• • •
We drink more, eat more, and talk more. Ramona tells me she’s from Alaska. She’s homesick but won’t go back, for some reason or other. She doesn’t want to talk about it. Childbirth almost killed her when she gave birth to triplets—identical twin girls and a boy. Her babies, as she calls them, are still in Alaska with an aunt. Ramona misses them horribly, she weeps. I hold her until she cries it out. I ask: “why don’t you visit them?” She doesn’t want to talk about it.
We drink more Red, White and Blue and eat more eggs. Ramona wants to know about me. “Not like it really matters, I’ll never see you again after tomorrow. But tell me what makes Larry Mondello tic,” she says.
I’m not a deep guy. Not a big thinker. I try to come up with something interesting about myself. I tell her that I really like music—Heavy Metal music. In my opinion nothing worth listening to has come out since 1987. “Judas Priest,” I say, “now there’s a band. Rob Halford can scream better than any of those NuMetal pussies.” And who would’ve even suspected that Halford was gay. I just thought that his leather biker outfit was tough. I never realized that he could have easily fit in just as well as one of the Village People. And what’s this shit about Kurt Cobain being a genius and the voice of a generation. Bullshit. Give me Bruce Dickinson and Iron Maiden any time. They can rock your ass off and don’t make you want to commit suicide in the process.
Ramona yawns. She doesn’t care about my theories on heavy metal. I realize that I probably sound pretty immature, like some fifteen-year-old gaywad or something. It’s no wonder that I never seem to connect with females. Idjit always is happy to hear my opinions on such matters. I guess he is my soul mate. “Tell me about this soul that you traded for a night’s worth of cheap beer and bad karaoke. I really want to know, who the fuck are you?” She really wants to make me work hard for a one-night stand.
“I really don’t know who I am,” I tell her. “I live with my mom and can’t stay focused long enough to keep a normal job. My dog is my best friend and my dead dad hogs the most comfortable seat in our house.” I tell her that Daddy comes to me in my dreams and tries to give guidance sometimes. “I’m really quite pathetic.” Beer goggles and beer muscles atrophy and alcohol soaked emotions take over the self-loathing center of my brain. I have my own brief and ridiculous bout of weeping as Ramona holds me.
“You’re probably a better person than you realize,” she tells me. “I too can sense things.” She tells me to get up. “Let’s go into my bedroom and do what you came up here for.”
In the bedroom she turns the light off, insisting on darkness as a condition for her nakedness. “My body looks much better in the pitch black,” she half-jokes.
Nakedness . . . warm flesh on flesh . . . the smell of cigarettes, beer breath, cheap perfume, and butt. Who smells? I wonder. Me? Her? Who cares? Neither of us is complaining about the smell of ass permeating the room. We are desperate people, seeking release. Seeking something more and pretending that it’s not a one-night stand. I spoon with her afterwards and we fall asleep. I like this feeling. It’s comfortable. I want it with someone . . . not her . . . but it’s okay to pretend for a little while.
• • •
In my dreams, Daddy comes to me, walking Idjit on a heavy, thick, chain, like the one used on Mighty Mary. I’ve never seen Idjit in my dreams. He looks good, happy, as he sits down and lounges at Daddy’s feet.
“Listen Boy, you gotta beat it,” Daddy tells me. “This city’s bad. Go before there’s trouble. And don’t leave anything behind except for Denny. He’ll be okay.”
“Hey, while I’m here, I’ve got a couple of things I’d like to say,” says Idjit in a Scottish brogue. I didn’t know Idjit could talk and I certainly didn’t suspect him of having any sort of accent. “Listen, time is short,” the Scottish basset hound continues, “but this is important. Don’t ever get me high again. I know you think it’s funny, but it freaks me out. Sometimes when you shotgun weed in my face I start thinking strange thoughts. Last time I found myself checking out the neighbor’s cat. She was looking pretty fine to me, and if I would have been able to get under that fence, I would have known her intimately. She is easy and would have accommodated me. Hell, who knows what I might have caught from her. That slut has done half of the raccoons and possums in the neighborhood. I heard through the rumor mill that she did an armadillo once. Do you know what that would do to me? I would have trouble living with myself. Just stick to the beer and deviled eggs and everything will be fine. Otherwise I will hump your pillow to climax the next time I get a chance.”
