You Can Never Spit It All Out

by Moore, Ralph Robert

  He raised his hot dog. "Thank you, Bruckhouser!"

  Big brown eyes blinking at him, she took a modest bite from the end of her own hot dog. Which gave him a warm feeling.

  Swiped her lips with the back of her hand, ducking her head, grinning, then remembered she had a white napkin in her lap. "Sorry. I'm such a slob."

  "No you're not!"

  "Who's…Bruckhouser? Is that what you said? Why are you thanking him?"

  Kebab chewed and swallowed. Last third of his dog still in his hand. Long time since he had talked about himself. "That's what my dad always said. When we sat down for dinner, when I was a kid. He worked at the Bruckhouser Sausage Factory."

  She nodded, looking at him, lips closed as she chewed more of her hot dog. Swallowed. Tourists toddled by, glaring at Kebab's moved park bench. Like he should be arrested.

  "Where do you work?"

  He felt embarrassed. "I'm an entrepreneur."

  "Oh! Okay. That's cool."

  He sat up. "Really?"

  "Yeah, sure. Why wouldn't it be?"

  "I'm not rich like Bernard, with all his tennis courts."

  She shook her long-haired head, a sincere girl. "Listen, you don't need to be." She touched his knee. "You're a good person. I can tell. You defended me."

  Wiping her lips, the last of her dog having disappeared. Sad smile from those wide lips, trying to come off as amused. "You'd be surprised. I don't know. Maybe you wouldn't." Big confessional grin, lots of pain. "I don't get defended too often."

  "Really?"

  Looking down at her open-toe shoes. "Nah."

  Silence.

  Genevieve broke it. "If you." Eyes slid left, thinking to herself, not sharing. "If you don't mind, how did you wind up the way you are? Should I not ask?"

  Kebab, flustered. "No! No, that's fine. I don't mind at all."

  "So…?"

  "I was fourteen. Working at a construction site. We were building a high rise luxury hotel on the beach. In fact, that one there." He pointed at a large, rectangular rooftop rising above the distant palm trees. "They had a pneumatic machine that shaped and cut steel tubing, and for whatever reason, something went wrong, and this length of steel tubing shot out sideways, spearing all four of us. No one thought we would survive. The same accident happened in the past, but in those cases, the people who were speared died. We were just lucky."

  "And you never sued them? To separate you, or at least compensate you?"

  "You can't do that down here." Feeling self-conscious. Wanting to change the subject. "What do you do for a living?"

  She sat back on the park bench. He noticed the curves of her breasts. Although he felt that wasn't her intention. "I was always the type of girl where it really meant a lot to me to do good in school? To make my parents proud? I love my parents. They live in the states. My dad's a professor of medieval poetry. So that's what I studied in college, because it meant so much to him. I thought if that were my major, it'd make us closer. My older sister, she got pregnant right away and wound up living in a teepee in Arizona. She and her husband string beads for a living. She's always hitting my dad up for money. They're about to be evicted from their apartment because their rent's past due, or she has to bail one of her sons out of jail, or they haven't eaten in three days, so my dad sends them some money, but then she decides to buy a widescreen TV with the money, and hits him up for more. My younger sister, she's wasted on drugs most of the time. I don't even know where she is. Probably somewhere in northern California. So I thought I'd be the good daughter.

  "I graduated with a degree in medieval studies. My parents took me out to dinner afterwards at a local Mexican restaurant, just the standard stuff, enchiladas and nachos, and that was probably the happiest afternoon of my life. Just the three of us. My dad all enthusiastic about how I should plan my academic career, people with whom he could put me in touch." She stopped talking for a moment.

  "But…that didn't work out." She crinkled her eyebrows, attempting humor. "You'd be surprised at how few openings there are at universities for people with majors in medieval studies. I thought all my publications would help, but apparently they were red flags to the professors interviewing me that I was so qualified I might replace them, at a lower salary. So…next thing I know, the rent's due, I'm having Campbell's soup for dinner, checking online for administrative assistant positions. And by chance, I lucked out on an ad I saw for a travel writer. I had never done any travel writing before, but my girlfriends and I went to San Antonio my senior year, one of them had family there, so I wrote a piece from memory about the Riverwalk, the crowds at the Alamo…you know. I got an interview in St. Louis, where the website was based, and they assigned me to the Caribbean. And here I am."

