My Big Mouth

by Peter Hannan

  To throttle first, ask questions later.

  To worship the way of the fist.

  To hold ever-sacred and dispense with extreme prejudice the hair-smooth move.

  Joey looked at me and spoke like I was very, very slow: “The ethics chants. Learn them, love them, live them.”

  “Yes, master, you mentioned that, master,” I said with a trace of Frankenstein in my voice.

  Sparky looked over at me disapprovingly. Joey rolled his eyes again. Even mini-munchkin was embarrassed to be working with me.

  “Okay,” he said, “now we face each other.”

  Oh, brother. Joey was about two feet tall. He showed me the stretching exercises, and I followed along as best I could. I knew how to count a bit in Japanese — okay, from watching Sesame Street — so at least I got that part right.

  Ichi! Ni! San! Shi! Go! Roku!

  Ichi! Ni! San! Shi! Go! Roku!

  We repeated that about a million times while we stretched.

  Then we sparred a bit. Of course, I had no idea what I was doing. Thankfully, as hard as he tried — and he really tried hard — Joey couldn’t beat me up or anything. I had so much reach on him, I just kept my arms out and he couldn’t get close. But I wasn’t learning squat.

  The Butcher spent the entire class glaring at me. This was an exercise in frustration for him. He wanted to get to me, but he couldn’t. The sensei was watching everything like a hawk. And when the class ended, he called the Butcher over.

  “Just a moment, Sensei Jo-Jo,” said the Butcher. He crossed the room quickly and put his arm around me, like he was giving me counsel. He made karate chops with one hand, to make it look like he was helping me out. But here’s what he said under his breath:

  “Listen, dweeb. You’d better stop trying to steal my girlfriend —”

  “I’m not,” I interrupted.

  “Liar,” he continued. “And just in case you think you’re safe … you’re not safe. Sometime this weekend, when you least expect it, when I know you’re alone, when Daddy isn’t there to protect you, Mr. Fist is going to pay you a little visit.” He showed me Mr. Fist. Oh, boy. “And Mr. Fist will meet Miss Face …” He pointed to my face — Miss Face, for some reason. My face was female all of a sudden. “And when they meet, it ain’t gonna be pretty.”

  Did he get this from a bad movie or something? The sensei called him over again, and as soon as the Butcher walked away, I got out of there. Dad was waiting out front in the car. I didn’t even know he was coming, but I was glad to see him. I had something to tell him.

  “Hey, how’d it go?” he asked as I got in.

  “Good, good,” I said. “Meeting lots of kids. Hey, Dad, you know how you wanted to go camping and fishing this weekend? Let’s do it.”

  “Really?” he said, smiling. First I’d agreed to karate, and now this. I was suddenly the Best Kid Ever. “Let’s load up the car and get out of here first thing in the morning. I love this spur-of-the-moment kind of thing.”

  He was overjoyed that I wanted to spend quality time with him, but really I just wanted to be out of town when Mr. Fist dropped by. As dumb as the Butcher’s threats sounded, I knew they would feel very real to Miss Face.

  Camping turned out to be a bad idea.

  First, there were hours and hours of really, really, really boring car ride. Unfortunately, I forgot to bring any music along. Dad listened to some kind of business talk-radio show for a while until I pleaded with him to turn it off.

  “So, all in all,” said Dad, ignoring my pleas, “how’s life for Davis Delaware?”

  “Not too bad, Dad. You don’t have to worry about me.” I knew he was trying to draw me out and have some kind of heart-to-heart, but I wasn’t in the mood.

  When we finally got to the camping area that Dad had researched in some book, it was completely dark. We had only brought one tiny flashlight. We started setting up our tent in what we soon found out was a swamp. Just getting the tent to stay up was hard enough, but doing it while swatting mosquitoes was hellish. It had been unseasonably warm for the last few weeks, and mosquito season was already in full swing. I’m not talking about a few mosquitoes, either. Nope, this was apparently the blood-sucking capital of the Adirondacks.

