by Owen Egerton
PRAISE FOR
How Best to Avoid Dying
“This is a serious book, no question, about matters of faith and love and mortality, yet it is also playful, sardonic, silly, chatty, and sometimes curt. And while this work is clearly reminiscent of the best of its kind, in a strange and intoxicating universe that includes writers from Vonnegut to Barry Yourgrau, Egerton’s take is all his own.” —Rain Taxi
“Rarely do stories complement each other so well as in this bizarre collection, which is at once darkly tragic, hoarsely satirical, exuberantly hilarious, and deeply moving. Egerton’s art is driven by a playfulness which rings throughout all these gems, but it far from undercuts the serious. The variety of genres in this volume, from traditional short stories to blistering flash fiction, fairy tales to self-referential annotations, are all peppered with an abundance of moods and attitudes. The stories strike you with horror, form lumps in your throat, and make you smirk.” —Curled Up with a Good Book
PRAISE FOR
Everyone Says That at the End of the World
“A brainy, often riotous, ultimately moving Cat’s Cradle for our time peopled with reluctant seekers of spiritual nourishment who might have stepped from the pages of Flannery O’Connor.” —Kirkus
“People at the coffee shop were actually staring at me—I don’t think they fully believed that a book could make a person laugh that hard. Egerton has written a expansive novel that is generous enough to cover the end of the world, and the beginning, and a good number of the key points in between, and filled it with warmth, intelligence, wisdom, and humor—a personal and universal cosmology that made me laugh and think and feel and laugh some more. I think this is a future classic, and people will be reading this book decades from now. I know I will.”
—Charles Yu, author of How to Live Safely in a Science Fictional Universe
“In this expansive, funny, touching epic—part travelogue, part quest narrative—Egerton offers up a Texan love letter generous enough to include even the nutria.”
—Amelia Gray, author of Threats
PRAISE FORThe Book of Harold
“A lively and beautifully crafted novel about the anguish of belief.” —Kirkus
“I love every word that Owen Egerton writes or utters and The Book of Harold bumps my admiration up to a new level. It takes a brave author to attempt satire these days. But it takes Owen Egerton to make it the wise, hilarious, finely-observed, and, ultimately, compassionate ring-tailed delight that The Book of Harold is.”
—Sarah Bird, author of The Gap Year
“Only Owen Egerton can create a new religion around a former computer salesman and make you want to up and take a pilgrimage to Austin with the rest of the Haroldians. Egerton has the gift of walking that fine line between hilarity and heart with grace. Follow.”
—Elizabeth Crane, author of All This Heavenly Glory
“An engaging exploration of everything ridiculous, horrible, and beautiful that humanity has ever been given or invented about religion.”
—The Hipster Book Club
HOW
BEST TO
AVOID
DYING
Copyright © 2014 by Owen Egerton
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Egerton, Owen.
[Short stories. Selections]
How to best avoid dying : stories / Owen Egerton.
pages cm
ISBN 978-1-61902-364-2
I. Title.
PS3605.G47A6 2014
813'6—dc23
2013026635
Cover design by Matt Dorfman
Interior design by Tabitha Lahr
SOFT SKULL PRESS
An imprint of COUNTERPOINT
1919 Fifth Street
Berkeley, CA 94710
www.softskull.com
Distributed by Publishers Group West
10987654321
For
Nathan Altman
a friend and a writer who died young
“God’s not ready for you,” the walls say.
“Fine,” I reply, “because I’m not ready for him either.”
“But keep working on your death song,” warn the walls.
“Oh, I will. I work on it every day.”
—Albert Huffstickler
Working on my Death Chant
CONTENTS
Spelling
Waffle
Cold Night Alligator
Pierced
Christmas
Holy
The Martyrs of Mountain Peak
Tonight at Noon
Challenging, Repulsive, and Awesome
Licorice: a story for John Erler
The Adventures of Stimp
Four Tiny Tales Concerning Transformation
Lord Baxtor Ballsington
The Beginning of All Things
The Fecalist
Arnie’s Gift
Heart Thongs for jesus
St. Gobbler’s Day
Of All Places
Lazarus Dying
Goodnight
Lish
HOW
BEST TO
AVOID
DYING
SPELLING
“Your word is ambrosial.”
