Therapy Mammals

by Jon Methven

  Laura shakes her head, sad, in need of some Ray McClutchen literature to feel good about things. Jackson is quiet. Jason excuses himself for fresh air. “It’s unethical.” The words incense me until I realize they came from inside, my tribe.

  “For once I agree with Pisser,” Ray says. “We’re parents, for gosh sakes. What does this say about us?” “Gosh sakes” is Ray’s worst curse. He has been rubbing his hands and arms since Allie began talking, having torn the button off his left cuff, this entire concept not jibing with his philosophy.

  “There’s nothing unethical about shining a light in dark places.” Harry has joined Allie at the front of the room, casually disemboweling a pancake man over a tiny plate. “Gun control is an international discussion. People want to know about it, experience it, stand where the victims stood. It’s not like we’re killing anyone. These shootings are part of our history. Part of who we are. And if we don’t do it, someone smarter will.”

  “We’re exploiting it for monetary gain,” Laura says.

  “Absolutely,” Jackson says.

  Allie shakes her head and breasts. “We’re not exploiting anyone. That’s the last thing we want.”

  “It’s worse than the media,” I say. I should know. Every time we get a whiff of a mass shooting, we go straight to national coverage, the reporter on the ground. Forget the weather, forget local sports, forget Melanie Trotter and a pileup on the Cross Bronx. Our viewers crave bloodshed. Our highest ratings come on our country’s most infamous days. “Allie gave a wonderful presentation. But in the end we’re earning money from dead kids.”

  “It’s not all dead kids,” Olivia says. “Lots of offices, public places, teachers, administrators. Parents would want to know. I’m interested just listening.”

  Harry points the end of a pancake at her. “That’s what we think.”

  “Not one nickel,” Ray says, despite his investment having already funded it.

  Jackson’s arms are crossed over his giant chest. “My goodness, Harry, what are we doing?”

  “It’s my money, too. And I’m investing.” Olivia turns to Dan Mathers. “I read something about ‘nonrefundable.’” Back to Harry. “Our investments were nonrefundable, weren’t they?”

  Allie hugs herself. Harry shrugs. Laura stands to pour a glass of red. Dan Mathers clears his fat throat. “The money’s been spent. If anyone wants to back out, there will be a significant penalty.”

  “How big?” Laura asks.

  “Eighty-five percent.”

  “Gosh sakes,” Ray says.

  “Fuck,” Jackson adds.

  “Five percent back now. Maybe another ten when we start earning.” Harry holds out his arms. “It’s the best we can manage, Ray.”

  It means walking away from the investment, which for Laura and I will be financial ruin. The end of the Standcake business, selling the house, bankruptcy, divorce. I suspect the same is true for Jackson and Jason. Ray has his books and speaking seminars, but that line of income would take a hit when it came out he was an investor in this. Ray is bent over, praying into his hands. My wife rubs his shoulders. Olivia checks her phone.

  “Come on, Clutch, don’t do that,” Harry says. “We’ve dotted the I’s and crossed the T’s. Lawyers, contracts, we’ve flown all over the country giving this presentation to school districts, county legislators, good folks, many of who see the truth in this. In six weeks we’re flying in the world’s premiere journalists covering murder culture, taking them on the tour, letting them draw their own conclusions.”

  “They’ll hate it,” Laura says. “I can’t even listen to it.”

  “They won’t hate it,” Allie says. “They’ll understand. They’ll go home and write about it. And once this becomes the most popular tour in the world, we’ll look back on tonight as a victory.”

  “How is this any different than the millions of people who visit Auschwitz every year?” Olivia asks.

  I groan. Allie smiles. Harry snaps his fingers. “It’s called the ‘Moveable Memorial Tour.’”

  “I love that,” Olivia offers.

  “A percentage of the profits to the victims’ families?” Jackson says.

  Harry, “Already in the works. Two percent annually. More when we can.”

  “Or the September Eleven Memorial,” Olivia says. “Or any memorial. It’s not like we’re inventing a new sin.”

  “That’s precisely right,” Allie says.

  “Fucking cunt.”