  But the black flies were way worse. Those don’t just make you itch, they do serious damage. I know that they probably don’t actually have rows of razor-sharp teeth, but that’s how it feels, like tiny flying sharks. They go for any area of exposed skin — ankles, wrists, neck, and face. Inside the ears. Your left eyelid.

  So, the tent construction went something like:

  “Insert into … ARGGGH!”

  “Hammer that AHHHHHHH!”

  “Pull that ACKKKKK! C’mon, my right eyelid, too?”

  Then it started to rain.

  Somehow we got the tent up and crawled inside. We zipped the mosquito-netted doorway closed and wriggled into our sleeping bags.

  The tent had been the perfect size for the two of us when I was little, but not anymore. When you touch the inside of a tent when it’s raining, you spring a little leak. When your entire body is pushed up against it, you get a flood.

  “Um, Noah? — I mean, Dad? Maybe we should have built an ark instead.”

  The good news was that the netting successfully shut the black flies out. The bad news? It did nothing to stop the mosquitoes. It was like some kind of medieval torture chamber in that tent. The buzzing in my ears was almost as bad as the bites. I zipped up the sleeping bag around my head, so that I was completely encased in it. But that was no help, either. It was like a bug-infested sarcophagus.

  We’d brought books, and I had a notebook with me, but trying to read, write, or draw under those conditions was a total joke. We were afraid the flashlight batteries would die, anyway. So Dad and I spent the next few hours screaming and cursing in the dark — in pain, itchiness, and plain old mental anguish.

  “ARRRGH!” Swat!

  “AHHHHH!” Swat! Swat!

  “DANG!” Swat! Swat! Swat! “Now my bites have bites!”

  Somehow, we finally fell asleep.

  Sunday was no better. It was still raining in the morning. We tried fishing, but the swamp made that impossible. The lines got caught in the grass and weeds every two seconds, and the mosquitoes never let up.

  By afternoon, the rain had stopped. But apparently, that was just the invitation the black flies were waiting for. Bug spray had absolutely no effect on them. It was like it attracted them.

  “If we’re the meat they crave,” I said, swatting and wriggling like a crazy person, “the bug spray is their A1 Sauce.”

  “Yeah,” said Dad, slapping at a fly, but hitting himself square in the face instead. “Maybe we should find another spot before we’re their dessert, too.”

  We both smiled in spite of ourselves.

  I thought about suggesting we find a hotel, but I knew Dad would be disappointed.

  We packed up and hiked along until the swamp turned into a small river. A big, flat rock on the riverbank seemed like a decent place to stop. We pitched the tent there by tying the lines to nearby stones and, amazingly, it worked pretty well. The bug population was smaller there, too. Almost bearable.

  “Hungry?” asked Dad, inspecting the tent proudly.

  “Yup,” I replied. “You didn’t bring along any of that leftover spaghetti, did you? I mean, it was delish. Just wondering.”

  That got a laugh out of Dad. He was well aware of his shortcomings as a cook.

  We built a fire and made our dinner: canned chili. It was incredibly good. We wolfed it down like … well, like wolves. It’s the kind of thing that would taste terrible if you were eating it at your dining room table. But here, in the wilderness, it was a gourmet meal. The same goes for our dessert of toasted marshmallows, which I really hate raw. But somehow, melted, browned, or burned — heck, even dropped in the dirt and brushed off — as long as you’re in the middle of nowhere, they are possibly the finest food known to man.

&nbs
p; Then it started to rain again. Make that pour. Our fire was out in about ten seconds. We scrambled into the tent and into our sleeping bags.

  “Pretty relaxing vacation, huh, Dad?”

  “Yup. You know, ninety-nine point nine percent of the morons out there prefer four-star hotels.”

  “Total idiots,” I said. “Nothing beats the great outdoors.”

  We listened to the rain for a while. The wind picked up, and it felt like the tent might take off like a kite.

  “Your mom wasn’t a big camper!” Dad said loudly out of the blue, over the howling wind and flapping tent.

  “Yeah, I know!” I shouted. This was the first time he’d mentioned Mom in months.

  “I miss her!”

  “Me, too!”

