A Sorta Novella
Mutt
by Shane McKenzie
Rothco Press • Los Angeles, California
Published by
Rothco Press
5500 Hollywood Blvd., 3rd Floor
Los Angeles, CA 90028
Copyright © 2014 by Shane McKenzie
Cover design by Rob Cohen
Cover image by Michael Manning
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Rothco Press, Attention: Permissions Department, 5500 Hollywood Boulevard, 3rd Floor, Los Angeles, California 90028.
Rothco Press is a division of Over Easy Media Inc.
ISBN: 978-1-941519-36-3
Electronic ISBN: 978-1-941519-37-0
We’re All A Little Bit Mutt
Introduction by Weston Ochse
There’s a sort of aching, soulful misery about Shane McKenzie’s short story “Mutt”, a fish-out-of-water morality tale about a German-Irish-Italian-Spanish-Korean kid. There’s also a certain authenticity to the writing, which is as it should be. Our dear author is himself a mutt, a dirty martini mix of Scottish, Spanish, Korean, and other unknown ethnic particles. He fits into pretty much wherever he goes, mistaken for whatever ethnicity the local brown is, just like Patrick our main character. In a spare, narrative driven style, we learn about Patrick. He’s not only who we could have been, but it’s the embarrassed, shy, want-to-impress young man in all of us. An impressionable kid so wishing to please that he’d rather let someone mistake him for the wrong ethnicity than correct them.
When I first met Shane in Las Vegas back in 2011, I thought he was Mexican—the local brown for that particular zipcode. Not that it mattered, but since the title of his story is Mutt, it’s important in an assuming way. You see, back in 2011, Shane was a lot like many of the young men (and women) who desire to be a great writer, who show up at conventions, who try to impress, and are never heard from again. Frankly, I was ready to nod politely and pass him by. But with an engaging and contagious smile, an almost reverent appreciation for his fellow authors, and an insatiable desire to talk about what it is to be a writer, I found myself spending time with Shane. I could see the slightly embarrassed, shy, want-to-impress man he was. He kept it well-hidden beneath his own real excitement. It was refreshing, really. He wasn’t talking about himself like so many of his generation. Instead, he was talking about other writers. The Jack Ketchums and Brian Keenes and Clive Barkers, all of whom have paid considerable dues over the years to get where they are. It was at that point that I had a suspicion that this faux-Mexican brown mutt FNG might actually be the real deal.
With this short story, my suspicion might just have been proven correct.
This is one hell of a story.
The archetypes aren’t original. The through line has been done before. The transitions are expected. But with all that said, from old ideas, Shane McKenzie created something fresh.
Ray Bradbury is the master at the naive well-meaning person, slip-sliding into something dangerous. For instance, Douglas Spalding lives in a laconic, dreamy mid-western town, his only care in the world, to have a pair of brand-new Cream-Sponge Para Litefoot Shoes. He craves those shoes. He needs those shoes to be complete. His life won’t be the same unless he’s allowed to slip into those shoes and enjoy life.
Patrick lives in a modern, frenetic Texas city, his only care in the world, to have a bitching Mexican señorita named Krystal. He craves the feel of her ass in his hands. He needs his tongue in her mouth. His life won’t be complete unless he’s allowed to slip into that Chiquita and enjoy life.
Where Bradbury writes about the magic of a Dandelion Wine summer and the consequences of not having the things that make the world magical, McKenzie writes about the magic of desire and the consequences of getting to have that which you most wanted. The desire to have something without thinking through the consequences is perhaps at the core of this coming of age tale of a young man trying to find his way in a universe of hate, crime, violence, and affiliation.
Of course the funny thing is that Shane has barely read Bradbury. Yet even without knowing it, he tapped into a writing style that is quintessentially American. And how’d he do this? By immersing himself in Americana pop-culture eye candy. He watched it lived out on the stage in every third rate gymnasium and Lions Club in America. He watched it on Pay Per View. He even watched it in person. You see, Shane used to hate to read. Instead, he’d stay up at all hours watching WWF, which became WWE, living vicariously through the Good vs Evil passion plays created for both our amusement, and to fuck with our beliefs in morality.
