Gorilla and the Bird

by Zack McDermott

  If you ask Grandad how Randy is doing, he’ll say, “He’s waiting for me to die so he can get my money. They all are.” He’s not wrong. Grandad is a slumlord and his net worth is probably in the neighborhood of half a million. That’s certainly a small fortune in Wichita—enough to keep him in a new Cadillac DeVille every two years and a new work van and fishin’ truck every other year. “I figure why not buy it. I can afford it. Everyone else is just going to fight over it when I die. They all want this house, but none of ’em can even pay the taxes on it. Randy is a bum. I’ve built an empire, and I got no one to hand it off to.”

  “Okay, we got one more thang,” Grandad shouted, high on the adrenaline of lording his wealth over his impoverished family. “You know every year we do a gag gift, s’what I like to call it. So the boys is gonna get a tool. It’s a flashlight you can put on your head for when you’s fixing a car. And the girls is gonna get a smell-good candle. It’s a boys’ pile and a girls’ pile. Everyone gets one.”

  Uncle Randy opened the plastic packaging with a knife and immediately strapped on his headlamp and shined it in my eyes. He was wearing a leather biker vest over a dirty tie-dyed, vaguely Native American–themed T-shirt. He was also sporting a leather top hat with a metal skull-and-crossbones pendant affixed to the middle. The look was more magician than Harley-Davidson owner. “That’s real snakeskin around the brim,” Uncle Randy bragged when I mentioned I liked the hat. “You can’t get these here. This is down South stuff. Speaking of that”—we had not been speaking of that—“I ever tell you about the time I jammed with James Brown?”

  “You’ve played with James Brown?”

  “Shit, yeah.”

  “Like the Godfather of Soul James Brown?” Jonas inquired. “Hardest-working man in show business James Brown?”

  “There’s a lot of after-hours stuff you don’t know about, man. Most of the good stuff comes out after the shows, when the musicians have their private sessions.”

  “You were privy to the inner-circle jams?”

  “I played with a lot of guys, man. James Brown, Muddy Waters, B. B. King—he used to come around all the time—Ray Charles just once, Lynyrd Skynyrd.” The Skynyrd claim was the most believable; he could at least pass for one of their roadies.

  “I got a new album coming out.” Uncle Randy has had an album “coming out” since I was old enough to understand what that meant. “I actually need to talk to you about that. I could use some connections out your way.”

  “New York?”

  “Yeah, I’ve got some contacts there. We went through the Bronx at night once when we was out there. That’s something you don’t never want to do.”

  “Yeah, I guess not. You’ve played a show in New York?”

  “We was passing through. On a tour.”

  This was assuredly 100 percent bullshit, but I couldn’t be certain whether he knew it was bullshit too.

  “Yeah, well, let me know whenever you get out there,” I said.

  “I will, man. I’m getting my money together. This one, I’m telling you, this one is going to put me on the map.”

  “Cool.”

  “A lot of stuff happens on tour,” Uncle Randy continued. “I ever tell you what we did to my buddy passed out drunk?”

  “No. What’d you do?”

  “We greased up his butthole and stuck goose feathers in his ass. He woke up and didn’t have no idea what happened.”

  “No, I don’t suppose he would.”

  “Like I said, a lot of that stuff happens on the road.”

  I fixated on his teeth and, for a moment, marveled at the incongruity of his dental hygiene vis-à-vis his general bodily hygiene. Then I remembered that it had been a package deal when Frank had his teeth pulled. Grandad had decided it was only fair to extend the same offer to Randy—and so, several years before their fiftieth birthdays, both men had all their teeth extracted and were outfitted with dentures. I was certain that neither had felt any shame in this, and also that Randy would gladly remove his teeth and show me his gums if only I’d ask.

  From the chili feed to the presents to the conversations that followed, I filmed everything. Jonas acknowledged that the white-trash factor was more than he ever could have possibly anticipated.

  Uncle Randy declared he was heading out, but not before making a big show of hugging Grandad and telling him, “Dad, I love you.” Grandad looked more annoyed than touched. “Okay,” he said. His face said, You love my money, you lazy fucking idiot, and that’s all you’re getting for the rest of the year.

