Kumquat

by Jeff Strand

My stomach feels like I've shotgunned a can of acid.

  I try to put myself in his shoes. Maybe he'd had a rough day so far, and the one ray of sunshine in his life was the thought that he'd get to have some homemade applesauce from Sandy's BBQ. As his life crumbled around him, he kept thinking Yes, my wife just left me, I got laid off from my job, my daughter is a pregnant prostitute, my son tried to assassinate the governor, and the bank is foreclosing on my home, but I won't shove the barrel of a revolver into my mouth just yet, because I know that my life will seem like less of a hellhole once that sweet applesauce passes my lips.

  What if I demand an apology, and that's the thing that pushes him over the brink? Can I bear to have his suicide on my conscience?

  The police officer will shake his head sadly at me as he takes photographs of the brains and blood that litter the side of the BBQ place. "You couldn't have just let the skank comment slide, huh? I hope it was worth it. Yeah, he was a picky eater, but did he deserve this?" he'd ask, scooping up a handful of brain matter.

  It's possible that I'm overthinking this matter.

  I glance at Amy, hoping that maybe she didn't hear his comment.

  She did.

  Okay. Well. My options are limited.

  Machismo is not part of my lifestyle, but unless I go with the grab-Amy's-hand-and-flee tactic, which is unlikely to create a pleasant environment for the rest of the trip, I have to ask him to apologize.

  "Sir, that's really not cool," I tell him. "I think you owe her an apology." I should probably have been firmer, but overall that wasn't too bad.

  His entire body seems to inflate. I suspect that he will not be offering the apology.

  "Get out of my face," he says.

  I was nowhere near his face. "I understand that you've probably had a bad day," I tell him, "but you can't talk to my girlfriend like that."

  Did I really call Amy my girlfriend? Shit. Somehow I've just added an extra level of awkwardness to this situation.

  "Piss off," he tells me. The phrase sounds weird when it's not spoken in a British accent. During the phase of my life that I don't like to talk about, I used it all the time.

  The lady at the register says nothing, but she kind of looks like she wants to see a fight.

  "You should do the right thing and apologize," I tell him. I hope that "or I'll beat the crap out of you" is implied, but not so blatant that he takes it as a challenge.

  "Maybe you should let this drop," he says. His fingers seem to be slightly moving in the direction of clenching into a fist, though it may be my overactive imagination.

  Amy takes me by the hand. "Come on, let's go," she says, turning back toward the car.

  If she leads me away, do I still get credit for having tried to defend her honor? Should I do something to indicate that I'm being dragged away against my will?

  I give a very gentle tug.

  My hand pops out of hers.

  Fuck.

  And then I see the man's fist moving, with great velocity, toward my face.

  CHAPTER NINE

  "I'm going to give you a break because you just watched your mother get burned away by lava, but if you talk to me that way again, I'll kill you."

  --Exit Red, Season 2, Episode 4

  It turns out that I am not a great ducker. His punch gets me right in the mouth. My jaw explodes with pain. For a split second I think it might have literally exploded, but fortunately it was just a figurative explosion.

  I'm pleased to note that I don't drop to the ground like a marionette whose strings have been cut, which is sort of how I'd always expected I'd react. I remain fully upright, despite a minor wobbling in my legs.

  Several people around us gasp.

  "Oh, God, I'm sorry!" the man says, his eyes widening in horror. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to do that! Are you okay? I didn't hit you that hard, did I?"

  I nod, although I'm not sure which of the questions I'm answering.

  The man raises his hands, palms-out, to show that he's not going to hit me again. "I'm sorry, I just..." He closes his eyes and starts to tremble. A tear trickles down his cheek.

  "Do you need me to call 911?" the lady at the register asks.

  I rub my jaw. "No, I think I'm okay." My lip is bleeding and the pain is still brutal, but a quick test with my tongue shows that all of my teeth are in their original positions.

  Amy pulls me a couple of steps back, out of further harm's way.

