The Spectacular Simon Burchwood

by Scott Semegran

  "Like a biography?"

  "Sort of, I guess. Fictionalized biography, maybe."

  "That's still fucking cool. Published. Cool."

  We all sat there in silence for what seemed like an eternity but it was a good silence, the kind of satisfying silence that comes after a group has come to a consensus about something very meaningful and important. As an added bonus, I didn't have to listen to these two knuckleheads babble about some trivial bullshit. It was nice but I knew it wouldn't last too long. I was sure of that. It's true.

  "Do you think you'll get a job at a newspaper or something?" Snaggle asked, his mouth full of half-chewed Skittles. He was spitting that shit all over the goddamn place.

  "Maybe. I hope so. I don't know. Sometimes, I really feel like I don't know what I'm doing. It's like my life just moves forward and I'm just going with it. It's almost like I have no control. I guess I'm hoping I'll eventually gain control and steer my life in the right direction. But right now, it seems like everything is just so hard. Why does it have to be so hard?" Bingo! There it was again: the question, the question of all questions. I was starting to come to the conclusion that this was a universal question that was much bigger than anything I could comprehend at the moment. Here I was asking myself the same thing and then coming in contact with people asking me the question that I didn't have an answer to. What the fuck? I felt like someone was playing a trick on me, like God or something. It's true. "Does it get easier when you get old?" she asked.

  "Old? Do you think I'm old?"

  "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you."

  "How old do you think I am?" She turned to me and examined my face, looked at my hands, looked at my clothes, really looked me up and down. It was like she could see right through me. How embarrassing! "Be honest, now."

  "Hmmm, I'd say... 45."

  "What?!"

  "Am I close?" she asked, retreating a bit from her answer.

  "You're WAY off."

  "By how much? Five years?"

  "More."

  "Ten years?"

  "Less."

  "How old are you?"

  "I'm not telling you now. 45? Really? Geez."

  "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you. You said to be honest."

  "It's OK."

  Snaggle was cackling from the backseat, slapping his knee and flopping around like a goddamn idiot. He was laughing so hard that his candy spilled out of the bag onto the floor but he didn't care. He thought that was some funny shit. It wasn't funny to me at all. It's true. But you know what was funny (get ready because this is some funny shit!)? His hemming and hawing abruptly turned into belly-aching and I could hear him slowly start to grunt and groan and moan. I peered in the rearview mirror and Snaggle was gripping his stomach, wrapping his arms around his midsection. He had a distressed look on his face and as he moaned and groaned about something, it appeared as if he was going to barf.

  "Are you OK?" Gina asked, turning around to check on the Snagglepuss.

  "I think I'm going to be sick."

  "Do you need for us to pull over?" she asked.

  "Yes. Fast!"

  "Simon?" she asked.

  "I heard him."

  Luckily for Snaggle, I saw a sign for a rest area that was coming up so I put the pedal to the floor and quickly got to the exit and parked. The rest area was completely deserted except for us, which was convenient. If Snaggle was going to throw up his pound of Skittles, then it was better that no one else was around. I could just imagine the smell that goddamn mess was going to make. It was going to be disaster of biblical proportions. It's true.

  "I'm going to help him," she said, getting out of the car and opening the back door for Snaggle. He eased out, hunched over and gripping his stomach, and she walked next to him to the rest rooms, his other arm draped over her shoulders. I watched them until they vanished into the building where the rest rooms were.

  Peace and quiet.

  I finally had some time to myself. I was pretty sure Gina was going to regret helping that filthy bastard, especially when the techicolor vomit started flying, but I didn’t care. He deserved it for stuffing his face with that crap. I was just happy to have a moment to myself. As I was sitting there in the air-conditioned car, I noticed a plaque mounted outside. It was one of those "historical marker" plaques, the ones that tell the history of the place you’re looking at and explained why it was designated historical in the first place. Apparently, this land used to belong to a big shot rancher named James "Tex" Smith, a rich bastard who had a lot of money and had a lot of cattle. Supposedly, he wanted to donate this land to the State after his death in hopes that his name would be eulogized into posterity. It appeared his wishes came true.

