The Overwhelming Urge

by Andersen Prunty

  “Why are these under here?” I ask, angry. “You people need to get these put back on.”

  “Oh, come on, now,” my father says. “We don’t really need them anyway.”

  “Were you just going to throw them out?”

  “Well, yes,” my mother says. “There’s no sense in hanging on to them.”

  I suddenly find their defeatist attitudes overwhelmingly depressing. I have to get out of the house. I charge from the kitchen, grabbing my bags and darting out the front door. They all follow me, standing on the front porch as I get in my car. I start backing the car up and they all shout “Wait!” just before I feel the bump. I look in the rearview mirror. I have, of course, run over my brother’s head.

  “Let’s see them live without that,” I think before pulling away.

  The Lift

  I got mad, went outside, and tried to lift a truck. It was dark. I couldn’t tell what color the truck was. I squatted down and put my hands under the rear bumper and, struggling, attempted to raise the truck above my head. I could only manage to get it to rock a couple of inches. The tires didn’t even leave the ground. With every bit of strength I had I strained to lift, veins bulging in my forearms, cords standing out on my neck. My head felt full of blood, like a balloon, like it could explode any minute. I got tired and, breathing heavily, decided to sit on the rear bumper and rest a little. Already, much of the anger had melted away, replaced with a sense of gratifying fatigue.

  A burly man wearing a flannel shirt and a straw cowboy hat opened the door of the truck, climbed out, and came around to the bumper.

  “You try to lift the truck?” he asked, staring somewhere just behind me.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I didn’t know you were in it. Sorry.”

  “Thought maybe you could use some help.”

  “Sure. If you could lend a hand... I think that would be a big help.”

  “No problem. I hope you don’t mind. Me bein in the truck and all.”

  “No. Not at all. Is this your truck?”

  “Yep. I was passed out. I don’t like to go home ‘til dawn.”

  “Sure,” I said, rising from the bumper.

  We both squatted down and put our hands beneath the bumper.

  “Here we go,” he said and gave a great heave.

  The truck nearly flew into the air, the burly man holding it above his head. I was on his right side and, while I had my hands on the bumper, I didn’t think I was really doing much of the lifting.

  “Back down,” he said. His face was red and a trickle of sweat ran down his cheek. “That was a good lift,” he said.

  “Definitely.”

  “Say, you want to come with me for a pack of smokes. I ran out.”

  “Yeah, I guess I could come with you. I have a few things I need to pick up as well.”

  “Yeah, okay... You’ll have to ride in the back. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “No. Not at all.” I didn’t know why I had to ride in the back. I didn’t see anyone else in the cab. Maybe the man was hiding something. Or maybe he didn’t trust me. I climbed up into the bed of the truck. The man got back into the cab, fired the engine, and we sped off into the night. He drove like a maniac, running lights and hitting cars. I contemplated jumping out if he actually stopped the truck. But it didn’t stop until we reached a convenience store on the outskirts of town. It was one I’d never been to before. Mainly because I had always thought it was abandoned. I couldn’t recall ever seeing a light on inside it and many of the windows were broken.

  The man turned the ignition off and picked up a large rock. He threw it at one of the remaining windows and it shattered with a noisy crash.

  “The owner gets in there and falls asleep. You have to throw a rock just to wake him up.”

  I followed the man into the store. The old man, presumably the owner, was behind the counter, rising from an old Army cot spread with blankets. Blearily, he staggered to the counter and stared out over the darkened store. The only light was that coming from the fluorescent lights from the road.

  He gave the burly man a pack of cigarettes and said, “They’re on the house,” turning his attentions to me. I grabbed a blue bandanna and a snorkel—they had such an odd assortment of items. I could have looked around and found more stuff but it was so dark I couldn’t see very well and I had to hurry so the owner could get back to sleep. I threw the items on the counter and he charged me at least five times what they were worth. He didn’t ring anything into a cash register. He just called a number from the top of his head. On closer inspection I noticed there wasn’t a cash register. I didn’t have any cash so I gave him a credit card. He gently fingered the raised name and numbers and looked intently at the ceiling. “That’s a good one,” he said, handing it back.