  Kebab, still with that uneaten third of a dog in his hand. His fingers could feel it cooling. "Are you happy?"

  Big, big grin. Direct stare. "Not a chance. I don't want to feel sorry for myself, or whine, I hate when people do that, but you know how sometimes you find someone, maybe on a flight or whatever, and because they're a stranger you can really open up to them?"

  Kebab did a puzzled shoulder shrug. "Sure."

  "I really like talking to you. I feel like anything I say, you'll accept it. It won't change your opinion of me."

  "Nothing you could say would do that."

  "Really?"

  "Yeah!"

  "I'm, like, really unhappy." Hand held up, a stop sign. "It's my own fault. I know. But…" Sincere look. "It's hard being a girl. At least, for me it's hard. For some men, I have to be really gung-ho," fisted forearm swinging sideways, "then for others it's real serious, they want to place wild mushrooms on the plates with tweezers, and with others, some kind of sexy babe who doesn't own any bras, or someone who picks up underpants and socks from the carpet, is a great cook, and some kind of, I don't know, tireless life coach. None of that is me. I'm just a goof. I don't really like sports, I honestly don't care about politics, and I don't want to get drunk in a bar and kiss a girl." Her thin shoulders raised up high, by her ears. "I kinda just want to earn enough money to support myself, pick up a pizza on the way home, and watch movies in my pajamas. Go to sleep reading academic articles on medieval texts. And share my life with a man. Maybe have babies with him." She had said all of this lightly enough, but now her eyes filled with tears. "That's gonna happen someday, right?"

  Kabab went shy. "I think anything can happen. If you really believe it can."

  Kebab found Francoise in front of the Painted Turtle Shoppe.

  "I need your help."

  Francoise nodded vigorously.

  "I need to be separated from these guys. I need to be on my own, at last. No more steel pole connecting us. I need to leave them behind. Be normal! Can you help me?"

  Francoise broke off the triangular tip of his cheese. Teepee of fingers putting the piece in his mouth. Ruminated. Big bags under his eyes.

  Kebab watched him appreciate the chunk, Francoise's closed mouth lengthening its jaw as, inside his lower face, unseen, his tongue licked his teeth.

  "So…"

  "I can do that." Finger snap. Really loud, like a summoning. "How much money do you have?"

  "Forty-seven dollars and eighteen cents."

  "More than enough, I think. Give it to me, and give me time. Wait here."

  Kabab waited.

  The others, on his left and right, sat with their hands hanging between their knees, watching the world pass by. Seagulls, tired kids trudging behind their parents, an ant searching the sidewalk.

  Francoise returned in two hours. Big canvas sack. "Let's go somewhere private."

  They all headed to Five Hole Park. Up a hill, past a curved bridge.

  In a clearing under a magnolia tree, Francoise reached into his canvas sack. Looking around to make sure they were alone. "A big moment for you, yes?"

  "Very big moment."

  "Good!" Right hand grasping inside the sack, left hand clenching the canvas bottom, he unsheathed the sack from
what he was holding inside.

  Chainsaw.

  Kebab looked down at its long-nosed front. "So, your thoughts are…"

  "I will chainsaw through the steel bar on either side of your hips. Then, when you are free of the others, I will grab one end of the steel bar protruding from your hip, once it has cooled down, and I will yank it out of your body. You may lose some guts, but maybe not."

  The others were staring at the big chainsaw in Francoise's hand.

  Kebab wet his lips. "You think this is the most conservative way to…"

  Francoise chuckled. "Is it the most conservative way? Of course not. But for the amount of money you have, this is what we can afford. And who knows? It may succeed. Do you want to be with this woman? To where you are willing to risk your life?"

  What would Kebab's life likely be if he didn't take this risk? Growing old, still attached to them.

  "Okay, I see by your face you're saying, Let's do this!"

  Kebab had the others line up in a row facing Francoise. Six palms lifting, waving, uncertain.

