Least I didn’t have to worry about his safety, because the dogs were out there keeping an eye on things, knew there was something on the roof. If Mot started flexing around, they’d set up a ruckus. Dogs are nature’s warning signals.
Doc used to have parakeets too. But they died. Instead of throwing out the cage or giving it to somebody with real birds, he bought two plastic ones. Not that he was sentimental; I think it was that he didn’t want the cage to go to waste. The real ones didn’t have names, but he called these plastic guys Cocker and Cohen. If you have something not real, he said, names help.
When I was a kid I had a teddy bear with a name. I used to have sex with him. And when I did, afterwards I’d tell him I was sorry. I was nervous somebody might catch on, so I cut a hole in his neck because I’d seen a guy with a tracheotomy, and told Doc and Mom I was practicing to be a doctor and that way they might not jump to conclusions about the hole I made between Roy’s legs. Of course when I’d have sex I’d have to pretend Roy was a female instead of a bear. So in that case the name didn’t help.
At sundown we went back up on the roof. Mot was on his back just like we left him. First I thought he was dead, but he was just sleeping. Didn’t wake up too easy, but seemed glad to see me when he did. The sun and the gas had done the trick. The tar was all flaky and falling off, but some was still stuck on him in certain places. A water hose and a horse brush would do the rest. Because of Auto I had that kind of equipment, then some Ajax if it was needed.
Pleased with how it went, Doc asked if I wanted another beer. Two ’nothers, I say. Mot deserved one too. Then it’s a question of how to get back home. Buick and the flat could wait, so I had Doc drive us, but he didn’t come in. Me neither; took Mot around back for the cleanup.
Not wanting to call attention, I didn’t turn on the floodlight; brushed him down and hosed him off in the dark. Got him close to how he was before the tar. It felt good to accomplish, but didn’t make me feel like going in to answer questions about the Buick, so we stayed outside awhile waiting for Sister to go to bed. I sprayed Auto as well; he loves the water. Of course the water made noise, so probably Sister had a look through the window; maybe not, but if she did, she decided not to interfere.
Mot was done in from the hardships of the day, fell asleep next to the pool with Auto watching over him. That’s how mules are: Once they show you who’s boss, they’ll treat you like family. So, figuring everything was too tired to make any trouble, I went upstairs and hit the hay. Tomorrow is another day, as they say.
Next morning I look out the window, see it’s a bright gusty day, leaves blowing off the trees, and there’s Auto standing by the pool, staring at something moving in the grass. It’s a newspaper, wind flipping the pages over, making it look like he’s reading the thing. He eats a page before the rest of it blows away. Then Mot comes out of the tobacco shed with a board stuck to his foot. Starts walking around in a circle trying to shake it off, and I go down there to see what’s up.
One simple thing like a nail can change everything. Went right into his foot. Think of Jesus. You think he didn’t howl, or at least cringe, when he got a nail pounded into his foot? Not Mot. When I pulled it out he didn’t even wince. Hardly any blood either. Not to say he wasn’t glad to be free of the board, but the thing was, he didn’t feel any pain. To make sure of it, I gave him a pretty hard pinch on the arm. I was right. Mot somehow had gone beyond hurt. I bet it happened because of the tar, or the solar petroleum treatment, or the shot Doc gave him. Or all of those things—who knows? But I was starting to see an opportunity here. Not the Wild Man anymore, that didn’t work, but this was a condition that had possibilities to it. A man who couldn’t be hurt was a whole new story.
I could see the fans lining up to see it. Ladies and gentlemen, for five bucks you can kick him, hit him, work him over with a switch, jab him, or smack him. People handing up their ten-dollar bills to have a go at him. Scratch him, burn him, baseball players could slug him with bats, football players kick him, tackle him. For twenty bucks, ladies and gentlemen, see wrestlers throw him across the room, attack him with dogs. It could even be a TV show, call it Give It to Me Now! Some famous flogger in a turban and loincloth does push-ups, then flexes for the crowd. Let the flogging begin! The flogger’s stick hisses through the air and Mot gets the beating of his life, doesn’t even blink. Or forget that idea, he could do commercials. Tylenol, for instance. Who knows where this could lead?
