How Best to Avoid Dying

by Owen Egerton

  The Turtle and the Snail

  ~ A bedtime story ~

  One day Mr. Turtle and Mr. Snail slowly slumped along the shaded forest path, conversing, cajoling and singing happy songs.

  Happy is good.

  Mr. Snail turned to Mr. Turtle. “Isn’t it a wonderful day?” said Mr. Snail.

  Of course happy isn’t everything, some things like heroin or certain women make you happy, but rot your heart. Heart rot.

  As they were talking, two speckled bunnies streaked down the forest path, hopping and giggling.

  “Hello slow-pokes,” said one bunny laughing cruelly while leaping from side to side of the turtle and the snail. “You should leave your heavy homes and come run with us.”

  “But the shells are our protection. Our special talent,” said Mr. Turtle.

  “Have it your way, slow-jokes. Ha!” said the other bunny and off the two bounced faster than running water. But not faster than a shallow woman’s appetite for something new. That’s for damn sure.

  Mr. Snail began to weep. Which is dangerous for a snail, because tears have salt. Burning tears. Tears burrowing into skin and soul. Those kind of tears. But you wouldn’t know tears. No. No time for tears. Too busy snuggling with your new Math Professor boyfriend—wooing him with your child-sized tennis shorts and a Joe’s Crab Shack neon tank top.

  “I just wish I was speedy-speedy as the bunny,” said the sad little snail. “Or pretty-pretty like the butterfly. Or smarty-smarty like the fox. There’s nothing special about me.”

  “You’re my friend,” said Mr. Turtle. “You’re special to me.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Turtle,” said Mr. Snail with a slow smile. “But the bunnies are so mean.”

  “Don’t let them get you down,” said the wise and happy turtle. “It’s not like a woman you trusted and cared for dropped you flat on your ass after two and a half months of love-giving. Heaps of love-giving. When she was hurting, you were there for her. You even loaned her money, which she never paid back, not that you want it. You don’t want it, although it would pay for the Pink Floyd CD she never put back in its case so it’s too scratched to play anymore because she never had respect for anything that wasn’t hers, fucking selfish soul-ripper, Mr. Snail. So take it easy, Mr. Snail. You’re fine just being you, Mr. Snail.”

  “I’m tired of being me,” Mr. Snail said. And without another word he slipped from his shell.

  “You look like a slug,” said Mr. Turtle.

  “But I move like a sparrow.” And with that Mr. Snail darted down the path. Of course Mr. Snail still couldn’t slink that fast, but compared to his previous speed with his shell-home, he was really moving. “Goodbye, Mr. Turtle,” Mr. Snail yelled, leaving Mr. Turtle in slimy cloud of dust.

  Mr. Snail was having a wonderful time rushing past trees and stones. The forest was an exciting blur. “Weee,” he squealed. He had never felt so free, so alive. That’s when he came upon the corpses. Two speckled bunnies, their soft fur shredded and their eyes wide and glassy.

  Mr. Snail heard flapping wings pounding above. He looked up to see a dark brown hawk with a blood stained beak hovering above him. Sound familiar? Hawk. Beautiful at a distance. Deadly cruel when close. Then off to new prey. Heart-eater!

  “If only I had my protective shell,” thought Mr. Snail. “I could hide and be safe. But I’ve exposed my soft, sensitive self and now that bitch of a hawk is going to eat my heart.” He let out a tiny, frightened sob. The hawk turned its head, drawn by the chance to cause pain, and stared at the naked snail.

  “Caaw Caaw,” cried the hawk.

  “Crap,” squeaked the snail.

  The hawk swooped down, moving like wind. Mr. Snail tried to scamper, tried to scurry, but could only squirm slowly away. He could feel the flapping fury just behind him and knew any moment he would feel the snap of the hawk’s beak. But then, just before him, appeared Mr. Turtle. And did you know I know Mr. Math Professor? That’s right. In fact, I’m having lunch with him today. Did you know I know about your secret shoebox? The one you keep in the panties hamper. I wonder if Mr. Mathy would like to know what’s inside the magic shoebox? I doubt you’ve told him. I doubt you’ve told anyone ever. Or how about some other little secrets. Diary entry, April 5, 1987? How do you think he’d like knowing about that? Who’s exposed now?