  Then the wind died down, and we didn’t say anything for a while. The silence was broken by a gigantic thunderclap. Even though we were lying flat on our backs, we both jumped about a foot off the ground.

  Then we cracked up.

  “Yeah, sunny beaches are for suckers,” I said.

  “I know,” he said. “Swimming, surfing … what a drag.”

  “You’re telling me. I hate that whole fun thing.”

  “Yeah,” Dad added. “Total misery is where it’s at.”

  It had been a long time since I’d heard him laugh.

  On Monday, more rain. An extended weekend of non-stop merriment. We finally gave up, rolled the tent into a big, muddy ball, and drove home. We pulled into our driveway around midnight.

  By the time I got into my dry, warm bed, I had a slightly sore throat. Dad made me some hot lemonade with honey, which was something my mom used to do, so that was comforting.

  I fell asleep before I drank it.

  Tuesday morning, Dad left early, and I went to school — but I shouldn’t have.

  I stumbled down the street, up the school steps, to my locker, and stared at those words scratched into the door’s paint: “DEAD DWEEB.” I realized that now there was also a crudely scratched skull above the words. Wonderful.

  I felt dizzy and hot. I rested the side of my face against the cold metal locker door for a second. It was such a relief, I almost fell asleep standing up. Then I tried to open the lock. Nothing. I tried again. I think I might have been using the combination I’d had at my old school.

  Finally, I gave up and just went to the nurse’s office.

  “What’s the problem?” asked the nurse.

  “I think my brain is broken,” I said, slumping down in a chair.

  “Excuse me?”

  Then I tried to say, I think I might have a fever, but it came out “I” and then lots and lots of coughing. Followed by more coughing.

  “Say ahhh,” she instructed, sticking a thermo-meter in my mouth. I immediately coughed it across the room. It flew through the air like a tiny javelin and landed in the garbage can.

  “Wow. That’s the first time that ever happened,” she said.

  “Do I win something?” I croaked.

  “Yes,” she said, feeding me a spoonful of heavy-duty cough syrup that made me gag and cough.

  Ivan Brink wandered in, looking a little loopy. “Hi, Dela-who-what-why.”

  “Ivan,” said the nurse, “don’t tell me you fainted again.” She had no clue he was passing out on purpose.

  He nodded and stuck his lower lip out, like he was feeling sorry for himself.

  “You lie down on the couch,” she said. “I’m calling your mother.”

  I expected Ivan to object with something like, No, don’t, I’ll be okay. It’s what I would have done. But he didn’t. He let her call, and I realized that was exactly what he wanted — a little attention.

  I fell asleep in the chair, and the nurse woke me when Dad got there to pick me up. I didn’t even realize she’d called him.

  “So long, Ivan,” I said, but he had conked out on the couch.

  Dad took me home and forced me to get into bed.

  “I have to get back to work,” he said. “You just sleep, sleep, and sleep some more. Then, when you wake up, go back to sleep.”

  The rest of the day and Wednesday were a feverish blur. Dad brought me to the doctor on Wednesday morning to get some medication, and then I just went back home and — surprise — slept for five more hours. Exciting stuff.

  Wednesday night, I got a call from Edwin.

  “Are you dead, or what?”

  “I’m at least half-dead,” I said.

  “You sound all dead. Anyway, just in case you come back to life at some point, do you happen to recall what Saturday is?”

  Of course I did. “Rock Around the freaking Dock.”

  “Bingo,” Edwin said. “Are you gonna be better for that, or what?”

  Of course I was. “Definitely, no question. Wouldn’t miss it.”

  “You promise? I really don’t wanna hear about how we chickened out for the next twenty years.”

  Tell me about it.

  “Promise. And we need to have one more practice to work some stuff out,” I said. “Do you wanna call Molly?” I expected him to complain about it: Sure, no problem. I have no life. Nothing better to do with my time … blah, blah, blah. But he didn’t.

  “Yes, boss,” he said. I guess he really got that I was sick.

  “Okay, Edwin, I’m going back to sleep now. See you tomorrow.” I made a fake snoring sound and hung up. But I was snoring for real in about two seconds.