“Ambrosial?”
“Ambrosial.”
“Can you use it in sentence?”
“The talented chef prepared an ambrosial dessert for the party.”
“A-M-B-R…O-S…I-A…L”
“That is correct.”
“Yippie!”
The crowd cheers. Sally always says “Yippie.” She says it’s her “calling card.” Pretty crappy calling card, if you ask me. She’s also big into building the drama. Pausing, sweating a little. Like ambrosial. Easy word. She knew it straightaway, but she has to add some tension, as if the Pit weren’t enough. She’s only eight, a year younger than me, and already a showman. You grow up fast in the Bee.
Only five of us left. Sally, Peter, Wilma, Shaka and me. Always more girls than boys near the end. We’re just better.
No one has missed in a while, which means the words will get harder. They like to have a miss every five people or so, so even if this is only round four, they’ll add some round five words to spice things up.
Peter stands up, walks to the Spot. He’s got nice dark hair and green eyes. He can be really funny too. He peers out into the darkness, knowing there are thousands watching in the arena, more on television. He swallows. And from the darkness comes the voice.
“Your word is pulchritudinous.”
“Pulchritudinous?”
“Pulchritudinous.”
Peter coughs.
“P-U-L…C-H…R.” He pauses. This isn’t for show. That’s not Peter’s style. He’s in trouble, so he’s taking his time. Once you say a wrong letter, you can’t go back “I-T…U-D…” Oh, man. He’s sweating up a storm. Oh, man, oh man. “I-N-O-S.”
“Bing!” The wrong bell.
“No. P-U-L-C-H-R-I-T-U-D-I-N-O-U-S.”
The audience gasps. Peter looks sad for just a moment, then smiles at the hidden crowd, does a cute little shrug and an exaggerated bow. He told me he’d do this when he goes out. Wants to be remembered. The
crowd laughs at his spunk and gives him a round of applause. Then the Pit opens beneath him and he falls.
God, the smell is awful. Like rot and poop. We spellers can’t see inside the Pit, but we can hear him land with a kind of splat and then the crunching starts. Slow. The audience can see. There’s a wide window below the stage with a perfect view into the Pit. They always gasp and ooo and ahh. Surprised each time. Peter screams for a little longer than most. Then the Pit closes and they call for the next speller.
I’ll miss Peter. I liked him. Not in a boyfriend kind of way. Just a friend. No time for boyfriends. Too much studying. I want to be the world’s best speller. America needs me. Ever since we lost Hawaii to Korea in the Spelling Bee of the Pacific, we’ve been the laughingstock of the world.
Wilma is wearing a pink flowery dress. She’s the prettiest girl in the Bee, especially since Sue went out in round two. But, like Coach says, “Looks don’t spell.”
“Your word is Polywomack.”
“Polywomack?”
“Polywomack.”
“Can you use it in a sentence?”
“No.”
“Origin, please?”
“American Council of Nu-Words.”
They usually don’t bring in Nu-Words until round six. Poor Wilma. I hate Nu-Words.
“Could you repeat the word?”
“Polywomack.”
She’s buying time. She’s trying to decide if the Nu-Word is spelled like it sounds or if it has some silent letter or trick or something.
“P-O-L-Y-W-O-M-A-C-K. Polywomack.”
“That is correct.”
The crowd gives a hoot. Wilma is a crowd favorite. She dresses right, smiles right, spells right. Cute and competent. I hate her. Me, I’m all spell. I get up, I spell. End of story. No show, no pretty dress, no little waves. Just give me the word and get out of my way. Coach says I could learn from Wilma, learn to use the positive vibes of the crowd to feed my head. But I don’t need them. I’m a badass speller. B-A-D-A-S-S.