“Alright, ya big Galoot,” I tell him. “By the way, am I the only person who can understand you or can you talk to others too?”
“I could talk to others if it were necessary,” he tells me with a knowing grin on his floppy dogface.
“But you wouldn’t tell them anything about what you’ve seen in the basement, right?” Goddamn, I always knew that I shouldn’t have been beating off in front of that dog. He always looked at me strangely, smugly. And one time I took a shit in a garbage bag because I was too lazy and stoned to walk to the bathroom. Idjit had a look of shock and amazement on his face as if he couldn’t believe what I was doing. “I mean, there’s no reason to go telling tall tales about my behavior if you know what I mean . . . ”
“Just remember what I said about getting me stoned,” Idjit answers. “Oh and another thing, and this is extremely important for you to keep in mind on this trip down to Florida. In fact it may be the most important advice of your life. The one thing that you should not do is . . . ”
. . . Before Idjit Galoot can give me the most crucial counsel of my life, my palaver with Daddy and my dog is interrupted, and I am awakened by the urgent screaming of Denny outside of Ramona’s.
Swirling red police lights sweep the early-morning Brahman parking lot, reflecting off of the discarded cans and bottles that litter the gravel. My head throbs from the aftershock of cheap beer. Coming down the steps from Ramona’s apartment, I see the back door of the moving truck open and Denny face-down in the gravel with his arms shackled behind him.
“Don’t move, Boy, or I’ll blow a hole the size of a basketball in your head!” Somebody barks the command out from behind me. The twangy voice orders me to “Put your hands on your head and get down on your knees.”
What the fuck did Denny do? I wonder as I comply with the orders. Sharp gravel or maybe a piece of shattered glass punctures my knee.
“You guys are some sick-ass weirdoes,” the voice says as my arms are cranked up behind me and I’m lifted to my feet. “I mean, I seen some sick when I was in the service. But, my God, Boy, what in the hell did you do to this poor fella?” The body generating the twangy voice steers me toward the back of the moving truck where I see a cop inspecting Daddy’s body.
“Sir,” I try to explain, “it’s okay. He’s my Daddy.” I inspect the officer. His rank is Major. His last name is Pickles. The chest and biceps of Major Pickles’ uniform are adorned with various military-style ribbons and medals. The epaulettes on his shoulders are askew from hoisting me up. Is this fucking guy really wearing epaulettes? Pickles shudders, a crin hue flushes his cheeks, one eye twitches involuntarily.
“Boy, you and your friend done this to your Daddy? You’re in for a world-a-hurtin’.” And I start to realize how bad things look. When we packed up Daddy, me and Mom just threw all of the holiday costumes on him so that they would stay together, compartmentalized as Mom called it. Looking at Daddy, with all of his holiday paraphernalia, I saw festivity, humor, and mirth. Major Pickles, though, sees something entirely different.
Pickles sees a wrinkled, gray, human corpse wearing strapped-on bunny ears and snout, festooned with beads, baubles, and Hawaiian leis. In his right hand Daddy holds a flag asking somebody to kiss him because he’s Irish. In his left hand he grasps a bumpy, bright purple, rubber phallus (a prop from one of Mom’s adult Passion Parties that she throws for fun and cash). Daddy�
�s other apparel is a mismatched mishmash of lederhosen and an oversized Kwanza dashiki, all partially covered by an open Santa Claus jacket. Daddy would have laughed at his appearance. Pickles failed to see the humor, instead envisioning acts of debauchery that would turn Larry Flynt’s stomach. Pickles did not see yuletide jubilation; he saw morbid copulation. He imagined three-way homosexual necrophilia with a little bestiality thrown in for some extra sick. The stuffed groundhog perched on Daddy’s lap probably didn’t help to convince him otherwise.