  "They are not pleased. Do you want to proceed?"

  "I want to be free. I want to be able to walk down a street. By myself. Sit in a restaurant. By myself. Go to the bathroom. By myself. Kiss a girl."

  Francoise held the chainsaw in his right hand, pointing it down towards the grass. A blue bird landed on a branch of the magnolia, watching. With his left hand, he pulled quickly on the cord, like starting a lawnmower.

  Kebab braced himself.

  A few put-puts. Steel teeth of the saw rotating once around its oval nose. A giant's eye opening. Do not disturb me.

  "I will try again."

  Another quick pull upwards on the cord.

  The saw's gas motor starts right up. Teeth of the chain vibrating. Looping rapidly around the front nose. Puffs of dirty smoke rising from the back.

  Francoise lifted the chainsaw to waist height, holding it in both hands.

  He shouted to be heard. "Are you ready?"

  Lifting the blurred rotations of the blade even higher. Angling it between Kebab and the two on his left. "Do not move! Do not even breathe!"

  Squinting his eyes, he lowered the churning blade to the section of steel pipe exposed between Kebab and the ones on the left.

  As the whirring teeth of the blade made bouncing contact with the steel, Kebab felt the pipe inside his abdomen vibrate. Making him sick to his stomach.

  Noise like guns going off by his ear. "Do not move! I am serious!"

  Fingernails on a blackboard. The whine increased, to where it must have been heard all the way down by the beach.

  Kebab raised his jaw. Teeth clenched.

  The bar started heating. Burning Kebab's side. Pink skin. Turning red.

  "I think we are making progress!"

  Kebab didn't dare look down at the violent machinery between him and the others on the left. Didn't want to be discouraged in case it wasn't working. Winced repeatedly. Orange sparks rising, falling on the side of his face.

  "A little more!"

  And then!

  Kebab stumbling to the right, almost losing his balance.

  The two on the left stumbling in the opposite direction, falling.

  Kebab walked around under the magnolia tree, eyes wide. Just one other man attached to him.

  The two on the grass, trying to get up on their four feet, way over there. No longer part of him.

  Jerked his head down at his right side.

  Nothing. Burnt dark end of the steel pipe, but beyond that, nothing but fresh air.

  "Do you want to leave the one on the right attached for a while, to adjust?"

  "No."

  "All right, then. Hold still."

  Orange. Vibration. Unbelievable pain, felt down the legs, to the soles of the feet.

  Kebab stepping sideways. Panic. Arms wheeling, balancing on a tightrope. Falling.

  Sitting up on the grass.

  Red, red blood leaking out of both sides of his abdomen, trickling onto the green of the grass.

  Face and throat pale.

  "Okay, one last step." Francoise shutting off the chainsaw. Setting it on the lawn, where the slowing blade chuffed up dirt, grass, tiny pebbles, half an earthworm. "Do you still want me to yank the steel pole out of your body?"

  Head swimming. Decided to stay sitting on the grass. "Yes. Even if I pass out, keep pulling."

  "Do you want to get to your feet?"

  "I don't think I can. Could you come down here?"

  "I suppose so."

  Francoise went down on his knees by Kebab. Studied the steel pipe sticking out of the right side of his abdomen, the steel pipe sticking out of the left side of his abdomen. "Do you have a preference?"

  Kebab, coughing up blood, shook his head.

  "I think I will pull from the left side, then. The pipe juts out a little longer, and has had more time to cool."

  He touched the jagged black end of the steel pipe. Testing its heat. Wrapped his palm around the curve. "My friend, do you want me to count to three?"

  Kebab, lying on his back on the grass. Not looking too good. "Yes. But pull it out when you get to two. To surprise me."

  "Okay. Will do. Are you ready?"

  "Go ahead."

  "Okay. I'm going to start now." Palm and fingers tightening around the pipe.

  "One."

  Kebab closed his eyes. Crying, crying, crying. Tried to picture Genevieve. Genevieve and him, walking hand in hand down the sunset of the beach.

  "Two."

  His frightened eyes staring straight up, at the sky.

  "Three!"