Nowhere, of course. I wouldn’t do it. A guy who felt no pain could really get hurt. But things cross your mind when you’re developing an idea. It was gonna take some thought. Thinking about his side of it too. How’s he supposed to learn about life if he can’t feel any pain?
I decide to take him inside, make some waffles. Probably he’d never had one before. He deserved something special. I didn’t say anything about his new ability, but after looking him over, Sister said she was glad I’d come to my senses and took the tar off him. I didn’t tell her how it was done and she didn’t ask, but it was true, he looked pretty good. Mot was an impressive specimen, natural-born muscles, scars and tattoos, fat too, but not the Jell-O kind—he was firm as an inner tube. After putting a bandage on his foot we got him into a jumpsuit that Sister got at the surplus store, a blue one, extra-large, but it was still tight on him—reminded me of the kind they wear in jail, no sleeves, which was nice because Mot had muscle-builder arms.
I couldn’t find the waffle iron and she didn’t help, acted like she didn’t care, but I knew once I made some she’d eat ’em. Lot of junk under the sink is where I found it; also came across the bucket and snorkel Mama used to use to improve her looks. Nobody ever talked about it but we all knew it happened. She used to stand on her head in ice water to reduce the bags under her eyes. Something I guess she learned in a magazine at the beauty parlor, but it never worked. Once you got bags under the eyes, unless you do surgery, they don’t go away. Upside down in ice water could’ve been what gave her the heart attack. I didn’t bring it up; a subject like that might turn into a fight, so I went ahead and made the waffles. Put pecans in the batter. We had ’em out on the porch.
Sometimes something you think gone wrong turns out to be a good way to go; then just when you’re about to get started, it changes again. What started with a nail ended with a bee.
I heard it, then I saw it; it landed on his arm. For being a slow guy, Mot had a fast hand. Swatted the sucker. There it was, dead on the floor. But it got him, could tell by how he looked, the way he rubbed his arm. To make sure of it I gave him another pinch right where he was stung. You could see it hurt him. Mot had his senses back. He was like the rest of us again. Mot was no longer the man who felt no pain.
Sister wanted to know how come I pinched him. Told her it was an old Negro trick to cure insect bites, learned it from Doc when I was a kid. Not true.
Then she wanted to go back in, call the auto club, get the Buick taken care of, all whipped up and ready to go. Sister could do that: lay around for days, sit with her head on her knees, then—bang!—she’s up and cleaning the house twice in a row.
What she does next is tell me she sent Mot’s suit out to be cleaned. A thoughtful thing to do—fine, I agree, it’ll be good to see him all dressed up again. The label inside the coat is what she wanted to discuss, says it was from some fancy deal in London. I knew that, and so what? I got stuff says Made in China, but that doesn’t mean I’m Chinese. She’s saying Mot is a man of money. Maybe, maybe not. Who knows where he got all that dough, the coat, his pants. Of course he had no interest in this, sat himself on a stool in front of the TV waiting for somebody to turn it on.
Then she’s on the subject of his tattoos. I agree, they’re not regular tattoos, not skulls and hula dancers. But she’s making the case that they’re “tribal,” her point being that Mot was no local Negro. Of course he wasn’t, I got him in New York. I could see where she was headed, but didn�
��t give her the satisfaction—you let her win on one thing, next thing she’ll have you washing the dishes.
She wants to take him down to Mister Fig, find out what went wrong with him. That’s where we differ; I don’t care what went wrong with him. Everybody in the world’s got something wrong with ’em, and finding out how come hasn’t made any difference yet. Mot had less wrong with him than most people I ever met.
Fig was a so-called mind reader, who wore a necklace. Don’t know why they call him “mister” unless it’s because he’s missing something. I said he was a shyster and no way was I taking Mot down there. She said “shyster” was a nasty word. I suggested she consider having a consultation with Mister Fig herself. But disagreements like this could cause her to lose control, so I tell her on second thought Fig might be a good idea, I’d think it over. But I wouldn’t. This idiot worked out of a trailer on planks, covered in nut grass, probably infested with spiders and rats. I wouldn’t go near the place, but I’d seen it. His specialty was olfactory perception. He’d sniff a customer up and down, then tell you how your ancestors were doing and, for more money, what the future was gonna be. All by how you smelled.