Bradbury knew it like a genius. Shane knew it through immersion. And every pro-wrester from Vince McMahon, Hulk Hogan, Diamond Dallas Page, Mr. Wresting #2, Jimmy “Superfly” Snuka, Dusty Rhodes “The American Dream,” and every bright-eyed wanna be wrestler who lasted more than a year or two knew it. And that is the quintessential American tale – we enter into situations with the best of intentions, wanting to do good, thinking we’re the good guy, but to succeed, to get what we want, we might just have to be a little bit bad.
Ray Bradbury knew it as his young men fought Mr. Dark.
Brian Keene’s Tommy O’Brien knew it when he tried to provide for his family.
And Shane McKenzie’s Patrick knew it as he tried to get the girl and fit in.
I asked Shane McKenzie why he wrote this. “I wrote Mutt because I thought it would be interesting for a Scottish/Korean mutt that looked Mexican to get caught up in the local Mexican gang because of a girl. The main character is me, the girl in the story is a combination of every girl I had a crush on when I was younger, and the gang is all the ‘cool kids.’ Patrick just wants to fit in, much like myself, and his feelings for this girl lead him into a situation he doesn’t really feel comfortable being in.”
Which is why Patrick’s embarrassment at being Asian, rather than Mexican, feels all too real.
Like the characters in “Mutt”, I made an assumption about someone based solely on their looks. I assumed Shane McKenzie was just another wanna-be writer, looking for the easy way, the quick path, the short cut to accomplishment.
Like the characters in Mutt, I was wrong.
Mutt is as good as Jimmy Snuka swan-diving from the top rope.
It’s as good as the American Dream doing a dance before he suplexes you to the ground for the final time of the night.
It’s as good as Tommy “Wildfire” Rich bouncing from rope to rope to rope, finally close-lining you at the maximum speed of pain.
It’s damn good.
So instead of doing to Shane what his characters did to Patrick, I’ll extend my hand and welcome Shane into the ranks of accomplished writers.
Welcome.
And keep writing.
Weston Ochse
Sonoran Desert
June 2012
The earphones blasted the beat into Patrick’s ear, and he nodded his head to it, leaning up against the brick wall, waiting for the bus to arrive.
Then she came.
He had noticed her the very first day he stood at the bus stop, and every day he hoped she would come back, but it had been a few days since he
last saw her. But here she was, leaning to one side with the opposite hip sticking out toward Patrick. His head stopped nodding and he just watched.
Her hair was light brown with blond streaks, pulled up in a ponytail. French manicured nails tapped the face of her cell phone, then she put it to her ear, the big silver hoop earring dangling. Pink, glossy lips parted as she began to speak, showing her white, semi-crooked teeth; crooked teeth or not, her mouth looked good. The way her jeans hugged her ass made Patrick’s chest tingle, and as his eyes moved up to her chest where a gold necklace dangled, the ridge of her bra cup pressing against the t-shirt, he nearly stopped breathing.
She shot a quick glance his way, and Patrick looked away, pretending he was only looking across the street. His skin flushed, and he was thankful when the bus finally arrived. He let the girl go in first, tried not to listen to her conversation, but she spoke loud, laughing here and there, mixing Spanish with English.
“Shut the fuck up,” she said, chuckling as she stepped onto the bus and headed for the back. “That bitch is stupid. Pinché tonta.”
Patrick took the front seat, leaned his head against the window and turned up the volume on his iPod. A fantasy played out in his head: he stands up, walks to the back of the bus, sits beside the Mexican girl. He pulls the phone from her hand, hangs up with whoever she’s talking to, looks deep into her eyes. Before she has a chance to say anything, he grabs her by the back of the head and pulls her close, smashing his lips against hers, sliding his tongue into her mouth, and she kisses back, has no choice but to kiss back, writhing her body against his.
