Red Lashers

by Kyle Dane

  She only likes it because she doesn’t know what it means, so I further oblige her with the Spanish translation that’s bound to generate a memorable response. “It means...green glutes,” I reveal.

  Hayvin pauses in a flash of denial, “Green…glutes?!” She spaces out the two words and packs a punch on the second.

  “Or buttocks...whichever you prefer,” I add.

  A smile is climbing up her face.

  “Don’t,” I half-playfully demand.

  Her smile continues to elevate until she can’t cage any longer the tornado of laughter that now blows into the room, wreaking havoc on my pride. “Buahahaha!”

  “See…that’s why I didn’t want to tell you earlier,” I reinforce.

  “Green glutes…how…” Hayvin tries to talk through her laughing seizure. “...how’s that even possible? There’s gotta be a story, right?”

  “Yeah. There is. Decades ago, it used to be just Verde, which means green. I’d be cool with that but somewhere down the line it changed. An ancestor on my dad’s side of the family sold green tamales for a living in a small Mexican village—a special family recipe with homemade dough, shredded chicken stuffed in the middle, drizzled over by spicy green pepper sauce and wrapped in a corn husk. Was famous throughout the entire village. One day, when he was catering a festival, he fell backwards into a large bowl filled with the green sauce. When he stood up, his butt was completely green. Everyone saw it. From that day forward, the townspeople unanimously renamed us from Verde to Nalgasverde,” I tell.

  “I guess we can still be friends.” Hayvin smirks, subtly, as if she’s finally done laughing at me. “Hey...for lunch...how bout you cook us up some of those tamales...Mr. Green Butt!” Nope. She’s not done; she makes fun of me again, and the wind of laughter whirls all the harder.

  “Not likely,” is my straight-face answer.

  “Fine. If you ain’t cookin’ for us, then, whatever, but we need to celebrate the day, somehow. Let’s...hmmm.” Hayvin thinks. “I’ll be back,” she mysteriously says, then zips into the laundry room that’s also storage space for a horde of board games. Yes, that’s what she’s doing, getting a game. She’s tried relentlessly to get me to play ever since we arrived to Florida—and I keep declining. Will she ever give up?

  Not sure why I hate board games so much. Maybe it’s that they make me board; they can’t compare to virtual games like Outlier Rising. But no, that’s not it. I remember a time when I enjoyed playing card games with my parents, once a week on Monday nights. I loved it then. Maybe that’s the problem. I’m worried that playing such games with Hayvin, or anybody else, would infringe upon the memories with my parents and reopen wounds of missing them. That was our thing, after all. A thing that ended when the Red-outs started.

  Although the Red-outs are over, I’m not over them. In some ways, I’ll be scarred for life from what they’ve done to me emotionally. PTSD. But the scars are probably a good thing, because they’ll remind me of the pain...pain that was caused by stupid mistakes—my own and the ones made by our country, things I don’t want to repeat. Pain is an effective motivator. A good teacher. But, yeah, a substitute is nice to have every now and again—an easier-going, less torturous disciplinary—just not in the form of silly kid games I’ve long-ago outgrown. Sorry, Hayvin. Get ready for another rejection.

  ∆∆∆

  Hayvin reenters the family room, briskly. Something small is nestled in her arms, and a big smile is nested on her mouth.

  “I forgot about this game! Used to play it with Jenness all the time. It was hiding in the back corner of the cabinet. Super fun,” Hayvin exclaims.

  The mystery game is now unveiled.

  No way...I recognize it. The small, purple and gold square box held in Hayvin’s hand has me dumbfounded, and if I wasn’t already lying down on the couch, I’d probably fall to the floor from shock. Slappers?! Impossible. But it is—the card game from the Utah supply box that I thought I rid myself of.

  Huh. I’m beyond amused at fate’s design, which time-travels me back to that lonely, snowy day when I was surrounded by nothing but trees. I scoffed at the game’s written rules that seemed to mock my life’s solitary circumstance: “2 to 6 players required,” it said. So pessimistically convinced was I that my situation—and attitude—would never change. Yet here I am, enjoying a family of two and an optimistic outlook.

  “So...wanna play?” Hayvin tempts, as she proceeds to sit next to me.

  I'm unable to throw the no like I thought I would. How can I erase that smile? My pride begins to roll away like a large boulder tumbling downhill, getting smaller and smaller the longer I remain silent, the longer I look at Hayvin. “Ummmm…” It now crumbles to an ant-sized speck. “…sure…let’s play,” I answer.

  Welp. I’ve just been slapped in the face by fateful irony taking the form of a card game called Slappers. But I’m not angry. How could I be? Instead, I feel a smile stretching across my heart from string to string, almost as large as the one in Hayvin's euphoric expression. I couldn't be more thankful with how things turned out. Who knows, maybe I’ll even start my own grove of gratitude trees, like Hayvin’s done. Really, that’s a good idea, I just might do it. There are so many reasons to rejoice, starting with the fact that today I should be dead, but instead I’m blissfully relaxing on a comfy couch, ready to play a carefree card game—with the person I care about most. Hmmm...I think that “Today” will be my first tree.

