Soothing the Savage Swamp Beast

by Zakary Mcgaha

  She couldn’t give in. It was hard, but she couldn’t. She went more for Faulkner. “I’m a Faulkner person,” she’d say. “Poe, too. I don’t like Hemingway.” Most of the kids thought her answers were stupid. Poe? Come on. They craved things that gave ’em room to talk. Things composed of struggles against society were their speed. The fantastic can be left behind (or stored for guilty enjoyment); horror is for the weak-minded, the outcasts, the fuck-fucks.

  She couldn’t take the misinformed snobbery. She had to leave. Had to get the FUCK away, then start a new life where she could enjoy the things she wanted to enjoy without the input of others.

  She married a man with a big heart, big penis, and, consequently, small, inferior-ass mind.

  But it must be admitted: much love exists for those marked as “stupid,” “dull,” and “dead on the inside.” Her husband, he’s all those things. Not a smart guy, not the best conversationalist. But he’s the type who can love you.

  He tries his best.

  He loves to the best of his abilities, what more is to be said? So what, he can’t talk at length about Faulkner, he’s never attended an art gallery, he’s content with what’s in the theaters (circa 2017). So what? Genocide of his kind will help not a soul.

  It’s also got to be said, just because you get art . . . you’re not automatically eligible for the Liver of the Best Life award.

  ***

  Tomorrow, though, it’s back to the grind. The grind isn’t so bad, so long as you know it’s the grind and are aware that, had you not been cognizant of the fact that the grind is the grind, you’d never go anywhere away from the grind because you were content with the grind because, to you, the grind wasn’t the grind: it was better, therefore you were fooled.

  Douche.

  What’s the best way to avoid thinking about the coming grind? Why, reading a book authored by an anonymous strange fellow, self-published in the nineteenth century.

  Duh.

  So that’s what she does. The manuscript is something special. It’s become more than a simple tale of an odd little man who thought his neighbor’s dog was a fucking savage-ass beast. It’s become a story of an odd little man’s life. How his life relates to the savage-ass beast dog, how his life relates to his past, how he is a self-aware strange fellow, but sees no point in changing it, etc.

  Intentionally Anonymous is one of the coolest literary figures no one has ever heard of. Vogel is now contemplating doing some research into authors of the same time period. Perhaps he published other books under his real name. It’d be quite the thing if she had a rare, one of a kind, never before released book by an author who has any kind of reputation.

  First off, maybe she can do some research and find the guy’s name. Perhaps he lived on this property. But . . . he couldn’t have lived in this house . . . could he?

  This house is old, but not that old. She picks up her phone and texts Aldert: “Was this house around in the 1800s?”

  “No was built in 1970,” is the reply.

  Great, she thinks. This book was put here by someone else.

  Then she’s mad at herself for being stupid enough to think this house was an antique. It’s really just a piece of dusty crap.

  ***

  There’s a big tree in the backyard. Vogel thinks it was possibly around in the 1800s, considering how big, dead-looking, and spooky it is. She’s pretty sure it’s dead, but, way up at the top, there’re some green leaves. But just at the top.

  She touches it. It’s hard and gnarly.

  It’s not an apple tree, though it feels like it. Something kind of dark is going on. The tree has a past. Things have happened at the tree. Exactly what, she can’t be certain, but she’s certain it’s something.

  Way back, when she was a tyke, things talked to her. The same type of thing happens to all kinds of children, regardless of sex, race, etc. When they’re young, they’re either super receptive or the things out there want to communicate with them more than they want to communicate with older beings. It’s strange, no one said there are clear cut answers or, considering there are clear cut answers, they’d be readily available to you.

  Some of the things are still available to her. She’s still kind of connected to the world she knows is out there, but can’t explain.

  It happens like this: she gets feelings, intuitions. Some people describe them as “visions,” but it’s not like that. Nothing is vivid. She describes it like this: “Sometimes, I’ll be standing there, and I suddenly know something I didn’t know before, something about the past.” Every now and then, a spirit will let her know it’s there. It’ll manifest a moan, a cry, something of the like.

