In the quiet bar, the bone snap was loud as a pistol shot.
Still holding the wrist in his left hand, still staring into his nephew's eyes, Hollis' right hand slowly twisted Roy's broken middle finger clockwise, clockwise, clockwise until the middle finger wrenched from the other writhing digits, detached, twitching in Hollis' mid-air lift.
"Lola? Fetch a jar to put this finger in, then once you got it in the jar, drown it with pickle juice, then put it with my collection. I occasionally like to look at all these brave middle fingers that thought they was attached to a strong man. But first thing, hand me the phone."
Lola reached under her side of the bar, pulled out a black telephone, put it on the bar near Hollis' waist.
"You can go now, Roy. Start to head back towards your shack, where your young wife is waiting. You won't make it to her sweet face. You saw that face for the last time when you walked out of your shack. Right now, from this moment forward, there's a grave following you around like an unfed dog."
Roy staggered by himself down the dirt road, stumbling that mile towards his and Audrey's shack. Blood dripping from his right hand. Trying to hold his head high, in that moonlit loneliness, but under these present circumstances, no neck muscles are that strong.
Might as well kiss goodbye his job at the sawmill. No way they'd let him work in that high speed environment, metal teeth tearing into wood, when he only had but the four fingers on his right hand.
Decided he wasn't going to buy any eggs for Hollis.
Made a decision he was going to make it home, tell Audrey what had happened, because she had a right to know, then ask her to accompany him down to the river, to wash his wound. Once down there, he'd get her in the black water, push her face underneath the ripples, bad hand and all, and drown her. She wouldn't die happy, her hands slapping up at his shoulders, but she'd die before Hollis could spend any more time with her. Up until now, it hadn't been that bad for her. But he knew what Hollis did to women over time, once he got bored with fucking them, but didn't want to let them go. She still had something good inside her. Something sweet-smelling. He didn't want to let Hollis work on her, month after month, until she had no more hope than Lola at the bar.
Up on the right, the bend in the road where so long ago he had picked those flowers for Miss Abergine.
His tired face lifted. Listening in the night, eyes jerking left, right.
There it was again.
Something moving through the woods on his right, towards the road, towards him.
Oh, but also through the trees on his left.
Lots of somethings.
He turned to go back to town.
But down the road behind him, figures stretched across the dirt in the moonlight, advancing.
He faced forward.
But figures advancing from in front of him.
Through the woods on either side they broke, leaping, like wolves.
All the four-leggers, surrounding him on that lonely stretch of road.
He had no idea there were so many of them.
And after them, the ones hiding in the forest who were even less human. Who because of their anatomical extremes, had difficulties moving.
One of them clopped over, back bent horizontal. Glared up at him, from Roy's knees. "You nobody's da-da."
Roy kept swinging his head around.
No idea there were so many of them!
"I'm Scowtt's father. I–"
Let out a cry of pain, left knee buckling.
Turned around, looked behind him.
The four-legger who had hit Roy's knee with his hoof glared up at Roy, smirk on her face. "Nobody's da-da!"
Another one ambling over. Taller on all fours, he hit Roy squarely in his stomach. Roy bent over. Hard to breathe.
Out of the crowd, Scowtt trotted over to Roy's pained face. Hatred in his eyes. "No four-legger ever gonna listen to a four-armer ever again!"
Roy went down on one knee, trying to deal with the pain in his chest. "I'm not a four-armer. I'm normal."
Hoof from another four-legger, this time across Roy's face. That one stung. Stung all the way up into his brain.
Nose broken, flopped to one side on his face. Roy trying to blink his way through the pain, tasting his own blood. "I'm not–"
Still another four-legger, maneuvering his angry face up against Roy's. "Take off your shoes and show us your second set of hands!"
"I don't, I'm not–"
He didn't know whose hoof hit him next. Hard against his temple. Sprawled on his stomach on the dirt road, he reached out his hand.
Another hoof. Spat out red teeth.
Another hoof.
Hooves.
Hooves. Hooves. Hooves. Hooves. Hooves.