Shaka stands and shuffles to the microphone looking like she might shatter into a hundred pieces. She is shy as hell. Afraid of all those eyes she can’t see. She’d probably be the champ if she weren’t so afraid all the time. She rocks the in-class scrimmages, but the pressure of the real thing, the crowd, the Pit, all get to her.
“Your word is clematises.”
“Clematises?” Her voice breaks a little. She’s going to choke. Better here than in the Bee for Oil Reserves of Canada.
“C…” she takes a long pause, likes she’s frozen. “L?” Oh, this bad. The Pit opens just a crack below her feet. She’s trembling something awful. “E…” she squeaks it out. The Pit crack opens a little more. We can smell it, see the heat is rising out of it. The crowd must be on the edge of their seats. “M-A-T…” The crack beneath her spreads, she’s got a foot on either side, her legs making a giant upside down V. There’s a trickle of pee running down her leg. That’s awful. Just awful. “I-S-E…” Come on, Shaka. Finish it up. “S. Clematises.”
“That is correct.” The crowd cheers. The Pit closes. Shaka bites her lips and starts to cry a little. Jesus, she looks bad. So she has another week, but after pissing myself in front of a billion people I think I’d rather the Pit.
Then it’s me. I walk to the Spot. I don’t think about the Pit, or Peter, or Wilma’s dress, or Shaka’s pee, or anything. I just wait for the word.
“Your word is ebullient.”
Easy peasy. I guess they like me. “A…”
Oh, God. It’s not A. It’s E.
Oh, God. I can’t go back. “B…” What do I do? Once I’m done spelling the Pit opens. Do I spell the rest of ebullient or do I spell some other word? Do I spell the right word wrong or the wrong word right? Oh, man. “A-L…” I glance behind me. All the spellers know. No one is smiling, not even Wilma. “I-E-N…” You know who doesn’t know? The crowd. They have to wait on some wrong bell to tell them how to spell. Man. The letters are getting furry. “A-T-E.”
“Bing!”
The Pit opens under me and I fall, but my pants snag on a corner, and I’m hanging head down. I see the crowd through the window. All staring at me with egg eyes. Their faces are paste. My pants start to tear, I drop down a few inches. From above I hear Shaka wailing. Below me in dark I can see the wet eyes of a hundred pigs. I can hear them crawling on each other. I’ll be falling soon. My pants rip a little more. I wish this moment would last forever.
WAFFLE
No matter the city, no matter the state, the smell is there to greet me. The thick scent of bacon and coffee and batter. No matter where I am, Waffle House smells like home.
I arrive at 3:23 AM.
“Good morning,” the waitresses and cook say.
NOTE: GREETING COULD USE MORE VERVE. FLOOR AT ENTRANCE STICKY.
Store #AZ254 sits just off of Interstate 10 on the outskirts of Phoenix. It’s the last one I’ll see this far west. I’m driving to my daughter’s house in San Diego. No Waffle Houses there. Only sugar-soaked IHOPs and God-forsaken Denny’s.
I sit down at the second to last booth in the non-smoking section.
NOTE: BLINDS NEED DUSTING. CASA DE WAFFLE HOT SAUCE ECLIPSED BY A.1. SAUCE. SYRUP CONTAINER NEEDS TOPPING UP.
Habits die hard. For thirty-four years I was a Waffle House secret inspector. In fact, I was the top secret inspector. I traveled to every Waffle House in the nation and trained hundreds of others. My unofficial title was Über-Inspector. But then my wife died and I suddenly grew old and they asked me to retire. That was six months ago, but my eyes still catch it all. The batter crust on the menu, the cracked tile three from the register, the radio playing instead of the jukebox. Minor infractions. Nothing I’d report to the main office. Just notes for the manger in my report. I would never meet him. He can never know my face. Secrecy is key. I used to take notes with a pen the size of a toothpick on a notepad the size of a credit card. But I’ve turned in my tiny pen and pad. Still, I can’t help but think what I would have written.
