by Trevor Dodge
Death Do Us Part
Firecracker rolled his thick head counter-clockwise until it was directly parallel to the ceiling. A thin green haze floated over him.
02:43 a.m.
The cold crept over his toes, buried underneath a metric ton of cotton, acrylic fleece and honest-to-god, real duck-feathered down, zig-zagged by a mile of thermal wire heating the lumpy electric blanket below him. He knew at this moment what it felt like to be a slice of bread left in the tray too long after it had finished toasting, the scarlet wires beneath him cooling to a dirty grey as the heat left him there, suspended in a half-still of his former self. He wiggled an ankle to feel the blood slosh into his heel, the warmth spilling up his calf like the floorboard heater in the car. Jangling the other ankle, he felt nothing but the graze of the fleece against the top of his foot.
Nothing.
His wife Flame lay sleeping in half-wake in the guest room across the hall, as she had been doing off and on for the past thirty years. Well before Firecracker took sick, she siphoned her clothes and rose-colored cans of Aqua-Net hairspray into the little room as a meek protest against all the cooking, cleaning and obligatory sex duties she superimposed upon herself while he was away (ten out of every fourteen days on average) driving long-haul to Portland (via Bend), Missoula (via Idaho Falls), and Los Angeles (via Wells). After Flame and Firecracker’s second divorce, they married a third (and final) time with the stipulation that she would learn to run the rig herself and accompany him. Their living, sleeping, driving and working together lasted all of a month, just long enough for Flame to quit her waitressing job and pick it right back up again with no questions asked. She took her rightful share of Firecracker’s check and decorated her new bedroom with everything her heart desired (under $19.98, natch) from the Harriet Carter catalog. The last thing to arrive in the deluge was a digital alarm clock whose undeniable selling feature was its ability to project military time onto the ceiling in glorious 3 X 5 foot lime green numbers. When the clock failed to distinguish between sixes and eights, she transplanted it into Firecracker’s room. Served him right, the sunnovabitch.
His eyes veered towards the small bathroom strategically planted directly at the foot of his mammoth California King. It took six weeks in a miniature hospital bed for Firecracker to completely forget the cool sensation of a plastic toilet seat below him. In the terminal two months he had spent at home he was only able to muster one brutal bowel movement. His time in the bathroom here at home was largely out of routine, not necessity. He reminded himself of this: his dentures left soaking in their sterile cup on the counter for over a year now; his bland reflection in the mirror above them. [Re]Cognition failing.
02:44 a.m.
When the cold in his feet boiled into his stomach, his initial urge was to squeeze the remote control for his blanket that had planted itself into his left hand. In his right lay the controller for the TV/VCR combo; for weeks he had been devising mnemonic devices to differentiate between blanket and cable TV, but ultimately none of them stuck. Upon gripping and squeezing what he thought to be the plastic box in his left hand, televisual light and sound pummeled the room in both the image and sardonic volume of Fox News’ Bill O’Reilly. Firecracker prodded his left hand to respond again and the volume grew louder. Again and the image changed to Chris Matthews. Again and the volume grew louder. Again and the volume grew louder. Again and the volume grew louder.
Again and the image changed to Flame. She blinked a thin blink and felt the weight of his stare, felt it full at the back of her head and down into her neck, the slow creeping cascade over her shoulders. Firecracker ceased his prodding but the volume grew louder, his thumb slack and growing heavier than his stare.
Flame blinked another blink, 02:45 am, and another, still 02:45 am, and another. When the image first changed to Chris Matthews and the volume was lower, she hadn’t flinched. She never had, never in their entire relationship, and with his blood cooling in his veins, finally after all these years, after all the uncertainty and contempt, she sure as hell wasn’t about to return his gaze. Not now. No fucking way. Her moment. Arrived.
Authorization Declined
(with Lily Hoang)
James’s grandfather always said that Frey was a dead ringer for the boys’ grandmother. He usually said this when Frey got himself into trouble, which he did every time he got near his grandfather. James, on the other hand, never gets caught.
Their grandfather would say, “Frey, you little fucker, you look just like your fucking grandmother when she’s fucking another man.”
And together, they’d pout their twin pout.
James’s grandfather just could not control himself when he saw them.
It was never clear to James or Frey as children why their grandparents lived in the same house. They fought violently over anything: what was cooked for dinner, the way it tasted in their old mouths, the matching silverware. They talked openly of their disgust for one another at Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter dinners. They viciously plotted against each other by intentionally overdrawing their bank accounts and bouncing mortgage checks. It wasn’t that they didn’t have the money. They simply enjoyed watching the humiliation of the “declined” look some waiter or whoever would give. They would be even more proud, depending on how many other witnesses were present.