  “May I have a receipt?” I asked, thinking maybe I would put the items on my expense account.

  “I need to get some sleep,” the old man said.

  “Yeah, but, a receipt?” I asked.

  “Too tired,” he said, dropping back onto his cot.

  The burly man had already exited the store and sat in the cab of his truck, smoking. He smoked very fast, furiously. A cloud filled the cab of the truck and rolled out.

  “I think maybe you should drive,” he said. “I’ll be busy smoking.”

  He tossed his cigarette away and lit another one, scooting over into the passenger seat. I climbed in behind the wheel, wondering how I went from riding in the back to driving the truck.

  I drove back home and got out of the truck. I assumed the burly man would slide over into the driver’s seat but, instead, he got out of the truck and began walking in the opposite direction.

  “Thanks for helping me lift that,” I said.

  He turned, a fresh cigarette in his mouth, and said, “That’s not my truck at all.”

  I nodded my head as though I understood but I didn’t. I came to the steps leading to my house and stopped, holding the snorkel in one hand and wiping the sweat from my face with the bandanna. I couldn’t remember what inside the house had made me so mad but I felt a sense of dread as I looked at it. There had to be something in there that caused me to get mad and go try to lift a truck. As hard as I tried to think about it, it wouldn’t come. So, not knowing what else to do, I put the snorkel in my mouth and opened the front door.

  It all came flooding back but it was too late to turn and run.

  Discovering the Shape of My Skull

  It is Sunday afternoon, late summer, and we laze on the floor. The sun comes in through the window, splashing across the room in a way that seems very conducive to lazing. Jacinda lies on a fuzzy blue rug in the middle of the floor. I am on the couch, looking at her. She has one leg raised and I focus on the bend of her knee, the way the lower thigh meets the upper calf. I wonder if the crevice is moist.

  “I’m bored,” she tells the ceiling in her unidentified accent. I have repeatedly asked her where she is from but she only looks downward and says she doesn’t want to talk about it.

  “We could always...” I begin but she cuts me off with a sharp look.

  “I’m all sexed out. Besides, it’s too hot.”

  “We could turn on the air conditioning.”

  “I’d still be sexed out.”

  “Okay.”

  She lets out a loud breath, an alien version of ‘I’m bored,’ and spreads her arms out to either side—crucified by boredom.

  “Or...” she begins. “We could give you a haircut.”

  This takes me kind of by surprise. My hair is not overly long but, eager to please her, I rub my hand through my locks and say, “Yeah, I guess it is getting kind of shaggy.”

  “Very shaggy,” she says.

  “Well then... let’s give me a haircut.” And for the first time in what feels like hours we both move. I slide off the couch and she languidly stands, breaking up the crevice created by her knee-bending. I resist the urge to touch my fingers to that area. “Where do you wanna do this?”


  “How about the kitchen?”

  “We can’t do it in the kitchen. I’ll think about hair in my food every time I eat.”

  “But you don’t cook.”

  “Regardless. No. Not in the kitchen.”

  “The bathroom?”

  “The bathroom would be just fine.”

  We go into the bathroom and I sit down backwards on the toilet. She dislodges the mirror from the wall behind the sink, its suction cup popping, and puts it on the back of the toilet. Sliding open a drawer in the vanity she pulls out a pair of black-handled scissors, clipping the air a couple of times to get the feel of them. The sound makes me think of someone waving a sword in the air. I do not like looking at myself in the mirror so I close my eyes, figuring the hair is going to start falling soon enough anyway.

  She leans against me, resting her hips against my shoulderblades, and says, “So, how do you want it?”

  “I’m not picky,” I say. “Just something different is fine.”