NOTE: WAITRESS “HILLARY.” SHIRT STAINED AND UNTUCKED. PANTS RUMPLED.
Hillary is obese. Very obese. The front roll of her belly rests on my table. Her hair is an unnatural red, heated coil red. It sticks out from her scalp like wires. She is wearing makeup, but she is not wearing it well. It looks as if it has been applied in the dark by a drunk child.
I don’t judge people based on physical beauty. But Hillary is unclean and that’s a bad trait for a food server. She also has a problem with mucus. She places a glass of water down and drags her flabby, wet nostrils along her uniform’s sleeve. I’m disgusted, but my face reveals nothing. I am a spy.
“Anything to drink?” she asks. Her voice is pleasant enough. Softer than I’d expected.
“I’ll have a decaf coffee, please.” Under the table I press start on my stopwatch. The beverage should reach the customer within a minute and a half. Add an extra fifteen seconds if the order is hot cocoa.
I watch Hillary clop back behind the counter. And stop. Not stop to help a customer or wipe the counter or reshuffle the sweeteners. No, Hillary just stops and leans against the counter, nearly snapping a menu holder. She gazes up at the ceiling and sways slightly to the radio. A minute passes. No decaf. A minute and a half. She’s still swaying. Three minutes. I tap the table. At five minutes I stop my watch. Sometime later Hillary blinks, brushes some of her head wires, and returns to my table.
“You know what you want to eat?”
“I haven’t received my coffee yet.”
“You want coffee?”
“Decaf.”
She swivels around and heads back. She looks tempted to stop again, but doesn’t.
As in every Waffle House, there are two distinct coffee pots. Black handle for regular. Orange handle for decaffeinated. Hillary grabs the black handle, pours a cup and returns to my table.
“Is that decaf?” I ask.
She nods.
“Because I’m allergic to caffeine
and if it’s not decaf my heart will explode and I will die.”
“I’m allergic to walnuts.”
My hands twitch.
“Any thing to eat?” she asks. I order the All-Star Special.
“Stumpy,” she yells. “We need an ASS.”
Stumpy, a short black cook hovering over the grill, raises his hand, which isn’t there. In place of the hand is a spatula duct-taped to the stump. I watch him. He’s fast. He’s good. I relax and sip my coffee. I’m not really allergic to caffeine. Just that the doctor recommends I give it up. My heart is not what it was. Had an incident a month back. Couldn’t move my arms for two days. So good to taste real coffee again. Oh lord, I used to drink coffee. Black, full-fledged coffee. On the road for weeks at a time, sitting in Waffle Houses like this one, downing coffee and thinking out comments like proverbs.
A W.H. IS ONLY AS STRONG AS ITS 4:30 AM HASHBROWNS.
IF A WAITRON DOESN’T CARE ABOUT THE WAFFLE, HOW CAN THEY EXPECT A CUSTOMER TO CARE ABOUT THE WAFFLE?
ENCOURAGE SMILES. THEY’RE MORE POWERFUL THAN SALT.
Waffle Houses are magic. Eclectic gatherings. It’s a quarter till four and look at these wanderers who have found each other. The drunk stewing at the counter, the Hispanic couple cooing in booth three, the teenagers daring each other to French kiss spoonfuls of ketchup. This is life. This is America. And I’m leaving it all behind.
My daughter has a room waiting for me in San Diego.
“Come on Dad, we want to have you.”
“I’m fine on my own.”
“Dad, Mom’s not there to take care of you and you’re not a healthy man.”
“I’m fine.”
Wendy should have had kids. Instead she and her Hamilton jet-setted around the globe until her womb dried up. Her mother told her, “If you don’t start soon, you’ll be too old to enjoy them.” But for Wendy it was always, “We’re enjoying each other right now. Give us some time.” No one could have guessed her womb had the shelf life of a peach. She cried on the phone when the doctor told her. Called up, asked to speak to her mother, and wept for forty-five minutes. And now she wants me to play baby.