It was after two o'clock in the morning.
Audrey, who had been waiting for her husband to return, sitting in the dirt by their fire pit, went back inside their shack.
The beauty of those blue eyes, that pale yellow hair, that wasn't going to last. Not in the mountains. Alcohol, rape, grief, poverty…that can thin a face fast. Thin it to where a woman of twenty looks sixty. You see it everywhere up here.
She sat in the darkness of their shack, waiting.
About three in the morning, no light yet in the sky, she heard feet outside their shack. A rise of hope, but then she realized it was too many feet.
Scowtt came through the open door, on all fours.
"Where's your daddy?"
"He ain't my daddy."
"Where's Roy?"
Scowtt twisted his face up from his four-legged stance. "What were he and you gonna do when he came home?"
She backed up. "I don't know. Go to bed."
Scowtt smirked up at her. "I hear the two of you in bed. He get on top of you, right? That how it work?"
"I'm going to go over my daddy's. You stay here, get some rest. You got dark circles under your eyes."
Scowtt reared back his face. "I'm gonna get my rest in your bed tonight. With you."
"You can't do that. It's not right."
"Take those clothes off."
The thing is, up in the mountains, in the isolated shacks, you don't get to choose. All you have is Dirt Land, and knowing that if it doesn't turn out human enough, there's always the river.
She looked around Scowtt's bulk, trying to figure some way to get past him, to get out into the night.
Scowtt grinned. Spit on the floor. Those eyes. "What you gonna do, cunt? You gonna try to run to safety? You can't outrun me. I got four legs."
Kebab Bob
Even in a tropical paradise, a person can be unhappy.
The dim light and rumbling conversations of The Cracked Coconut Bar. Kebab Bob sitting in the shadows at one of the booths against the wall with, of course, The One on the Right, The One on the Left, and The Other One on the Left. Smell of pineapple and licorice. Bongos and vocals drifting over everyone's candle-lit faces. A dark waitress with white teeth floating over, bright green dress. Bringing him his latest drink. Which will be his last drink. He has the poison in his pocket. A sense of power. He, alone of everyone in this bar, knows when he is going to die. In about five minutes.
So he takes a sip of his drink first, without the powder shook down into it. Wouldn't you? And that's quite a good drink the bartender poured, grinning at his audience from behind the bar, bottoms of bottles lifting. Nice squeeze of lime in the Coke and rum. Under any other circumstance, Kebab Bob would enjoy the drink until the ice cubes tilted against his teeth.
But now he reaches in his side pocket, pulls out the packet. No one cares what he is doing in the noisy bar. No one notices.
Hard to see what he looks like. Long black hair hanging in front of his face. Submerged pierce of his blue eyes. For years, ever since he stopped cutting it, those long locks have had to be pulled away from his mouth, thin strands sliding sideways over his lips.
And look how easy this is! Ripping the top of the paper packet left to right, cutting a throat. Shaking the w
hite powder down on all those happy ice cubes. I'm not even going to use my right index finger to stir the drink. Why hide the pebbly poison on the surface? I know I'm poisoning myself.
And there it is. My final drink sitting on the table in front of me. All I must do now is lift it to my lips. Take a gulp. Wait. And lean forward with extreme abdominal pains. But he has been reassured by the guy on the street corner with the twitch in his eyes the pain will not last long. Some white foam out of the mouth. Maybe a little bleeding out of the eyes. Forehead smacking down on the tabletop, rattling ashtrays. Lit cigarettes tilting backwards in the glass grooves.
His head dead weight.
Fingers of his right hand around the ice cube coldness of his glass. Will death be colder? Could it be? Probably. And he lifts that glass. The One on the Right, The One on the Left, and The Other One on the Left, talking around his shoulders in a dialect he does not understand. They don't know. Which will create problems for them. But this certainly isn't a perfect world.
Regrets? Of course. Memories? Lots. Fuck, so many memories. Like you. But for Kebab Bob, almost none of them good.
The cold curve of his glass' rim rests on his lower lip. Ready for that tilt forward. That pour over the tongue.