  I imagined what it was like back then in the late 1800s when good ol' "Tex" was alive, probably riding a horse around so he could rope some cattle and living in a humongous log cabin-type ranch house with a wife wearing a bonnet and a bunch of dirty-faced children wearing bonnets or suspenders or whatever. Everybody wore white and brown clothes in the Old West. Maybe he had an oil-drilling rig and a water-well and an outhouse with a copy of the Bible in it in case anybody wanted to read scripture while taking a shit. I imagined the Waco Indians (the town Waco was named after an Indian tribe called the Waco, dummy) surrounded his property and demanded that he trade bottles of fire water for bushels of corn and threatened to rape his daughters if he didn't oblige. I was having a good ol' time thinking about this old-timey shit. Not a lick of it was true but it sure was fun thinking about it. I even thought it would make a fine novel if I would put my energy into it. I was sure of it.

  There was one thing I knew to be absolutely true about James "Tex" Smith. I knew this to be an absolute fact. When he was writing his will and explaining how he wanted to donate his land to the State of Texas and have that land turned into a goddamn state park or historical place or whatever, he DID NOT imagine in his wildest dreams that his land would be turned into a "rest area." If he had any inkling of an idea that his property would be turned into a place where people pulled off the highway to take a shit or throw their cigarette butts on the ground or spank their kids or barf their Skittles into the toilet or let their dogs whiz on the trees or buy donuts out of a vending machine or whatever, then he never, I mean NEVER, would have donated his land to the State. He would have given his property to his children like most normal human beings and gotten over himself and his desire to have his name permanently attached to a place in history. It's true.

  After my imaginary fun was over I realized that those two knuckleheads had been gone for quite some time and feared, believe it or not, that Snaggle was in serious trouble. So I decided right then and there that I would go check on those two knuckleheads in case I needed to call an ambulance or something. I turned off Clint the Caddy and locked the door after getting out. I made my way to the building where the bathrooms were, still noticing that there was no one else around but us and I thought that to be quite strange. As I got closer to the rest rooms, I could hear a strange sound coming from the men's room, kind of like someone's mouth was being muffled. I hesitated at first, fearing that if Snaggle was barfing that a chain reaction would start and I would barf as well, but I went in anyway.

  Inside, I could hear some whispering from one of the toilet stalls. I couldn't make out what they were saying but I did hear something like, "Just let me see it" and "No, no, no." I tip-toed to the stall and noticed there were definitely some people in there. All I could hear was whispering and muffled noises. I placed my hand on the stall door and pushed it open and you will not believe what I found. Snaggle was standing there with his pants down with Gina kneeling in front of him, his ding dong in her hand.

  "Oh shit!" I screamed and ran out of the men's room. I was so shocked by what I saw that I actually cursed out loud and that was something I NEVER do. I could hear Gina calling to me as I ran.

  "Simon! Simon! It's not what you think!"

  But what was I supposed to think? I ran
to Clint the Caddy, opened the door, and jumped in, locking the doors again. I covered my face with my hands and wished that I was anywhere, and I mean anywhere, far away from these two filthy bastards. I tried to think of what my options were. Could I leave them stranded here and go to Dallas by myself? Or could I suffer in silence as they rode along with me? I didn't know what to do. As I mulled it over, I heard a tapping at my window. Gina was standing there, her hair sticking up all over the goddamn place, the sunshine reflecting of the piercings in her face, and she looked rather concerned and embarrassed at the same time. She kept tapping at the window, asking me to roll my window down but I shook my head no. I didn't want to talk to her. I was in absolute shock. It's true.

  "Simon," she said, leaning close to the window. "It's not what you think."

  "What should I think?" I said.

  "Please open the door so I can explain."

  "I don't want you to explain anything. It was pretty clear."

  "No, it was not."

  "I'm not stupid, you know?"