  “Okay. Keep your eyes closed until I’m finished. I want it to be a surprise.”

  “I was planning on doing that anyway.”

  Then she starts cutting. I have no idea of what it looks like or even how much hair she is taking off. Still seeing my face frozen there in the mirror behind my closed eyes, I try and imagine myself with a variety of different hairstyles. Hopefully she doesn’t make me look silly. She gets really into the haircut. Maybe she has found her calling or something. She is humming a tune I can’t identify. Probably some kind of song from her unidentified country. She blows on the back of my neck to get the hair off, never swiping with her hand. I find the tickling sensation erotic. I find the whole experience erotic. Me, sitting there defenseless before her while she yields her blades of steel above my head, her hips brushing against my back, the light humming, the gentle pressure of her fingertips as she bends my head this way and that. And the gentle gusts of her hot breath as she molds me into the type of man she wants to see.

  “You can open your eyes now,” she says.

  Any arousal I may have felt dissipates completely.

  “I look ridiculous,” I say.

  “I think you look like a rock star.”

  I run my fingers through it, thinking that maybe if I muss it a little, it will look better, but it only makes it look more atrocious.

  “No offense but this is the most hideous haircut I’ve ever had.”

  “Maybe you think so but it looks fantastic. You’ll see.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Trust me.”

  “I think I need to take a shower,” I say. “I need to get all this hair off my neck.”

  “Mmmm. Good idea. I’m going to go.”

  “You’re welcome to join me.”

  “No. I think I’d better go.”

  I want to ask her where it is she is going to go because, really, I have no idea. She leaves my little apartment every day but I have never been to hers. I don’t even know if she has one. I’ve never asked. I’ve always just assumed she had a place to live.

  “Are you coming back tomorrow?”

  “Of course,” she says. “We’ll celebrate your new haircut.”

  I don’t know what to say to that. I try to smile and tell her I look forward to it.

  I go to work the next day. I typically make it a habit to avoid looking in mirrors (the unkempt look is in) and have forgotten all about my haircut from the previous day. I work in a basement office with one other person, my boss, Mr. Gravity. He will not tell me his first name. At work there is a vestibule that promises something greater on the inside but it is just that, a vestibule, a little sitting area with a couple of chairs and a small table with some outdated gardening magazines littering it. When you go through the inside door the hallway goes no further. To the right is my office, my boss’ office—we share. It is really quite uncomfortable. The office contains only one desk and we sit opposite each other on most days. Sometimes he pulls out his laptop, plopping it down on the desk and I have virtually no room to work at all. At those times, I have to scoot my seat back from the table and do my paperwork on my lap.

  My job is really quite simple. I work in trash collecting. Not for the city or anything like that. People call the office when they have stuff the city will not take or stuff they do no want the city to take. Then, either I or Mr. Gravity answers the phone. One of us then places a call to one of our collectors. They collect said items and remove them to an undisclosed location. They then mail an itemized list of what was found in the person’s trash and we compile a list of the net worth. I have yet to find a point to this job other than the paycheck.

  Mr. Gravity is usually hostile. He is a balding man with an outrageously large mustache who does not know how to speak in a soft voice. Not that he hardly ever talks to me. Usually I only have to endure his voice when he is on the phone, which is quite a bit.

  Today, when I get to the office, Mr. Gravity is waiting for me.

  “Do you like my new sweater?” he shouts as I open the door.

  His sweater is covered in the necks and heads of giraffes floating in a lawn green background. It is atrocious but I say, “Yeah, that’s really nice.”

  But he has fallen silent, looking at my hair. His shoulders slump and he moves away from me as if he is afraid. Only then do I remember my ridiculous haircut. We go into the office and he immediately sets up his laptop. I have absolutely nothing to do so I kind of slink down in my chair where he can’t see me over his computer screen and close my eyes for a few minutes of rest.

  I am startled awake when he shouts, “I’m gonna take me a little nap!” and slides onto the floor under the table.

