Herb bee-lined straight to the snicker doodles. Stacked like a shrine to all things good, he stood for a moment in hushed reverence before grabbing a large box. So much easier than baking, he reasoned. Realizing that he didn’t have anything for supper, he started to wander the aisles, adding the essentials of bachelor life in the woods to his cart. White bread, squeeze cheese, cereal, a couple of pounds of ground beef and other vittles slowly made a pile in the cart, a rolling testament to the fact that while he might cook for a living, Herb wasn’t one to bring work home with him. As he rounded the corner into the snack food and soda aisle, Herb nearly collided with another shopper’s cart right in front of the cheddar puffs. Herb hastily pulled up short, causing the contents of the cart to shift and crash inside the wire cage. Crisis averted, Herb reached for the last bag of puffs. Like an overstuffed boa constrictor with skin of worn polyester, the other guy’s arm reached out, meaty hand grasping for the same bag of puffs. A strange, ritualistic dance ensued, with both men reaching for the bag and backing off simultaneously, politesse warring with the urge to eat puffed up balls of cheese-flavored air. The aisle was filled with the grunts and murmurs of stuttered apologies and excuses. “Did you want those?” “Sorry! My wife, she loves these...” “I was just going to...” “Why don’t you just...” Suddenly, unexpectedly and with a half-spoken apology still hanging in the air, the man’s hand reversed mid-course and grasped for the last bag of puffs off the shelf.
It was too much for Herb. He never got the cheddar puffs. While surprisingly agile for such a large man, the man’s quick reverse was nothing compared to Herb’s reaction. Instead of grabbing the cheese puffs bag as expected, the man’s hand met Herb’s, fingers interlaced and stuck sure as a bear in a trap. Herb heard a low growl, vaguely surprised to identify its source was somewhere deep in his gut. He looked at the man, watched his eyes widen first in shock, then pain as Herb’s fingers tightened like hydraulic pistons. Shadows encroached on his vision while indistinct whispers twined with the low growl. A voice he barely recognized clawed and lumbered from deep in his throat, past his teeth, to fall from his mouth like rough-hewn stone.
“My. Cheddar. Puffs. Mine.”
The other man gasped as Herb twisted his hand back further. “Geezuz, okay! Have ‘em! They’re yours! Awww crap that hurts.”
Maybe it was the genuine fear in the large man’s suddenly boyish voice, or the tear that formed in the corner of his eye as he sank to one knee, wrist bent back at an unnatural angle. Whatever it was, it speared Herb like a giant shard of ice. Dropping the man’s hand, he took a hasty step back into the shelves, dislodging the contested cheddar puffs and knocking them to the linoleum tiles below.
“Holy cow. I am so... I don’t know what got into... Uh, here,” Herb offered, picking up the bag and holding them out to the man. Anger, wariness and a fierce desire for sodium phosphate and Yellow #5 played across the man’s face before he haltingly reached for the bag. Snatching it, he shoved the bag between a dented box of snack cakes and some off-brand facial tissues and raced away down the aisle. Herb stood watching the man’s receding back, the bite on his neck itching like the dickens. With a trembling hand, he grabbed a bag of French onion potato chips and continued down the aisle.
Once the cart had reached its limit of cholesterol, sugar, preservatives and artificial flavoring, Herb headed for the checkout. There were only two lanes open, and both had lines. Herb pulled into lane #4 behind an elderly woman with a full cart and a purse leaking crumpled coupons through the seams. As she haggled over expiration dates with the kid behind the register, Herb’s gaze wandered past the lip balm, tabloids and gum pressing in from both sides, finally coming to rest on the clear plastic-wrapped package of ground beef in his cart, peeking out from under the Lucky Charms like a bare ankle from under a long skirt. The beef was reddish-pink, moist, with that peculiar texture ground flesh packed for mass consumption always has. Mesmerized, his eyes traced each curl and swerve in the beef, each bit of fat and grizzle, reveling in the rawness of it. Herb was drawn in like water flowing down a slow drain. The sounds of the store around him, the old woman’s nasally voice, the creaking of shopping cart wheels, the chatter of sample ladies handing out crackers with a new flavor of preserve all became hollow, as if someone had stoppered Herb’s ears with soggy cotton. Just past the corner of his eye, Herb could discern movement, threatening shadows that seemed to slide past him, encroaching with sly, malicious intent. He wanted to look, wanted so very badly to see what it was that was casting such odd shadows, but the meat held his attention, kept him enthralled. The rest of the world peeled off and fell away like the dirty, blood-stained bandage from his neck as he scratched, scratched. Sounds continued to recede while whispers swirled into the void. Unintelligible, full of strange syllables, they wound around Herb’s awareness, filling his ears the way the dead, ground up flesh filled his vision. A salty, iron taste tickled his taste buds, while his nose twitched with the smell of sweat and decay. The whispers grew louder, words he could almost understand hanging just beyond his reach. Herb, stretched his concentration gossamer-thin, straining to understand...