  The man opens his eyes. "I lost my job this morning," he says. "They're moving our department to Portland. I like Portland and all, but I can't move my whole family there. I haven't told my wife. I've known since Friday, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. So I thought I would make myself feel better with some Sandy's BBQ, but the line took forever, and the ribs they gave me were all fatty, and they didn't have the applesauce, and..." He succumbs to tears again.

  Everybody is staring at us. I almost feel like I should give him a comforting hug.

  A drop of my blood hits my shoe.

  "Oh, God, can I..." The man frantically glances around. "...can I get you a wet wipe?"

  "He's fine," says Amy, continuing to lead me away. "Sorry about your job."

  We walk back to the car. I'm still not sure if I was heroic or pathetic.

  Amy opens the door for me. I climb inside, dabbing at my bleeding lip with the bandage on my thumb.

  She gets back in on the driver's side, shuts the door, and fastens her seat belt. "Thanks for defending me," she says, her tone non-committal. "That was nice of you. You didn't have to do that."

  "No problem."

  "But don't do it again."

  "He called you a--"

  "I heard. In the future, though, just walk away."

  "All right."

  Amy sits silently for a moment, key in the ignition, not turning it.

  "Okay, I have to be honest. If he'd called me a skank and you'd just walked away, I would have been disappointed. It's completely unreasonable to expect you to take a punch for me, but I appreciate that you did. So thanks again. However, now that you've defended me once, I really mean it, don't do it again."

  "I won't."

  "Good."

  She turns the key in the ignition. I just know that the car isn't going to start, and the man is going to suddenly realize that we've got unfinished business, but once again the car starts fine. I should probably stop worrying about it.

  I glance over and see the lady (Sandy?) running toward us with a Styrofoam container. I roll down the window as she reaches the car.

  "I'm sorry you had an unpleasant dining experience with us," she says, handing me the container. "Please accept these ribs on the house."

  "Did you throw in some applesauce?" I ask, trying to show that I'm not in too much pain to say something funny.

  The woman frowns.

  "I was joking," I tell her. A drop of blood patters against the Styrofoam.

  "Please come again," the woman says. I roll the window back up as she leaves.

  "Free ribs," says Amy. "Nice work. If you're willing to take a few more blows, you could subsidize the meals for our entire trip."

  I open the lid. The sweet aroma of barbecue sauce fills the car. "I hate to say it, but looking at them up close, I think he was right. These ribs are pretty fatty."

  Amy glances down at them. "Jeez, there's nothing but fat on them."

  I swipe my index finger across the top of one of them and pop it in my mouth. "Good sauce, though."

  Amy does the same. "Yep. But look underneath the sauce. Pure fat. Oh, no, wait, my mistake, I do see a bit of gristle right there. And, mmmmm, an unidentifiable blob. Nummy."

  "The sauce is coagulating faster than my lip blood."

  Amy points to one of the ribs. "Why is that part purple?"

  "Should we throw them away?" I ask.

  "Hell no. Free ribs!"

  We sit in the car and eat the ribs. We feel a bit of shame as we do so, in much the way that I could never fully enjoy
a deep-fried Twinkie, as if a line of human dignity has been crossed. But I have to admit that these grilled strips of fat are actually rather tasty.

  The man who punched me is sitting at a picnic table, nibbling on the corner of a rib, looking forlorn. Though I know I shouldn't pity somebody who split my lip and insulted Amy, I can't help it. He just seems devastated.

  "I feel bad for the guy," I tell Amy.

  Amy nods. "Yeah, me too." She picks up another rib, then sets it back down as she sees my expression. "Oh, I thought you were kidding. I don't feel sorry for that psycho at all."

  "Do you have any gum?"

  "Why?"

  "I thought I might offer him a piece of gum."

  "Seriously?"

  "Yeah."

  "You're a weirdo."

  "He lost his job."

  "That doesn't mean he gets to act like a bully. When I found out about my brain problem, I didn't go around punching people. He's a jerk."

  "I guess you're right."

  "Yeah, I'm right. At least wait until your lip has stopped swelling before you feel guilty."

  "I don't feel guilty. I just feel sorry for him."

  Amy looks over at him. "He does seem pretty sad."

  "Yeah."