  They have hacked into my voice. The words slip in through my ears and I discover I am the source, the harsh tooth into lip and the whisper ending. Allie gasps. Laura’s mouth falls open at the word. Harry sighs. Something occurs to me when I hear Olivia McClutchen speak, and I am not proud of myself. It comes from the darkness within me, the dust of which has loosened as my tribe bandies forth. I have discovered Olivia is the one person on the planet I am certain I could stomp to death, her miserable bluntness. We are all guilty, but Olivia is unapologetic. I am to blame for my marriage falling apart. But on her side of this mess, she pushed Ray into the timely predicament of Laura’s loneliness. And I hate her accent.

  Olivia stands, dramatic and offended. “What did you say?”

  I pace the floor, the metal of the BB gun cool against my skin. Jackson has my back. I know Laura was on my side momentarily. Ray is ready to step between us if it gets physical. “This is a horrifying thing you are justifying. Completely unethical.”

  “Ethics now?” Olivia points into my face, the accent gone. “This from the asshole killing innocent animals so he can sit in hot water.” Whatah. “The homeowners association knows, Pisser. They’re sending a letter.”

  “Olivia, drop it,” Laura says.

  A communal sigh, our present dilemma much worse. She turns to Ray, and then Dan Mathers. “Did you know he’s living in his backyard? Like an animal.”

  I am not a violent person. But I maintain it is not me as I move toward her, the mechanics of my jiggly frame unprepared, the weapon sliding from my waistband. It tumbles to the floor, a taut crack into the hardwood. Olivia has sucked me into a petty brawl. My hatred is so pure I cannot help myself. And because I have been roaming my neighbors’ lawns at night with a measuring tape and a power saw, I know I have the upper hand.

  At some point I have bent over to retrieve the gun, and I point it at the ceiling. Everyone knows to treat me kindly, what with the breakdown and splintering marriage and suspicious nanny departure. No one wants to be the first to tell me, perhaps, that I should not have a gun at the investment club. I am shouting about chipmunks and treehouses and school shootings and the use of the word “cunt” as a descriptive noun and aiming the gun into the air as I holler at her stupid, pouting face. Olivia falls to the ground, weeping. Ray and Jackson are on their feet. Jason returns to the room briefly until he sees me brandishing a weapon and disappears again.

  This comes out of my mouth. “Why don’t you tell everyone about your treehouse, Olivia.”

  Her sobs are breathless, dramatic. “He’s insane. Someone call the police.”

  The treehouse is made of recycled wood pallets and PVC piping, the kit purchased on VillageShop. Ray hired someone to put it together. The homeowners association states that artificial items cannot be placed in trees. Furthermore, it was built too high above the ground, an eyesore for other property owners. The trees in Slancy do not have decades of roots that intertwine underground. They cannot support heavy structures. I relay this all in polite detail while pointing the BB gun at the ground as Olivia covers her head, Jackson urging me to stop.

  “I’m sending a letter to the homeowners association as well,” I say.

  “Please, Pisser,” Jackson pleads. “Get a hold of yourself.”

  “We built it for Maddie.” She sobs into her arms. “It was a birthday gift.”

  “Well, it’s illegal.” I shrug,
put the gun back in my waistband. “It needs to come down. One good storm and it could take the entire tree.”

  Most of the room is quiet, appalled. Allie’s hand is on my arm, her fingers tanned and warm. Her other hand is on my waist and I let it creep toward the gun. Inexplicably, an erection materializes. She grabs the weapon and hands it to Harry, who shoves it beneath the tray of Standcakes. “The Hendersons have the same treehouse in their yard. They built it for the grandkids. Duffy O’Neal as well,” Allie says, pronouncing each word. “He recommended it to Ray and Olivia.”

  “Then he’s also in violation of the ordinance. It’s coming down. And all those fake tree cell phone towers— violation. They’re coming down.”

  I feel good about this breakthrough until I face the room. My friends stare. Laura has helped Olivia off the ground and settled her with a glass of wine. Jackson tugs me into a chair and keeps a protective hand on my neck. Whatever support I had when I first spoke has dwindled. The tired lawyer is hunched over a plate of half-eaten pancake men, eyeing me tenderly. Laura will not look at me.