Forgive me. (I don't know who it is I'm asking to forgive me, but whoever or whatever it is, if in fact it is, please forgive me.)
(His face can't be seen, but behind that hanging black hair it's crying, and scared, and bitter.)
As he tilts the bottom of the glass up–
A commotion at the bar.
The bar is lit like a stage.
Because people who sit on the stools want to be seen, to be watched. Unlike people like Kebab who sit in the dark against the walls.
A tall, gangly girl sitting on a stool. The man standing next to her, swaying, touching her bare shoulder with his hand.
As Kebab tilts–
He's curious about what's going on. Pretty girl in distress. Actually lowers the glass from his lower lip. Time enough for that grainy swallow in a minute. Once he figures out what the commotion is all about. When you still find something in this world you want to watch, you're not quite ready for suicide.
And the table's pizza arrives. Smells great. Cheese, oregano, tomato sauce, olive oil. Hard to take your own life when there's a hot pizza in front of you. Why not eat just one slice? Flutter out of the top of your head on a happy note.
Kebab removes a triangle, raising it from the flat roundness of the pie. Its front tip dips downwards, heavy with hot, moist flavor. Dripping orange olive oil. Isn't the triangular tip of a pizza slice the best bite?
Brings it to his lips. Upper and lower teeth meeting, pulling the soft, crusty ooze of that tip into his mouth.
The fresh from the oven bubbling tomato sauce burns his mouth.
Fuck!
Rolls the tomato pain in his mouth, tongue arching, to cool it.
"You okay, Kebab?"
His voice is more cultured than you'd expect. "This is why I only eat hot dogs. Bring me a hot dog. A hot dog never lets you down."
Bright green dress scurrying away.
Man at the bar getting overly familiar. Putting his fingers in the gawky girl's hair. She's pulling her head away from him, but his fingers travel forward with her face's retreat. Grin of a skull on his face. Doesn't have to apologize for what he does. Not with those beefy shoulders. That snub nose of a favorite son.
Kebab's hot dog arrives. On a small plate with a folded white napkin. He lifts its warm weight. "Thank you, Bruckheiser!" Chomping through its length, mustard and green relish and that greasy, smoky flavor, eyes never leaving the tableau at the bar.
The gawky girl tries a slap, but the brute has a fast hand. Grabs the slap's wrist as it's still incoming. Hangs onto that thin wrist. Squeezes the wrist. Until, involuntarily, the tall girl sitting on the stool dips her shoulders. Until her head is lower than his head. His head tilts back, like a snub-nosed Caesar. "Say 'please.' Say it."
Renewed clench around the wrist.
Kebab stands up, roof of his mouth still burning from that pizza slice. A tall man, with all the baggage a tall man brings.
The others have to get up too, of course. The One on the Right, etc.
Her mouth opens at a slant. "Ow!" Like a kid would say. Like his bullying has jerked this woman in her twenties, feeling good about herself for making the transition to being an adult, paying her own rent, learning to control her emotions, proud of herself, in a world that can beat down pride every day, back to helpless childhood.
All the other men around this meanness ignoring what's going on. Looking down into their drinks. Staring off at the bouncing dancers in the club, with monkey smiles. Clenching their eyebrows, pretending to be engrossed in political conversations.
"Let her go."
The bully hangs onto the girl's twisting wrist. The throttle of a car he's driving. But swivels his head towards Kebab, standing next to the girl. Incredulous look on his face. A chuckle, of disbelief. "You sure?"
Kebab isn't sure. He's scared, like anyone would be confronting a bully. Especially one as big and loud as this one. How many men are going to face down an angry dog? But if he's going to die anyway, why not?
The girl, still tethered, swings her head around, red-eyed, to look at her rescuer. The winced look everyone gets when they first see Kebab. After all, he's part of a package, this tall guy with hair in his face, standing next to one guy on his right, two on his left, all four of them conjoined by a steel pipe running horizontally through their hips. But she's nice about it.
Kebab holds up his left hand. "Want to try that on a man's wrist?"
