by Sam Pink
‘Cool shirt, dude,’ I said.
He nodded, top teeth over bottom lip, eyes wide open, shooting the squirt gun into the pool.
I watched the rest of the reptile show from behind the sliding glass door in the kitchen.
The man in charge of the reptile show seemed to have elicited, then quickly denied, raised hands.
Eventually, he pulled out the baby alligator.
Oh man.
It was beautiful.
The glorious baby alligator, staring out at the kids like, ‘What the fuck is this shit?’
Looking so truly pissed.
Looking like it just wanted to have a little stromboli snake and party its fucking nuts off like the rest of us.
There it was, on display.
The centerpiece.
Kids lined up to touch the baby alligator while the guy held its mouth shut.
12
My girl, too, was broke.
She’d had a few freelance video-editing jobs, but then, the brokening …
We were not what you might call a financial powerhouse couple.
So she’d recently gotten a job at some bar/restaurant in the next town over.
And apparently there was this older lady who’d been coming in and always complaining.
My girl’s main enemy.
Tonight, there was another such incident.
My girl came home shaking her head.
She put her hands on my shoulders, kicking off her cowboy boots.
There’d been—she explained, sitting down at the counter—an incident with some chili.
‘Wuh oh!’ I said loudly, turning on the sink to do the dishes.
The lady had come in for lunch, with a friend.
‘She orders the chili,’ my girl said, both arms on the countertop, gesturing with her hands. ‘Fine, chili. Great. But then, like, thirty seconds after I drop it off, she waves me over. I go over and she starts complaining that there aren’t any beans in the chili.’
She paused at this part of the story, holding a pose that was like preparing to receive a football at chest-level.
‘Was it Donna Leighy?’ I said. ‘Taking a break from running Aberdeen?’
She ignored me and said, ‘It says nothing about beans on the menu, and yet, here we are.’
‘No beans,’ I said, putting a dripping plate on the counter next to me.
‘No beans,’ she repeated. ‘Not, a single, bean.’
‘Quite simply without beans,’ I said. ‘As though existing in a universe that would experience no real fundamental change if beans didn’t exist.’
‘Yeah, exactly. Like how it says on the menu.’
And what’s more, my girl explained—with a pained look on her
face—the lady began sifting through the chili with her spoon, to demonstrate.
‘She was—’ my girl said, doing the sifting motion and making a face. Sifting through the chili with the spoon to demonstrate.
Demonstrate that there were no beans.
Not, a single, bean.
‘Fuck,’ I said, laughing.
‘THEN,’ she said, holding the sides of her face, ‘her friend started doing the sifting thing.’
‘Fuck,’ I said, closing my eyes and shaking my head.
I immediately regretted knowing about/picturing the sifting.
My girl just nodded, her eyes wide, holding the sides of her face.
‘I mean, it’s just ridiculous,’ she said, imitating the lady, capturing what was, no doubt, the dawning terror one might experience upon searching—yea, sifting through the very grains of time’s fleeting caress, the very chili within us all—but finding no beans.
Not, a single, bean.
I pictured the lady squirming a little, needing to get away from the chili.
I mean, you agree with me, right? she says, looking around but finding only laughing faces.
Even the chili, laughing.
You believe me?
There’s no beans …
[quietly] I mean, come on …
Breathing heavily.
Pushing herself back against the booth as if to escape the infinite gaze of the beanless nightmare.
Turning her head side to side quickly, shrieking, pulling out her own hair, slashing at her wrist with the butter knife.
But no.
Nothing.
No escape.
And still, no beans.
‘I mean, I’ll eat it, but jeez,’ my girl said, imitating her. She did the sifting motion again, making a face. ‘I mean, come on. Sheesh.’
It was heartbreaking.
I felt a moment of heartache for this person, who will, to be sure, never, under any circumstances, even those chosen by she herself, truly—truly-really-ever—find the beans she wants.
Because some of us do.
And some of us don’t.
Hell, some of us look right at them and can’t even see.
It was truly heartbreaking.
I was smiling.
‘I guess that’s one of the consequences of repeatedly going somewhere you hate,’ I said, rinsing a fork.
My girl nodded, rubbing her eyes and yawning.
‘Sucks,’ she said.
I tossed the fork onto the counter.
It clanged loudly.
‘See, that’s why, in my world, things would be different,’ I said, raising my voice. ‘Ok, things would be a lot different. All right?’
She smiled.
‘Tellem, baby,’ she said.
I kept raising my voice.
‘First off, no more beans in ehhhHHHEHNYONE’S chili. Ok? No more beans in anyone’s chili, AND, no more beans at all. Not only gone, but if you acknowledge the history/previous existence of beans, you’re DEAD.’
I screamed, ‘You hear me? Ok? How’s that for starters?’
I squeezed the sponge under the faucet and grabbed another dish.
