Soothing the Savage Swamp Beast

by Zakary Mcgaha

  And in one of those dreams (one that recurs quite a bit), Chad and Junior are on the stage of some old, big high school. The stage is in the cafeteria. They’re playing their bit and, miraculously, all the hip, young kids are into it.

  When the bit is over, they’re all screaming, “Junior! Junior!” They throw roses Junior’s way, a pair of panties hits him smack in the thinker. He smiles and sniffs. He waves to his adoring crowd.

  “They’re stealing my man,” says Chad aloud. “He’s going to replace me with them!” So he does the only sensible thing: removes his own underwear and throws them in the same manner as the girl who threw her panties.

  He gets on his knees and begs to Junior, who’s removing the underwear while gagging.

  “Please don’t ever cast me aside! I promise! I promise, Junior! I promise I’ll do better! PLEASE!”

  Chad awakens covered in sweat.

  ***

  The effects of the recurring dreams carry on into the day.

  When Chad is around Junior, he sucks up to him, asks him if he thinks he (Chad) has what it takes to roll with the likes of Junior. And Junior will always say, “Yep. You’re gettin’ there.” And Chad will smile and redden.

  “Don’t worry, son. I teach ya. I sure will. We’ll get you playin’ them strings as good as the best men in the Opry. But ya gotta listen to me carefully though. I know what I’m doin’. It might be hard for you to take all this in, but we’ll get ya there. We’ll get ya there. We will.”

  And so, Chad practices and practices and practices (all under the watchful, all-knowing eye of the one, the only, Junior Hicks). Chad gets better and better; he gets so good it’s hard to ever imagine him not being good.

  When Junior tells him, “You’re ready,” Chad eats it all up and starts talking about the houses he’s going to buy, the women he’s going to make love to, the expensive places he’s going to dine in.

  “You’re gettin’ ahead of yourself, boy, and it ain’t doin’ anyone a lick of good.”

  “I’m sorry,” says Chad, face drooping.

  “It don’t matter none, boy. But it will if you let them vain thoughts ruin your music. The one thing that always destroys great things is vanity. It’s where the term ‘sellout’ comes from, ya see? If musicians didn’t care about money and trends when they sign with them big record labels, all music would be great! But nope. They change once the cash starts flowin’ in. Ya gotta be watchful, son. That cash’ll spoil your music. And if your music’s spoilt, ya won’t be makin’ any cash.”

  “So, you’re sayin’ it’s like . . . if you spend too much time cleanin’ up your cart and repairin’ it and whatnot, and you neglect your horse, your horse will die?”

  “Uh . . . ” Junior thinks on it for a couple seconds. “Yes. That’s absolutely right, boy.”

  “Okay. I get what you’re sayin’. I’ll stop thinkin’ all them vain thoughts. I’ll start focusin’ one hundred percent on my music. Just you watch.”

  “I’d rather hear, Chad.”

  ***

  Eventually the day comes when they have a good number of new songs written. Also, they’ve been through several classics that venues often want repeated.

  “Okay, boy,” says Junior, leaning back in his seat and taking a sip of Coke, “we’re ready to start lookin’ for places that’ll take us. Churches are good. Sometimes there are family gatherings goin’ on. There’re a lot of places we can go.”

  “I’d like to go anywhere we can go, Junior.”

  “Well, first thing’s first: we’ll have to make some calls. I know the number of a real good Baptist church. It’s the one on Knoll’s Road. I’ll give the pastor’s cell phone a ring. Can I use your phone?”

  “Why, sure.” Chad jumps from his seat to get the phone. There’s a definite pep in his step as he traipses through the living room. “Here ya are, my good man,” he says, handing Junior the phone.

  Junior says nothing. He dials the number and waits. No answer. “I’ll get him eventually. Well, I’m gonna head out now. You be lookin’ around for places to play too. Anywhere you can think of, ask.”

  “Sure will. I’ve got a few places in mind. Maybe we can try my church?”

  Junior does a nod and is out the door, and Chad’s all alone with his thoughts. Ironically, all his thoughts concern a certain someone; a certain someone who’s all but taken over his life as of late, taken over his dreams, taken over his ambitions.