The bully shrugs, unthreatened. "Sure."
Cracks his fist across Kebab's hidden nose.
Kebab staggering sideways. Lights and colors inside his head.
But then, lo and behold. He straightens up. Submerged pierce of those blue eyes.
The lout didn't expect that. His smirk gets smaller.
"What, you want some more?"
Kebab's left hand back in the air. Like a fourth head, among his, the girl's, the bully's.
The girl yanks her wrist free.
Disappearing smirk doesn't try to re-grab it.
"The fuck. I'm getting bored." Twisty eyebrows. "And I don't like to get bored."
Slides off his stool. Trying to maintain a superior attitude as he walks away. Failing.
Up close, this is the first chance Kebab has gotten to look at the girl's face.
In his lifetime, Kebab had seen dozens of women, but she was by far the most beautiful.
Tall, very thin, awkward way of standing, like she never knows what to do with those long arms. Not graceful, but a charm in that lack of posture. High, tentative voice.
He smiled at her, shy. Pulled his long hair back from his face. Tried to think of something to say.
Brown eyes still looking left and right across the chorus line of him, giving her questions he knew she'd be too polite to ask.
"Is that a Singapore sling?"
Her eyebrows went up. Moment for his question to register. Swing of her head away from him, looking back at the bar. "Is it…? Yeah. I like them." A thought. "Would you like a sip?" She scrunched her shoulders. Big, horse-toothed, friendly grin. "You certainly deserve it." Rapid nod of her head. That high voice quieting, so she was just talking to him, excluding all others, a thrill when a woman does that. Shot to the heart. "More than the rest of this crew." A look right into his eyes. He can see kindness, uncertainty. "My hero."
Kebab took a step back, which caused the other three to take a step back. For a moment, that look into his eyes, he had actually forgotten about them.
Again though, a loss for words. Hard to be debonair when you're connected by a steel pipe to three other guys. "No. I was just…"
A man with a bullet head came over. The type of man where a woman meeting him unconsciously raises her hands to check her hair, to make sure it's in place. Something no woman had
ever done with Kebab. White short-sleeve shirt, where you can see his nipples. Puts his arm around her waist, looking at Kebab. "Genevieve, baby, you okay?"
She swings her face towards him, swings it back at Kebab. "Yeah, Pedro. This guy just rescued me."
"He did? From what?"
Her high voice, no longer talking to Kebab. "Some guy tried getting fresh with me."
The bartender, wiping the bar by them as an excuse to eavesdrop, lifted his jaw. "Solly."
"Where's he now?"
"This guy chased him away."
"Yeah?" Attention switching from Genevieve to Kebab. Not an unfriendly look. "Well, thank you for doing that. I was in the rest room. This other guy's name is Solly?"
The bartender nodded. "Comes in here a few times a week."
"Next time this Solly comes in here, you point him out to me, baby."
"Oh, I will."
"What'd he do?"
"He tried to touch my hair. I kept pulling back."
"Somebody needs to teach him some manners. It's a real shame his parents didn't do that for him, most parents do, but since they didn't, you point him out to me next time you see him, and I'll hold a classroom for him on the proper etiquette when he's dealing with a lady."
Hard look at Kebab.
Who pulled his long black hair away from his face again.
Genevieve stood up on tip toe, making her much taller than Pedro, and almost as tall as Kebab. Wounded look on her face. "Oh! Your nostrils are bleeding!"
"His nostrils are fine, baby. He can get a bandage."
"May I buy the two of you a drink?"
"You know, I don't think so. But thanks."
Using his arm around her waist, Pedro steered Genevieve away from the bar. Leading her towards the front door. Over his shoulder he said, "I think we're going to go back to my place now. Can't go too long without a little loving."
Pulled Genevieve's long face to his profile. Planted an awkward kiss on her nose.
She blushed.
"Thanks again, friend."
As Pedro escorted her out, his left hand drifted down to her ass, squeezed her cheek. Look back over his shoulder at Kebab.
He watched them walk away, conjoined by Pedro's arm.
You Can Never Spit It All Out Page 5