  A dead leaf floats down and lands on her head. She knows it was a ghost because it’s the middle of summer.

  CHAPTER 4

  Conversing with Dunces

  Stan is an easy man to trust, because he’s so simple.

  He’s one of those gentlemen who’s a bit chunky, but looks normal. He has a goatee, but not a big one. He wears glasses and is known for telling good jokes every once in a while.

  He works in the office next to Aldert’s.

  Aldert knows how to get him to talk. Stan is a man who’s into Star Wars and various action movies. Why not talk about one of the many new ones coming out? “Yep, I think I’m gonna trudge to the old theater to see that one. No use in waitin’ for Netflix, everyone knows it’s cooler seein’ stuff in the theater anyway.”

  Say something like that.

  And so, on his lunch break, after texting Vogel the year of their house’s construction, he’s cornering Stan in the breakroom, saying, “So, that new action movie . . . the one with the actor who was in that one about the Spartans . . . are you gonna catch that one in theaters or wait for it on DVD?”

  Right away, Stan is visibly amused. “Ya know, I was thinkin’ about headin’ to the one in Morristown to see that. Looks killer.”

  “It does look killer. Say, how was that last Star Wars movie?”

  “The last Star Wars movie? You mean you’ve not seen that one yet?”

  “No. I kinda lose track a’ what’s out in the theater. I mean, there’re so many out at one time. It’s hard to keep up with things.”

  “Amen ta that, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. You need to see it. It was good. I’d say get the DVD cause you’ll wanna watch it a couple a’ times. Buncha good fightin’ scenes goin’ on.”

  “Yeah? Well, it sounds like a winner.”

  “Sure is.”

  Aldert is bored now. However, he can tell Stan is getting more and more into the conversation, despite it being similar in structure to a discussion of the weather. He’s working things around in his mind: how’s he going to get this simple, honest, boring-as-tits-on-a-boar man to spill the beans on the slime-dog occurrence?

  After the lunch break, Aldert is back in his office, but he’s a bit happier. It’s gonna take time, man. Don’t be impatient. Just take things slow and observe. But is observing dealing with things on the defensive? He’s pretty sure it’s not, that it’s the coward’s way of handling the situation. There are a million things he could be doing to push himself further ahead in the case, but he isn’t.

  He’s taking the relaxed road.

  ***

  At the end of the day, Aldert is walking into the heat of the world. Not a minute out of the air conditioning and already sweat is beading. His professional shirt is clinging to him, and he thinks sweat is running down his legs.

  He spies the pickup truck. It’s sitting there, driver-lacking, nothing in the bed.

  He can’t resist: he’s walking towards it, all eyes and nose.

  Now he’s right over it. There is some sort of green sludge in the back. Nothing to do now, but a plan has formed: come back with something to take a sample. Then it’s off to the college.

  CHAPTER 5

  Schoolroom Blues

  Fucking kids. Fucking school. Fucking other teachers. Fucking world.

  Vo
gel is on her way now. The school is on the horizon, bordering it is white trash heaven. She asks herself why she wanted to stay; it’s hard to answer.

  As she’s walking up the way, a nerdy-sounding Southern drawl says, “Hey there, Miss Vogel.”

  She turns around and spots a rather tall, doughy man in a suit. His name is Chad something-or-another. He has some sort of job in administration.

  “Hey,” she says.

  “Took ya a little break, didn’t ya?”

  “Yeah. I was a little sick. I didn’t want to give the kids anything.”

  He holds his hands in front of his body. “No shame in that.” Then he laughs a lot. Then: “But, I was just a’ wonderin’, how you been liking your job teachin’ eighth grade English? Kids ain’t givin’ ya no trouble now, are they?”

  “Trouble? No. All my kids are wonderful. Except for little ole Jensen. He’s a bit of a troublemaker at times.”

  “Jensen? Ah, yeah, that boy’s been disciplined quite a few times. He’s one of the ones we’re sure’s gonna drop outta high school. I just don’t see him havin’ any sorta career in academia.”