  He practices long into the night, going through the motions of each song, imagining himself on a stage, staring down an adoring crowd of super attractive people. They’re all mainly looking at Junior, sure . . . but there’s one in the crowd’s corner. She looks kind of goth or emo or whatever it is they call it, but she sure is cute. Smokin’.

  After the imaginary show, Chad is in his bed, making love to an imaginary goth chick, pushing his pillow’s top into the mattress.

  ***

  The principal said no, there’s absolutely no reason for our kids to be taken out of classes to attend a . . . a bluegrass show. What would be the point? They’d be losing valuable time, time better spent learning shit.

  Check one. Now on to the churches. First off: his church. He texts his preacher, and his preacher is like, “Sure! Didn’t know you played. I play some myself.”

  Cool. They have their first gig.

  The next time Chad meets up with Junior, he tells him the good news. There’s a glare in Junior’s eyes. A happy glare. “Good goin’, boy. You’re learnin’ how to hustle. Hustlin’s the name of the game. Can’t get anywhere if ya don’t know how to hustle.”

  Chad nods his head. You’re gettin’ yourself somewhere, boy, somewhere special.

  Turns out, the only special place he got to was the backseat of Junior’s van, carrying his instruments, buying his meals, paying for his gasoline, inflating his ego.

  CHAPTER 16

  Jeremy’s Buds

  Erik always knew Jeremy was a little off. He didn’t seem to have any personality. All he did was tag along with everyone else and act like a . . . a nobody.

  Sure, he was cool in certain ways: He was always down for smoking weed, drinking beer, and occasionally calling up some Lucy, but he never did it because it was his lifestyle; he did it, seemingly, because it’s the thing you do.

  The thing everyone else is doing.

  So when word broke that he was in the hospital because he: a) fell into a non-sterile vat of blood, and b) got stabbed because he broke into some couple’s house when the wife was home, Erik wasn’t surprised.

  Strange people like Jeremy seem to have strange things happen to them. ’Nuff said. Jeremy never struck anyone as normal, he never struck anyone as the person you could buddy up with, have an intelligent conversation, etc. In fact, he struck most everyone as the type of guy you tolerate because it’s the nice thing to do and he just isn’t wired up like the rest of us.

  Erik, however, was surprised when his two other housemates said they should go see him at the hospital. Why, he’d asked himself, can we not just kick him out and come up with his portion of the rent? Everyone else would have to pay, like, a quarter more or something than they already pay. What’s the big deal, bruh?

  But no one said niceness was an easy thing to attain. It’s not, it’s hard. You’ve got to make yourself believe in yourself, a nicer version of yourself.

  They’re all in Erik’s car now (because his is the only one that doesn’t have illegal substances in the dash), heading towards Cadesville’s shitty-ass hospital.

  “Maybe, like, we can score some pills or somethin’,” says one of the buds whose name will not be mentioned because he’s not really a character and is, therefore, devoid of any sort of individuality.

  “Yeah, that’d be radical,” says the other bud who will not be named (simply remember this, Dear Reader: of the lame-ass household Jeremy resides in, only his name and Erik’s are important).

  When they get to the hospital they all check their pockets to make
sure they’re devoid of stuff. They are.

  Immediately upon seeing them enter through the sliding double doors, a receptionist says, “You all must be here for Jeremy. He’s that way.” She points the way.

  “Far out,” one of the buds says.

  They find Jeremy laid up, staring into space, IVs sticking out of his arms.

  “Hey, man,” says Erik. “You okay?”

  Jeremy nods. “I’ve been better. I’m tired but I can’t sleep. I really wish I could sleep.”

  “Try, dude. You’ll be fine. What’s gonna happen to you? I heard from the cop that you . . . um, broke into some couple’s house?”

  “I did. I just got real hungry all of a sudden. Needed food.”

  “I know the feeling, man. Munchies.”

  “I’m gonna get in trouble, man.”

  “Trouble?”

  “Trouble. You are too.”

  “We are?”

  “They have a search warrant for our house. They found drugs in my system. They’re probably there now.”

  “Fuck,” says Erik.

  “Ah, shit,” say both buds simultaneously, and they all give Jeremy the death glare.

