Soothing the Savage Swamp Beast

by Zakary Mcgaha

  ***

  “I’m sorry, baby. I had an accident. A big, bad accident. I . . . I was sleep-fighting.”

  “Sleep-fighting?”

  “Yes. Sleep-fighting.”

  “As in, there was someone there, in your dream, and you kicked them, and then woke up and realized you kicked the sink?”

  “Yup.”

  “That’s scary, baby,” says Vogel while sitting down at the breakfast table. She pinches the bridge of her nose and says, “Ow.” Her nerves are starting to act up again. They’re acting up in a bad way. Living is starting to hurt. Don’t even mention teaching, that’s unbearable.

  “Well, I’ll get it fixed. I’ll call a man. Don’t worry. This type of thing . . . it won’t be a problem. I’m pretty sure of that. I mean, I’ve never done anything like this before.”

  “That’s almost the scary part.”

  Aldert does a manly thing, for now (more than ever) he’s feeling the urge to spread his masculinity, to let it be known. He lies his hand on her shoulder, gives it a manly squeeze, and says, “Don’t worry, baby. I take care of my family. Also, I’ve noticed a change in you. You used to be fun. Full of life. Full of energy, baby. Tell me, what’s gotten into you, sugar?”

  “Why the FUCK are you talking like that?!”

  “Like what, darlin’?”

  “Like that. You’ve never called me ‘darling’ or ‘honey’ before.”

  “You’re beatin’ around the bush, darlin’. What’s gotten into you?”

  “I don’t know. I guess . . . things have just been getting weird. I’m having second thoughts about deciding not to get a masters and PhD. It’s like . . . I just gave up when I was goin’ so strong! I used to be so full of passion for school and stuff. Then, I don’t know . . . it just died. And here I am. A fucking elementary school teacher at a hick school that will never . . . mark my words . . . never produce a child of any importance to society. It’s like, I could at least teach at some prestigious school where they pop out Einsteins and Michelangelos left and right, but no. I teach in fucking Cadesville.”

  “It’s okay, sugar. This town ain’t all that bad. Sure, some of the people won’t ever amount to much, but that don’t mean you should just give up. Inspire ’em! Make ’em know they can achieve great things once they get out of this godforsaken shit-ass county! Hallelujah!”

  “You’re startin’ to get weird, Aldert. I think that dream was an omen of things to come.”

  “Nah, sugar. Everything’s fine.”

  ***

  Vogel listens to her thoughts on the way to work. They bombard her. They make her feel uneven. This shit has spiraled out of control. First, my dogs get killed. Then a guy’s in my kitchen. And lastly, my husband kicks the fucking sink in while he’s sleeping . . . and don’t even get me started, mind, about his ‘new’ manner of talking!

  Life, it’s weird and unpredictable. However, there’s one thing that’s been providing comfort, and damned if she’s just going to let that comfort sit at home and gather dust while she’s at work. Nope, she’s taking Intentionally Anonymous’s book with her. It’ll provide great reading bliss during lunch and recess. And hell, she may even let the little hellions watch a movie today, all she’ll have to do is put her earbuds in and read by the light of a lamp.

  Later in the day, she does just that. She puts a recently released “family hit” in the DVD player and projects it on the white board. The movie has something to do with pets that can talk, and it’s from Pixar.

  Earbuds in, she starts reading.

  She’s in a new section of the book now. This section is titled “LIFE IN THE SOUTH: PROUD IGNORANCE AND A DISMISSAL OF COUNTRY AND LIBERTY.” Well, hot damn. She knows all too well of this shit, she’s been living it since she was born.

  People in this part of the country are trapped by their own small minds, and they assume there to be a certain law that governs all, a law commonly referred to as “people’s knowledge.” This “people’s knowledge” could also be called business savvy; it could be called many things. But for all purposes here, it is a law as fixed as those of physics. People who abide by this law find it necessary to NEVER (and I will repeat, for matters of emphasis: NEVER) move above and beyond it. You may be wondering, if the believers of people’s knowledge understand that there is, in fact, a point above and beyond it, then wouldn’t it be in their best interests to attain it? The answer, simply, is no. Why, you ask? You will be as dumbfounded as I, but . . . suffice it to say, I simply can’t provide an answer.