“... for choosing Get’n’Gobble. I hope you found everything you need. We’re having a sale on bandages. ”
Herb’s head snapped up. The old woman was rolling away from the checkout lane, bags full, grumbling about expired coupons still being coupons. The bland and pimpled face of a nihilistic teenager stared at Herb.
“I’m sorry, what was that again?” Herb asked as he started to unload onto the conveyor belt.
“Bandages on sale.” The teen’s half-dead eyes seemed to focus on a spot somewhere to the left of Herb’s nose.
“Oh… um. On sale? Really? I mean, hold on for just a sec…” Herb mumbled apologies as he pushed his way past the other shoppers, driven along by their annoyed grunts. Flustered, he jogged back and forth across the ends of the aisles looking for the bandages. Herb’s frantic search was suddenly accompanied by the checkout teen’s monotone voice over the store PA system.
“Bandages on sale in aisle three. Repeat, bandages are in aisle three. For those shoppers with festering neck wounds in desperate need of a bandage, you’ll find them on sale in aisle three.”
Herb stopped his scurrying to stare in horror at the clerk, his face going bright red. The woman waiting behind Herb’s cart loudly cleared her throat and glared. Grabbing two, then three, then four boxes of bandages, Herb scampered back to the conveyor belt. “Sorry again, excuse me. Sorry, just wanted to... They’re on sale, you know. I’ll be outta here in a jiffy,” muttered Herb as he scrawled a check for the cashier. Skipping bags entirely, Herb shoveled his groceries back into his cart and rushed for the exit as the clerk’s voice followed him out.
“Hello ma’am. Thank you for shopping Get’n’Gobble. I hope you found everything you need. Any festering wounds? Bandages are on sale in aisle three...”
Safely back at his car, Herb angrily tossed groceries into the back seat with one hand while scratching his neck with the other. His mind was far away, in a place where nihilistic teenagers were flayed with razors, deep-fried like cheese curds and served up in neat, little paper trays with ketchup.
Chapter 4
The sun lazed across the horizon as the Pinto rode its burnt-oil cloud to the bowling alley. Brong brong brong complained the little car as Herb turned into a parking spot next to Stanley’s rusty Cavalier. Stanley stood next to his car, rail-thin, restless and fidgety as always. A bookworm back in high school, Stanley had been on track for valedictorian and a full-ride scholarship to the college of his choice. Then “the incident in the soccer field” had happened one rainy day after school. Everyone agreed there was a flash of bright light and that Stanley wasn’t quite the same after. Opinion branched after those two facts, though. The locals said it was lightning hitting his umbrella during a summer storm. Stanley swore it was alien abduction, and often carried the unharmed umbrella wherever he went, to shake angrily at the abducti
on nay-sayers.
Stanley had fallen in with Dallas and Herb some years ago. They had needed a third to join the bowling league and Dallas had taken a gamble on Stan. By Dallas’s logic, whether it was old fashioned lightning or little green men with a penchant for probing, Stanley had probably come out of “the incident” with some helpful super-powers. Dallas had yet to be proven right, but was also not one to be proven wrong. So year after year they drank, bowled and generally had good times aplenty, while Dallas remained convinced that next year Stanley was going to light it up.