  "I know. Just, please, roll down the window."

  I looked at her and it really did seem like she was sincere. I unlocked the doors and she walked around the car. She got in the front seat and closed the door. She sighed.

  "Where is he?" I asked.

  "He's in the rest room. He's embarrassed."

  "How could you do that?"

  "What do you think I was doing?" I looked at her and gave her a really sarcastic look. "That's NOT what I was doing."

  "Then what were you doing?"

  "Look, I helped him into the restroom and he thought he was going to puke but after sitting in front of the toilet for a little bit, nothing happened. He stood up and said he was feeling better and then he put his hand in his pocket and started doing that thing he does..."

  "Playing with..."

  "Yes, playing with himself. So I asked him why he did that in front of people. And he told me he had this problem, this itching, burning problem. So..." she said, hesitating.

  "And?!"

  "And I offered to look at it for him. Told him I had several brothers and they always had some kind of issue that I helped them with because they were too embarrassed to talk to my mom or dad about."

  "OK."

  "And your poor friend... he has the worst case of jock itch I've ever seen. His rash is something fierce."

  "Jock itch? You were examining him and found jock itch? Really?"

  "Yes."

  "That's hard to believe."

  "It's the truth."

  "Uh huh."

  "It really is the truth."

  Just then, I could see Snaggle shuffling out of the building, a look of complete shame on his face, a look like a pet dog has when its owner discovers it peed on the new sofa. He slowly made his way to the car then got in the back seat. The three of us sat there in uncomfortable silence for a bit. It was awkward as hell but I looked at Gina and she indicated for me to confirm her story with Snaggle. So I did. I looked in the rearview mirror.

  "Jock itch?" I asked.

  "I guess so."

  "And that's why..."

  "I guess so."

  "And you believe her?"

  "I guess so."

  The shame in his voice confirmed to me that her story was true. So I decided to start the car and move on. I knew it was going to be uncomfortable in Clint the Caddy for a while. We had at least an hour to go before getting to Dallas. The image of the two of them in that stall was burned in my brain like a cattle brand on the butt of one of Mr. James "Tex" Smith's cows. I tried to redirect my thoughts to my happy place but it just didn't work. My happy place had been destroyed to smithereens. It's true.

  16.

  When I first met my ex-wife, she was not the maniacal, heartless, psychotic bitch that she turned out to be when we got divorced. She was quite lovely back then and had a sweetness about her when I first met her that I could only attribute to one thing: excellent parents. When I was introduced to her parents Roger and Selena, I was awestruck with their generosity, kindness, and graciousness. They truly bent over backwards to make me feel comfortable in their home. As I got to know them over the years, I learned that they weren't that way with just me or other folks they initially met, they treated everyone that way ALL the time. They were special and, in contrast to my own parents, were family members that I bonded with on a very deep level. Jessica, the kids, and I spent lots of time with them and we all went on family vacations together, celebrated holiday gatherings together, and even turned a basketball game on TV into an event that the whole family enjoyed. They were a lot of fun to be around. So it goes without saying that they were utterly destroyed when they heard the news that Jessica and I were getting a divorce. That was one goddamn depressing day. It's true.

  So when I turned Clint the Caddy off the highway and pulled into the area of Dallas where Roger and Selena's neighborhood was, I felt a rush of nostalgia wash over me. I had spent so much time at their house that I had an emotional attachment to this part of Dallas and this particular highway exit. I used to associate this exit with imminent fun. Now I felt a sense of dread. I had not seen them since the divorce and wasn't really sure how their reaction was going to be to seeing me in Dallas, unexpected, on their front porch. But I wasn't there to rekindle old feelings. I was there to get my kids and take them home. I was sure they would understand that. If there was one thing they knew about me, then it was how much I loved my goddamn kids. It's true.