The grandparents kept their entire financial realities at the same bank where James’s mother worked, and because James’s mother wasn’t their daughter—family isn’t a technicality: you’re either family or you’re not—they took ready advantage of her willingness to clean up their messes:
“Now tell me dear, why would they call it overdraft ‘protection’ if we’re not really protected?” She could be so sweet when she felt like it, but this was rarely the case. James’s grandmother scowled and stood, her knobby fingers plunged into her hips.
“And what…”
James’s grandfather also stood, although he was always slightly stooped from years of bad posture.
“…are you implying?” the grandmother snapped. “That we need your credit?”
Her scowl lunged deeply into the grandmother’s cheekbones. James’s grandfather shot a glance towards the thick oak door, but just as quickly, he corrected himself and returned his glossed eyes back onto James’s mother. She was sweating.
“I’m only ever going to say this once.” His eyes narrowed in perfect tense with his voice. “You are a whore.”
The grandmother knocked the knuckle of her index finger on top of her daughter-in-law’s desk before straightening, then wagging, the full, fleshy digit at James’s mother. “A fucking whore.”
That night, James’s grandparents tried anal sex for the first time in decades. The grandfather’s skin fell loose around his waist and abdomen. The grandmother grabbed until she felt moisture under her nails. That was the kind of woman she was. Then, she bent him over the lime green dresser that he’d painted for her a lifetime ago and pushed a Vaselined 7UP bottle up his ass.
As she worked him over the glass bottle, she thought about the first time they did this. She’d begged to use an unopened bottle, which he thought was a bad idea from the start, but she insisted it would increase the sensation. She said she’d done it a million times.
Of course, it was a tight fit going in, but it was well lubricated and chilled, which he liked.
Afterwards, he painted the dresser lime fucking green, even though he couldn’t sit, so they would always remember how much he hated her.
James’s grandmother, every time she sees it, can’t help but laugh.
The truth of it was that James’s grandfather didn’t think that Frey was his grandson. Sure, they came out of the same pussy, but that doesn’t prove anything. James, however, he proudly claimed as his own. James’s grandfather always said that Frey belonged to the old hag, meaning James’s grandmother.
There was no real reason why he chose one boy over the other. They looked exactly the same. They had the same voice
and opinion. There was just something plain dumb about Frey that James’s grandfather couldn’t quite place. He’d say, “Must be that you’re part whore,” which Frey came to believe, although he didn’t know what part of the world whores came from.
James’s mother didn’t like the boys to go over to the grandparents’ house, but James’s father wanted them to have a “relationship” with their ailing grandparents.
“Ailing?”
“Honey, they’re old.”
“Fuck you. Don’t call me ‘honey.’ You know I hate it.”
“You know what I mean.”
“If they’re old, it means they’ll die soon, right?”
“I don’t understand this resentment you have towards them. I mean, what did they do to you?”
James’s mother had pretty but vacant eyes. Whenever his father tried to look her in the eyes—to try to guess what she was thinking—he’d become even more confused.
“My parents have been nothing but generous with you.”
James’s father was neither a fool nor ignorant, and the only thing he’d inherited from his parents was their need for sexual adventure.
James’s grandparents’ house was a dump. It’s always been a dump, not because of the house itself or the neighborhood but because they didn’t care to maintain it.
Whenever James’s grandmother cooked, the house reeked for weeks.
James’s grandparents left stains where they’d fucked.
James’s grandfather refused to throw away his used tissues and q-tips.
When James and Frey came over, they wouldn’t want to sit down or touch anything.
And their grandfather would say, “Frey, you little fucker, you look just like your fucking grandmother when she’s fucking another man.” It was like he just could not help thinking about his wrinkly wife in bed with another man when he looked at the boy, and this always made him a little excited.
James’s grandfather would call James over. He’d say, “Boy, do you know what a hard-on is?”
James would nod his head, since he’s had this conversation with his grandfather a million times.
James’s grandfather would say, “Boy, do you know where you put a hard-on?”
James would nod his head, since he’s had this conversation with his grandfather a million times. James would show his crooked teeth in something resembling a smile. Frey, however, had learned—a million minus one times ago—to start running.
Saint Fred Rogers
I am remembering this day for all days.
Remembering. All days. Always.
This is the day you threw the TV out the upstairs window.
I’m remembering.
Always.
This is the day that started with you shaking the toaster over me so all the crumbs fell out.
This is the day that followed the day where you broke the egg in the silverware drawer.
This is the day that followed that day.
I’m remembering.
This is the day that you told me to stand still so I stood still and kept standing there.
But that’s not unlike all the other days. Still.
This is the day you dumped salt all over the table.
This is the day you fed the goldfish.
Kept feeding them.
Kept feeding them.
Kept feeding them.
This is that day. I’m remembering.
This is the day you bruised my mouth with bubble gum toothpaste.
I’m remembering that, too. This is that day.
This is the day after the day the grocery store lady gave you Fred Bear stickers to give to me.
But you never gave them to me. I remember.
This is the day that followed the day where you promised the Fred Bear stickers.
Remember? This is that day.
This is the day that it rained and rained and rained and rained and rained.