The hiss of the bus as it departed the curb brought him back to reality. Patrick smirked as he thought about kissing her, but he knew he would never gain the courage to say a word to her let alone kiss her, and was already too scared to look her direction after she caught him staring once already.
After cleaning up Harry’s, he was going to hit chest and triceps today; some weight lifting would help clear his head. His quads and hams ached from yesterday’s workout, and he was walking with a bit of a limp. Though the hours were scarce and the work could get messy at times, he liked the job, got to use the gym for free when he was done with his duties. Since moving into town a few weeks back, Harry was the only one to give Patrick a chance, and Patrick had been cleaning up the gym for a week now.
The bus stopped a few times, but as people exited, and more got on, the girl stayed in her seat, chatting away on her phone the entire time, her conversation full of foul language and tongue clicking. A piece of him hoped they would get off on the same stop, but an even larger piece hoped they didn’t. She would surely remember that he was the creepy guy from the bus stop, the one with the wandering eyes, and he wanted to avoid another awkward confrontation if he could.
But when the bus came to the next stop, the girl strolled up the aisle, slid her pink cell phone into her tight jeans pocket. Just before she stepped off, her eyes rolled toward Patrick… and she smiled. Just barely, just a slight twitch at the corner of her mouth, but it was there, Patrick was sure of it. He smiled back, but she had already turned her head and was off the bus and on the sidewalk.
A group of hard-looking Mexican guys had been waiting for her. They nodded their heads as she joined them, and Patrick stared at the group as their mouths flapped in conversation he couldn’t hear. Jealousy surged through his body like spider venom as the bald, scrawny man with a crown tattoo on the side of his head stepped forward, wrapped his arm around the girl’s waist, pulled her up against him and smashed his lips against hers. As their faces moved in passionate circles, he caught a glimpse of pinks tongues. The man’s hands moved down and squeezed the girl’s ass, and Patrick sighed.
As the bus lurched forward again, Patrick’s eyes unpeeled themselves from the couple, and he realized that the other two men were staring at him. Tattoos covered their necks and arms, and when he saw the brown rags hanging from their jeans pockets, he knew who they were, and he averted his eyes as quickly as he could.
Los Reyes Locos.
It didn’t take long for him to hear about the street gang when he arrived to town. Their three-pronged crown was spray painted on the wall of every business, every billboard, and nobody washed them off—too scared to. The gang’s name and rumors of their violence was on the news and in the mouths of every citizen. But this was the first time Patrick had actually seen any of them, and it dawned on him that his dream bus stop girl was one of them.
When his stop came, he rose from his seat and nodded to the driver. The chipped white brick of Harry’s Gym had that three-pronged crown graffiti on its surface just above the door. Images of his girl kissing the thug, sliding her tongue against his, the man’s hands kneading the flesh of her ass through her tight jeans, pumped adrenaline into his body, and he was more ready to hit the weights than ever, thought he’d go a few rounds with the heavy bag too.
“Hey, Patty, come over here,” Harry said from his office. “Maybe you can clear this up.”
Patrick yanked his earphones out and shoved them into his pocket, turning his iPod off and entering the small office. Old black and white pictures hung on the walls, most of them of Harry’s father who was a prizefighter back in the day. A few trophies aligned the shelves, some jaundiced newspaper clippings. Harry sat behind his desk with a sheen of sweat on his forehead, a small fan sitting on it, plugged into the wall, blowing what little hair Harry had backward. One of the regulars was in there, Julian, a black man that looked like he could challenge the incredible Hulk to an arm wrestling match and win.
“What’s up?” Patrick said.
“How’dya say ‘suck my dick’ in Spanish, huh? This lughead gots him a date with a spicy Latina broad, and he needs to know.” Both men laughed, sweat trickling down Julian’s massive chest and arms.
Patrick shrugged. “I don’t know… I’m not Mexican. Don’t know Spanish.”
Here it comes.
“Not Mexican? Sure look Mexican to me,” Harry said. “Though I guess yer name don’t scream ‘wetback.’ ”
Julian looked him up and down. “Well what is you, then?”