Stanley’s fidgeting was most likely excitement about their weekly night of beers and bowling. Or he’d been waiting awhile and had to pee. Or he knew the correct answer to one of the questions on an earlier viewing of Jeopardy. Herb wasn’t too worried about being kept in suspense, though. Stanley was incapable of not telling you what he was excited about. It was a trait common to most five year olds and the occasional adult like Stanley.
“Herb! Hey Herb! You sure aren’t gonna believe this. Oh yeah, sure, you might be thinking you’re gonna believe it. ‘Stanley,’ you’ll be sayin’, ‘Stanley I know you wouldn’t lie about things like this, oh heck no.’ You’ll be all thinking you’re gonna believe me, but nope, not this time. No sir!”
So it wasn’t a need to pee, thought Herb. He smiled as he excavated his tattered bowling bag from the Pinto’s landfill of a backseat. No stopping Stanley now. Better to just let it all come out or Stanley wouldn’t be able to concentrate on anything else for the rest of the evening.
“There are over 170 different kinds of skeeters, did you know that?” burst out Stanley.
Herb thought a moment, shook his head and replied, “Nope. I sure didn’t Stanley. 170 you say? Huh. I suppose I would’ve guessed maybe 20 or 30, but 170. Wow.”
Stanley’s head started to move like a bobble-head toy. “I know. In know! Uff dah, I was darn sh-shocked to find out, too!”
Ever since the incident, Stanley tended to stutter a bit when he got excited, which was often, which meant Herb was also quite used to Stanley’s stutter.
“I thought to myself, Stanley, that’s g-gotta explain why you got all them bites. Sure, you use da DEET and da Deep Woods OFF, but you get all these bites, you know? Oh yah sure, that explains it then. That spray, it p-probably works on one, maybe two, maybe ten kinds a skeeters. But 170? No way. No way. Guys like us, we don’t stand a ch-chance when there’s so many different skeeters. Not a ch-chance at all, that’s for sure.”
Herb grimaced sympathetically. “One got me this morning,” he said, peeling back the fresh bandage and turning to show Stanley the angry welt on the back of his neck. “Was a nasty bite, too. I’ve had plenty of bites in my day - mosquitoes, ticks, gnats, horseflies… But this… feels like the little sucker had a diamond-tipped drill bit for a nose. Itches like nobody’s business.”
As Stanley oohed and ahhed over the welt on Herb’s neck and lamented the lost cause of defending the race against so many kinds of predators, Dallas roared up in Deloris, his V8, four-wheel drive Dodge pickup. A steel leviathan with a custom electric blue paint job, chrome jaws on the grill and matching chrome fenders, running boards, bed rails and exhaust, windows tinted black as night, and a pair of chrome testicles hanging from the trailer hitch, Deloris was a sight to behold. If Dallas died and was reincarnated as a truck, he’d be Deloris, no mistake. The strange gender-bending of such a masculine truck with the name Deloris never made much sense to Herb, but he also knew that asking Dallas for clarification would invite being told about some girl he’d boned in high school.
“Time to bowl, compadres! I’m thinking we qualify for the finals tonight, boys. You little turd-rollers just try to hit a couple of pins and let old Dallas do the rest and we’ll be golden! GOLDEN!”
Dallas continued to crow as he corralled Herb and Stanley toward the entrance to Bay City Bowlers. While the architecture suggested 1960’s and the interior screamed 80’s remodel, the place felt timeless to Herb. He liked to imagine early settlers making their way up the Wolf River and stumbling upon a band of Sioux or Ojibwa braves hanging out by the bowling alley. There’d be a challenge, and the newcomers would head inside for a game of bowling. He also liked to imagine the natives rolling perfect games and stomping the settlers. It was probably early November, Herb thought to himself. That’s the real reason why we have turkey on Thanksgiving. The natives kept bowling strikes.
Herb’s thoughts continued to wander as the trio continued inside, swallowed whole by the dimly lit, smoky maw of the bowling alley. Herb’s sneakers, Dallas’s boots and Stanley’s duct-taped loafers padded across confetti-patterned, day-glow carpet. The distinctive smells of smoke, beer, disinfectant, grease and halitosis crested and flowed around the three men as they strolled past the lanes. Turning to and fro as he walked, Dallas looked the politician about to accept his party’s nomination. Smiles, waves, hi-fives and fist-bumps abounded as the denizens greeted Dallas. Herb knew most of the faces too, and smiled as he and Stanley got a few greetings tossed their direction. Even though he knew they were just catching stray rays of sun bouncing off Dallas, it still felt good.