  Jer’my offered to take Jonas and me on a gun tour. In addition to the gun case in the basement living room, there are yet more in the back utility room, which also houses the remains of Grandad’s elaborate train set.

  “How many guns do you own?” I asked him.

  “Legal or illegal?” he answered proudly.

  “Both.”

  “Well, I got six shotguns plus three sawed-offs, two Glocks, two pistols, a .45, and I’m getting a semiautomatic. I sleep with the sawed-off and the Glock.”

  “Are they loaded?”

  “Shit yeah! An unloaded gun is a worthless gun. What are you gonna do if a nigger comes in your house and tries to rob you? Ask him to hold on a second while you load your gun? I don’t think so.”

  “That’s a fair point,” I said. It was clear that Jer’my wanted nothing more than the opportunity to shoot an intruder in his home. I fully expect to learn someday that he has accidentally shot a friend or family member.

  “You wanna go spotlightin’ when we get outta here?” Jer’my asked. I’d never hung out with Jer’my before, but I was intrigued.

  “I have no clue what spotlightin’ is,” I said.

  “It’s when you drive around in a field until you catch a deer with your headlights and you get out and shoot it. It’s easy.”

  “Uh…is it illegal?”

  “Shit yeah, it’s illegal. But they just take your license away and it’s a thousand-dollar fine.”

  “That’s not too bad.”

  “And if we don’t get a deer, we can just shoot a cow.”

  “I imagine that’s more illegal.”

  “Yeah, and the farmer sometimes tries to shoot at you.”

  I did want to go illegal hunting with Jer’my. I’d never shot anything in my life, nor did I have any desire to, but I wanted to bear witness.

  “Can we film it?”

  “Shit yeah, we can film it. I got some Jack in the truck too.”

  “Done.”

  I gave Grandad a hug and began the arduous process of making my escape. I’m Grandad’s favorite merely by virtue of the fact that I’m a lawyer in New York and, thus, I “make a lot of money”—or at least so he thinks. He asks “You at six figures yet?” every time he sees me.

  “Not quite,” I say, but I wink at him to suggest that I just might be.

  “Hey, me neither,” he always answers, enjoying our little conspiracy. Two self-made men engaging in a secret language that none of the rest of the family can understand. “When you leaving?”

  “Soon. Couple days.”

  “You gonna come out to the house again before you take off?”

  “I’m going to try to.”

  “Come out and eat a baloney sandwich, will you?”

  Baloney sandwich is Grandad’s preferred lunch. Two slices of baloney and one slice of cheese with Miracle Whip on white bread, washed down with a thermos full of coffee and a Coke.

  While I didn’t want the senseless death of a doe on my conscience, I reasoned that Jer’my had killed hundreds of deer in his lifetime and would surely kill hundreds more. Someone had to document this, and Jonas seemed up for it. One thing about my family is that they are not shy in front of a camera; maybe that’s not a shock in this age of reality TV, but most of them have the attention-whore gene. I pointed my iPhone at Jer’my and asked what we were hunting for.

  “Deer, cow, niggers, chiggers, and spics—anything that moves.”
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  “Yup, that’ll work,” I answered, excited to interview him further. “Let me ask you a question, Jeremy.”

  “Shoot.”

  “You ever try any hard drugs?” I wanted to know about meth.

  “Nah, nothing too hard. Just coke and weed and occasionally if I ain’t got no coke, and I’m on the road, I’ll do a little meth.”

  “Yeah, so nothing too serious.”

  “My dad used to do meth back when he was truckin’. He don’t run truck no more, but that’s why he ain’t got no teeth.”

  “That is actually shocking to me. I can’t imagine Frank doing meth.”

  “Well, he done it. That’s why he ain’t got no teeth.”

  “Are you scared of losing your teeth?”

  “No. I don’t give a fuck.”

  “Right.”

  We drove around for a few hours while I continued to grill Jer’my about his sex life, drugs, alcohol, rodeo’n, the blacks, shooting shit, and electronic communication. Here’s what I learned: “A Houdini is when you’s doing a girl doggy and you spit tobacc’a juice on her pooper and put it in her ass. I done that and she was none too pleased.” “I like coke and meth but Jack is better.” “Rodeo’n gets you tons of pussy.” “Niggers steal.” “Shootin’ shit is the shit.” “I don’t fuck around with the internet or email or any of that bullshit.”