  Now I don’t even have a place to comfortably stretch my legs. I decide he is probably going to be out for a few minutes so I sneak out the door to smoke a cigarette. I’m still out there smoking when he comes out to fire me.

  He doesn’t launch into anything comforting or designed to cover himself in case of some kind of discrimination suit. He just says, “Go away and don’t come back!” And then he clarifies that by saying, “It’s because of your hair. I’ve thought about it and I just don’t like it. I don’t even want to be in the same room with it.”

  I don’t know what to say. I don’t know if there’s anything I can say. After all, he’s probably right.

  “Get your stuff and go home,” he says.

  “I didn’t bring anything. I don’t have any stuff.”

  “Then just go home.”

  I do what he says, tossing my cigarette butt off into the alley, feeling his eyes bore into my back.

  Why had I even trusted Jacinda enough to let her give me a haircut? It’s not like we have known each other that long. I don’t even know where she was born but I am pretty sure she knows just about everything there is to know about me. I never trust anyone with my hair. I guess it is easy to second guess myself walking down the alley after being fired because of that haircut. If I had been promoted, I probably wouldn’t think anything of it.

  It isn’t until my bus ride home that the haircut’s power reaches a mythical proportion.

  There are two people on the bus when I first get on. At first I think this is odd. I am so used to getting on during the after work rush that it takes me a moment to remember it is before noon and I have just been fired.

  The bus makes another stop and a girl gets on. She can’t be any older than a teenager. She looks like she spends a whole lot of time at the mall. Not bad looking but not my type at all. Out of all the seats on the bus, she chooses to sit down right next to me, smiling and popping her gum. I find gum chewing to be a loathsome sport and think it should be banned. She looks at me and smiles something vaguely predatory. Digging in her purse, she comes up with a cigarette. No one smokes on the bus. It is completely forbidden and has been for a number of years so, at first, I think maybe she is just a smoker who needs to cradle a cigarette in her fingers or something to dull the craving. But this is not the case. She blazes up
right there, blowing smoke out over the empty expanse of the bus. Second hand smoke is much more repellant than actually smoking. I look toward the bus driver’s mirror, hoping to make eye contact with him, hoping he will notice this girl smoking on his bus. But he is oblivious, leaning over the wheel like a buffalo.

  I think it’s the combination of smoking and gum chewing that is really getting on my nerves. Why can’t she just choose one? “I don’t think you’re allowed to smoke here,” I say.

  “Balls to that,” she says, snapping her gum and taking a puff of her cigarette. “I’ll do what I want. I’d like to do you.”

  “Excuse me,” I say, thinking I’ve misheard her.

  “You heard me. I said I’d like to do you. Right here in this seat.” Then she moves her right hand, the one not holding the cigarette, across the seat, allowing it to rest on my crotch.

  The idea is so off-the-wall as to be tempting but she isn’t my type and I will not be able to live with myself if I ever allow myself to be seduced by someone like her. And there is Jacinda. I couldn’t cheat on her.

  The girl leans over and runs her gummy, smoky tongue over my ear.

  “Hey,” I say, trying to push her away.

  But she is persistent, practically on her knees. She is grabbing my hands and putting them all over her generously proportioned body but I only feel more repulsed.

  “I can’t help it,” she says. “I think it’s the hair. You look like a singer or something.”

  That does it. I can’t take it anymore. I shove her from the seat. She goes sprawling into the floor across the aisle. Her skirt pulls up and I notice she is wearing red-striped underwear, like a candy cane. I rush up to the front of the bus. The bus driver, apparently sensing my desire to leave, brakes the bus and opens the door. I rush out of the bus without looking back.

  What the hell is going on? I wonder.

  I don’t even know what part of town I’m in. This probably isn’t good. It doesn’t look like a very good area. I decide to just start walking and avoid any alleyways or abandoned buildings that look like they might be home to gangs.