‘Oh, and next, I’d have that lady come up onstage with me during a live/televised rally, and I’d say, Hey, look what you did. You just had to have your fucking beans and now you know what, no one is going to have ANY fucking beans. And I would say “any” in a really angry way. AEHHHHHHENNNNY fucking beans,’ I screamed, feeling pressure in my neck. ‘In fact, if AAHHENYone—even myself—mentions AEHHENY kind of bean after this fucking sentence, they’re dead.’ Then I spoke with quiet anger. And it’s all your fault. Are you happy now? It’s because of you. You ruined it. It’s all your FUCKING fault. You FUCKING shithead.’
I calmed down, holding my hands under the hot water.
‘Can’t wait to quit,’ she said, taking off her work-mandated headband. ‘Like even just having the idea of it right now, ooh.’
‘AEHHHHHENNNY,’ I yelled again.
She laughed. ‘I knew there was one more. Goodnight.’
She went to bed.
I washed the last couple dishes in silence.
Goddamnit.
Fucking shitheads.
They ruin everything.
It’s true.
They always do.
You can’t escape it.
Everything is the way it is because the shitheads already fucked it up.
Every time you’re not allowed to do something, it’s because of some shitheads.
Some shitheads came along and fell in.
Got cheated.
Bumped their head.
Burned/electrocuted themselves.
Broke something.
Left unhappy.
Misunderstood something.
Felt insulted.
Couldn’t win.
Whatever.
Something.
They fucked it up.
They always do.
Fucking shitheads.
‘Hey, actually do you want to go for a walk?’ she said, coming back out in a T-shirt of mine and her underwear.
We went for a walk and smoked a joint.
It was steamy out.
The bugs beeped and whirred.
I tri
ed to outline my plan to have the white ibis live inside with us, which I thought could be achieved by leaving a dollar bill under a propped-up box that would then fall on it and capture it.
‘I just imagined it pecking Bam’s head while Bam is sleeping,’ she said.
We laughed.
We walked down a dark part of the road, peacocks yelling from somewhere.
Eeh AH! Eeh YaH!
I offered her the last of the joint but she shook her head and I threw it into the bushes.
When we returned to the dead end by our place, this cat came walking out of the darkness.
It approached us in a slow trot, making a weird murmuring sound.
It walked right up to my girl.
‘Oh hi,’ she said.
She knelt down and the cat jumped into her arms.
He was black with a white snout/throat and white paws, almost fully, if not fully, grown.
‘Oh my god his belly is so fat,’ my girl said.
‘Check out his little furry ball sack,’ I said, pointing.
‘Can you hear him purring?’
We took him home and put him in the garage.
I went inside and got a can of tuna and a bowl.
When I cracked the can he did the most awful croaking and pained-sounding meow I’d ever heard and for a second I actually thought he’d just died.
‘Reeeeeaghhhhhhgggg,’ he meowed, walking circles around my legs. We watched him eat the tuna.
He’d take a few loud/smacking bites, then walk over to either of us, sitting on the garage floor, and rub his head against us.
We named him Benito ‘Benny’ Bahama.
When he was done eating, he curled up in one of Bam’s old beds that we’d been meaning to throw out. A filthy small brown beanbag type of thing.
Benny curled up in it, then went to sleep.
And then he basically just started living at the house.
He lived in or around the garage, wandering out into the woods and bayou but always coming back, especially if I went outside and cracked a can or called, ‘Behhhhhhhneeeee.’
He started responding to ‘Benny’ right away.
Benny Bahama.
I started hanging out outside more, painting in the garage, or walking around the driveway kicking a pinecone for him to chase.
He followed me around no matter where I went, right by my side, like an unshaven rifle-toting commander who deeply dislikes me but knows he wouldn’t be all right with himself if something happened to me.
Jawing a dry cigar stump.
Referring to me as a ‘lily-livered bitch.’
Picture of a naked woman in his helmet.
That sort of thing.
He was fucking crazy.
Sometimes he’d just freak out, ears going sideways, run full speed and climb ten feet up a palm tree, then jump back down into the bushes.
So one day I was outside having my coffee with him.
I grabbed a BB gun I’d recently found in the garage and took a Christmas ornament off the workbench.
I hung the Christmas ornament on a tree branch and walked twenty feet away.
I levered the BB gun lever and aimed from twenty feet away.
Foonk the spring released and sent the BB through the ornament with a small cracking sound.
I took another shot at the Christmas ornament and missed, BB pecking through leaves.
There was a beer bottle on the ground. I shot it and it shattered a little.
I walked to the backyard, Benny following ahead and running into the bushes.
There was a lemon tree further in the woods, with lemons hanging off it, in various stages of ripeness.
I levered the BB gun.
Reenk.
Then shot.
Foonk.
The BB hit the lemon and some juice came out.
Yeah.
I spit to the side. Fuck you, lemon.
I held up the BB gun and foonk let the spring ride, hit the lemon again, juice dripping out.
I shot at the tree until I ran out of BBs.
Then I called, ‘Behhhhneeeee.’
Benny came running out of some bushes, with a leaf stuck to his head.
He picked a random spot on the lawn and lowered his ass.
He started shitting, eyes half closed in troubled ecstasy.