Patrick sighed, shifted his weight. “Dad was mixed, had some German, Irish, Italian, even some Spanish in him. Mom’s Korean.”
Harry chuckled, slapped his desk. “All those races, and they end up with a Mexican kid, ain’t that some shit?” He laughed until his face turned red, then ran his hands over his eyes and shook his head. “I’m just fuckin’ with you, Patty. No offense, huh?”
Patrick was used to it, had been mistaken for being Hispanic his whole life. Brown skin, hardly any squint to his eyes like his mother. And being in this part of town so dominated by Mexican citizens, he knew it was inevitable. “It’s no problem.”
“So you just a big ol’ mutt,” Julian said.
“A mutt, yeah. I bet your mother’s a peach, huh? Always did dig on them Asians.”
Patrick clenched his teeth.
“Hey… no offense, huh?”
Patrick just shook his head. “Mind if I get a workout in before I clean up? Thinkin’ about hittin’ the bag today.”
“What, you gotta practice your Chop Socky? Wat-ta!” Julian sliced his palm through the air, then chuckled. His chest muscles twitched as if daring Patrick to take offense.
“Come on, Julian, enough of that, huh? Whatever he is, this boy works hard. Can hit those weights like a motherfucker.” Harry leaned back in his chair. “You ever wanta learn some boxin,’ you let me know, okay, Patty? Can show you some things.”
“My dad used to teach me things… before he died.” There was an awkward silence, both men just staring at him. “So… is it cool if I work out?”
“Course it is.” Harry wiped the beads of sweat from his brow and smiled. “I’m sure your daddy showed you how to use your hands, but couldn’t hurt to learn a few things from me. I may be old, but I got some fuel in the
tank.”
“Yes, sir. Thanks, Harry.” Patrick left the office and trudged across the gym floor to the locker room where he changed into his cut-off sleeve shirt and shorts. As he sat on the bench and wrapped his hands, he remembered when his dad showed him how to do it, Patrick’s tiny hand on the man’s massive thigh as his dad started at the thumb, tightening the bandage over his hand as he went around and around, through the spaces between each finger, then finally tightening it around his wrist.
“Gotta make sure the wrist is wrapped tight,” he had said. “Don’t wanna hurt yourself.”
Patrick squared up to the bag, and as his knuckles collided with leather, he imagined it was the faces of the thugs he saw with his girl. He imagined painting their inked skin with bruises as his fists tenderized their flesh.
“Mom?”
As soon as Patrick entered the apartment, he was greeted with the sound of sizzling meat and the smell of his favorite meal. The sweet beef swirled through the air and set his stomach on fire.
His mom’s head poked out from the kitchen and she smiled. “Hey, honey. I making bulgogi, your favorite.”
He walked toward her and smiled back at her. “It smells great.” He hugged her, kissed her on the forehead, then leaned over the pan and started to reach in for a sample piece.
She slapped his hand and pushed him away. “No, not finished yet. And you stink, boy. Get in the shower, food will be done when you finished.”
He laughed, headed for his bedroom. “Yeah okay, mom.”
She hummed a tune as she stirred the meat, steam rising from the rice cooker behind her.
Patrick hurried through the living room, saw that his mother had been watching the Keeping Up with the Kardashians, a show she seemed to be addicted to, but he could never understand why. He turned the shower on to start letting it heat up since it took between five and ten minutes for the water to get hot, peeled his sweaty clothes from his body and tossed them into the hamper.
Los Reyes Locos. Those dudes looked tough as hell, the kind of guys you cross the street to avoid walking by, and Patrick found himself envying them for it. He looked into the mirror and flexed his biceps, put on a scowl he thought was appropriate for a hard-ass gangster, but it only made him laugh. His muscles were growing, and he could push some decent weight in the gym, but he knew he didn’t have the guts to be in a gang. But to have a group of people like that who always got your back, who are such good friends that they considered each other family, would die for each other—kill for each other—was something he secretly craved. He had no friends in this new town, and to be accepted by anyone would be nice.
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