Pickles pushes us face-first into his cruiser and, like a highly trained professional, heads straight for a greasy spoon diner called Burke & Howie’s. “You boys make me so dadgummed sick I’m gonna have trouble eating my breakfast,” he tells us. “I’m goin’ in for some chow. Y’all don’t go anywhere ’cause we gonna have a talk. If you try to run, I’ll shoot ya through your eyes. And I’ll do it right from the front window while I’m enjoying my breakfast.” Pickles leaves us alone in the car while he eats.
Burk & Howie’s looks like the kind of place where the waitresses would be named Polyethylene, Brandine, or Ruby. Despite our predicament, I find myself imagining the repartee that must occur within the walls of the diner. Perhaps Polyethylene is telling a sweaty grill cook to kiss her grits. Maybe a flannel shirt wearing, unshaved customer flirtatiously asks Brandine if she can warm up his flapjacks.
Denny and me talk about our situation. “They think we killed your Daddy and have been sexing up his corpse,” Denny says. He tells me that he was waiting in the truck for me and the Mormon Tea started working on his colon. He knocked on Ramona’s door but we didn’t answer. Desperate for a toilet, having no real options, and ready to foul himself, Denny dug a hole beside the Brahman, just like a stray cat readying himself for a dookie in the dirt. After the initial groundwork, Denny dropped his trousers, squatted and let loose. This was typical of him. As kids we would go for hikes in the woods behind Denny’s house. Without fail, Denny would wait until we got far enough into the woods and announce that he had to take a dump. Me and Frank would have to gather up leaves for him to wipe with. We would gather armfuls of them and bring them to our squatting cousin, all the while breathing through our mouths so as not to have to smell his insides. He would actually wipe his ass with whatever ground debris we brought for him. This happened again and again until me and Frank brought Denny some poison ivy bumwipes. Following his trip to the emergency room that night for a severe allergic reaction and giant ass-hives, Denny seemed to be cured of his outdoors-induced fecal fascination. But I do have to wonder if Denny actually knocked on Ramona’s door to look for a bathroom. I think I would have heard him.
The early morning nature call would have gone unnoticed (maybe somebody would have seen the scat and thought that a sick mountain lion was in the area) except for the fact that Major Pickles was patrolling the neighborhood and saw an obviously intoxicated Denny squatting beside the Brahman like a drunken monkey afflicted with the rotavirus. Pickles let Denny finish his duty and then arrested him for public intoxication, indecent exposure, and generally just being icky. Upon conducting the routine post-arrest search of Denny and inventorying the moving truck, Pickles discovered Daddy. Since that time, Pickles took on a hostile position against us.
“We’re going to need to get a lawyer. This is not a good place to be in trouble.” I tell Denny about Murderous Mary and the town’s bloodlust. “If they think we did Daddy in and have been humping his corpse, we’re goners. We’ll be lucky to make it to court. I’m gonna use my phone call to contact my Mom and have her get us an attorney.”
“Yeah, but don’t they have to appoint one for us?” Denny asks.
“Sure, if you want a public defender who is just out of law school and sprouting his first pubes. But I’m gonna get the best.”
“Who? Roy Black?”
“Nope.”
“Johnny Cochran?”
“Dead.”
“F. Lee Bailey.”
“Shit, he’s disbarred and dead.”
“Who, then?”
“I’m getting Loren Rhoton. That handsome motherfucker ain’t cheap but he could walk Hitler out of Hell if he wanted to.”
• • •
At the station me and Denny are placed in separate rooms. My room is bare except for me, Pickles, three chairs, a beat up card table and a two-way mirror on the wall. The maple syrupy smell of urine turns my already churning stomach.
“Don’t I get a phone call?” I ask Pickles.
“Not yet, Boy. We need to talk,” he says as he turns a chair backwards and straddles it.
“I want a lawyer before I say anything,” I protest, thinking that my request will show him I’m not messing around.
“Whatcha want a lawyer for, Son, if you don’t have nothin’ to hide, hmm?” Pickles asks me with a big, fake, friendly smile on his face. “I’m sure you didn’t do anything wrong. We know that it was your buddy that done it. We just want you tell us the facts. Then we’ll let you go.”
