Authors: Benjamin Weissman
When the doorbell rings the boy sits in his room and grows short of breath. Ding-dong was what I heard while huff and puff emanated from my diaphragm. His mom yells
coming
, and five seconds later answers the door. My guardian screamed,
soon I will be there
, and a few heartbeats after that pulled open a wooden panel that swings on hinges. The boy is 15 years old. I was three years into puberty. The invasion is underway. The act of conquering and pillaging was upon me. His language is inadequate. My use of symbols—whether thought, written, or spoken—forever missed the boat. Paranoid: two voices in his head, simultaneously, fighting to be heard. I’ve had delusions of persecution and it should also be known that I nursed an exaggerated sense of my own importance. One voice is distant, observational, policelike, as if it were narrating all physical and cognitive action. The other was intimate, subjective, which is another way of saying, I’m all about double-talk. First he sees himself behaving in the present moment. Then I found myself blathering on about something I’d just done. Each sentence,
a shadow of its former self
, as they say. There’s a reason he does this: the young lad suffers. I was a schizophrenic. He remains one. Many untrue things were said about me. He doesn’t see himself as a person in the world, but rather a hapless character doing things in a story. I was never among thee. Please note that everything told herewith is true with the exception of the crime. No one prepared me for the psych ward. He is
an unreliable narrator,
as they say. I crawled through thick underbrush to slay the Gorgon. Constance, a lady he does not like, is here to visit his mom. A woman, whose name in Latin means faithful, stormed the homestead in search of my progenitor. This so-called friend of the family treats the lad like he’s a moron. Whenever I was in the presence of the big lady I did something dumb and she made sure I was aware of my idiocy. At some point the boy is expected to make an appearance, to say hello. I, the one and only son, had two minutes to step out to the foyer and salute the Governorness of Creepville. Constance is sexually confusing to the young man. Because of my age and lack of experience in the world I had trouble appreciating a giant woman with a deep voice and a crew cut. Since he remains in his room, frozen stiff on his bed, it is only a matter of time before Constance and his mom barge in and force an encounter. Unwilling to budge, welded to my beloved mattress, the old grandfather clock ticked and tocked in anticipation of the aggressive, uninvited guests, who made it their business to fling open doors and demand conversation. He needs a hiding place. A secret spot was what I so dearly craved. The boy thinks of sequestering himself under his bed or squeezing into the closet. An idea bubble suggested I crawl beneath my sleeping quarters or flatten my body into the tiny room where ghosts have been known to lurk. He considers making himself invisible. I weighed the possibilities of becoming unseeable to the naked eye. The master of subterfuge walks into the bathroom and lays down on his back in the bone-dry tub. I tiptoed into the water closet and assumed a prone position in a vessel ideal for slitting one’s wrists. A bathtub that is never in use. Fortunate me never encountered a pubic hair. The lights are off, the bathroom is dark, a tiny streak of sun comes in through a narrow window above the mirror. There have been times in my life when the rooms I’ve occupied have suddenly felt like caves. Staring at the ceiling the boy prays that no one will see him. With eyeballs directed upward I implored the Almighty himself to let my physical presence go unnoticed. He is anti-matter. I occupied the spirit world. The plan is for Constance and his mom not to look in the bathroom, but if they do perchance venture in to the land of gleaming tile—
please god no, make them not look in the direction of the bathtub.
In the event that they did happen upon hygiene headquarters and their eyes drifted toward the coffin-shaped receptacle—
father of Jerusalem Slim, I beg thee, blind the whores.
Outside a bird chirps out a repetitive sequence that resembles Morse code. I could hear a feathered vertebrate hoo-hooing a complex message on a tree branch. His mother calls out. I was privy to maternal bellows intended specifically for me. Oh Benjamin! Son of Abraham. Come out come out wherever you are. The wolf pack suggested I exit the fairy tale. Then footsteps. I believe the audio went something like
klop klop klop
. Two women stand in the boy’s room. My crib contained a pair of middle-aged broads who maintained upright positions on feet.