I didn’t buy an inch of it, and it disappointed me she did. Sister always had an interest in black magic and self-improvement. I found a note once she wrote telling somebody she hadn’t done the Rites yet because after she started in on something called the Klister Diet she was on the toilet too much to begin the program. She got kicked out of the house when she was eighteen for growing marijuana in her closet. Under the impression she had a job dancing in a nightclub, I hitchhiked all the way to Shreveport to join her. What it was was a strip joint, and she was a cocktail waitress. After she got off work that night we went up to her room on the second floor of a two-story hotel she got to stay in.
She was drunk and tried to read the Bible to me. Then this cabdriver showed up and I was told to get out for a while. He was a big guy with long blond hair, wore a yellow taxi cap. I waited in the hall, sat on the floor until they’d finished what they did in there. Then this cabdriver came out making noises through his nose like a goose. He tried to teach me to do it. Told me if I could get it down, my future would improve. He said it was a thing he got from a book about India, and if he wanted to he could be the president someday, and in a past life he was burned at the stake, and that the planet Earth was just a stepping-stone to a place with better-looking women. He was drunk and pretty pleased with himself. Gave me two bucks and a handful of quarters because I told him it was my birthday.
After he left I went back into the room. This was July—I remember because it truly was my birthday. I turned fifteen that day and it was hot as hell, no air-conditioning in that room. Sister was trying to sleep, didn’t wanna talk, and I was sick from not eating anything but candy bars, so I decided not to stay around any longer. The next morning when we woke up I told her I was leaving and I did. An hour later I was on the road, hitching a ride home. Then Sister showed up, said she’d quit her job and was coming with me. By the next day we were back with Mama and Doc. I don’t think she ever left town again.
But all this Mister Fig stuff wore me out. I had to conserve my energy—so afterwards we went to our respective areas; her to the piano, me and Mot upstairs for a nap. Him on the floor, me on the bed. When I wake up for dinner, he’s not there. He’s downstairs eating waffles again. She made ’em this time. None for me, thanks. I needed out of there, told her I was taking Mot to the movies. She wants to know how we gonna get there? We’re gonna walk, I tell her. And she wasn’t invited.
I thought I might of seen it before, but I was wrong. It was the title that fooled me. Out front it said THE DRILL INSTRUCTOR, which should have been a war movie. I love a war movie, but this wasn’t that. The box office lady was asleep when we came in, so at least it was free. Except for me and Mot, nobody in the back row, almost had the place to ourselves.
It was about a bunch of guys who dress up like women on the weekend. Some place up North, near a lake. What they did was cook and swim in female bathing attire. Splashed and laughed and jumped around telling each other about their ideals in high voices. Come on, gals, soup’s on! And they all dash back up to this cottage to eat. The drill instructor part was because of the exercises they did. Bill, the big tough one who knew how to handle himself, was the drill instructor. But his weekend name was Olive. His job was to get everybody in shape to fight the lunkheads from town who had plans to burn down Camp Blanka. Camp Blanka is what they called this place. Also it was the name of their little black bulldog who ate at the table, had his own chair, and was treated like a baby. Then there was some songs. “She’s Looking Lovely Tonight” was one of ’em. It was so terrible you couldn’t stop watching. But really it was about Olive getting everybody in shape in time to handle what they were up against or they’d all be burned and killed. On the weekdays one was a bank teller, one was a truck driver, and there was a traffic cop too. None of it made much sense. Going about their regular business in town and keeping how they act on the weekend a secret. I think it was supposed to be funny.