  “Really, no YouTube?”

  “I seen it, but I don’t fuck around with it.”

  I could have listened to this shit with interest for a long time. I am amazed by Jer’my and alternately amazed that Jer’my does not amaze me—so foreign yet so familiar. But like binging on a few hours of trash TV, there’s a point when you must turn it off. I hadn’t been drinking much of the Jack, but I still had to drive clear across town, and I was definitely buzzed. I told Jer’my it was about time we turned in for the night. “You sure you don’t wanna get us a cow ’fore we do that?”

  “I think I’m good on a cow,” Jonas said.

  “Well, I’m a shoot something at least. Pull over and I’ll shoot this Jack.”

  “Of course.”

  Jer’my stepped out of the car and took an enormous pull from the bottle and walked it thirty or so yards down the road. He took a final swig, emptied it, and set it on the ground. Standing a few yards away from the passenger side, he took aim and fired. Click. No gunshot, just click. “This fucking thing’s jammed!”

  “Well, okay then.”

  “Nah, fuck that. I’ma shoot this fucker.” He cocked the shotgun again and fired, but to no effect.

  “All right, dude. Let’s call it. Sorry.”

  “Fuck that.” He ran over to the bottle of Jack and lifted the loaded shotgun over his head with both hands in the motion of a lumberjack chopping wood. “I’ma smash this motherfucker!”

  “Jer’my is that thing…” Smack. The bottle didn’t break.

  I imagined Jer’my squinting down the barrel of his gun like a cartoon character before getting his head blown off. “Jer’my! Loaded gun!” Smack. Thank God, the shotgun-axe shattered the bottle without discharging.

  “Fucking piece o’ shit,” he said as he got back into the car. “I’da been fucking pissed off if we’d a seen a fucking deer.”

  We drove Jer’my back to his truck at Grandad’s and shook hands. “How can I get in touch with you, being as you don’t have a phone and all?” I asked, half intending to actually follow up.

  “Just call Grandad. He knows how to get in touch with me.”

  He spit a huge wad of Cope on the ground and fired up his truck. It was the loudest gunshot of the night.

  Chapter 14

  Getting trashed on Christmas has been a tradition in Wichita since high school. Before hitting the bars, Jonas and I secured some pot from one of my high school friends and went to see True Grit.

  Jonas didn’t know it, but I hadn’t slept much the two nights prior. High off the Christmas Eve chili feed and spotlightin’ with Jer’my, I wrote for hours after he’d gone to bed. I didn’t want to forget one racial slur or one goose feather in Uncle Randy’s friend’s butt. I typed page after page of dialogue, notes, and scenes. It all felt too good. I knew I was flying too close to the sun. But that’s the problem with feeling good—nobody ever says “I feel really good. No, like really, really good. I need to stop feeling this good—time to change something here.”

  It came on fast and furious, and in the moment, manic judgment won out. I can handle this, I thought. I was like an addict being seduced: Just one hit won’t hurt me. Sleepy and dreamy and euphoric, dangerous thoughts turned to reckless actions disguised as epiphanies: Ride the wave. This isn’t full-on mania. You’re still able to recognize it; surf on. If you have to have this disease, at least benefit from the gift part.

  I started going through old stand-up notes.

  -I bet Michael Stipe cries on purpose a fair amount.

  -Why is back hair so reviled? You have some chest hair—sexy. Beard—sexy. Back—dear God, get that stuff away from me. And it’s not like one doesn’t foreshadow the other.

  -What would the Wright brothers say to Maverick from Top Gun if they met?

  I’d always liked that Wright brothers joke but I’d never been able to get it to work onstage. I kept thinking I should go to bed, but there was a little voice in the back of my head saying, You can do whatever you want. You don’t have to explain yourself to anyone. I almost felt enlightened as I let that little mantra reverberate.

  After True Grit, we hit the Burger King drive-thru. Borderline manic, I was still beaming from the masterpiece I’d just seen as we placed our orders. I tried to get Jonas to agree with me that it was quite possibly the greatest movie of all time, or at least there was an argument to be made that it was the best Coen brothers film.

