Buick Cannon: (A Joke From the Moon)

by Berntson, Brandon

  “Sir, the time for golden dreams has come. We no longer have to be sheltered, captured, prisoners!”

  “Jesus, you’ve gone absolutely insane!”

  “Well,” said Christine, with her hands on her hips. “If not, than who? Who, you tell me? Who?”

  “Okay okay!” Buick relented. “If it’ll get you to shut up, then come on in. You’ll have to wait a while for dinner, though. I haven’t thawed anything out yet.”

  “No rush. I’ll just eat some sarcophagus.”

  Buick shook his head and headed for the shower. “Get some coffee brewing, will ya?”

  “Aye-aye, Commander,” Christine called back.

  Buick stripped out of his clothes and turned the water valves on.

  ~

  “Your clock is wrong, sir,” Christine said. “I can tell you that right now.”

  Buick was dripping wet, leaving a pool between his naked ankles, holding a towel to his waist.

  “I’m really not in the mood for your wise-cracks, Christine,” he said.

  Christine looked at him, puzzled. “No, sir, really. Your clock is wrong by about ten hours, or just two hours, depending on how you look at it. I’ll fix it.”

  “Well just help yourself to anything, I guess. Did you get that coffee ready?”

  “I did, sir. And I must say, it’s delicious.” Christine seemed to will a coffee mug into existence and took a sip.

  “Jesus,” Buick said, heading for the bedroom. “The next thing, you know, you’ll be moving in.”

  Christine beamed at this idea and took another sip. “Why do you think I accepted your invitation?” she said.

  Buick didn’t hear her. He was in the bedroom putting his clothes on: jeans and a cotton shirt. He wasn’t wearing shoes. He walked out of the bedroom, down the hall, and stopped just short of Christine, who was standing in the living room. “Take your shoes off, Christine.”

  “Oh! For a minute there, I thought you were going to ask me—”

  “Good God, Christine! What the hell are you doing? I thought you were hungry?”

  “You know something, sir? I don’t think you’re the most pleasant person to be around at the moment.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes sir, it is. You have an abrasive personality. You don’t really come across as the nicest of fellows.”

  Buick turned and walked through the kitchen. He opened the sliding glass door and stepped outside. The sun was just to the west, beginning its descent toward the mountains. It was later than he’d thought. What was happening to him? He looked at Christine. “You’re getting a free dinner,” he said. “What more do you want?”

  “Well, jeez! If that’s the way you’re going to be, I don’t think it’s worth the price of admission!”

  “Okay, Christine, I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s gotten into me lately. I feel terribly. Really. Come. Give Buick a kiss.”

  “No!”

  “Come on, really. Don’t be frightened.”

  “Get the hell outta here! After the way you treated me! You think I’m gonna kiss you? You’re a pig!”

  “You’re an unfair little cuss. A goddamn tease, you know that, Christine? What the hell did you come over here for anyway?”

  “For dinner, you wrench in my side. What the hell do you think?”

  “Then why the hell are you flirting with me? Why do people flirt if nothing’s gonna come afterwards? Jesus, that pisses me off! You know why, Christine? Because they’ve taken a chapter out of the Christine Tease Handbook. Only the Tease is spelled different. It’s spelled with two E’s and a Z. Make that three E’s because there’s one on the end. Tee. Eee. Eee. Zee. Eee. Christine Teeze.”

  Christine couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Who was this guy? What was he talking about? “Sir, I think you need to get out more often.”

  “And why do you call me ‘sir’ all the time?” Buick asked.

  “Because, sir. That’s what I was told to call you, sir.”

  “Well stop it. I’m tired of it. I’m tired of hearing it. If you don’t start calling me Buick, you’re off the force.”

  “Well okay, Buu—ick. Will there be anything else, Buu—ick, or do you want me to chase the little men back to their homes, Buu-ick?”

  “That can wait for another day, Christine. Let’s get the chicken ready.”

  Buick prepared some good chicken on the grill with lime juice, salsa, and Monterey jack cheese. He served baked potatoes and corn on the cob. Christine made a simple salad and garlic bread.