  Damn, thinks Vogel. “Well, that’s a little harsh. He’s a smart one, for sure. He seems to be more cynical than most of the other kids.”

  “Boy’s gotta learn, that kind a’ attitude don’t get ya nowhere in life. Seems to me like he’s just puttin’ up a brick wall between himself and the world. Don’t see any good in it.”

  “Maybe ‘cynicism’ isn’t the right word,” Vogel says. “I guess you could say he’s more critical.”

  “Critical? Now there’s another story entirely.” Chad rubs his chin and ponders. “Critical thinkin’s an attribute, I guess. We need to teach him how to put it to good use.”

  Vogel wants to ask him what his job is. Why’s he so concerned with her student? Is he even supposed to deal with kids directly? But she doesn’t. She simply nods her head good day and continues on to class.

  ***

  If there’s one thing that’s bothered her her entire life, it’s this: she didn’t go to the elementary school on the other side of town that’s full of pompous, rich, arrogant jerks (perhaps “rich” is a bad word to use, maybe “slightly better-off than the rest of Cadesville’s citizens” is a more accurate phrasing because, honestly, the town hasn’t many rich folk). Now she’s back at the poorer, white trash school, teaching kids who will (hopefully) go to high school, only to be shamed and marginalized by kids who went to the “rich” school.

  In a small way, there’s a kind of rebellion going on. A resistance.

  She’s doing everything in her power to equip soldiers. They’re going to fight the snotty-ass kids from the other school, they’re going to be better, they’re going to be more ambitious.

  An all-out war is eminent. Those kids, they won’t know what hit ’em. They’ll scramble around, trying to preserve every last bit of their dying prestige. When it’s all gone, their school will be exactly what it is, and will never be what it always wasn’t.

  Death to the kids, she thinks. Then: damn, that’s a bit harsh. And it is, it’s very harsh, but it’s necessary.

  Or is it? Could it be that’s she’s imposing a stereotype? Are all of those kids really so bad? Sure, there are quite a few bad apples in the bunch, some of the “honors” kids are primed to think they’re above the common herd (in reality, some of them probably are). But the others, they’re normal. Circumstance means this: they live in the school district of said snotty school, they didn’t ask for it.

  In the end, everyone’s probably (best bet) on the same page. Barriers don’t mean much.

  Now she’s mad at herself for taking things this far. For thinking she was priming kids for a social uprising that would, ultimately, be entirely useless.

  “Good going.”

  ***

  Jensen is watching her. She’s pretty hot, but god, she’s so lame. Mrs. Vogel? Really? Maybe if he’s a teacher in the future, he’ll have his kids call him Mr. Jensen.

  Mr. Jensen has a ring to it. Also, it has a look to it (or so he would imagine). Something about it is official, authoritative, demanding of pretension.

  Pretty cool. But nah, Jensen’s not like that. In all honesty, he’ll end up a normal boy, he’ll grow into a normal man, he’ll die a normal codger. But he’ll still be cool.

  Cool is Jensen.

  But teachers, man, they’re not cool. At all. Jensen wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he was a teacher. He’d wake up on a daily basis, look at himself in the mirror, and say: “You know, you’re quite the fucking badger-hound, aren’t you? And not in a good sense of the noun.”

  No way is Jensen going to face a life of that. The worst thing about such a life would be the absolute hatred of mornings, the hatred of ending sleep. Sleep (death is more like it) would be the only solace.

  Nope. Jensen is going to do something to set his life on the right track. He won’t end up “bad.” First, though, he must ascertain: what, exactly, is “good”? He thinks on the subject. What are things he likes?

  First off, he’s happy with pot. In the presence of beautiful, beautiful cannabis, he comes ALIVE. Philosophical sayings spew from every orifice of his enchanted body; the best ones come from his cock-hole. After that, there’s the presence of really loud, offensive hip-hop. Yeah, some of that shit is tight. He’s also big on older, classic rock. He digs AC/DC, Guns ’n Roses, Quiet Riot, stuff like that. It speaks to him on a level that’s more personal and spiritual than any music ever.