  “It was good, wasn’t great.” He was entirely uninterested in pursuing this topic.

  “You’re right, it’s probably still No Country, but that movie was the shit.” He didn’t even answer me this time. I started to feel self-conscious: Was I making any goddamn sense? Or was my friend just a simple bastard? He probably couldn’t name five Coen brothers films, I decided.

  “Are there going to be any girls out tonight?”

  “Absolutely. Everyone in the ’Ta gets hammered tonight.”

  We hit Larry Buds—a sports bar, like almost every bar in Wichita. Jonas rolled a tight little joint in the parking lot. It hit me quick and hard. “This shit is really fucking strong, don’t you think?”

  Jonas was again unimpressed. “You really think this is as strong as some purple haze back home? You out of your mind? This is some ’Ta weed.”

  “Yeah, I hear you, but I feel stoned as fuck. You aren’t high?”

  “I mean, not that high. I can feel it a little.”

  “I’m fucking stoned. Let’s go inside. Save the rest of that.”

  It felt like half the eyes in the bar were on us as we entered wearing skinny jeans and V-necks. The women’s faces said, You don’t see that every day. The guys’ faces said, Look at these faggots. I warned Jonas to be careful; in New York, if you unknowingly hit on someone’s girlfriend, it’s not unheard of to make friends with the guy once he returns. Hey, I was just hitting on your girlfriend, sorry. What’s your name? No one takes umbrage. But in the ’Ta, you better make damn certain a girl is by herself or be ready to throw down if you’re wrong. Sometimes it doesn’t even matter if any of the guys she’s with is not her boyfriend. I’ve been threatened for hitting on “my sister,” “my friend’s little sister,” and “my friend’s ex-girlfriend from high school.” Also, people pack heat in the ’Ta. Many bars have a NO FIREARMS sign in the window, which always reminds me: Holy shit, you are allowed to have firearms here! By default!

  Pitchers and beer towers of Bud Light flanked by giant plates of nachos covered most of the tables. Men yelled about the Chiefs or the Royals or the Wildcats or Wichita State or Kansas basketball—fans of each school accusing the other’s supporters of b
eing gay. I’d never left Wichita for an entire calendar year without visiting, and I spent the first eighteen years of my life here. But as the years away added up, my visits started to feel like anthropological undertakings.

  It was the little things: Bass Pro Shop hats with fishhooks clipped to the brim, cutoff Kansas State football T-shirts in the middle of winter, knives on belts, camo on anything, Skoal spit into beer bottles. The only black people in the place were being piped through the sound system, save maybe one preppy black guy who had definitely been told since high school “Not you, Aaron—you’re basically white.”

  The bar area was packed—“assholes to elbows,” someone pointed out. Everyone was bumping shoulders and jostling for position. I tried to take up the least amount of space possible by turning my torso perpendicular to the bar and using my shoulder to hold my place in line. My attempt to shrink had the opposite of the desired effect.

  “Hey, that’s a nice beard you got there,” the cowboy next to me said.

  “Thanks.” What was I going to say—You making fun a ma beard, son? We gotta problem?

  “Lemme ask you a question…” Muscle memory was kicking in and I had to remind myself to dial down my inner smart-ass. Keep the Wichita inside. Don’t get in a fight.

  “That yer hand touching my leg?”

  “Well, my hand is in my pocket, and I am rather squished in here, but if part of my hand brushed against you through my pocket, I apologize and assure you that it was unintentional. How about I move over here just a couple of inches? Then I won’t bump into you again. Does that work?”

  “That should work. I just ain’t no faggot.”

  “No, of course. Nor am I.”

  “It’s just you got all that chest hair showing. And that beard.”

  “Are the homosexuals fond of beards these days?”

  “It’s pretty queer.”

  “Okay, good to know. Nice to meet you, sir.” It took me twenty-five years to learn that the last word isn’t worth much; it’s okay to let your adversary leave satisfied that he got the best of you. That way, you can avoid having Crown Royal bottles smashed over your head and your teeth kicked in by three separate pairs of boots. Between the two, I’ve found the Crown Royal bottle to be less painful, but brass knuckles trump all. I’ve never won a fight.