  “Into my shell, Mr. Snail,” Mr. Turtle said. Mr. Snail dove as best he could into the shell and Mr. Turtle pulled in his own head and legs. The hawk, unable to slow its dive, smacked into the rock hard shell and fell unconscious onto the forest floor.

  “Thank you, Mr. Turtle,” said Mr. Snail, fitting himself back into his own shell.

  “What are friends for?” said Mr. Turtle. Then the two tied the hawk to a stone and feasted on its body, devouring the bird piece by piece, slowly. Its pitiful hawk cries filled the forest until Mr. Turtle snipped off its tongue with his snapping jaws.

  Sleep tight.

  4

  Everyone Else

  Remember the man who used to work the smoothie shop? He’s dead now. Remember the librarian, the one with the big tooth? Dead. Remember that one kid who got held back in third grade because he kept crapping his pants? He’s pretty sick. He’ll be dead soon.

  I guess that’s everyone.

  LORD BAXTOR BALLSINGTON

  Stanley adored being alone with his penis. Especially in the morning. Stanley was laying awake in the early stillness that always followed his wife’s departures. She had woken an hour before, hurriedly dressed, and left for her law firm. Stanley was currently unemployed.

  Stanley yawned and smiled, his eyes still closed. Trickles of gold light dripped through the curtains, but the room was dim enough and the curtains thick enough to keep Stanley separated from the oncoming day. He let his hand wander.

  “Hello,” he said to his penis.

  Stanley rolled back the sheet and there stood his friend, proudly surveying his realm. As a child, Stanley had christened him Baxtor. Later he added the last name, Ballsington. Most recently he had granted Baxtor a royal title. It was now Lord Baxtor Ballsington.

  “I’m sorry I kept you waiting,” Stanley whispered.

  “Never worry,” Lord Baxtor Ballsington said, his voice deep and stately.

  “You’re a king, Lord Baxtor.”

  “No, no.”

  “She was late leaving today,” Stanley said. “Maybe we should have done it when she was in the shower.”

  “You are naughty,” Lord Baxtor said, nodding.

  “But now we have all day.”

  Stanley wrapped his palm about Lord Baxtor Ballsington and indulged. The process was lacking in creative verve, but there was more than enough enthusiasm. Stanley didn’t fantasize. He didn’t need to. He was right where he wanted to be. Pleasure, rhythm, and soon a mounting pressure, a building tension, like a tottering on the edge of a cliff, franticly waving arms, don’t fall, do fall, don’t, do, too late to stop now—that’s when his wife opened the door. Stanley yelped, Paula screamed, Baxtor did what Baxtor does.

  Paula closed the door again. Stanley curled into a ball. Baxtor cowered away.

  “It’s natural,” Stanley said a few minutes later, kneeling in a bathrobe before his wife. She sat on the couch, her face in her hands.

  “It is not natural,” she looked up. Her eyes were red and teary. “You’re married.”

  Stanley dropped his head.

  “I need some coffee,” his wife said, standing from the couch.

  “Aren’t you going to be late for work?”

  “Work? Fat chance. I can’t go to work in this state, with the image of you defiling our bed in my mind.”

  Paula was a lawyer with the firm Chills and Grey. She loved it. She adored the cool, clean halls, the hardwood floors of her office, the windows with their six story view, her large oak desk where Melissa, her office assistant, would place coffee or a Red Bull while Paula spoke on the phone, laughing at jokes only lawyers would understand.

  “So I told
him, he might as well file for a 438 as hope for an opposition being granted.” And they laughed.

  But it was always a somber laughter, the laughter of the trenches. She knew the intimacy of battle, the rush of the fight, the rich smell of others in fear. And beside her, like a squire, was her office assistant Melissa. Always there to supply a file or a fax, a Red Bull or an encouraging grin.

  Today was casual Friday at Chills and Grey. The employees could wear whatever weekend-esque clothes they desired. Melissa looked best in her casual attire. Sometimes she even wore shorts. Long legs. There was something intriguing about Melissa’s thighs. It was those thighs that had encouraged Paula to take on the Hot Springs Low Carbohydrates Diet. Soon, she imagined, her thighs would be as slender as her trusty squire’s. Sometimes she wished she could look a little closer at those thighs, in an academic sense.