  He’s got his plan down, he’s going to grow up, listen to offensive music (from today and yesterday, from all races), and smoke pot. But money; how about the money? How can you live doing such wonderful, wonderful things?

  Sell pot? Too risky. He doesn’t like danger.

  Could he possibly make music? Nah, he’s no rapper, he can’t play an instrument, he’s nothing.

  Out loud: “Guess I’ll have to end up workin’ a shit job.”

  Sad, but true.

  It’s the only way.

  “Jensen! Why is your head down?”

  Jensen opens his eyes and realizes he’s been asleep, think-dreaming, for the past couple of minutes. Mrs. Vogel is giving him the fuck-you-motherfucker eye. Her face is red. On her face is an expression that says, “I’m upset as hell.”

  “I’m . . . I’m, like, sorry, Mrs. Vogel . . . I . . . I didn’t mean . . . ”

  “I’m writing you up for this. I may send you to see the principal.”

  He rolls his eyes. He’d rather not go to the principal. Principals aren’t fun people. Plus, it seems as if every teacher in this fucking school has it out for him. They all think he’s going to end up robbing banks and orphanages for a living.

  He’s not. He’s going to be cool. He’s going to be a sweet, peaceful soul, smoking jays, listening to kickass music that gets the blood flowing in a way that slows down more than it revs up.

  The whole rest of the class period, he doesn’t put his head down.

  ***

  It’s the end of the day.

  Vogel sits in her teacher chair by the window, staring out at the line of cars as kids get in and go back to their homes. Oh, how she wishes she was one of them; she longs for youth. Sure, she’s not currently old (in fact, she’s young, she’s a sexy-ass beast who could probably convince gay guys to nut all over her), but she’s an adult. That little bit of fake kid-magic . . . it’s gone away. It’ll never return.

  Her kids, they give her a charge. They make her think back to times when she was full of awe and wonder. The nostalgia revs her up, makes her want to regain what was lost.

  The after-crash is always the worst. She gets reminded every day at five o’clock (fuck Jimmy Buffett) that she’s lost the fake magic.

  Fake Magic.

  It’s called Fake Magic. Capital “F.” It was never real. It was an act of wondering, “Hey, what’s out there in the big, wide world?” only to find out there’s nothing. Theoretically, every chi
ld’s sense of wonderment could be killed by answering all their questions.

  “No, there isn’t such a thing as a Bigfoot.”

  “No, there is no Loch Ness Monster.”

  “Yeah, aliens are probably real, but more than likely, they’re just simple bacteria.”

  Would it do kids justice to tell them, no, they’re never going to be president; no, there’s no way in hell they’ll be rock stars because the music “industry” is dead as a doornail; no, they won’t be bestselling authors (as if they’d even dream of, eww, writing things)?

  Simply put, there’s not a lot out there, and it’s sad as fuck.

  Before leaving for the day, Vogel realizes something: she tells the kids “yes” for her own selfish need.

  CHAPTER 6

  Cheesy Existentialism

  Death looks good, overall. You think of it as something sucking the fun out of life, but it does more, it sucks the bad. It also puts you at equal footing with the universe because, of course, the universe is dead.

  It’s wrong to think that you simply disappear when you die.

  You don’t. Take a rock. It’s dead. But don’t we all agree it exists? Yep. We surely do.

  Therefore, the remnant of your essence (in cheesy-as-tits-on-a-boar child metaphysical terms) remains after you die, you’re simply not you anymore. Your soul is “it,” though. “It” is dead, but exists, like a rock.

  Junior Hicks figured this out a long, long time ago. How he got to thinking on this path, he’ll never know, though he speculates it had something to do with watching his mother stab the hell out of her cheating-ass husband (the senior to Junior’s “junior”) with a butcher knife repeatedly. First she made him pay by driving the blade through his scrotum (in and out, several times; it was both a red mess and a purple one). Then she went to his throat. The blade slipped off the windpipe a couple times. After that, it was on to the sternum. Blade slid off that too, but she managed to pierce a lung; what really mattered was the scrotum (on account of the veins and whatnot) and the throat. Cause of death: loss of blood (and balls).