  “Maybe we should reconvene another night,” Harry says.

  “No.” Jackson is adamant, his hard hand on my neck. “What about Russ? Does he know about any of this?”

  Harry turns a chair and sits. “I was planning to speak with each of you personally to hear your concerns, but then we called this meeting. If Russ were here I believe he would be largely supportive.”

  It means Harry and Russ spoke about the new strategy. There is a foggy image, shadows dancing over moving water that I cannot summon into focus. A memory of Russ and me talking about this topic near liquid. I try to grab it from my mind but it is not there and Jackson’s fingers are hard and the chair I sit on grinds into the wood that connects to Laura’s chair, and I send back to her feelings of apology and longing and love, but still she does not look.

  “His shares,” Olivia says, now recovered. “What happens if he doesn’t turn up?”

  The miserable bitch. A flicker of a smile on Allie’s face, a nod from Harry, and they know they just won a majority. If we put it to a vote, which legally Dan Mathers would say is immaterial, I am certain of the results: Laura, Ray, and myself opposing the investment, Harry, Allie, Olivia, and the Jays supporting it. Despite his fear of animals, Jason is ruthless when it comes to money, and Jackson is ruthless when it comes to Jason.

  “Worst case for all of us,” Harry says, arms raised to God. “If Russ were to not return, his earnings would be divided among the other members.”

  Free money. Cherry on top. We move forward into something vile and untamed.

  Breakfast With Tungsten

  I awaken to branches snapping as I come out of the tent, a nymph scampering through my backyard. I am holding a new BB gun. I have six more still in the packaging, hidden in the shed, in case I have to ditch a weapon in a trash receptacle during a foot chase, or if I lose it during a blackout. Like many Americans, I feel I require constant armed protection, and yet my fear of guns forces me to stick with innocent projectiles. The morning intruder seems dreamlike until I recognize an entirely naked Rhythm Ferris from next door running through my woods. She chases Clint Eastwood, trapping my cat beneath the shed where it has pushed itself into a dangerous, quivering ball, hissing at the large girl who laughs and swings her paunch in the April morning.

  “No,” I call. Rhythm’s neck snaps toward me. I am shirtless. And pantsless. My only accessory is the gun. She crosses her arms over her large, white breasts but leaves her bushy crotch exposed. I hold up my hands. “The cat. Be careful. It’s dangerous.”

  “Mister Pickles was chasing me,” she says. “Now he gets a tummy rub.”

  She has issued my killing machine a frivolous moniker, but the playful smile and obvious joy are beyond my capacity to explain. Scampering to my right, busted twigs and heavy sighs, as Clint Eastwood makes a hard dash toward the golf course. Rhythm squeals and gives chase. Suddenly Jackson and Jason are standing in my tree line dressed in rain gear, hollering at Rhythm to stop, their tired gaze coming to rest on my withered manhood. It is a strange moment for everyone.

  “It’s not supposed to rain today, fellas,” I say, but they have disappeared into the woods after Rhythm.

  I leap into the Jacuzzi and submerge into the hum of the motor and a final prayer from the bubbles. It is a chilly dawn, the chemical entrance singeing my skin. There are no dead chipmunk bodies floating, my head and shoulders smoking as I rejoin the morning, the taste of spring and the sound of warbles and the smell of coffee. My eyes adjust to Tungsten Sedlock sipping from my mug, a painted toenail testing the water.

  “Morning, Tom.”

  I spit water. “Is that mine?”

  “Laura said to leave this. You were busy drowning so I figured I’d wait.”

  Tungsten rides the shuttlebus to school each morning, but she has breakfast at our house where she and Iliza run lines. My guess is that she only comes here to smoke weed before school, and if caught could successfully blame it on me, the neighborhood recluse. Rumor has it I pointed a loaded gun at Olivia McClutchen in her parents’ living room, so marijuana is not out of my wheelhouse. My daughter’s best friend is dressed in a rain jacket, suggesting my neighbors do not watch Channel Fourteen for their weather, and a uniformed skirt that is too short and which no mother should allow. She hovers over the water, legs spread, and casually inches lower to set down the mug. Tungsten will one day grow into her mother, but for now she displays a fraudulent smut, an uncoordinated whorishness devoted to an inventory of male attention. I have no desire to fuck Tungsten; I only crave my wife’s fondness. A reflex inside me yearns to reach out and grab her tiny ankle, and tear her into the surf, drenching any screams and killing the demons that compromise my daughter’s innocence.