  At the picnic table in Buick’s back yard, Christine bit into a piece of chicken. “Sir, that is some fine chicken, yessir. That is some fine chicken!”

  “I thought I told you to call me Buick?”

  “Buuu-ick! That is some fiiine chicken. Yes, sir! That is some fine chicken.”

  Buick continued to eat. The potatoes were good. They had just enough sour cream and pepper. He’d needed a good meal and he was already feeling better.

  “Sir?”

  Buick looked at Christine. He was irritated. “Christine?”

  “Sir?” she said.

  Buick raised his eyebrows and urged her to keep talking.

  “I think I’m falling in love with you.”

  Buick sighed, put down his fork, and took a glass of wine. He didn’t know where the wine had come from, but he was eager to drink it. He took a long drink now, three gulps to be exact, and extricated himself from the conversation, going back inside. He put the dishes in the sink.

  “Are you done eating already?” Christine asked.

  He sighed again. He was still hungry, he realized. He grabbed the plate out of the sink, rinsed it, dried it, and stocked up on some of everything from the picnic table. It was a beautifully warm night. The sun hadn’t gone down yet, and shade spread across the yard from the tall trees. There were no bugs.

  “Christine, that isn’t why I invited you over,” Buick said. “I just wanted you to have some dinner with me.”

  Christine smiled and grabbed her wine glass, fingering the rim in an attempt to flirt. “Oh come on, sir! You don’t have to play gallant with me. We can be honest with each other.”

  “Christine, please! I’m old enough to be your father!”

  “Your old enough to be my teacher,” she said. Christine stood and walked over to his side of the table. She sat on his right leg and put her finger against his lips, drawing it down his chin, toward his throat. “I want you to be my teacher. I want you to be my daddy.”

  Buick took a great big gulp and tried to clear his throat. “Christine, you really shouldn’t—”

  “Shhh,” Christine said. “Don’ talk. Just eat your chicken and be a good boy. No one’s here to hurt you. There’s nothing to worry about, sir. Buick, I mean. There’s nothing here that can take us away from what we belong to.”

  “What’s that, Christine?”

  “Honestly, sir?” Christine said, sitting up with a complete change of character. She frowned and looked in another direction. “I don’t know. For the longest time, I’ve been trying to figure it out, and I just can’t.” Christine shrugged and looked sad. Buick put a hand on her shoulder.

  “You’re what every man wants, Christine. You know that, don’t you? You are the essential Christine. That which is lust pervades simple seduction into something holy. Lust is what we’re all about, Christine. Lust makes us men and women. Lust propels us. Although, it isn’t the same with everybody. Lust pervades the atmosphere.”

  Christine was watching him closely. “Sir, you’re really not making any sense. Do you mind explaining what you mean?”

  Buick looked at her as if he wanted to kill her. He was sick and tired of trying to explain himself. It drove him crazy! He sighed heavily. He kept his mouth shut and continued to devour the chicken, potatoes, and corn on the cob. Christine bobbed her head back and forth and rubbed her hand through his hair while he ate.

  The salad tasted awful, like it had been left out all day. He h
eld no stock in bad salads, especially soggy salads.

  “This salad tastes like crap. You know that Christine? It’s hard to eat with you sitting on my lap.”

  “Pshaw!”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean? Pshaw! Jesus! Who invented that? Some rick-shaw driver, undoubtedly. Pshaw! Pshaw! Pshaw is right. Pshaw is for the reticent!”

  “Really, sir! You don’t mean that!”

  She dragged her finger across his chin and down his throat. Buick had to admit, she knew how to seduce. She was a professional, a pro.

  “Christine. I’m just trying to finish my salad. Do you mind?”

  She put a finger to his lips. “You don’t need that soggy salad. That soggy salad is all gone.”

  Christine smiled, and Buick took a great big gulp. He didn’t know what to think or what to do. He was lost in the fantasy of lascivious behavior and cool oxygen. He was in need of something dire and something strong.

  “Christine, I think I love you,” Buick said, trying to be sincere.

  “I know, sir.”

