After nearly an hour of walking, I reach an area I am vaguely familiar with although it is still a good distance from my apartment. I wonder why the bus driver was even out this direction. It doesn’t even seem like he was going in the general direction of the apartment. Unless I got turned around somewhere along the way, which was a very distinct possibility. I’ve never been very good with directions. Or maybe the same bus didn’t always follow the same route. Maybe the route was different before noon than it was during rush hour. Whatever. There isn’t any point in thinking about it now.
It is early afternoon and I figure I probably have about another hour of walking to do. My feet hurt and I just want to be home, resting on my couch. I wonder if Jacinda is going to be there. I have the revelation that I have to break up with her. At first, I pretend not to know where this notion comes from but it doesn’t take me long to think about it before I realize I know exactly where it comes from. That girl on the bus. That hideous girl on the bus. She liked my hair. She liked it a lot. She was overcome by it. It was enough to make her want to have sex with a complete stranger on the bus. She said it made me look like a singer. Singer, rock star, I figure it’s really all the same. So, somewhere in my mind, I equate that girl with Jacinda and this somehow taints Jacinda. I know I can never look at her in the same way. Not to mention that she is the one who gave me this haircut. She can, to a certain extent, be held entirely responsible for today’s events.
As I am thinking these thoughts, something else occurs.
I am attacked.
It’s not as bad as it sounds, really. It is just an old woman but she is clearly crazy, brandishing a cane. I have always found something sinister about canes like, at any moment, the bearer of the cane could reach out and slap me across the head. This crazy old woman does just that.
“Heathen! Whoremonger!” she shouts.
I can’t even fathom why she thinks her outdated words are insults but I am unnerved nonetheless. She moves fast for an old woman. Almost supernaturally fast. I take off running but I have to go a good two blocks before I am out of her cane’s reach. My back is burning with the swats. I think she caught me on the side of the knee with one of the blows.
On the good side, this run speeds up my arrival at the apartment. Once I have lost the screaming old lady for good, the apartment is only a block away. I get to the door, panting and out of breath, and use my key to get into the communal foyer before walking up the stairs and thinking about how tired and rubbery my legs feel.
When I open the door to the apartment, a comforting breakfast smell greets me. Jacinda stands in the kitchen, spatula in hand, and says, “Eggs. A whole lot of em.”
The kitchen table is covered in scrambled eggs, heaped up, yellow and steaming.
“That is a whole lot of eggs,” I say.
“You bet,” she says. “Nothing is too much for my man.”
I cringe at the thought. Never did I think that phrase would come from Jacinda’s mouth. I see a weakness there I never saw before and I don’t like it. It only reaffirms my thoughts about what I have to do.
“Why are you sweaty and out of breath?” she asks.
“You wouldn’t believe it,” I say only, secretly, I think she really would understand.
“Hmmm,” she says. She looks confused for just a second or two, like she was going to say something but forgot what it was, and then says, “Eggs.”
“I’ve got to do something about this hair,” I say.
“Oh no you don’t,” she says.
“I have to. I can’t live like this.”
Knowing she is going to try and stop me, I charge toward the bathroom, shutting and locking the door once inside. With the door locked, I feel safe. I feel like I can do exactly what I want to do. I look in the mirror just to make sure the haircut hasn’t grown on me. Of course it hasn’t. It is ridiculous. Absurd. It just isn’t me. No. That’s not right. I know that’s not right. Maybe it is too me. Certainly, I am ridiculous and absurd, not to mention a million other unflattering things. Well, that may be the case, but the hair still has to go. Having never been good with the scissors before, I pull my battery-powered clippers from the vanity drawer. Previously I have only used these to trim my sideburns but now I am going to take the hair down to the scalp. I am terrified of the shape of my skull but I can’t keep this ridiculous farce on my scalp any longer.
There is a wettish plopping sound, repeating continually against the door. I imagine Jacinda is outside, throwing scrambled eggs at the door. I want to tell her to stop but know that won’t do any good. She will do it until I have to leave the bathroom to go out and make her stop. Which is exactly what she wants. But I am not leaving the bathroom until the work is done. I slide the switch of the clippers to the ON position. The sound is somewhat satisfying, like summer insects, and the job only takes a couple of minutes.
Now finished, I don’t like the result but it is better than what was on it before.
I open the door, wondering how Jacinda will react to my latest haircut.
Wading through scrambled eggs, I find her in the kitchen curled into a ball. She looks up at me with something like hate.
“No,” she says. “I can never love you with that haircut.”
As soon as she says this I realize I don’t want to break up with her. The thought of her leaving makes me want her to stay more than anything. I want to uncover her mysteries. Find out who she really is. Standing there, not a strand of hair on my head, I feel naked and exposed, like she can see right into my brain.
“It’ll grow out,” I say. “It’s just hair.”
“No. I can’t...” she stands up, tears running down her cheeks. She reaches the front door and casts a sad look back in my direction, letting her hand flutter in something like a wave.
