Burnt Tongues

by Chuck Palahniuk

  Almost every stall was full. One pay meter was open. I hopped out of my car and tossed in two quarters. I had fifteen minutes to find Lexi and give her phone back.

  Before locking my car, I sprayed on cologne.

  The wind picked up as I walked across campus.

  I held the cell phone tightly and flipped through the photo gallery. Ever since I talked to Lexi, I was dying to match her voice to her face. It’s our curious nature to follow a pleasant sound to the source. No matter what it takes. If we don’t see who is behind the beautiful music, it will drive us insane. We will always be left wondering.

  We are all the turkey in the woods.

  I scrolled through the pictures on Lexi’s phone. Every snapshot had the same group of girls posing eagerly for the lens. A brunette was front and center in every photo. On Halloween she wore an orange satin nighty with black stripes that clung to her body like static electricity. The edges of her costume were lined with black fur. She had black leather boots zipped up to her knees. A pair of furry tiger ears sat upon her dark brown hair with white highlights. Even her eyes had the eerie yellow-brown glow of a cat.

  Before I reached the gym, it started drizzling. Raindrops pelted my face as the wind gusted. When I met Lexi, I was going to let her know how much trouble I went through just so she could get her stupid phone back.

  I had the speech practiced in my head.

  I walked across campus in the cold rain just to give this back to you. I have to walk dogs in T-minus thirty minutes, and since I had to take precious time out of my day to deliver the phone that you lost back to you, now I’m not going to get to eat dinner. I have a slight glucose headache building. I’m short a week’s worth of sleep. And I’m out fifty cents because I had to park at a pay meter.

  When she tried to offer me a reward for finding her phone, I was going to be this big hero, a knight in shining armor, and say, No, that’s okay. Keep it. You don’t need to give me money. I was just trying to do the right thing.

  The opposite of Darwin.

  Her heart would melt, and she would thank me.

  Walking up the concrete path to the gym, I thought, Maybe she’ll hug me. Maybe she’ll give me her phone number. Maybe she’ll ask me to come to a party sometime.

  I’m going to start meeting people and going out and having fun.

  I took a deep breath and opened the door to the gym. No girls were standing in the front entrance. Not a single one from any of the pictures on Lexi’s cell. The only person there was a guy sitting behind a desk.

  With the phone in my hand, I walked over to him. “Hey.”

  The guy behind the desk looked up from his laptop. “Hey. Can I, uh, help you?”

  “This is going to sound weird, but I think I have your friend Lexi’s cell phone.”

  “Oh.” His eyes went wide. “Yeah, she called and said you might be stopping by.”

  “Well.” I handed him the phone. “Here you go.”

  The guy grabbed it and smiled. “Okay, I’ll make sure she gets it.”

  Part of me was relieved to have the damn thing out of my life. But part of me also wanted to stick around and wait for Lexi. To see what she really looked like. To at least get a thanks. But I had to get going. Pre-Vet Club was scheduled to walk dogs soon. I needed to cram for the Animal Behavior midterm. Study for a calc exam on Monday.

  One test ends. Another begins.

  I exited the gym and walked down the sidewalk. Lexi’s voice played in my head. The pictures on her cell phone swam behind my eyes like exotic fish trapped inside an aquarium.

  Streetlights magnified raindrops as they fell to the cement. I turned around to look through the window at the front desk one last time.

  And there she was.

  Lexi, wearing a black short-sleeved shirt with Siberian tiger pajama pants. Her dark brown hair with white stripes pulled back into a ball. Her golden halo gaze.

  Panthera tigris in the flesh.

  The guy behind the desk stood up, smiled, and gave Lexi her phone.

  She started jumping up and down and screaming. She threw her arms around him, and he embraced her back.

  They began mock slow dancing in a circle, and I swear, for one second, the guy from behind the desk locked eyes with me and grinned.

  Sitting here alone in my apartment, I read the Animal Allies flyer and think about last night. Outside in the cold rain, the light from inside the gym illuminated everything out in the darkness.

  And I remember.

  The last question on the midterm.

  The one about the mating habits of bluegills.

