Headless

by Benjamin Weissman

  Groups of frustrated men are taking to the streets waving sticks, scissors, swords, tridents, and scimitars. Hoping to entice MMK, who might very well be an alien from a planet that sneaks glances at earth, the vigilantes carried perfectly ripe bananas with a faint streak of green on the skin as bait.

  A confident chef turned his back on the flame and multitasked. I grilled onions but I was not physically in the kitchen.

  “What are you cooking?” Dan asked. “What are you doing with the onions?”

  “Potatoes Lyonnaise,” I said.

  Since Dan and I worked different shifts at the same restaurant we rarely inhabited the same room at the same time, but today we did, and it surprised me how nervous he behaved. I successfully calmed him down with a discussion about caramelizing onions, how important it is to allow them time to break down, to be patient and not incessantly stir or flip the translucent fellas which look like wiggly worms when tripping on acid, to give them their own private time with the heated oil, to brown in a skillet without distraction, otherwise the eater will not experience the remarkable transformation from harsh, tear-inducing bulb to silky sweet vegetable candy.

  “Caramelization proclamation,” we said in unison, but this time we did not tap knuckles like we usually do when we see eye to eye.

  I took my dog Leslie, who hobbled gracefully on three legs, born without the fourth, out for a walk. Her fur is the color of wet sand. She liked the feel of fresh snow on her paws. When we approached the Fountain of Mystical Formulations I realized I was walking in my sleep, that I had not officially woken up from the previous night’s slumber. Or maybe I did and Dan sprinkled snooze dust into my hair. “Sleepwalker, take yourself home now,” I said to myself, but I just stood there, teetering left foot, right foot. Once the perverse aroma of night blooming jasmine entered my nostrils my eyes fluttered open. Awake, I bore witness to a little gentleman who performed an unusual act, but my frozen blood and trembling arms caused temporary inaction on my part, and a mild form of blindness. Was the little gentleman Dan?

  The Monkey Man has three buttons on its chest. One allows it to become a monkey, the second gives it extra strength, the third makes it invisible. When he touches a locked door, the knob falls off and breaks.

  Dan and I first got to know each other over the restaurant’s bouillabaisse, and how it was originally brought by angels to the Three Marys when they were shipwrecked on the bleak shores of the Camargue. We lamented about our bouillabaisse and how much it sucked because frozen rock fish lacks the high gelatin content necessary for creating that slightly cloudy look, not to mention all the microscopic finny tidbits that make each slurp oceanic bliss.

  Some citizens, believing that you can rob the Monkey Man killer of his powers, are standing by ready to throw water on his chest. The creature’s motherboard heart, concealed beneath its thick black coat of hair, gets short-circuited by liquid. The police struggle with their homicidal instincts suggesting that we all shoot MMK on sight.

  I punched my mechanic in the neck thinking he was Monkey Man. He fell to the snow, cried out for help. I felt very bad but he looked so much like the simian marauder when he rolled out from under my truck. So terribly hairy, wearing black greasy clothes.

  Snowflakes fell gently from the sky, a day to chill on the green tongue; we watched The Naked Chef on the Food Network.

  “Dude,” I said, “did you know that a chef’s hat is called a toque?”

  “What do you mean?” Dan reached into his crotch, peered inside, scratched.

  “I mean, that the classic chef’s hat was invented by French stoners who were toking burly weed and they named their big hat the toque.”

  Without warning Dan lunged at me. I received minor abrasions. Fearing infection I walked through snow and visited my doctor who offered me an overly priced rabies shot, which I refused. I opted for the modest tetanus shot.

  Some people say MMK is painted silver; others have stated that he dresses all in white and is covered with bandages like a mummy. Only his bulging eyes are visible. Sometimes he wears safety goggles. There are also Monkey Man copy cats who don monkey masks and take advantage of the “fearpsychosis” of citizens so they may scuffle and loot.

  My doctor described the maniac’s mind to me: MMK, he said, is probably suffering from frustrations. He continued to freely espouse that the sufferer takes on a role that allows him to exercise control over people who would otherwise treat him as a failure. No one wants to touch him.