  “I can only say sorry so many times, Paula,” Stanley said, standing in the doorway of the kitchen.

  “I want you to promise that you will never do that again.” She was watching the coffee drip drip drip.

  “Never?” He said. She spun around.

  “Yes, Stanley, never,” she said. “Is that too much to ask?”

  In truth it was, but Stanley just shook his head. Baxtor grunted.

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing,” Stanley said. “I’m going to take a shower.”

  “No funny stuff.”

  In the shower Baxtor just hung there, letting the water dribble off his deflated form.

  “Baxtor, I had to promise,” Stanley pleaded. “Don’t give me that look. Come on.”

  “No, no. Don’t concern yourself with me. No.”

  Stanley and Paula had had sex a total of three times in the last eight months. None of these instances had been much of a success. The last truly enjoyable bout between the couple had been their second wedding anniversary last spring. That was nice. Sweet. Warm. Paula had been drunk. Drinking was an essential part of foreplay for Paula.

  A week after their anniversary Paula had begun the Hot Springs Low Carbohydrates Diet. No alcohol at all. Sex became a blue moon event.

  Stanley now suspected that he had grown to prefer masturbation to lovemaking. More than once during his infrequent marital duties he found himself fantasizing that his wife were not below him and instead he was alone with Lord Baxtor. He found it amusing, and a little disturbing, that as a teenager he had often pleasured himself while imaging he was making love to a woman, and, now, as an adult, he made love to a woman while imaging he was pleasuring himself.

  “Don’t pout, Baxtor.”

  “Please, don’t give me a second thought.”

  Paula was sipping the coffee. It was incredibly strong. She could hear the shower running, but there was not enough hot water in the world to clean Stanley. Not if he was scrubbed down. Not if a thousand nurses with sponges and soap helped. Nurses scrubbing with hot, steaming water till their little uniforms were all soaked through, all wet, all soapy. She better call Melissa.

  “I’m sorry, I won’t be in today. My husband is sick.” The truth of the statement almost had Paula smiling.

  “No problem, Mrs. Poppen,” replied the toasty voice of Melissa. Paula missed toast.

  “Could you cancel my one o’clock for me? And we still need that fax from district, Melissa.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Poppen.”

  “Okay, then,” Paula said. “I guess I’ll see you later then.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Poppen.”

  “So, Melissa, what are you wearing?”

  “Excuse me?’

  “For casual day, today. I’m just curious, you know, not being there and all.” There was a knot in Paula’s stomach.

  “Um, I’m wearing some baggy blue jeans and a sweatshirt, that one with the rabbits on it.”

  Paula felt strangely relieved.

  “But later I’m going jogging, so I brought my shorts.”

  Oh, God, Paula’s legs twitched. “Where will you change?” Paula asked.

  “Oh, I guess, maybe your office, since no one’s here.”

  Paula grabbed the kitchen counter. She heard the shower turn off.

  “Okay then, just remember that district file, goodbye.” Paula took a gulp of her coffee and set to preparing herself some bacon. No toast. No juice. Just bacon. Paula enjoyed the strict regulations of the diet. She found the discipline invigorating.

  Paula had grown up in a non-believing Baptist family. They had relinquished all the comforts of faith, but retained the restrictions. They didn’t go to church, but they didn’t go dancing either. One of the reasons she had allowed herself to be wooed by Stanley was that he threatened none of her “morals.” Not out of morality, but out of dullness. A dull man is often a moral man.

  The afternoon was tense. Stanley did some yard work. Paula shuffled papers. Neither said much of anything to the other.

  She watched through a window as Stanley raked dead leaves. Did she love him? She would say yes. But only because the word love has no clear definition. Love is not a word used to describe facts. As a lawyer, Paula simultaneously enjoyed and feared the ambiguity of such words. In a law case they could be a help or a hindrance, depending on how they were used. But they were never certain. Never stone. Like Stanley himself, these vague terms served a purpose, but it would be foolish to build a case on them.

  Paula stood in the kitchen nibbling on beef jerky. This house bored her. This man. This body. She wanted a potato. She was restless.