  I woke up intending to go to school, but Dad came in early and took my temperature: 102.

  “You’re not going anywhere,” he said.

  “But, Dad, there’s an important test today —”

  “No way,” he said.

  So, he went to work, and I called Edwin to tell him that I wouldn’t be at school, but that I’d meet them at the barbershop that afternoon. After a lot more sleep.

  When I got to the barbershop, Edwin’s dad and Furry were sitting on the bench outside.

  “Hi,” I croaked.

  “You sound horrible,” Mr. Martin said.

  “Thanks,” I said. And I meant it. When you’re sick, you want people to notice. Pity feels good in small doses. “Yeah, I sound a lot worse than I feel. I’m actually feeling great. I’ll be in tip-top condition for singing on Saturday.”

  “And the band’s goin’ good?” Furry asked.

  “Couldn’t be better,” I said.

  Just then, Molly appeared around the corner. She walked up to us silently, looked me in the eye … and punched me in the stomach. Hard.

  I let out a weird, high-pitched gasp that was as embarrassing a sound as I’d ever made. It sounded like a cartoon character heaving. I felt like I might heave. I even felt like a cartoon character.

  Molly walked into the barbershop and slammed the door behind her without a word.

  “Good thing I got out of the dang music racket when I did,” said Furry. “It looks painful.”

  What was it with the stomach punching? I shrugged at the two men on the bench. They shrugged back.

  “Sorry, I know I’m s’posed be older and wiser,” said Furry. “But I’m just older. I’m getting un-wiser by the minute.”

  I opened the door carefully. I thought I might get attacked again. But Molly was sitting in the barber chair, and Edwin wasn’t there.

  I shrugged my shoulders in a what-the-heck-was-that-for? sort of way.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Molly said. “Maybe for blowing me off the entire weekend?”

  “What? I totally forgot.” A lie. Since she had wanted to get together and since I wasn’t about to tell her why I didn’t want to (a crippling case of Misterfistophobia), I pretended it slipped my mind and poured on the excuses.

  “I’m sorry. I went on a camping trip to hell and back with my father. Tons of fun. Near death by monsoon. Nearer death by black flies. My phone didn’t get reception. Plus, I got sick. Almost died. Wish you were there.”

  “A likely story,” she said, looking at me hard. “But you do sound sufficiently horribl
e.” She paused for a moment, then gave me a little smile. “Let’s see some songs, you tortured genius, you.”

  Apology apparently accepted.

  She flipped through my notebook and couldn’t believe how many I’d written.

  “Let’s hear this one,” she said, pointing to one of the pages.

  “Nah,” I said. “I’d better save what’s left of my voice for the dock.” That was true, but I was also suddenly stricken with my old shyness. I guess because I was alone with Molly.

  “C’mon, let’s hear it. Sing softly.”

  I took out my guitar and started playing. I just sort of whispered through it.

  Molly grabbed my face and kissed me. On the lips.

  What the what?

  I was confused. First punching, now kissing. And it wasn’t exactly a romantic song.

  This couldn’t be happening. Until now, I didn’t know for sure what all the teasing and flirting was about. For a while, I thought she was just kind of messing with me. Now it was definitely starting to seem like she liked me.

  And I was sure the Butcher was going to find out and grind me into a paste.

  I pushed her away gently — I was sick, after all — but Molly wouldn’t stop. She smelled good and looked good and I felt like such an idiot. I mean, this kind of opportunity doesn’t come along that often. Like never. It occurred to me that getting killed might be a small price to pay for letting her fall into my arms. So I did.

  And then the door flew open. “GOTCHA, DWEEB!!” boomed a deep, angry voice.

  Oh, god! Mr. Fist! What was I doing?! What was I thinking?!

  I shoved Molly away a little too hard, into the counter.

  “Ow!” she cried.

  But it was only Edwin. I didn’t know whether to be relieved or pissed. “I wonder what one Gerald ‘the Butcher’ Boggs would think if he heard about this new development,” he said, raising an eyebrow.