  In order to lay eggs, fish build nests just like birds and reptiles. In the aquatic kingdom, however, males build nests instead

  of females.

  A dominant male bluegill, for example, will build dozens of nests during spawning season, hoping to attract a mate.

  There are times when even the fittest need to go the extra mile to reproduce.

  When a large, dominant male bluegill finishes making craters in the sand, he picks a central location and guards his turf, chasing away all other males who dare enter. Thus the smaller, weaker male bluegills are forced to hide in the weeds and watch the ritual from afar like losers sitting alone in the bleachers during a slow song at a high school dance.

  Day and night, the dominant male protects his nest, and all his labor finally pays off when a female shows up to spawn. Soon as the deed is done he kicks her out and goes right back to defending his territory, all while fanning his tail to aerate the freshly fertilized eggs.

  Only one thing ever lures him away.

  Another hot female looking to spawn.

  The second he leaves his nest all his hard work goes down the drain when a weaker male zips in and re-fertilizes the eggs.

  Nature’s equivalent to a drive-by shooting.

  They call these fish sneakers.

  Right now, sitting in the horrifying silence of my living room, no birds chirping or phones ringing, I could recite the mating habits of bluegills from the lecture verbatim.

  But in the essay section on the Animal Behavior midterm I wrote down nothing.

  On my desk the red Animal Allies flyer dwells among the pages of lecture notes like the hourglass on the belly of a black widow. I check my watch. The wine-tasting event is about to begin. I shut all my books, including my planner. For the first time since the midterm, I look at the clock, cognizant of every passing moment as I grab my keys and head for the door.

  Melody

  Michael De Vito, Jr.

  Just the smell of Melody makes all the hairs on my neck lift off like rockets.

  At night, we squeeze close—her back to my front. The milk chocolate and the hard candy shell. Her body sticks to mine, and my friend, he gets stiffy pressing on her thighs—so smooth and shiny in the night-light. Inhaling the vanilla and brown sugary sweetness she uses—there are no words. We hold close. Never letting go.

  The first time I breathed in Melody’s pretty smell, she stood behind her register at the ShopRite.

  Her hair, brown as caramel candy, slid off her shoulders like the roaring rapids. On her shirt, you could only see the letters ODY and KS. And I stood there like a contestant on Wheel of Fortune, snapping my fingers soft near my trousers, trying to talk out the words.

  Right then was when she stopped checking out groceries and grabbed some spray stuff off her register. She sprayed her wrists and rubbed them to her neck.

  That’s when I could see the shirt.

  Oh—Melody Rocks.

  A road sign pointing straight to the heavens. The air became vanilla like in an ice cream shop. On my tongue, syrupy brown sugar.

  When my turn came up, all I could imagine—use the skin stuff to win Melody. So instead of checking out, I ran to go get her as many bottles as anybody could carry. On the way, I almost knocked over my neighbor Mrs. Lowder, who said, “Slow down!”

  But all I could do was snap my fingers for Melody, a name you could just say o
ut loud over and over.

  In the pretty smell aisle, I discovered the vanilla brown sugar picture right away and grabbed up eight bottles. Only six made it to the conveyor belt. Butter fingers. I dropped them down with the Peter Pan crunchy peanut butter and the Ajax scrub pads and the WWE magazine left from before.

  Mrs. Lowder saved my place in line for me. Like a place for me in heaven. And I took it back. Stood straight in front of Melody. Well, she—she just looked up and said, “Hi!”

  Her eyes, bright as blue Tropical Skittles, Melody said, “This will keep you busy for a while.”

  That was when I handed her three of the vanilla brown sugary bottles. And because I knew this was my moment to say something, I looked down into Melody’s big, big eyes and just came right out and snapped my fingers to the words—Will you be my girl?

  Melody—she turned her eyes away. She took the bottles. “Oh . . . thank you. Yeah. See you later.”

  I snapped my fingers—Yes. Picked up my goodies and headed for the door. Yes—see you later, Melody.

  The cars in the street screeched to a stop when I walked across. One of the drivers yelled, “Effin’ a-hole.”