  CHAPTER 17

  Back to Aldert

  The headboard slams against the wall so hard, and so frequently, dust that didn’t even appear to be there swirls around and powder drops from the ceiling. SLAM SLAM SLAM.

  Vogel lets loose a cry of ecstasy. “Oh, Aldert!”

  SLAM SLAM SLAM.

  “There. That do ya, darlin’?”

  “Yes! Uh . . . uh . . . uh . . . did you go?”

  “No, but that’s alright. I only care about you, sugar.”

  “Well, turn over on your back. I’ll finish you off.”

  Aldert does as he’s told, although he’s reluctant. He doesn’t like this feeling; he doesn’t like her doing things for him. You’re supposed to take care of your woman, she’s not supposed to take care of you. But still, she’d be pissed if he didn’t let her, so it’s better to avoid an unhappy woman.

  As he’s being pumped, he’s rigid, but he doesn’t deny it feels good.

  When he squirts, he’s semi-embarrassed. He slips his underwear on quick, then his pajama pants and house shoes. “I’m gonna go whip us up some dinner, darlin’.”

  In the kitchen, Aldert makes omelets in record speed. His movements are quick, precise, strong . . .

  He eats standing up, super fast, then delicately serves Vogel hers before she’s had time to put her clothes back on. “Only the best for my baby,” he says, in a voice gruffer than it was a week ago.

  “This is delicious,” says Vogel, forking it all in. “You sure do know how to treat a woman.”

  “It’s just somethin’ ya gotta learn to do, baby. Men take care of their women.”

  “Hmm. I like this new attitude.”

  “It’s always been in me, darlin’. I’m gonna go mow the lawn.”

  In the shed sit two lawnmowers: one you push, and one you ride. Naturally, Aldert selects the push mower and is done in ten minutes. “Now this is what I call a good day’s work!” He says this as he takes the weed-eater from its hiding spot and sets off to attack the pesky, smelly, too-long green things.

  ***

  Vogel is torn, her husband is acting SO weird. It’s basically a complete personality change. But . . . it’s a wonderful one, no doubt about it!

  First off, the fucking is fantastic. It’s never been this good. Sure, it’s always been swell, but this is a whole other level. Secondly, every single thing he does is for her, for her convenience. He’s treating her like some sort of queen.

  Still though, she kind of wishes he’d act more like a king . . .

  But if he doesn’t, that’s fine too.

  “A lady can get used to this,” she says, rolling the bathtub’s suds around her face as she sinks. It’s been forever since she’s used the tub for a bath. Usually, showers are way better. They’re quicker. But now that Aldert’s doing every little thing that needs doing, there’s time.

  Time for leisure. Time to get her life in order.

  Time to stop thinking about that LITTLE HELLION NAMED JENSEN.

  Fuck Jensen. She’s never heard of a boy being as bad as he. Boners in class? C’mon!

  But no need to think of that. Just think of the swift, super-hard, semi-painful, but oh-so pleasurable fucking by Aldert. Fingers go underwater, enter delicate flesh. Hmmm.

  Whew. Seven orgasms in one day. Damn. And it isn’t even night. Is there going to be more come nightfall? Surely not . . . surely Aldert doesn’t have that much stamina . . . does he?

  It’s something to think about. First he’s normal. Then he’s fucked the hell up and going like Mr. Speed (whoever that is). Something’s happened in his life . . . something strange.

  An affair? Is that it? Is he feeling guilty for getting some tail on the side? Is that why he’s treating her so nice?

  No, that’s not like Aldert. But neither is this. There’s only one way to go about this: questioning is necessary.

  ***

  It’s nighttime, and Aldert is crawling into bed, clutching a new toy: Mr. Super-Awesome Bear. “This is the bear that killed Theodore Roosevelt. It ripped that stupid motherfucker to shreds, darlin’! You shoulda seen it! It was fantastic! He’s gonna be sleepin’ with us from now on, if that’s okay with you.”

  Vogel doesn’t know what to think about this. But the bear is big and cuddly-looking, so she doesn’t object. Still, things are weighing on her mind. “Aldert, honey . . . why have you been treating me so well lately? What did I do to deserve it?”