Something about bowling alleys, thought Herb. There was definitely something magical about the simple ritual of having a beer and a game of bowling that brought out the best in people. His gait slowed as he took it all it. Over there was Marge Henderson, the dandruff on her bowling jersey sparkling in the track lighting. And there, Fancy Dan, whose artful blend of polyester and pleather threw mismatched patterns and eye-searing colors at anyone foolish enough to look. Slow Johnson moved with his measured gait, a regal dance across a ballroom all his own. The people Herb had seen for years were suddenly vivid, new, moving in perfect arrangement against a backdrop of wood paneling. Bathed in neon beer sign light, they appeared infused with all the colors of the rainbow.
Herb felt tears start to form as he took in the radiant beauty of it all. His heart ready to burst, Herb looked toward the bathrooms. Cheryl Dannigan glided out of the women’s, a graceful ballerina with swooping hands and pointed toes. Jimmy Tibeaudeax followed a half-moment later, all reckless, impromptu jazz to her smooth steps, goofy grin smeared across his pimply face and still zipping his fly. They wended their way under Nascar banners hung over mounted fish and game trophies, a celebration of victory and death that made Herb swoon.
Every amazing moment stretched the fiber of his being, wrapped him into a tapestry he’d never known encompassed them all. As Cheryl teetered past Herb, his smile stretched further as he breathed in her scent. Sweat, beer, pot, coke, sex, nachos, hairspray, Neosporin... her unexpected redolence intoxicating and arousing as she followed her thread through the weave of the world around him. Sound drained away as she passed in slow motion. Faint whispers tickled Herb’s ears as he watched Jimmy hop along a few strides behind, trying to walk while tying his left Nike high-top. Every movement became an eternity of exquisite beauty, a study in form and grace with each step trapped in amber for him to admire. Herb’s widened eyes caught the shifting light and glinted blue-black as they traced the line of Cheryl’s brow, jaw, neck. He watched blood fill each capillary in her cheeks as she noticed his stare and began to blush. He could hear her pulse, a deliberate timpani urging him to dance, writhe, stomp in primal syncopation with that coursing rhythm of life as she turned, mouth moving, tongue darting, hand raising, brows coming together, flecks of spittle flying...
“...hell are you staring at, you little pervert!” Cheryl’s eyes tried to focus on Herb’s as she wobbled to a stop, Jimmy catching up as she slowed.
“He botherin’ you babe? I’ll kick his ass!” Jimmy swerved and leveled bloodshot eyes at Herb, fists raised level with his sunken chest.
The moment came rushing back with an almost audible pop. Herb’s jaw worked like a guppy out of water, trying to sort-out just what the hell was happening. One moment he was walking through the bowling alley, and suddenly Cheryl and Jimmy were yelling, screaming, pointing...
&n
bsp; “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean. Whatever it was, I didn’t mean to...” he sputtered as Dallas came round like a skidding semi.
“What the hell’s going on here?” he barked at Jimmy’s upturned squint.
“Oooh shit, hey Dallas!” Jimmy squeaked out, voice turned oily. “Didn’t see ya there. Oh, and Herb?” Jimmy squinted. “Wow, I didn’t recognize you! Sorry guys.” He rounded on Cheryl. “Hell Cherry, what’s wrong with you? It’s just Big D and Herby.”
“Oh, hey there, Dal,” she slurred, sidling closer to Dallas.
“Save it babe,” Dallas said over his shoulder, already strolling away. “I don’t want it to burn when I pee. Have fun Jimmy!”
Herb quickly followed Dallas, confusion giving way to indifference as they headed toward their lane. Now wasn’t the time for distractions. They had a big game ahead of them, and Herb was ready to kick some bowling ass.
A game and a half later, frame four to be exact, Herb missed the spare, leaving him with a six. Turning back from the lane, he tried not to imagine what would happen if Dallas actually swung the fists that were clenched by his sides.
Monsters in the Midwest ( Book 1): Wisconsin Vamp Page 3