  From behind me, Mrs. Lowder hollered to be more careful.

  At the apartment, waiting for later, I played the Jet band and lip-synched in front of the mirror. Banging my feet on the floor to the da-da-da of the drums. While I chewed handfuls of Tropical Skittles, my tongue got as green as the wrestler man George “The animal” Steele’s.

  I went “rarrgh” at the mirror, then stuck out my tongue just like The Animal.

  Finally it was later, and I had to—had to—get back. Melody, she stood alone then, spraying down vegetables. Melody and her Colgate smile said, “You’re back.” And then she shot the red peppers. “Of course!”

  “Of course” meant my chance. So I went for one of those candy apples they keep in with the fruit and dropped down to one knee. I raised the bright candy to Melody. And guess what? She accepted it. With such grace—like Vanna White.

  And that’s how Dougie and Melody became an item. Because love—love will make you do things you didn’t know you ever could. Love brings you to your knees.

  On the way out of the ShopRite that night, Mrs. Lowder was falling down with her groceries. She saw me leapfrog the guard posts and asked if I would be a doll and use some of my brute strength to help her with the bags. After winning Melody, well, I just picked up Mrs. Lowder and her bags and ran her right across the street. Because love—love makes you strong. All the while Mrs. Lowder’s belly giggled and her boobies bounced as she hollered, “Oh, Dougie, please, you big jooch. You’re going to hurt yourself.”

  Mr. and Mrs. Lowder live below my apartment. Whenever I visit they are always so good to offer me sandwiches with Oscar Mayer bologna and even some Coors beer. I don’t have enough in the bank to buy a computer, so they let me use theirs when I need to give the looks to the Internet.

  On the Internet there’s a place where you can get everything Melody. For a surprise, I got us “I Melody,” “100% Melody,” and “Property of Melody” T-shirts. As soon as they come in the mail, Mrs. Lowder helps me wrap them up in paper that’s orange like mango tangelo Tropical Skittles. When I give them to Melody her mouth makes a big O.

  I snap my fingers hard to the word—Surprise!

  So now, at night, we wear them together but don’t ever wear any undies. Makes it easier to push on each other. Melody, she wears the “100% Melody” one almost every night. Her bottom presses against me like a balloon. And my “Property of Melody” gets the crusties from my friend who Melody lets go inside. After I goop in there, she lets me squeeze her tight as can be, and my brute strength makes the goop ooze.

  Every morning, wake-up time comes to repeats of the same song over and over on the CD player alarm clock. Looping my tie right over left, then through the middle in front of the mirror, I don’t dig for boogers. Because Melody is sleeping. Then it’s one and two into my brown suit jacket. I turn to Melody and snap “You’re my girl!” when I leave. Blowing her a kiss from the door, I tell her later we will spray down the vegetables together at the ShopRite. Of course, I’m always sure to wave good morning to Mr. Lowder who sits outside with his paper. I snap my fingers near my trousers to Melody’s name and walk over the hill to the office.

  There, the staff, they play lots of pop music. While I sit in the cramped seat with my files all together, the day takes almost forever. Love does this to you—makes you feel an hour without Melody is a day.

  The manager, Mr. Man-with-all-the-answers, finally checks my files. He says, “In the alphabet E comes before M, Dougie.” He pushes his glasses up his crooked nose and looks more, saying, “You’ve never made a mistake like this one. You’ll have to do them over.”

  My trousers tear up the backside when I sit back down. The rip sound makes everyone look. So I tear up some papers and try not to dig for boogers.

  If you could believe it just then on the radio comes Jet band—“Are You Gonna Be My Girl?” I’m rocking back and forth because this is my wake-up melody. Get it? My wake-up melody.

  The manager man, he bangs his hands in the air along with the song. He picks up the phone, hits one button quick, and says, “Hey, baby! How’s my girl?”

  Doing my files over, I stroke the handle of my desk phone. But Mrs. Lowder says distance makes love grow stronger.

  Then the manager man curls his finger for me to come back over. “Are you through?”

  And I snap my fingers to the word yes as I knock my knees to the music. Standing in front of his desk, I tap my feet. A picture of his girl is on the desk.

