kids near the front who knew every answer, and would even clarify things that were slightly wrong about what the guy’d just said.

  One of them was Owen/Larry and the other was his best friend, sitting next to him.

  If they didn’t know, the birthday girl did.

  She also said, ‘Awwwww it’s so cute!’ in a baby voice with each new showing.

  And the guy would hold out the confused, irate-looking lizard and say something about what it eats, then get corrected by one of the kids, or asked a crazy hypothetical.

  I wanted to interrupt, during one of the more or less interchangeable lizards/snakes and say, ‘Yeah how many more until the baby alligator? It’s hot as fuck, dude.’

  He continued, taking out yet another snake and giving out a few facts in near-riddle form, which resulted in the two main juvenile reptile experts debating something until the reptile-show employee smugly informed them that, on a technicality, they were both wrong.

  A parent nearby quietly but audibly said, ‘Well, I’m out. Too hot.’

  She winked at me, walking away.

  I said, ‘Me too,’ and went back inside.

  ‘You’re gonna miss the baby alligator,’ my girl said.

  ‘Fuck the baby alligator,’ I whispered.

  A parent laughed.

  I walked through the yard.

  The birthday boy was still circling the pool.

  He’d stayed behind, totally dry, wearing water wings and shooting a squirt gun down at the pool while doing an exaggerated evil laugh, like ‘Nyah ha haaaaaaaaUH!’