“I didn’t do anything wrong. Neither did Denny,” I try to explain. “That’s my Daddy in the truck . . . ”
“Look, Champ, I don’t care if he’s Jeffrey Dahmer. Y’all can’t go around killing people and anally raping their dead bodies. We have laws against that kind of stuff.[10] Now just tell me what happened to that old boy in your truck,” Pickles asks, once again trying to assume a sincere tone of concern.
“That’s what I’m trying to do but you keep interrupting me and . . . ”
“Listen up, Chief,” Pickles cut me off again, “I know your buddy done it. He has the look of a cadaver humpin’ freak. You don’t look like that type. Maybe you’d play with yourself a little while watching your boyfriend pump away on a corpse. But you’re not a sicko like him. I can tell these things.”
“Hey man, that’s my Daddy in the truck. I love him . . . ”
“Aha, so you made love to him!” Pickles jumps out of his seat, excited about the apparent break in the case. “I knew it, you sick little bastard. Why, I oughta . . . ”
“No! No! No! You are not listening to me,” I shout. My frustration is pushing my already challenged brain towards shutdown.
“Lookee here, Scooter,” Pickles calms down again, trying to get a hold on the situation. His red face has an oily sweat sheen. “We know you and your boyfriend killed that poor son-m-bitch and had illicit relations with him. We have irrefutable proof. And we’re performing DNA tests right now. I’m going to need blood, urine, sperm, and fecal samples from you. Why don’t you just give me your underwear and that should take care of all of the specimens I need?”
“I want my phone call! I want my lawyer!” I scream. My left eye throbs. It feels like my head is going to explode and blood will start shooting from my eye sockets.
“Phone’s broken, Chief. Listen, all we want is to know what happened. You boys are caught. You’re guilty. You know it. We know it. Just tell me what happened.”
“I want my phone call! I want my lawyer! I want my phone call! I want my lawyer! I want my phone call! I want my lawyer . . . ” I begin to chant, partially as a mantra to keep my brain from exploding, partially to drown out Pickles.
“Listen, I just want to know why you boys did this,” Pickles takes on a concerned tone, like a father asking his son why he tried smoking. “Did you have a bad family life? Unhappy childhood? Did Ozzy Osbourne tell you to do it in one of his devil songs? I’m not going to judge you. Hey, it’s not like you’re the only person who has ever thought about having sex with a dead body. Heck Boy, I’ve thought about it myself a few times when I’ve shown up at a scene and there’s a pretty little girl whose life’s been cut short too soon. We’ve all seen a fine looking man and thought, ‘hey, why not strangle him and then anally rape his lifeless corpse?’ You just lost control and acted on it. I’m not going to judge you for that. I just want to know what happened.”
“I want my phone call! I want my lawyer! I want my phone call! I want my lawyer! I want my
phone call! I want my lawyer . . . ”
“Maybe this fellow led you on. You had too much to drink and he was waving around his big purple dildo and Kiss Me I’m Irish flag. I mean, just look at the way that ol’ boy was dressed. Boy Howdy, if that ain’t just begging for murder and sodomy, then I don’t know what is. He was practically asking you for it. You just gave him what he had coming, right?”
“I want my phone call! I want my lawyer! I want my phone call! I want my lawyer! I want my phone call! I want my lawyer . . . ”
“Like I said, I’m not judging you, Champ. Sometimes we do things that aren’t right and we’re not responsible. I mean, you were drinking, right? And he was asking for it? Things got a little crazy. Who’s gonna condemn you for that? Not me. I just need the details. Now tell me what happened.”
I focus on my mantra: “I want my phone call! I want my lawyer! I want my phone call! I want my lawyer! I want my phone call! I want my lawyer . . . ” The throbbing in my left eye worsens.
Major Pickles is unrelenting: “Maybe this guy tried to do something to you and you were just defending yourself. Is that what happened? Come on, you might as well just tell me what went on. Your buddy is already telling us everything in the other room.”
“I want my phone call! I want my lawyer! I want my phone call! I want my lawyer! I want my phone call! I want my lawyer . . . ”
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