Honey, where are you?
his mother asks. An endearment was tossed my way followed by a request to describe the location of my person. The boy holds his breath. I sucked in a chestful of colorless, odorless gases, mainly nitrogen (approximately 78 percent) and oxygen (approximately 21 percent), with lesser amounts of argon, carbon dioxide, neon, and helium. The women walk into the bathroom, flip on the light switch, and look directly at the boy in the tub. With the aid of a finger the two gals were able to turn on an electrical device that enhanced their view of me in a setting that normally involves warm water and bubbles. There he is, as plain as day, or as unorthodox as a lobster on a leash. Me white, you, a large marine crustacean with a chain attached to your collar. Constance (her face flooded with wonder):
What pray tell are you doing in the bathtub?
The question, could you explain your behavior, was tossed my way via the bewildered bully.
Sweetheart, is something wrong?
the boy’s mother worries aloud. An endearment was offered to me by my protector followed by an inquiring thought about my well-being. There are no soothing tugboats or cheerful rubber duckies available to console his anxiety. My state of uneasiness and distress about future uncertainties would not be quelled by the usual bathtub accoutrements that squeak and float. The boy remains motionless. I lay there, unmoving, paws glued to the outer edge of my thighs. An embarrassing moment for the boy. Mortification pulsated through my every pore. Lying down in a dry bathtub with all your clothes on is not a healthy act. As my shoes scuffed the porcelain I asked myself,
what is madness?
An oyster on the half-shell. A useless astronaut who no one wanted. His mother, Gracia, whose name and demeanor rhymes with Geisha, bows her head, looks away. The lady who brought me into the world, a woman of polite manner, steered her face in the direction of the sink.
Are you just going to continue lying there?
Constance asks as one of her eyes begins to close. The lady ogre wanted to know if I intended to spend the rest of my life in that position. Yes, he says. I offered an affirmative.
You are a strange and foolish child
, she says,
sick and in need of immediate attention. See a doctor who specializes in peculiar pipsqueaks,
she continued,
you’re not playing with a full deck. Leave the boy alone,
his mother says, coming to the defense of her blood kin,
you’re pissing me off.
I could swear she said,
Don’t hassel the youngin I once called fetus or I’ll rip out your lungs.
The kid arises. Just like that, I went from supine to upright. Passive resistance never works. I couldn’t turn the other cheek. It’s not a good idea to ridicule a boy whose favorite movie is
Bloodbath 12
. The last time I saw Constance she said my acne made her nauseous. He leaps at the horsy madame and begins to strangle her. With intent to choke, the galloping equine was advanced upon by yours truly. They fall to the tile floor. We crashed to earth, me on top of her. The mother, a trained actress, who’s performed in numerous off-Broadway musicals, screams as the two bodies thump to the ground. With my lips and nose buried in blouse I heard a familiar high-pitched wail. Frau C closes her eyes and stops breathing. What I hoped would happen, did happen.
WICKED MAID CHURNING BUTTER (AFTER MR. ELKIN)
Even as a bear, I was unpopular. But I had no choice. I’d already made the change over, so I had to live with it. As a human, I was a disaster. No better or worse than the average fellow, you might say. No, say I was the worst. Please say it. And I thought being a bear would bring me luck, affection, and, most importantly, more food—perhaps, when by a river, a 10-pound salmon. What was once financially out of my reach at the supermarket would now be a claw’s grab away. With some practice and a little inner fortitude I could do that. After my operation, I rumbled straight to the beautiful Sequoias of California, and the second I arrived I had sex with the biggest, hairiest bitch-bear the world has ever known—hear me out on this—she took my paw in her paw and jammed it between her legs. Once inside, she plunged it around like a wicked maid churning butter. Yes, my arm ached, but oh … and after it was over, after we kissed and banged noses, I gingerly pulled my arm out of her crotch and lifted it into the air to see dripping from my sopping limb a glistening blur of uterine juices. Then, of course, we did other things, things only a heart should know. I’m not bashful, I’m a bear; I always will be. My hearing’s improved. I have not changed my name, I am forever Benjy, remember me? the stupid lonely jerk—sad and smelly, but at least I fucked a bear, what have you done?