  She sighs. "Fine, fine. Give the psychopath some gum." She wipes her hands with a napkin, then picks up her purse and rifles through the contents for a couple of minutes. "I thought I had some gum but I guess I don't. I've got spearmint Tic-Tacs." She rattles the plastic container. "Two of them."

  "I'll take 'em."

  She hands me the box. "Don't get punched again."

  "I won't."

  I get out of the car. This is really unlike me. I'm not very outgoing under normal circumstances, much less prone to reaching out to people who've committed acts of physical violence against me. Am I subconsciously showing off for Amy? I hope not. That would be really lame.

  The man looks up as I walk over to him. He seems confused, though not particularly concerned that I might kick his ass.

  "Hey," I say.

  "Hey."

  "I want you to know that I forgive you. I understand what you're going through, so I'm sure your wife will understand, too."

  "Thank you," he says. "I wasn't worried about my wife not understanding, though. I was worried about her being sad."

  "Oh. Well, yeah, I assume that she'll be sad. But you'll get through it."

  "You don't know me, or my wife, or what job I lost."

  "You're right. I don't. Do you want a Tic-Tac?"

  The man stares at me for a long moment, then gives me a slight nod. "Yeah. Yeah, actually, I do." He holds out his hand and I shake the two remaining Tic-Tacs into it. "Thank you."

  "You're welcome."

  "Why do you even care what happens to me? I was a total fuckhead to you."

  I shrug. "I'm not sure. You just looked bummed out."

  He pops a Tic-Tac into his mouth. "Well, you being cool about the whole thing helps. I mean that."

  "No problem."

  He extends his hand. "I'm Howard."

  "Todd." We shake hands.

  I don't have an exit line for this conversation, so I just give him a friendly nod and return to the car.

  "I'm not going to lie," says Amy. "That was very odd."

  "I know. Let's get out of here."

  * * *

  I don't believe in the idea that you can tempt fate, or even the idea of fate itself. However, when I start to say, "I wonder what my next injury will be?" I stop myself, just in case.

  Before we get back onto the highway, Amy stops at a convenience store. "I'll be right back," she says. "I'm going to get you an ice pack."

  She returns with two of them. I can't fault her logic.

  We get back onto I-95, and then for the next hour...we sing.

  There is a very wide chasm between our singing abilities. Amy might not have a professional musical career ahead of her, but her voice is pleasant and she can definitely carry a tune. I can carry a tune about as well as I can carry an ocean liner. My voice sounds like I'm singing badly on purpose, even though I swear I'm trying my best.

  I also don't know many song lyrics, which means that I can only sing along to the refrain, with about thirty-two percent accuracy. But I'm having a great time, and unless Amy is good at faking it, she is too.

  "Ooh! Ooh!" she says, pointing ahead. "Gummi bear tractor!"

  "Where?"

  "On the sign. The next exit has the gummi bear tractor."

  "Well, damn, we can't miss that."

  "We sure as hell can't. I hope your phone is fully charged, because we've got some serious photo ops ahead of us!"

  She pulls off at the next exit. I don't see any billboards announcing this amazing marvel. "Which way?"

  "Left at the light, then seven miles. That's okay, right?"

  "Absolutely!"

  She makes the left turn. "I don't know why they didn't have a sign earlier. We could have been anticipating the gummi bear tractor for the past couple of hours. It shouldn't be a spur-of-the-moment decision; families need time to plan."

  As we continue along the road, our surroundings feel less and less like the kind of place where we won't get attacked by feral children. I don't know if there's a campground nearby, but if there is, a crazy old man will warn us not to go there.

  After about five miles, a sign reads "Gummy Bear Tractor" with an arrow pointing forward. I have a very minor pet peeve about it being spelled "gummy" instead of "gummi," but this is not a quirk I wish to share with Amy at this time.

  We drive for a couple more miles, avoiding potholes the size of hot tubs, and then we arrive at a fairly non-descript gift shop. A large sign indicates that this is, indeed, the "Home Of The Gummy Bear Tractor."

  "All right, are you prepared for this?" Amy asks me. "Do you need a few moments to collect your thoughts?"

  "I'll never truly be ready."

  "I understand completely. C'mon, let's go see something majestic!"