  The only little detail I hadn't figured out yet was how to explain to Snaggle that our destination wasn't about my grandmother's funeral. I also didn't foresee picking up a punk rock girl with hair like a porcupine and a propensity to examine men's genitals for minor rashes and infections. I was knee-deep in a pile of shit that I could see had the potential to turn into a goddamn disaster. But if there was one thing I learned after taking that trip to New York (or did I?) was that sometimes you have to just go with the flow, let things happen the way they are going to happen. Sometimes, and I mean sometimes, things don't turn out as bad as you think they are going to turn out. It's true. Just when I got in the right headspace, Snaggle had to ruin it all and start blabbing from the backseat.

  "Are we almost to your grandparents' house?" he asked. That snagglepuss fucker just had to ruin everything by opening his goddamn mouth and I mean EVERYTHING. I was really starting to regret bringing him along. It's true. "I need to go to the bathroom."

  "I do too," Gina said, squirming in her seat.

  I looked at the two of them and realized they would pee their pants moments before getting to my ex-inlaws' house so I found a convenience store at the corner of the entrance to their neighborhood. I parked out front and the two of them ran inside to go to the bathroom, hopefully not together. I imagined those two knuckleheads cramming into a dirty bathroom stall for another "examination" of Snaggle's infected private parts and I cringed at the thought. They were a real pair of goddamn idiots. It's true. But I had time to think of another lie to cover my previous lie before they came back out. I racked my brain for something, anything to tell them and I came up with the best I could in the short time they were gone. When they got back in the car, I let them have it.

  "I have to make a quick detour before going to my grandparents' house. Is that OK?" I asked. They both said they didn't mind and that was that. My goddamn disaster was quickly diverted, for now. It was a small victory but a victory nonetheless. It's true.

  I pulled Clint the Caddy out of the parking lot and found their street a couple of blocks down. Everything looked exactly the same as I remembered. Massive oak trees lined the street, climbing 50 to 60 feet into the sky, and intertwining their branches overhead like a leafy canopy over the quiet neighborhood. It was a sight to see, something straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting or some shit like that. The majority of the residents were still the original owners of these immaculate homes, moving in soon after the houses were built in the 1950s and living their lives there, pea
cefully and quietly, into their retirement, after all their children had grown up and moved on to their boring careers and their boring apartments somewhere else far, far away, only coming home for Christmas or Easter or Thanksgiving. It's true. I eventually found my ex-inlaws' house. It looked exactly the same as I remembered. Exactly. I parked on the street out front.

  "Is this where we are going?" Gina asked.

  "Yes," I said.

  "It's beautiful."

  "Yes, it is."

  I turned off Clint the Caddy and we, a gang of assholes that had traveled all the way from Austin and Waco to Dallas on the pretense of a lie about a dead grandmother and a funeral that was not going to happen, made our way to the front door. Our trip was truly the most ridiculous road trip in the history of the goddamn world. It's true. I rang the doorbell and we waited silently. The front door creaked open, just a tad, and a pair of old eyes peeked from the crack. It was my ex-father-in-law, I could tell. Roger had these deep blue eyes and the fuzziest eyebrows of any man I had ever seen. His eyebrows looked like two exotic, grey and white speckled caterpillars making-out on his forehead. It's true. He stared for a moment or two before saying anything.

  "What do you want? I don't need a newspaper subscription!"

  "It's me." I said.

  "If you're selling something, I'm not buying," he said, getting irritated.

  "Roger, it's me, Simon. I'm here to..."

  "I said, I don't want to buy anything!"

  "Roger, who is it?" The woman's voice came from the living room. It was Selena. I could tell.

  "It's a bunch of goddamn Mormons or Jehovah's Witnesses or... or... Catholic sons of bitches. They want our money, damn it!"

  "All right, Roger, I get the picture," Selena said, appearing at the door, opening it more, putting her arm around Roger. "I'm sure these lovely people are not..." And then she saw me. She froze for a minute, staring in disbelief. But her kind nature didn't allow her to stare too long. She was naturally sweet that way. It's true. "Simon, what a surprise."

  "Hi Selena," I said, somewhat embarrassed.