  Buick laughed, patted Christine on the thigh, and licked the side of her neck.

  “Mmmm,” Christine said, closing her eyes.

  “You like that, don’t you?”

  “Oh! I like it when you talk like that.”

  Christine laughed, then pecked him on the cheek.

  “Stop it, Christine. Do you know how hard it is to come across something that has never been written and claim it has merit?”

  “Sir?”

  “Never mind. Don’t you think it’s about time we got you home? It’s getting late.”

  “You’re the commander in charge.”

  Buick nodded, grabbed his keys, and headed for the door. It had been a disappointing evening. He just wanted to get some sleep, and here was Christine wanting to have sex with him, trying to ruin everything.

  CHAPTER IV

  The bookstore wasn’t any better. When he walked inside the next day, pushing the door open, Buick surveyed the surroundings with amusement. He raised his eyebrows, stepped onto dirt and fallen leaves, and wondered what had happened to Little Time To Read.

  A tree stood in the middle of the store, a gnarled ageless thing with a huge, thick bole. A mound of lush grass and moss surrounded it. Was a breeze coming from somewhere? Buick smelled rain. There was no light switch, no magazine rack. The books had disappeared. The store was a doorway into some unexplainable fantasy in the middle of a primitive forest.

  Buick shook his head and wondered what was going on. It didn’t make sense. An owl surveyed him from one of the branches, turned its head an entire three-hundred and sixty degrees, and accosted him with a loud, ‘Who!’

  “Creamy Weenie, my pa-tooty booty,” Buick said. “What the hell is going on? What happened to my office?”

  The door shut behind him. A massive, bulky, smelly troll stepped out from behind the tree and plopped himself down. A fat, green finger plunged into its nose and proceeded to explore. The troll pulled its finger out, sniffed, eyed it carefully, and seemingly satisfied, plopped it into its mouth. The troll grunted with satisfaction.

  “Where in the hell have all the good times gone?” Buick asked.

  The troll took note of him. Eyebrows descended, and his lip curled, revealing dirty, yellow teeth. It growled at him and stood up, holding a large wooden club in its hand. It sauntered toward Buick with an unsteady gait, cocked its head, and peered carelessly.

  “Hey, I didn’t mean anything by it,” Buick said, holding his hands up. “Just pick your damn nose and leave me alone, will ya?”

  The troll growled and moved toward him, just inches away.

  “Who told you, you could stay here anyway?” Buick asked. “This isn’t a goddamn motel, ya know? Pick up that tree and get out of my store.”

  The troll grunted, cocked its head, and studied him again.

  “Look, I don’t have any time for games,” Buick said, getting angry. “Get outta here right now, or I’m calling the cops!”

  More teeth revealed themselves. The growl was suddenly louder. The troll was angry. It bent toward him, sniffed, offended by some stench Buick emanated.

  “Why, you little sonofa—”

  The club came up, belting Buick on the side of the head. Bright stars went off in his brain. Pain reeled. He fell to the side, holding his spurting, bleeding head. He was trying to say something, but the troll advanced and crushed his skull in. Buick fell to the ground, enveloped in darkness. Pain gripped him from every side.

  Above him, the troll smiled, and picked its nose.

  ~

  Surrounded in shadow, Buick Cannon pried his eyes open. The shadow stayed with him. He was lying on boards (burned or painted black?). The walls were the same around him. The black house had followed him into his dreams. Somehow, he knew, he had to find the black house again. It was the answer to why he was acting funny, why people were acting funny, and why funny, ridiculous things were happening in general.

  But you’re in the black house, stupid. You don’t have to find it. You’re already here!

  Still, there was no answer, despite being part of the black house. Hadn’t he been killed before? Hadn’t some skinny, bald-headed lunatic stabbed him with a knife? Hadn’t a troll buried a club into his brain? As far as he knew, he had died quite a few times, so why was he still alive?

  Dreams, he knew, could be powerful. But he’d never had dreams like this before. He was in dire need of a day off. Maybe he should see Dan. It seemed a lifetime since he’d been to Gilmour’s.