I wander over to the couch and sit down, waiting for my hair to grow.
The Fancy Hairs
Carl was middle-aged. He was free. He had new hair.
His circle of friends waited for him in the parking lot.
He approached them. They clapped him on his flannel-clad back. Carl kept his hands in the pockets of his new pants, the deepest shade of blue and skin tight.
“That’s some crazy ass hair, Carl.” Steve was the first to notice.
“Crazy as shit,” Bob said.
“Fancy,” said Frank.
Carl had had his hair professionally permed that morning and was beginning to feel slightly embarrassed about picking a hairstyle that was so ostentatious. He nervously shifted from foot to foot and ran a hand over his fancy hair.
The next week they all stood in the same parking lot and they all had perms. They smoked their unfiltered cigarettes and whistled at the young girls as they got out of their cars.
Mister God
Famous now, I finish jacking off in the first groupie’s face while the second tongues my asshole. I roll out of bed, light an imported cigarette and pull on my leather pants and mesh shirt, complemented by a silver cape. I stroll outside to my car where the driver is sleeping at the wheel, waiting. Waiting for me to tell him what to do.
The paperboy buzzes by on his bike. “Good morning, Mr. God,” he says, handing me the paper.
“Fuck off, you little shit,” I snarl.
I get into the car and crush my cigarette out on the driver’s face to wake him up. He screams and I spit in his wound and he shuts up because my spit is curative, as are all of my fluids.
“Where to, Boss?” the driver asks.
“Take me to heaven,” I say, laughing. “Take me to fucking heaven.”
Handsome
I wake up and realize I’m the best looking man in the world. I study myself in the mirror. I am stunning, breathtaking. My eyes are a penetrating blue, set deep into my head and framed perfectly by black eyelashes and perfectly arched black eyebrows. My jawline is strong and chiseled. My cheekbones are high and just the slightest bit flushed.
I inspect myself for hours but I can’t find a single flaw.
People have to see me. I have to get out of the house. My parents are in the kitchen but, luckily, their backs are turned as they work away at the dishes. I don’t want them to fawn over me.
I step outside onto a crowded street and am overcome by the feeling that being beautiful is now hopelessly out of fashion.
Everyone looks like a walking Picasso. They have had their eyes rearranged so they sit atop one another, or on each side of their heads. Many have had their noses surgically enhanced or, in some cases, lopped off altogether. Slings, casts, and bandages abound from where they have had their arms and legs broken so they’ll grow back in some unnaturally twisted form.
One girl with a giant deformed nipple protruding from her neck throws a glance at me and rolls her hideous eyes back into her ears.
The Joys and Hardships of Having a Famous Mother
One morning my mother had Wilford Brimley come over and make some Quaker Oats for my breakfast. I walked downstairs and she told me she was going back to bed. Something about her jaw being sore. Mr. Brimley moved deftly around the kitchen as I lit up a Lucky and downed a quick shot of whiskey.
“That stuff’ll kill ya,” Mr. Brimley said, sliding the bowl in the microwave.
“What the hell, you’re only thirteen once,” I said.
He chuckled. “Well, I guess yer right about that.” In a couple of minutes he sat the bowl down on the table in front of me. I took a bite and choked it down.
“How is it?” he asked.
“Tastes like shit, Brimley,” I answered.
“You rude little cocksucker! I oughta bust that bowl over yer fuckin punkass head!”
I stood up and threw the bowl at his glowering red face.
“Well then, you shuldn’ta fuckin asked me!”
I went upstairs to my room where Julie was showered and waiting for me. I rolled over after we finished and handed her a washcloth to wipe the come from her chin. Reaching into my nightstand, I pulled out a joint, lit it, and inhaled. After passing her the joint and exhaling, I told her, “That fucking Brimley’s a real jerk.”
“I’m sorry he ruined your breakfast, baby.”
“Where did Mom find you, doll?”
She smiled and blew smoke against my face, suckling my earlobe.
The Thinker and The Fleabumps
The Fleabump girls do not know he is a writer. They just know he is quiet. One day, Polly Fleabump approaches him and asks, “Whatcha thinkin about?”
“Death metal,” he responds, flashing her devil horns with his fingers and stealing a quick glance at the hole in the upper thigh of her jeans.
She calls him a dick and goes back to Molly Fleabump, her ugly gimp sister.
Tight
Rod checks out his new pants in the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door. They couldn’t be any tighter. He can plainly see the outline of his keys in his pocket and, more importantly, the outline of his cock. “That looks good,” he thinks. “No lady can resist a dick like that.” He does a couple of knee bends to see if he’ll be able to dance effectively at the bar tonight. He turns around to check and make sure his ass looks nice. While looking at his ass, he also makes sure his glistening perm is holding up. Maybe he’ll have to visit the stylist at the end of the week.