  “You’re my darlin’, darlin’. Every man should take care of his wife.”

  “Well, yes . . . but this has been a bit extreme.”

  “It’s ’cause I love you extremely, darlin’. I love all the things I hold dear extremely. You, Mr. Super-Awesome Bear, the lawn, my job, takin’ down that fucker and his slimy-ass dogs . . . ”

  “What was that last part?”

  “Oh, nothin’, darlin’. Here, let me finger ya to sleep.”

  “Ooh, please.”

  ***

  She presses into his chest in the middle of the night and feels how muscular he’s gotten. Perhaps . . . perhaps he’s taking some sort of testosterone supplement? A steroid?

  Is . . . is he shooting up? Does he lead a dark life she knows nothing about?

  Scary . . . scary thoughts.

  She starts remembering how it once was. In college, Aldert was Mister Normal, but there was something charming about that. All the other boys (and girls) were trying so hard to be someone, most people reeked of self-importance. But Aldert, no. He flat out said he was attending college so he could get a job, which was something none of the English majors Vogel constantly surrounded herself with would admit. English majors all talked of passion, of creativity, of wanting to go above and beyond to achieve an ideal that’s slowly but surely being forgotten in much of America. To Aldert, though, those things mattered not. Aldert was as Aldert was: Nary an intellectual thought swarmed in his skull, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t full of the loves.

  I gives you my loves. Does you give me yours?

  Soon enough, she got fed up with the egos and fell head over heels in love with Aldert. The two always talked of awesome vacations, not worrying about jobs (because neither were gonna compete in the rat race that is college-level Humanities). Nope. They were gonna strive for economic comfort. Fuck that other shit, passion can be had without a goddamn degree.

  “You see how that turned out, you stupid bitch,” she says to herself. Then she’s surprised. I called myself the B word!

  Things didn’t turn out like they imagined. First off, they moved to Cadesville. Second off, the new loves of her life (her three dogs) got killed. And now . . . Aldert is all kinds of messed up.

  But at least her sex life is better now than it ever was. Used to, she’d get bored with Aldert. He was too normal. Lovemaking always went one of two ways
: him on top or her on top.

  No doggy style. No blowjobs. No eating out. No . . . no anal!

  Nothing adventurous; the most sterile sort of sex imaginable.

  But now . . . although the sex hasn’t gotten necessarily kinky, it’s hard, fast, and super-satisfying. Orgasm after orgasm after orgasm after orgasm after orgasm after orgasm after orgasm after orgasm (and on and on).

  He knows exactly where to aim the head of his dick. His fingers are like magic sausages. His tongue is like a slippery penis.

  Hell, he could probably get her off with his toes.

  She craves bedtime now. She craves it.

  So maybe this is all one of those natural changes that comes with having a life. At least she’s not some cat lady, living alone, eating McDonald’s for every meal, binge-watching Twilight. That’s the fate of quite a few female English majors (or so she’s heard). Perhaps she’s one of the lucky ones and doesn’t realize it.

  She gets up to take a tinkle/shit, and when she returns, Aldert is gone. All that’s left is an indentation where he’d just been sleeping.

  There are breakfast-making sounds coming from the kitchen.

  ***

  When she wakes up for the second (and last) time, she’s enchanted by the scent of bacon, eggs, and buttery toast. And oatmeal. And fruit. And coffee. And milk. And orange juice absent the pulp.

  Aldert is wearing a chef’s hat, standing above her, looking down. “Thought I’d make my baby breakfast in bed! Today’s Saturday, so you’ll need all the energy you can get, seein’ as how ya got to relax to the best of your abilities.”

  A smile breaks on her face. “Thanks, baby,” and she begins eating.

  Aldert smiles, nods, and walks out of the room. The gutters aren’t going to clean themselves.

  Vogel sits up, eating, watching the slab of morning sunlight as it dangerously draws closer and closer.

  After closing the blind, she gets back in bed with I.A.’s book and starts with the binge-reading. It’s time to cross the finish line, time to get the damn thing read.

  CHAPTER 18

  Kicked Out

  It sucks:Jeremy’s officially kicked out. No more house for him. No more anything. No more friends, no college; he’s kicked out of life, and it’s never felt so great.