  Buick never did think about the bikers again. The portals and all the other strange activity were forgotten. He was just a man trying to live his life, trying to mind his own lonesome business. What did the supernatural have to do with him anyway?

  “It has to do with a lot,” he said. “Especially, considering the fact I’m waking up in some demented prospect of hell where the walls and the floors are solid black. That has something to do with it. None of it’s right, if you want to know.”

  Buick didn’t know what was going on anymore than anybody else. Ever since he’d stepped into the portal, things had become more than wacky…beyond crazy. They had become far out ludicrous. As far as he knew, nobody else in town was experiencing anything ‘out-of-the-ordinary.’

  “I’ve got to talk to Dan,” he said. “I got to get serious with Dan for a minute. I have to know.”

  Of course, that would be difficult when he couldn’t find his way back home because he couldn’t get up off the black floor, and his eyes saw nothing but black walls around him. He might as well be asleep.

  “Jesus, I might as well be asleep!” he said.

  He crawled across the floor, stood up feeling for the wall, and shook his head. He didn’t know what was going on suddenly, but he didn’t like it. On the wall, he felt a light switch, and turned it on. The light suddenly brightened the room, and he saw his bed, the dresser. He was still wearing the clothes he’d had on when Christine came over. When had he fallen asleep anyway? Hadn’t he gone to the bookstore and confronted the troll? Why was he back home? What time was it? What day was it?

  Buick breathed a heavy sigh. He didn’t like it, not one bit.

  “I’m taking the day off and going to the bar. I’m going to the bar and that’s final. I’m going to the bar and talking to Dan. And by golly, I’m gonna find out what the hell is going on!”

  ~

  Dan was the only one in the bar again.

  “My breathless customer!” he said, happy to see him, polishing glasses. “The usual, Buck, old buddy?”

  “The usual Dan. Set ’em up!”

  Dan procured two dark beers, a frosty mug, and set them on the counter. Buick grabbed one, drank the entire beer, and grabbed the other.

  “Ah!” Buick said. “That hits a man where he needs it most. That hits a man in the best place he can be hit.”

  “What’s troubling the great philosopher today? Not those two at the store again?”<
br />
  “No, not that, Dan the bar-swilling man. Not that at all.”

  “That’s beer-swilling, I think, Buick. You got it wrong.”

  Buick looked at Dan as if he’d just said the dumbest thing in the world. He didn’t like people trying to be funny at his expense, and Dan seemed to sense this.

  “You know, Buick, maybe you ought to take a vacation.”

  “What I need, Dan-O, the bar-swilling junkie, is a permanent vacation. Something that will take me away from the grime of this slothful city.”

  “We don’t live in the city, Buick. We live in a very small town on the outskirts of The Twilight Zone.”

  “Don’t get smart with me, Dan. I know where the hell we live. I’m making a statement. Do you get what I’m saying? It’s not trivia. It’s something else.”

  Dan studied him for a moment, a skeptical look on his face. “I’m sorry, Buick. Did I offend you?”

  “You always offend me, Dan-O. And I am sick of being offended. I have been experiencing some very strange things lately, and I want to know what the hell is going on. Did you say you’d seen some strange things around town? Or was that my imagination?”

  “I don’t really have an imagination, Buick. You know that. What the hell is bothering you anyway?”

  Buick looked at Dan for a moment, took a swig of beer, and tapped the counter, indicating he needed another. Dan procured another beer and set it in front of Buick.

  “What’s troubling you, Buick?” he said.

  Buick took another long chug of beer and looked at Dan steadily. “Werewolves,” Buick said. “Portals breathing bad breath, little Indian soldiers, and some very dark places made of black boards and black windows. I can’t seem to get away from them. They follow me to work. They follow me home. They follow me into my dreams. There is no getting away from the blackness of reality. The reality is that I’m losing my mind. My mind has had it. I can’t get away from the mended grace of all my victims. I’m in tatters. Nothing escapes this terrible thought that I’m living a lie. Give me another beer, will ya, Dan-O? This one seems to be running low.”

  “You have another one right there. I just set it down two seconds ago.”