Expelling liquid shit in convulsions, hovering his ass downward, both eyes nearly shut, squirting out shit with a shaking of his ass.
I was laughing so hard.
It was, perhaps, one of the funniest things I’d ever seen.
Yes, I was afraid it was the sign of an animal about to die, much as I have thought about myself when taking similar shits.
But, whatever.
Live on, Benny, live on.
He finished and tried to cover it up with the grass.
He meowed his awful meow.
Like his throat was made of popped bubble wrap, twisting.
Which—it then became clear—was because frogs must’ve taught him how to meow.
It sounded like a meow filtered through a frog croak.
Jesus.
Little Benny of the bushes, raised by frogs.
His shit smelled awful.
He came over and rubbed his head against my leg.
I picked some leaves off his head.
He went to bite me but I flicked his ear.
13
My girl’s cousin came over after her kickboxing exercise class to pay me for the fabric markers since she never did ohhhhhhhh and also to inform us about having a Girl Scout sleepover at the house—the one we lived in—that weekend.
It just—happened.
We went from living in a house where there wasn’t going to be a Girl Scout sleepover to one where that would be happening.
All of them, her cousin, her cousin’s daughter and her entire troop, plus probably one other mom, sleeping over.
‘Don’t worry, we’ll bring everything, but could j’all make sure the place is clean, ya slobs! Nah I’m just kidding. But for real, otherwise you won’t get any pizza!’
Ok, no problem.
Yes of course.
‘Thank ya kindly,’ she said. Oh and also …
‘Since you’re such an artist and all, Mr. Artist Man,’ she said, grabbing me by the bicep, ‘we were thinking, you could draw each of the girls and then maybe they color them in? We’re gonna have them pick a word and add it underneath the drawing. It’s a night about empowered women. That’s our theme.’
So, I’d do a portrait of each of them so they could color it in and decorate it with a word that meant something to them.
‘That sound good, Artist Man?’ she said, making a face at me and wobbling her head. ‘Yeh think yeh can do that, van Gogh?’
‘Van of course,’ I said, still more focused on the idea of being part of a Girl Scout sleepover than listening.
But then I remembered …
No …
‘Hey actually,’ I said, as she patted my shoulder and went to leave. ‘What do you mean? I don’t know about that. I can’t really draw realistic faces. Like I know I did the gecko so awesome, but.’
I followed her to the doorway.
Dotty watched through a handrail above.
‘I can’t do it,’ I said.
‘What,’ she said, ‘it’ll be fine. Chelsea loves her swimsuit. The girls are gonna love it. It’ll be great.’
I tried to tell her it was different with faces, especially if it was supposed to look like someone.
They’d always look sinister or evil or whatever.
Flat-out fucking weird.
And since it was Girl Scouts, and the entire theme of the night was empowering women, I figured, like, you know, instead of ruining their self-esteem and all …
‘How bout I teach them to play the drums?’ I said.
‘It’ll be fine,’ she said, leaving out the front door, lizards fleeing the front steps.
Fuck.
Shit.
> I stood in the doorway, watching Dotty lick her paw.
Is that what I look like? they’ll think, holding the picture.
They’ll look at the drawing and just die.
Oh god I’m a freak. Jesus fucking Christ.
They’d see some freakish and taunting face staring back, the face of a nightmare’s very soul, and it was supposed to ‘be them’?
What the fuck.
I was screwed.
Already panicking.
Then none of it mattered to me because I decided to run away from home the night before the sleepover.
Simple.
I would not be drawing them.
I would not do it.
I could not face them.
I would live off canned beans down by the railroad tracks, with Benny (and hopefully the white ibis), around a campfire, our only currency the grit that makes us heroes.
Because I would not be to blame for ruining these girls’ lives—that should happen naturally, like with everyone else.
Fuck.
At an advanced age, they’d just be thinking, ‘Man, I could’ve been so much more if that asshole didn’t make me think I was such a freak growing up. What an asshole. What a fucking asshole.’
Staring down at that burnt-looking needle in her arm, cigarette burning through her shitty jeans, a daytime talk show on in the background as she lies down and sleeps and vomits and dies.
Damnit.
All because of me.
A serial killer, really.
Why not.
Let’s just call this what it is.
Here, judge [holding my hands forward].
Lock me up.
Cause I’m fucking guilty, ok.
I killed each and every one of those girls, don’t be fooled.
I’m a bad man.
I’m a shithead.
I’m useless.
Put me away.
[Then go for the cop’s gun so I get shot, making everyone’s day.]
Fuck.
My throat felt tight.
‘Hey, would you eat pancakes if I made some?’ my girl called from the kitchen.
‘Yeah I’ll take like four,’ I said.
14
So then, of course, we didn’t clean anything until the day of the sleepover.
An hour before the sleepover, my girl and I were on the deck clearing off Bam’s turds.
The Ham Man himself lay nodding off in the waning sun, his beautiful tiny deer head baking.
My girl was using a mechanical arm/grabby thing her brother had to grab and fling the turds over the edge into the yard/marsh.