  “I’m going to the office. I’ll be back by dinner.”

  “She’s gone,” Lord Baxtor observed from Stanley’s shorts.

  “I gave my word.”

  “I wasn’t suggesting anything. Just remarking on the fact that she is not here.”

  “It doesn’t matter where she is.” The rake rumpled the leaves. “A promise is a promise.”

  “Oh, of course. Like ‘I promise to have and to hold.’ But you haven’t had her or held her in quite some time. So you turn to me. I imagine she’s found release as well.”

  “Paula would never touch herself.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “What are you implying?”

  “Had to run off to the office, did she? Back by dinner? I imagine she’ll have developed a ravenous appetite.”

  Paula sped toward downtown as the sun set behind her, painting the waters of Lady Bird Lake. The first of the post-work joggers circled the lake with bouncing strides. Soon Melissa would be joining them. Probably just now changing in Paula’s office, removing her tight blue denim and slipping her long legs into her scanty red shorts. Lean on the desk to support yourself. You’re all alone in there. All alone in your boss’s office. Who’s naughty? Who’s a naughty one? Paula accelerated. She decided not to call ahead. No need. She’ll walk right in. It’s her office. Yes, it is, you naughty girl.

  By the time she had arrived, most of the lawyers had left for the day and her footsteps echoed through the quiet lobby. The elevator lumbered up slowly. Paula tried to calm herself by humming along to the Muzak, but when the doors finally opened to the sixth floor, she nearly sprinted toward her office. Melissa’s purse was still on her little assistant’s desk just outside the door. She must still be here. Changing. Knock? Hell no, it’s her office, she’s the boss, she’s in charge. Just like it’s her bedroom. She can open the door anytime she wants and if she sees something it’s their fault, not hers. No crime in opening your own door. She pushed the door open, eyes wide, and saw nothing. Nothing but her office.

  Stanley was at home trying to read a magazine. It was his wife’s magazine. Oprah was on the cover. She was on the beach smiling up at Stanley. Stanley smiled back.

  He was just relaxing. No problem. Doing a little reading before the wife gets home. A frozen lasagna is in the oven for him. A pork chop thawing for her. Nice, no stress.

  “Stanley…” He looked down at Oprah, but it wasn’t her. The voice came from under the magazine.

  “Oh, Stanl
ey.”

  He could handle temptation. He could handle anything. He had been through basic training. He was trained to kill. Of course, he would never kill. Road kill filled him with guilt. Even road kill he didn’t hit himself. He felt guilty for driving. He had only joined the Army to pay for college. But it had been much worse than he had imagined.

  “Stanley…down here.”

  Still, he had endured. He did his two years of Reservist weekends, crawled in the mud, shot rifles. Pretended it didn’t scare the shit out of him each time a mortar exploded.

  “Stanley, let a friend see the light of day.”

  “It’s already dark.”

  “Dark? And she’s not home?”

  “Quiet.” He flipped a few pages of the magazine. Oprah on a tennis court.

  Stanley knew if he ever had to fight in a real war that he would die immediately. Maybe before the battle. He would be an accidental death, some dumb-ass mistake like getting a grenade pin caught in his zipper.

  “Still at work with all those fine upstanding men?” Baxtor asked.

  “I’m not listening.” Another page. Oprah in a hot tub.

  “Smart men. Employed men.”

  “Lord Baxtor, please.”

  “All I’m saying, Stanley, is that she’s indulging, so why not us? You, me, Oprah.”

  “She wouldn’t.”

  “Come now, Stanley. Read me my horoscope.”

  Beep.

  “Hello Melissa’s machine ha ha. This is Paula, that is Poppen. Mrs. Poppen. I’m at the office and you’ve left your purse. I’m not sure if you want it but it’s here and so am I and I’ll be here another hour or so or I could drop by your place, if you want because that Mexican man who cleans…” Beep.

  She dialed again.

  “Sorry about that. Ran out of time. Not that I don’t trust people from Mexico. I took four years of Spanish and I love Cancun. But I would hate for something to happen to your purse or something. So feel free to call. Yeah. You better call. Bye bye.”

  Paula placed the phone down and waited.

  “Stanley, let’s not be rash,” Lord Baxtor said.