  We walk into the gift shop. Right there in the center, cordoned off by a thick yellow rope, is the gummi bear tractor, which is the size of a real tractor. The amount of detail is astounding, though the colors of the gummi bears don't all correspond to the colors of tractors found in nature. The tires are red, the body of the vehicle is yellow and green, the seat is orange, and the scoop (which I don't think is actually called a "scoop") is clear. I don't care what it says about my intelligence level; the gummi bear tractor is freaking cool.

  "Wow," says Amy.

  An old man who is restocking a cooler with soda walks over to it. "It's really somethin', ain't it?"

  "Yes."

  "Took eight months. 'Course, not eight months of full-time work, but it was still a hefty project."

  "Did you make it?" Amy asks.

  The old man chuckles and shakes his head. "No, no, I'm not that creative. How many gummy bears do you think it took?"

  "Six-hundred and fifty thousand," I say.

  "Well, no, that's way too many. One hundred and seventy-eight thousand, six hundred and four. But that's pure gummy bear. No filler."

  "Wow."

  "What makes them stick together?" Amy asks. "Saliva?"

  "No, it's some sort of resin. I don't pretend to understand it. It was painstaking work."

  "What brand are they?"

  "A mix, I think."

  Amy and I stare at the tractor some more.

  "Does anybody ever try to take a bite out of it?" I ask.

  The old man shakes his head. "Nah. A little kid tried to lick it once."

  "Well, that was rude."

  "Yeah. His mom dragged him away pretty quickly. She was more concerned about germs than the integrity of our tractor, though."

  "Did you have to disinfect it?" Amy asks.

  "Nah. If multiple people put their tongues on it, I suppose we'd have to make sure things were sanitary, but my knees ain't what they used to be, and I'm not gonna crawl around on the floor 'cause of one not-
very-smart kid."

  "Makes sense," I said.

  We stare at the tractor some more. The way the light reflects off the gummi bears is hypnotic.

  "I guess that ain't entirely true," says the old man. "If we started getting a lot of autistic kids in here, or developmentally disabled ones, I'd make sure that the tractor was safe to lick. I have nothing but sympathy for them, and I understand that their parents can't watch them every single second. But this kid wasn't autistic, and he wasn't developmentally disabled. He was just rock-stupid. You could see it in his eyes. I've got no sympathy for a dumb kid. I guarantee you, if you put a spinning fan in front of this kid and said 'Hey, wanna know what a fan tastes like?' he'd do it. He'd do it twice. He'd stick his tongue in that fan once, run off screaming to his momma, and then you could say 'This other fan is grape-flavored' and he'd do the same damn thing!"

  "That's a very unintelligent child," Amy agrees.

  "I'm not saying that I want him out of the gene pool; don't get the wrong impression. I don't wish harm on the kid. I wouldn't actually do the fan trick. I was just astonished by his stupidity is all."

  "Was he ugly, too?"

  "Nah, I wouldn't say that he was particularly ugly. He was about average looking. I don't think he'll be cashing in on his good looks or anything like that, but he could still grow into a handsome young man. I had no problem with his appearance."

  "Can we take a picture of the tractor?" I ask.

  "Please do!"

  I take several.

  "Well, thank you very much," Amy says. "This was great."

  "Do you want to buy a cold beverage?" the man asks.

  "Yes. I think we'll buy two cold beverages."

  We buy two bottles of Coke, which the old man helpfully opens for us. As we walk through the doorway, Amy suggests that perhaps we should just drive back home, since we've already reached the pinnacle of our vacation and everything else will be anticlimactic. We could scale a volcano while being pursued by genetically engineered gorillas with flame breath and laser eyes and it couldn't compare to the sheer majesty of the gummi bear--

  "Where did we park?" asks Amy.

  I look around. The parking lot contains a grand total of six spaces. One of them is occupied by a green truck, leaving the other five vacant. Forgetting where we parked our car would be quite a feat. Even at my most forgetful, even if some brain cells were knocked loose when I got punched in the face, there's no way I could lose the car here, leaving me to draw the very unpleasant conclusion that my car is gone.