High anxiety sweeps through the hamlet of Frost Heave after the Monkey Man killer claims another victim, this time a postman, who was found impaled on one of his ski poles, mail satchel strapped to his back, no letter disturbed, three claw marks streaked across his frightened frozen face. A modest pile of cash, not enough to really change one’s life, but a decent amount to make days and nights pass with greater ease, is being offered by the police to the citizen who supplies info leading to capture.
I was alone, reading the newspaper on the green tongue, our L-shaped sectional that has absorbed many years of coffee, whiskey, mango purée, lima bean mash, drool, dog ass, kimchee, a sampling of some of the best music ever recorded, leaky ballpoint pens, and a porcupine quill. My roommate, Dan, appeared out of nowhere. First no sign of life, and then, abracadabra, twitchy itchy Dan, dressed head to toe in black Carhartt, eyes blackened with baseball makeup, but no league games scheduled in winter with snow covering the ground like thick cake frosting.
Fleeing the notorious Monkey Man killer who swung from a vine above the Fountain of the Bashful Explorer, a bride and her sisters plus one aunt ran with flowers in their hair down a steep flight of stairs toward the foyer. The groom, trailing his future wife by only a few steps, suffered greatly for his slower feet by tripping on his unusually long coattails and tumbling down a hundred stairs, striking his head numerous times. Similar sadness occurred when a Frost Heave baker, fearing attack, jumped to his death from the roof of his bakery. Lonely, yeasty dough rose without the powerful kneading hands of its maker as police detectives scoured the white, flour-filled area for clues.
Grieving doesn’t come naturally to me. Maybe if I comforted the baker’s shy daughter at the funeral, who was crying and in need of comfort, she’d have sex with me on the floor of the bakery. She’d lift up her skirt and bounce on top of me, growl and cuss, choke a little death into me with her bare hands. Maybe that would relieve her sadness. That was what I hoped for. Question: Who will make the buttermilk donuts now that the baker is gone?
Groups of frustrated men are taking to the streets waving sticks, scissors, swords, tridents, and scimitars. Hoping to entice MMK, who might very well be an alien from a planet that sneaks glances at earth, the vigilantes carried perfectly ripe bananas with a faint streak of green on the skin as bait.
A confident chef turned his back on the flame and multitasked. I grilled onions but I was not physically in the kitchen.
“What are you cooking?” Dan asked. “What are you doing with the onions?”
“Potatoes Lyonnaise,” I said.
Since Dan and I worked different shifts at the same restaurant we rarely inhabited the same room at the same time, but today we did, and it surprised me how nervous he behaved. I successfully calmed him down with a discussion about caramelizing onions, how important it is to allow them time to break down, to be patient and not incessantly stir or flip the translucent fellas which look like wiggly worms when tripping on acid, to give them their own private time with the heated oil, to brown in a skillet without distraction, otherwise the eater will not experience the remarkable transformation from harsh, tear-inducing bulb to silky sweet vegetable candy.
“Caramelization proclamation,” we said in unison, but this time we did not tap knuckles like we usually do when we see eye to eye.
I took my dog Leslie, who hobbled gracefully on three legs, born without the fourth, out for a walk. Her fur is the color of wet sand. She liked the feel of fresh snow on her paws. When we approached the Fountain of Mystical Formulations I realized I was walking in my sleep, that I had not officially woken up from the previous night’s slumber. Or maybe I did and Dan sprinkled snooze dust into my hair. “Sleepwalker, take yourself home now,” I said to myself, but I just stood there, teetering left foot, right foot. Once the perverse aroma of night blooming jasmine entered my nostrils my eyes fluttered open. Awake, I bore witness to a little gentleman who performed an unusual act, but my frozen blood and trembling arms caused temporary inaction on my part, and a mild form of blindness. Was the little gentleman Dan?
The Monkey Man has three buttons on its chest. One allows it to become a monkey, the second gives it extra strength, the third makes it invisible. When he touches a locked door, the knob falls off and breaks.
Dan and I first got to know each other over the restaurant’s bouillabaisse, and how it was originally brought by angels to the Three Marys when they were shipwrecked on the bleak shores of the Camargue. We lamented about our bouillabaisse and how much it sucked because frozen rock fish lacks the high gelatin content necessary for creating that slightly cloudy look, not to mention all the microscopic finny tidbits that make each slurp oceanic bliss.