  Then there was the poor little girl who was beaten because residents said that the devilish soul of a Monkey Man had inverted her body. She appeared upside down, bouncing on her head.

  The phone rang. I answered. A halting voice on the other end. Dan’s Hungarian love interest. Her name was similar to onion, but without the consonants. Before I had a chance to communicate a warm greeting, Dan grabbed the phone from me, turned his back, and emited an “ooh ooh,” then waited and laughed when he heard the caller make the same sound back, i.e., their not-so-secret monkey code. Dan’s incisors come to fine points. My teeth are all rounded for softer foods: oatmeal, ice cream, and éclairs. His teeth are for removing bottle caps. He and his insect-eating girlfriend made a date to go bouldering. I’ve seen Oouioo pull down fir branches and snack on pine needles. Dan dropped the phone. Conversation done. He leapt into a handstand position, his hairy toes wiggling freely at eye level. He has drawn pictures of Mary and the Baby Jesus with those longfingered feet.

  “Save some potatoes for me, dude,” he said, and then vanished in an unexplained manner. Suddenly there was a fire in the kitchen (oh no, the onions), followed by an explosion. I flew through the air and landed on my head, on the street. When I righted myself I found nothing broken or scratched.

  A bicycle rolled by. A projectile slammed against our front door. The Sunday paper.

  The headline mirrored my exact thoughts: HOW DO YOU KNOW WHEN TO BLOW THE WHISTLE?

  PAJAMAS

  When the Captain wakes up he can feel his brains moving around, hovering over his two eyes like a spacecraft, telling them to remain closed. The eyes obey. They are good soldiers. The day ahead will bring him, keeper of eyes and brain, much suffering. The rest of the Captain’s body—feet, legs, arms, chest—refuses to fall into a pit of sorrow and regret, they follow the Captain’s orders and continue down the path of pretend sleep. This goes on for hours.

  The Captain is quiet, motionless. Once the eyes open there’s no going back, he’ll be in the world in the worst way, for another installment, but lying in bed, with eyes and body committed to an extended period of darkness, nothing terrible happens. He talks himself into believing that everything will be all right. Outside his window a cluster of mechanical birds imitate the sounds of pigeons, endlessly repeating the phrase, who-who. Earlier in the night, from 3 A.M. till dawn, before the machine birds, there was the chattering hobo lady, struggling with her identity song. She woozily sang, who am I, who am I, each time emphasizing the who or the I. Very often she leaves the Captain old baked goods from the health food store that are minutes from mold. In the middle of the day, when the Captain is far from home, he thinks about his bed and the powder-blue pillow, the only safe place on this entire planet. His room is next to a thorny, raspberry-colored bougainvillea. Other birds, birds far happier than the pigeons and their mechanical imitators, congregate in the big thorny bush, where chaos reigns in chirping dialogue. Several conversations going on at once. Bird social hour. What are the real birds telling each other that the fake birds don’t understand? Are any of them worried about dying or is that just the Captain’s continual fear? Do they think about anything besides the nest, a need for better twigs? Are there enough worms to go around? How impossible would it be for an old tired beak to snatch a piece of cotton? The Captain imagines being one of them, he conjures a horror story of marauding squirrels gorging on his eggs. His family is gone.

  The Captain has a dim appreciation for what he is. As a person, he thinks, I have the ab
ility to willfully limit my exposure to the outside world. He can flip a small toggle switch near his brain. Following a tiny bit of sound, a hum, an invisible wall of hard plastic, similar to the force-shield used by astronauts on old television shows, appears and seals off the area. In other words, self-control.

  After eight hours of sleep the Captain can almost talk himself into believing that he’d never been born, that he was plagued only by his terrible imagination, that he’d never done anything wrong and he’s not a worthless human being. He finds it difficult to convince himself that he’s not just rotting away. Not a fast death, like all these birds that could die later today, but something slow and cruel.

  With eyes still closed, the Captain pictures an unusual event from the previous day: A pigeon flew at his car and slammed into the windshield.