  He watches me watch the picture and says, “Beautiful, ain’t she?”

  I snap my fingers—not as sweet as my Melody. Or Vanna White. Then I push my finger into his picture.

  Mr. Answer Man catches pretty good. He puts the picture back in place, then waves at the door. “Douglas, these will do. Why don’t you get going for the day?”

  Walking as if my torn pants are on fire from purgatory, I hurry out of the office to get to Melody. Car horns blast as loud as a wrestling ring bell, and I can’t even hear myself snap, Melody, Melody, Melody.

  Mrs. Lowder walks on the other side of the street. She hollers over, “Please be more careful, Dougie.”

  Waving hello, I rush on to the ShopRite. And that’s where I find my girl near the stockroom talking with another girl who pretends to be like Melody. People who imagine being somebody else are not real people at all. But good people believe in all people.

  When Melody turns to me, she lifts her hands high in the air and drops them down quick. “There you are!”

  I get down on one knee and open my arms wide—Here I am.

  When I start to stand, the faker girl stomps by and pushes her elbow into my chest. She bounces off me like The Brian Kendrick does off the wrestling ropes. Except I catch her up fast before she falls. Then with her nose turned up all snooty, she says to Melody, “What are you doing with him?”

  When Melody reaches up high to touch my shoulder, my face turns as red as strawberry Skittles. She says, “He’s my happy knight in candy armor.”

  Faker girl is not nice when she says, “More like middle-aged balding gorilla in the same old suit.”

  But Melody puts her small hand in my big one, and we go to spray down the vegetables. As we walk to the front, we pass the candy apples. Melody, she claps and says, “Remember that?”

  And I pledge allegiance and snap to the words—How could I ever forget?

  So we spray down the peppers and tomatoes. And then we hold hands all the way to the door. I leap on the electric pad making the door glide open. Boy, does Melody like to laugh.

  She plants a kiss on my forehead. “So I’ll see you later then, yes?”

  I snap my fingers to the words—Of course.

  On the way out across the street, I smile big for Mr. and Mrs. Lowder. The car horns blast, and real quick I stop digging for boogers.

>   From the window in the apartment, I can see clear across to the ShopRite. Melody, she helps every single person bag groceries. Always careful with double bagging and she never puts the Clorox bleach in the same bag as the Land O’Lakes eggs.

  Pat and Vanna have special contestants on tonight—twins. Great company. Together we buy vowels, but try and try as I might, the contestants always beat me to the answers.

  At midnight my eyes weigh in at two hundred and sixty-five pounds. Melody tiptoes in the apartment ’cause she doesn’t want to wake her playful tiger, and I play dead as she comes over to kiss me off to sleep. Her hand goes right to her heart every time I leap up and hug her.

  Gotcha!

  In front of the mirror by the closet, I help Melody strip off her dirty work clothes. I raise her hands up high in the air as she gets into her “Melody Rocks” T-shirt. And then use my brute strength to carry her to bed. Back to front we do, pushing and pressing and moaning. I snap—I love you, Melody.

  When I squeeze too tight sometimes Melody loses wind. There is just no stopping our laughter when she pops one out. We cry ourselves to sleep.

  On Saturday the wake-up song comes too fast because on Saturdays Melody goes to work early. I help her get up and make us mugs of Nestlé hot cocoa. I open the door for her and give her a salute.

  Mr. Lowder calls up to me from down below, “Good morning.”

  And I give him a good morning salute, too.

  Around lunchtime, I put together some bags of Tropical Skittles to bring to Melody for a treat and start to climb into my suit.

  I check on Melody’s workday from the window. The sky’s so bright and blue I can only ask why I am so lucky to be in love with Melody.

  But what I spy out my window today makes me ask another question. She’s sitting on a car in the parking lot. She’s not alone. Hey, Melody—I bang on the window—why are you with another man? She’s leaning up against him. Hugging. Kissing his forehead.

  No time to get my pants on. I have to—have to—get down to the ShopRite and get Mr. Driver Man away from my Melody. As I take the stairs two at a time, Mr. Lowder almost gets run over.