They cooked and sewed, giggled and wore earrings together. No women; the only women were them. A couple of ’em had wives back in town, but nothing to speak of. For sure it wasn’t a porno film, but at one point a couple of ’em did get into a wrestling match and their dresses got hiked up, showing their hairy thighs, both of ’em wearing leopard-skin jockstraps. If there’d been more audience, likely that would of got a laugh. But Mot got excited, he started slapping his thigh. I nudged him to stop, but he didn’t; I had to grab his hand, but then he starts doing it with the other one. Knowing he wasn’t capable of doing two things at once I decide to go up and get him some candy. There was no proper snack bar, but they had a machine. I got him a box of Black Crows and a pack of Neccos, one for each hand. I was only gone just for a minute, but when I got back he wasn’t there. There was two exits, so he must of gone out the one when I came in the other.
But no Mot in the lobby. I go outside; no Mot in the street. The box office lady is still asleep. The men’s is the only place he could be unless he went in the ladies’. But he’s not in either. Nobody is. It didn’t make sense. I go back in the movie, look on the floor in case he’s hiding under a seat. But he’s too big to hide under a seat. Only other place he could be is around behind the screen, but there is no behind the screen. I go back out on the street. Maybe he’s tied up in the trunk of some car already ten miles away. It made me feel sick. I think of going to the police, but it’s in the wrong direction. I wanted to go home.
As a rule Sister didn’t go to bed before midnight. She’d be up practicing her German, singing at the piano, or knocking around in the kitchen. But she wasn’t. The house was quiet, the lights were out. No sign of Mot. I creep upstairs already knowing everything gone wrong was gonna continue that way, and I was right. I could hear ’em before I got there, both of ’em snoring,
Mot must of thought I’d left him and come back on his own, looking for me. Then he got railroaded into Sister’s bedroom. Who knows? Never having had one, maybe she was holding him like a baby in there. Whatever it was, it wasn’t right. Showed what happens when an older woman drinks gin at night. Mot might be a man in body but he was more like a boy in the rest of him, and I felt like going in there, telling her what I thought. But maybe it was different than what I thought, so not wanting to be a chump in the hallway, I went downstairs to check out the kitchen.
Ice cream was all gone. Unwashed spoons in the sink. She forgot to put the cap back on the Gilbey’s. You didn’t have to be a detective to see what happened. All this made me wish I had a bike. Not a motorcycle, just a regular two-wheeler so I could take a ride, feel the air on my face. I went out back to relax, clear my mind.
Auto was standing next to the pool, chewing something. I tried to get it out of his mouth but he wouldn’t let me. Probably the evening news. I sat down behind him—not a best pla
ce to be with a mule. Part of me was wishing he’d kick me in the head and if he did I’d kill him. Grass was wet, but it was good to be on solid ground trying to get a grip on things before going up to bed.
I didn’t need a dream to tell me, but that’s how it came, that Mot spelled backwards is Tom. In the dream Tom was a snail with a fine-looking shell, looked like mahogany, but the head and face was Mot, and he was crawling over this woman who in the dream was my wife, looked like my old girlfriend Gaylene but better. Tom was leaving a trail over her white thigh, making his way up her body. I come out the back door of the house, see Gaylene sunning herself next to the pool, and Auto was there too, in the water watching all this. I don’t see Tom the snail, but he sees me. I’m coming across the yard and Auto hollers at me to be careful of Tom. I don’t know what he’s talking about. And Tom hurries off my wife just in time that I don’t catch him crawling on her and he’s trying to get out of there, going across the lawn, but I don’t see him till he gets crunched under my shoe like a piece of candy and it woke me up.
Next morning when I woke up again, I’m thinking about Sister. Her doing what she did the night before was out of loneliness, out of her need to be somebody important to somebody who might like her. But just because you understand something doesn’t mean you have to shake hands with it. I could hear her downstairs singing “Happy Days Are Here Again” in German, making breakfast.
I rolled out of bed and stepped on Mot. He was lying on the floor like he’d been there all night. He was dressed too. I stared at him till he looked at me, and when he did it was the same look he usually had, didn’t look any different. Like an idiot. I ask him how come he left the movies last night. There wasn’t any answer to that any more than there would have been if I asked him the names of the planets. Instead of saying good morning, what I did was touch him on the head, and he kind of smiled. I think he did; it’s hard to tell. He remained on the floor till I came out of the bathroom and took him down to breakfast.
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