  Just as he recalls the hollow feathery thump, his eyes open. He couldn’t help it. He let his guard down. Vigilance, no longer his strong suit. And there it is, the shock of the banal day with all its secret threats. Time to repeat everything he’s done before: boil water, make coffee. The doctor says no caffeine, so he does it for the smell, for the security, to pretend that the coast is clear. He shuffles outside to get the paper. He is not chained up. He is loose. Gravel feels sexy on the pads of his bare feet. If a neighbor were to suddenly materialize from an enclosure and address him with a hello, what’s up, he would do his best to answer by saying the words, nothing much, and repeat the what’s up question back to the neighbor because that is how people are greeting each other these days. He would also wave just in case his voice doesn’t travel far enough to reach their ears. But no one physically appears from behind a wall or sliding glass door, there are no neighbors on the street. It is a few minutes prior to noon on a Thursday and all the residents are at work, therefore he goes unnoticed. Another miracle. Occasionally the Captain thinks he’s speaking when he’s dead silent. He has no idea what he sounds like. Like a garbage disposal or rushing water or a trash can rolling down the street? Once a booming voice, now barely above a whisper. Should he urinate in the middle of the street? He does have to pee and this does cross his mind. He remains civilized, returns inside.

  The Captain inherited a lot of money from his parents when they died. He knew acquiring all that money would have a strange effect on him, and it has. This isn’t a smooth transition. The happiness factor, or what there was of it, has definitely subsided.

  Questions about getting out of his pajamas begin to pile up: Is it really a good idea? Is the Captain ready? What would he do once he took them off? Will a bath or shower be part of the day’s festivities? Does he respond well to warm water and soap? Are there clean clothes to wear? Will this transition be as difficult as all the others? He got the idea of getting out of his pajamas from the newspaper. The headline read, CIVILIANS, GET OUT OF PANAMA!

  He has become an outpatient in his own little ward, morgue, bedroom, bathroom, universe. Can he be trusted? Will he wander off? Is he truly ready for a change? Of bed sheets and life? Can he be trusted? Something unexpected could happen and that would disrupt the continuity. A door could swing open inviting in all forms of trouble.

  The Captain’s impulse to get out of pajamas was a positive sign. Just thinking about it seemed beyond anything he’d ever really considered since the inheritance went through, but it also made a certain kind of sense. He should be brave and just do it. But once out of his pajamas there are expectations that need to be met, his own, which he’s not sure about, and the world’s, that seem overwhelming and beyond his ability to cope. Is there a law against smelling bad? He really wants to know. The Captain looks down at his legs, the comforting black and brown plaid pajamas that haven’t been washed since he purchased them; of course they need washing but they’ve also done fine without that indulgence. Aromas such as beef jerky, chocolate, and b.o. commingle in fabric.

  An enormous fly enters the room even though all the windows are closed. It must be the same fly that’s here every day but waits until midday to get things started. The fly couldn’t be louder if it was playing the electric guitar. It travels through the room, taking stock. The fly hovers over the Captain as if he were a steaming pile, a compost heap. Eventually it lands on his big toe, and quickly figures out that he’s not fecal matter per se, but just a strongly scented living organism with flaky skin. Once a fly hater from way back the Captain experiences a heart pang. He loves the fly. As far as the fly is concerned the feelings are mutual.

  MORALITY PLAY (SIX HOURS IN LENGTH)