  There’s lipstick on the mug. I keep my eyes low.

  “You were looking.”

  “No, I wasn’t.”

  “I saw you.” She laughs, tries to encourage me into collusion. “Rhythm was running in the backyard, and you were staring at her fat ass, you old horn dog.”

  “She’s not fat.” Jackson has confided in me about Rhythm’s obesity, and his concerns about body image. Jackson, too, is overweight, and blames himself for his adopted daughter’s girth. They are quietly dealing with her exhibitionism and do not want to make her feel she is doing anything wrong. This is how we handle non-traditional behavior in our sect—we do not encourage it, we do not discourage it, we just allow it existence out of the direction of our peers. “Just a bigger girl.”

  “So you were looking.” Tungsten grins down at me. “It’s okay, we like what we like. I’m into college boys. You like fat girls.”

  “Knock it off, Tungsten.” She has a casual familiarity with adults that I dread. In any situation not involving naked teenagers frolicking in my backyard where I am also naked, I would take this complaint to her parents. “Go back inside.”

  Tungsten, from nowhere, “Iliza and I talk about our parents’ sex lives all the time. My parents aren’t having sex either, thank God. But their lack of sex is from financial anxiety, whereas yours is due to impending divorce. It’s weird you keep semen in the freezer.”

  “That’s none of your business.” I’m explaining my habits to a teenager. “I only keep it there for a few hours. At the most.”

  “Accidents happen.” She makes a pouty face and then feigns vomiting. “The McClutchens aren’t having any sex, but you knew that. And I hear even the Jays aren’t doing it.” She giggles at her cleverness. My arm shakes with the coffee, drizzling the bubbles in brown condensation. “Seems like the only people fucking these days are Ray and Laura.”

  That’s Mister McClutchen and Missus Pistilini, you little shit. I do not know what Iliza tells Tungsten, or why Tungsten is telling me, or if any of it is true. I stand suddenly, my shrunken cock exposed over the water line, and hurl the mug. It b
ounces off the back of the house, coming to rest in the yard near her feet. She does not flinch, bursting into laughter.

  “Relax, psycho.” She kicks the mug toward the patio. “This is why you keep getting in fights at school.”

  I cover up in the water. “I wasn’t looking at Rhythm. It just happened.”

  “I won’t say anything.” Tungsten heads inside, nothing left to entertain her. “Besides, if I was planning to divulge secrets, naked photos of Channel Fourteen’s weatherman would be much more valuable. Don’t you think?”

  Sailors Lost To The Seas

  Expect overcast skies throughout the morning with heavy fog over the shorelines. A school shooting in Indiana has newscasters gushing, the fourteen-year-old wounding a vice principal before offing himself, but still a gratuitous taste of murder midway through the work week. A serial groper is roaming the subway system in search of young girls, the police not able to identify the suspect despite cameras everywhere. Most meteorologists are forecasting rain, but it will not rain today, tonight giving way to heavy clouds and light winds out of the southeast. Trending on Lustfizzle is “19 Cooked Eggs That Resemble Famous People.” On the Gopa website, Jacuzzi_Dad authored a blog post about school prayer, along with an eleven-minute video of a sphincterotomy that plays continuously when someone clicks the post.

  I am calling for a morning prayer to begin the school day, not suggesting it be intended toward any specific God or allegiance, but instead a general peace offering to whatever is out there to watch over our children. If parents intend to read and dispute my proposal, they have to do so beneath four gloved hands slicing apart a red anus, the atheists and non-atheists and semi-religious proctors leaving death threats in the comment section. Expect moody thoughts with a mass killing somewhere with escalators toward the weekend. It has been thirty-eight days since I incorrectly predicted the weather. I already know that it will rain ten days from now, though from the dress of my neighbors and Gopa peers, umbrellas and ponchos and boots, no one pays attention.