  The Stranger comes to mind. I’ll be paying him a visit very soon. I owe him thanks. Also a punch in the face. He orchestrated our victory, including my transformation. But how, exactly, and why withhold information from me? Why the deception? And what about me? Will I be alright? Will I experience any long-term side effects? Is the Super Primer still part of me? The Lashers...are they truly dead? Is there any chance, at all, they could come back? And what about our country? Where do we go from here? How do we pick up the shattered pieces to rebuild? How do I let the world know what happened?

  I have a million questions. However, logistical details can wait. Because right now all I care about is the fact that things worked out, and I have a day off. A day to relax. To breathe. To play my first card game in years—maybe my parents will join in from an unseen place.

  Yes sir, Abbud, my old friend......today I'm definitely going to have a good day.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Sarah—my dear wife and best friend. Thank you for reading draft after draft and giving me much-needed advice. Even though your very busy schedule demanded the very best of your energy, you always sacrificed for me. And I noticed. When you were exhausted after a long day as a school teacher watching dozens of kids, you came home—not to relax—but to watch our own young daughters so I could isolate myself to write...I noticed. When I doubted and almost gave up, but you stubbornly believed in me, kept me focused, kept me optimistic…I noticed. When life was rough and broken, you made it smiling fun; you are my “Hayvin”...a symbolism of selfless goodness I can’t help but notice.

  Chad Hubert—friend and creative genius. Thank you for an amazing book cover. Your professionality transformed an idea into a masterpiece.

  Dana—my mother, editor, favorite Hollywood actress, and survivor. From your role fighting against Jason in Friday the 13th part 3 as the final girl, to your truly scary, real-life role as a mother raising me...you survived both. Thank you for your unconditional love. Thank you for showing me that fame and fortune are inferior priorities to the nurturing of children. Your choice to leave Hollywood to become a stay at home mom is jaw-dropping evidence of that. Sure, we shopped at thrift stores, but having you as a shining star in the home was far better than a star on the sidewalk to be trampled under dirty shoes.

  John—my father, editor, and the man I hope to be like one day. You have always been the inspirational flame to my entrepreneurial spirit. You constantly dare me to go outside my comfort bubble and try adventurous even risky things with a heart of courage and hope, while rememberin
g to live for others through love and service; that being the ultimate fuel for achieving any success. Thank you, for not only helping me write this book, but also the novel of my personal life...a story that would have far less hope of a happy ending were it not for your wise counsel and guidance.

  Kiley and Evelyn—my little earthy angels and daughters. Thank you for running and jumping into my arms with a lit-up face each time I walked through the door with dragging feet. Your tender love and bright eyes have always uplifted my spirits to a high place. When the day comes that you can read this, I hope you at least catch a glimpse of how much you mean to me.

  Jenna and Haley—my two amazing sisters, proof readers, and motivators. Thank you for always being there for me. You are remarkable role models for any girl wanting to become something great when she grows up. You and your incredible families are bright lights in this world. (Ryan and Brock...you guys rock).

  Cindy, Jesse, Meme, Steve and Javi—horror stories between in laws is a common tale told, but I’ve been blessed with the best. Between babysitting and feeding the girls so I could work on the book, being my photographer for my author bio pic (Cindy), and endlessly encouraging me, you have been invaluable.

  Abuelita—amazing grandmother who gave me the Costa Rican, Latin blood I’m immensely proud of; the blood of courage to cross borders of fear and uncertainty; to chase dreams no matter how fast they run away. Animo siempre.

  Meemee and Opah—wonderful grandparents who taught me to erase the word “quit” from my personal dictionary. Thank you for your magnificent examples of devotion to high ideals, and your undying love and support.

  Aj—a good friend. You challenged me to face my fears and love the gift of life every second we have to breathe it in. Rest In Peace.

  To ALL my family and friends of which there are many...thank you. To acknowledge everything everyone has done for me over the years would necessitate the creation of a separate novel. For now, may this suffice.

  Readers—yes, I’m talking to YOU. Anyone who has given this book a chance, although you might be a complete stranger to me, thank you. I love, appreciate, and acknowledge you.

  Special thanks to God—the master author and creator. Without him and his love, I wouldn't exist to enjoy the many beauties of this wonderful life.

  Finally—7 Chickens living in the backyard. Thanks for laying delicious brown eggs that provided the daily brain food necessary for a functioning cerebrum and cerebellum. Keep on cluckin’ ladies.

  To everyone, remember,

  “Don’t just endure life...enjoy it!”

  Copyright © 2018 Kyle Dane

  All rights reserved.

  Red Lashers is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Cover by Chad Hubert/Equinox graphic design