  In tonight’s show, contrary to our better judgement, we bring you an old-fashioned fable of the unendurable man known only as (raises his arm) … who wakes up one morning sick to his stomach; consequently, he vomits, looks in the mirror, and discovers a face as despicable and repellent as a moldy block of cheese, a smooth yet unshaven face which radiates a frightful bitterness—malignant, demoralized, hysterical—with narrow unappealing lips (pale and unkissable); damn I’m ugly, he says. In the classic American tradition of following one’s own drummer, he sets out on a mission to destroy everything around him, starting with what’s inside his apartment: the smashing of each light bulb and spotty window; the throwing of two wind-up alarm clocks, all 24 volumes of the Encyclopedia Britannica, wooden folding chairs, the framed family portrait, shoes, tomatoes, a honeydew melon, figs, which really opens up a psychic can of worms; the squashing of the goldfish; he lights the cat on fire, kicks the dog to death, shoots his daughter and son, strangles his wife, and heaves their newborn infant against the wall; clutter, he screams, every person takes up so much room; to calm his nerves he masturbates into a shotglass and downs his semen (not as bad as one would think, he thinks); after he disembowels the family one by one, an elaborate procedure well worth the effort, he breaks into an old lady’s apartment, ties her up, defecates, and spoonfeeds her the stools; my body’s liberation, he says, is your midnight snack; he masturbates a second time into the feces-covered face of the woman; laughter overtakes him and during this time he feels better than he’s ever felt before; he wipes the tip of his genitalia with a surprisingly useful doily; I’m finally doing what I want to do and I’m great at it; he is exhilarated, close to tears, suddenly and wildly in love with life; I’m the only person in the world able to do all this, I’m irreplaceable, I am great, I am who everyone wants to be; he falls asleep and dreams he is on a vacation; he steps onto the terrace of a hotel to observe the ocean; he sees a marlin burst out of the water, fly over the sand, and dive into the hotel pool; the ocean is so exciting, he thinks, so big, so majestic; he shakes his head, I like a fish with a dagger on its face; the marlin jumps out of the pool and pierces a bikini-clad gentleman in the stomach; the unfortunate man and fish fall to the ground; he is happy as he watches blood gush out of the man; he wakes up, masturbates a third time, a record for the day, and sets the entire neighborhood on fire with gasoline and matches; the world is passive, he says as smoke rises all around him, I am the active one, the spring rain of contempt, a swift morose icon, my gift is misguided love, I’m the only person who’s truly supposed to be here.

  CLARE

  Clare, who had recently customized her name to Clear, asked me if I’d be willing to get her pregnant, if I would have sex with her sometime soon, not just j.o. in a beaker and hand it over, but go somewhere romantic, and be a playful, studly friend, and fuck her so she could have a kid that looked half like me. I was on an informal honeymoon in New York City with my wife Heather Yellopey. Miss Yellopey is an architect. She is painfully beautiful with bright blond hair, big curious eyes, and lips thick enough to climb on. At night when she pulls down her black panties and exposes her astonishing buttocks and declares in a mock baby-girl voice that she’s been bad and is ready for her spanking, I leap into action. Ooh, my cheeks are aflame, she has said on more than one occasion after her haunches have been walloped. The abovementioned Clare was an old friend from high school. We had sex a couple times by accident. Drunken staring matches, naked grab ass, so
meone’s face buried in the other person’s planetarium, mushy humping, out of sync—nothing dynamic. It always felt like what I imagined incest would be like. The familiarity was disturbing. We were pals. Our complexions were identical. Freckles everywhere. We even had them on our privates. Her ass was spotted. My dick. There you have it, inside and out.

  Adjusting your name a little bit to suit your truest incarnation didn’t necessarily seem like an overt sign of a deteriorating brain. The day after high school graduation Clare was on a plane to New York, escaping her oppressive, superstrict parents. She went from country bumpkin to a rock star’s sex slave in a matter of weeks. The junkie bass player of the Dimples introduced her to sex with rope, toys, and knives. We stayed in contact writing letters, the occasional phone call. When I got a postcard from her signing off as Clear I assumed she was just doing some female version of peace, later, out. I didn’t realize she meant Clear, like a glass of water; free from clouds, mist, or haze, i.e., this is who I am now. Since I don’t have a middle name I used to give myself cool middles when I was in elementary school. I was fond of names of bullies in the neighborhood. I was Shane until Rocko pounded him into a fence like he was trying to tenderize him, and then I was Rocko, the badass greaser who threatened everything in his path. My parents told me that Jews didn’t have middle names. I finally settle on T-Bone.

  Clare’s name change wasn’t as disturbing as her insemination proposal. Heather, or Miss Yellopey as I sometimes like to call her, and I met Clare for a lunchtime breakfast at a Ukrainian restaurant. Nothing strange happened. The experience was normal except that the toilet in the men’s room was not in good working order. After flushing I charged out of the bathroom like a hunted animal. Everyone in the restaurant knew that I’d paid a short visit to hell.