  He felt nothing. Was it done?

  "Four!"

  Kebab's mouth stretched open. Screams that started all the way down in his belly, his intestines, his rectum, his knees.

  Felt Francoise's feet brace against the side of his abdomen, above and below the pipe, for additional traction.

  "Five!"

  Felt his internal organs sliding to the left inside him.

  Came to. What? What?

  "Eleven!"

  Francoise fell back, as the pain slid out of Kebab.

  Replaced by a new pain inside him. Cold. Like it was snowing inside. Dark red.

  "How are you doing?"

  No answer.

  "You are bleeding a lot. Especially on this left side. I am going to sew you up now, okay?"

  Francoise had a large, curved needle. The type used to sew sails for sail boats. Thick thread.

  "When I was a boy, my mother taught me how to sew closed the front opening to a chicken. Nice and tight. Who would think I would need this skill so many decades later?"

  Poking the curved needle into Kebab's side, Francoise's tongue between his lips, like a child. Lifting the needle up in the air, attached thick thread rippling through the hole he had created, curved needle dipping down, piercing again.

  Kebab's spine rising off the red grass, writhing, twisting, fluttering.

  When Francoise was finished, the sides of Kebab's abdomen looked like stitched footballs.

  Kebab looked up with the glazed low intelligence of a mule.

  "Now we take you somewhere safe, to recuperate."

  Kebab was carried to a nearby barn. Noises everywhere.

  Dragged by his wrists to a pile of straw. Left on the straw.

  He woke up. Dark outside.

  Woke up. Sunlight. Blood on the golden straw, on either side of him.

  Woke up.

  Tried to get to his knees. Couldn't. Too much pain.

  Clear fluid coming out of his sides.

  Lay back on his spine. Breathing through his mouth. Face wet.

  Went, in his mind, to a favorite fantasy, the one he would play whenever he'd try to fall asleep, next to the others.

  Changed it slightly.

  Now it was Genevieve and him. In their home. Log crackle and yellow sparks from the fireplace.

  Genevieve's older brother, Mike Logan from the TV show Law and Order, wa
s coming over for dinner, with his wife. Wispy little blonde thing. Really nice woman. Obviously loved Mike very much, despite his detective's salary. No kids. Maybe they couldn't have any? He never pictured Mike having any kids. Too much of a lone, blue-eyed wolf.

  While the girls prepare dinner, Kebab invites Mike into his study, for a drink.

  Bookshelves to the ceiling. All around them. So crowded some books have to be slid in horizontally on top of the uneven rows of vertical books.

  Mike sitting on the guest side of Kebab's desk. In a dark suit. He crosses his legs. Those big black eyebrows, that rugged face that's seen it all. Maybe wishes it hadn't.

  Kebab fixes a pair of Manhattans. Two cold glasses meeting across the desk's surface. Clink. "Cheers."

  He lets a moment go by, so they can feel the heat of the whiskey warm its way down their throats.

  "Mike, Genevieve and I know you're going through some hard times."

  Mike shrugs. "Hey. You know." Resigned, Black Irish look. "I never expected to get rich. My mother made sure I understood my limits at an early age."

  Kebab leans across the green blotter. "Mike, the thing is, Genevieve and I have done really well, financially, the past couple of years."

  Mike raises his Manhattan. Sincere salute. "You've taken really good care of my baby sister, Bob. Means a lot to me."

  "What we're talking about now? Genevieve and I discussed it earlier, before you and Annie came over." You open the top drawer of your desk, pull out a check. Such a short piece of paper, but boy can it change lives.

  Mike sits up. Pulls his head back on his neck, mock-confused. Those black eyebrows.

  "We want you to have this."

  Mike looks around your study. "Hey, I appreciate your hospitality, but. Accepting money from my kid sister and her husband? Not my style."

  "We won't miss it. Mike, you know, I think even if we weren't connected through Genevieve, if we had just met each other in a bar or something, we would have become friends."

  He lowers his eyes. "I'd agree with that."

  Kebab passes the check, with his handwriting on it, to Mike. He takes it from your fingers, reads the amount. "You're kidding me! Fifty thousand?"