He walks out of the house, enjoying the way his Camaro looks parked in the driveway. He’s been thinking about painting flames on it. The afternoon sun casts long shadows. “Just a few things to do and then I’ll be dancing.” When he gets out to his car he tries desperately to pull the keys from his pocket, but he can’t quite get them out. “Fuck it,” he grunts beneath his mustache. With his hand half-stuck in his pocket, he begins hopping up and down, hoping to loose the keys that way. On his last descent, the heel of his cowboy boot comes down crooked and he goes sprawling into the sidewalk. He growls and rolls around on the ground and tries to stand up. It is a lost cause. The pants are just too tight. “This is fuckin embarrassing,” he thinks.
Two of the neighbors come by. He knew someone would see him.
“Hey there, Rod,” the man says. “You mean to be down there on the ground like that?”
“I'm all right,” Rod says. “Just down here checkin out the bottom of the Camaro.”
“You’re a good two feet from the car,” the woman says. “Are you injured?” Rod can feel the nasty scrape on his head.
“I’m fine,” he barks.
“Let me give you a hand.” The man thrusts his arm toward Rod.
Reluctantly, Rod takes hold and lets the man hoist him up. “Thanks,” he says, sheepishly bowing his head.
The man leans into Rod, “Just between you and me, you might wanna wear some pants that aren’t so, you know, tight.”
Rod turns without saying a word. He just wants to go back into his house and cut the pants off. As he’s walking away, Rod hears the man say, “That guy thinks he’s Lionel Richie or somethin.”
This makes Rod mad but he realizes he wouldn’t be able to pick a fight with this guy. He might fall down. “There will be another day,” Rod thinks.
Mobile Desk
Over a span of 83 years, the old writer moves 25 times. Each time he moves he keeps his writing area the same.
He has an ancient black desk with a narrow drawer in the middle. On top of this desk sits his typewriter, perfectly centered. In the right-hand corner is the same pale green lamp with its paper brown shade. To the immediate left of the lamp there is a picture of his wife and children. He keeps a ream of blank typing paper on the right side of the typewriter. Printed papers go on the left side. Dali’s Impressions of Africa hangs above the left half of the desk.
The writer considers himself a Surrealist.
The Author
I watch him when I’m out in my yard. He sits in a chair that rocks occasionally and stares out the window, sipping coffee and smoking cigarettes. Sometimes he listens to beautiful music that floats out of the yellow interior. As I catch strains of it, soft and wind-borne, the music makes me feel good.
Every now and then people come to visit him. I don’t get the impression they are family. Most of them are quite a bit younger than him. College students and professors, I suppose. Sometimes they stay overnight. I read their license plates and realize some of them have traveled all the way across the country.
Curious, I try to read one of his books. I can’t figure out why people like him. I throw the book across the room and it lies there in the corner, a broken heap. I go back outside to stare over at his house, three cars in the driveway. I reassure myself by thinking these people must have come all these great distances to listen to his beautiful music.
Legless
I’m going to the supermarket downtown to buy some coffee and eggs when I see Sammy the Legless outside. This isn’t at all abnormal. He has been sitting outside the supermarket three out of four times I’ve been.
“Hey, Sammy!” I call.
He nods and smiles beneath his baseball hat. Smiles a little larger than usual, I think. What could make him smile so large?
While picking out my purchases I overhear the squat cashier talking to a regular customer. Some piece of bar trash I’ve noticed wandering around the town.
“You fucked Sammy?” the customer asks.
“Well, kinda. He’s got some nerve damage down there so he has some trouble getting it up most of the time. But I got him out of that chair and all laid back in the bed. Well, at this point, I was kinda wonderin what to do. But I had that horrible fuck ache, ya know? You ever go a whole day and just know yer gonna get it at the end of the day?”
“Oh yeah, sister.”
“Yeah, well, so I has him back on the bed and I’m lickin that thing and I know it’s gonna be huge if he gets it up but there ain’t nothing happenin. And I says to him, ‘Feel good, baby?’ ‘N he just looks at me from unnerneath that stupid hat ‘n says, ‘I can’t feel a thing.’ So at this point I’m thinkin, Well one of us is gonna be gettin off one way or the other so I
take off my panties and climb onto his face.”
“Oh yeah? How was that?”
“That little fucker’s got a tongue that’ll go all the way up to yer stomach, let me tell you. God, I couldn’t stop comin. When we got finished I felt sorta bad for him so I asks, ‘Ain’t there nothin I can do, baby?’ ‘N he tells me about the dildo in his closet.”
“He wanted to watch you use the dildo?”
“No! He wanted me to shove it up his ass!”
“Really?”
“Yeah, turns out he can’t feel hardly nothin in his dick but he’s got a highly sensitive asshole. The second I slid it in he started spurtin all over the place.”
I creep by the customer and put my purchases on the counter.
“That all, sir?” the cashier asks.
“That’s it,” I say.
About the Author
Andersen Prunty lives in Dayton, Ohio. Visit him on the web at www.andersenprunty.com.
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