This is the day that you went outside and said how hard it had rained.
This is the day that came to you like all the other days. One at a time.
I’m remembering.
This is the day they came to cut off the cable.
This is the day they repossessed the car.
This is the day they turned off the electricity.
This is the day they disconnected the internet.
Just like all the other days. One at a time.
This is the day the refrigerator defrosted.
This is the day the toilets backed up.
I’m remembering. Everything.
This is that same day. Just like all the other days.
One at a time.
This is the day where morning broke wide open, and everything was still.
The day where nothing moved. And then everything. In one huge motion.
This is the day after the day they all said it would be okay.
They promised. With their big eyes, too. I remember. They promised.
That was the day they said whatever they could say to make you put me down.
Walk away.
Slowly.
Turn around.
Hands on the hood.
One at a time.
The day where, well, you know.
You know.
When You’re Dead You Can Do Whatever You Want
Apologize. For everything. You may not have time for haunt, but you do have time for this. Start with the one that ends This Isn’t Really Goodbye.
breathe, YOU’RE HOME
Unsolicited Advice
In the event of Ex’s death, you are, unfortunately, 110% on your own. But in consolation, know that the current page you are currently holding is redeemable for one free draft at The 1853 Club in the sleepy but painfully fair township of LaRue, Ohio. Please don’t mind that the page wasn’t pre-perforated for you to make this last conscious act of yours on the planet just a little bit easier. Rest assured none of it was done on purpose. You’re feeling better already. Or you will. Or you should. Especially if you’re packing.
Siren
Wendy Peterson is pulling me into her bus line, the one for the #43, the pencil-barrel yellow monstrosity that slides past Candy Cane Park and the Kiwanis tennis courts before it deposits her exactly five houses down from where she lives on El Monte St, 70-some footsteps to her parents’ front door. In less than 45 seconds my bus will depart, the #19, the one that scurries down 2nd Ave and only turns right one time before spitting its passengers out at Lincoln (“Stink-in.”) Elementary and shoos them away.
The thing/dilemma is this: the #43 is nowhere to be seen, which is typical and expected, but something that is not typical and expected is how Wendy Peterson is knotting all of her fingers into all of mine (“I forgot my gloves.”) and has no pretense of letting go anytime soon (“Keep my hands warm.”).
Tammy Tanaka is standing behind Wendy Peterson, which means that Tammy Tanaka is staring at me from over Wendy Peterson’s shoulder. Tammy Tanaka is silent for right now, but at the end of 7th period she began begging her best-best friend Not To and/or At Least Think More About It, but as usual, Tammy Tanaka is just in the way.
Wendy Peterson is wrenching my wrists, pulling our maze of fingers and thumbs up into the gap between my chin and the forward nape of my Columbia ski jacket. I don’t drop the backpack usually slung over just the one shoulder because I don’t have it because Wendy Peterson gripped it off my shoulder between 6th–7th period and locked it inside Wendy Peterson’s own locker using Wendy Peterson’s own combination which is only one of many sequences of numbers Wendy Peterson knows I can never remember (“You don’t have any homework tonight, silly.”). Tammy Tanaka is shifting her weight and sighing; she disappears behind Wendy Peterson’s torso entirely but I can see her breath on the cold air, rising out of the back of Wendy Peterson’s hair.
Wendy Peterson is sliding our hands up my face, rotating them and pressing them forward. I am feeling the bones of her hands against my nostrils and lips (“Blow.”). Our ha
nds are not cold and they haven’t been but that is besides the point because I do as I’m told. Wendy Peterson knows this about me intuitively; this is, after all, why I’m here, doing my best to force the air inside my lungs against her skin, but she is pressing too hard and I’m spitting more than anything even resembling blowing, and the vibration causes a small farting sound that only we can hear at the back of the line for #43.
Wendy Peterson is wriggling her knees into my legs, her torso leaning forward to counterbalance, her own forehead pitching into my own forehead. She is raising like an elevator, straight up, our eyes in parallel after pushing her toes deep into her Keds, lifting her heels at least a good inch off the rock-salted sidewalk, her eyebrows levitating into commas as her mouth disappears behind our nest of fingers and thumbs, and I feel her lips between my knuckles and I hear the same farting sound from behind the curtain of digits, and her eyebrows flatten a bit so I know she is smiling.
Tammy Tanaka and Tammy Tanaka’s breath are nowhere to be found in the periphery. It’s just Wendy Peterson and I, farting in stereo, as the #19 pulls away (“Oooooops! Now you have to.”).
We are losing track of every second it takes the #43 to take the #19’s place. Steam and spittle are boiling in the air between us.
The column of beanie caps and backpacks is marching slowly up the #43’s steep stairs. Tammy Tanaka is already sitting in the first seat, first left, staring straight ahead into the bus’ monstrous glass windshield and is trying really really hard not to blink the eyes behind her tortoise-shell frames.