  Vogel nods her head. She sees it today, the people in this part of the country are rather averse to the “above and beyond point” of common sense. They believe it to be within common sense to never think differently than the bottom tier of common sense.

  Is that sensible?

  Hell if Vogel knows.

  But it’s the way things are, it’s the way things have been, and that’s that.

  Many times, I have tried convincing people that no, there is something more to life than common sense. However, they are all unwilling to listen, and are very apt to write me off as someone whose opinion should not be considered for anything. I’m beginning to think this is the reason no one believes me about the dogs; they think I have, as the expression goes, “kicked my rocker.” But, Dear Reader, I assure you, I have NOT kicked my rocker, for there is no rocker to kick! There may be a rocker in the future, but I’m certain it has not come yet. And, when it does come, it will be quite obvious whether I have kicked it or not. For instance, could a rocker-kicker produce such beautiful prose? I’d like to think not!

  So sad, being clued into things, yet not being believed. At all.

  Just like now. No one knows of the dogs, but would someone believe? Should she tell? Also, how does she feel about the common sense tiers? She’s certain there’s an above and beyond point but . . . here lately, she hasn’t been reaching for it.

  She stopped reaching for it the minute she decided to pursue the much safer, surer, more stable field of instructing high schoolers (with a concentration in English literature). And what did that entail? A stupid master’s degree in teaching. Fuck teaching! A whole lot of good it’s done these kids thus far . . . in fact, she’s certain it’s been anti-productive for a good lot of them!

  Also, it’s definitely been anti-productive for her. She could be saying, “In several hard, long years, I will have that PhD I so desired, and all this hard work will have actually been for something!” However, all she can say now is, “In several semi-easy, semi-hard years, I will have nothing but a lousy salary and two months of every year with NO PAY! And no further knowledge of literature.”

  Fuck it. It’s sad.

  ***

  Jensen is going along with things. He doesn’t believe in this movie. It’s a bad one. However, it keeps everyone from working.

  He hates to admit it, but he’s getting quite a boner watching Mrs. Vogel read that super old book by the lamp. It’s all picturesque and whatnot. And she’s so PRETTY. It’s like, if you typed “hot bookish girl” into a stock photo website’s search engine, she’d pop up.

  Hot.

  Bookish.

  Yeah.

  He chances a stand and walks to his teacher. “Is it okay if I go to the bathroom?”

  She doesn’t respond. He realizes she has earbuds in, so he gives her shoulder the nudge and repeats his question.

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Okay. Hey, what book you readin’? That looks neat.”

  While she blabbers on about something, he tunes her out and watches the way her chest moves when she talks and breathes. He can see her nipples somehow. Is her bra thin? Or is she not wearing one?

  Eventually, he just walks to the bathroom, disregarding whether or not she’s talking. As he thinks on it, he realizes she’s not so bad. Sure, she’s overzealous and thinks the kids are both more eager and more naïve than they are, but . . . so? Is it bad to be that naïve yourself? Maybe, just maybe, if there were more p
eople like Mrs. Vogel, the world would be a better place. More people who’re passionate and bubbly and happy and whatnot.

  He wonders if there’s ever been a time when he’s been like that himself. Has he always been this cynical? Surely not . . .

  In the bathroom, he pees through his boner (which is something you’re never supposed to do, because it hurts) and tries to think of nasty things that’ll keep him from being too oversexed at school. Turds. Vomit. Pee-in-a-cup.

  It works. He flushes, doesn’t bother washing his hands, and returns to the classroom. However, the minute he sees Mrs. Vogel again (still absorbed in that old book), his erection is back.

  As he’s sitting down, he gets careless and doesn’t cover his boner up. One of Jensen’s female classmates sees, points, and yells: “Mrs. Vogel! Jensen is a creep and he’s pleasuring himself and watching me!”

  Jensen’s woody goes away. He looks around, turns red, starts sweating, and says, “That . . . that stupid cunt’s lying! Oh . . . I meant, uh . . . that upstanding citizen is lying!”

  Mrs. Vogel stands up, huffs, puffs, rips her earbuds from her ears, and yells: “Jensen! Principal! NOW!!!”

  Jensen decides not to argue. Best to let her simmer down. Then explain that it was all a misunderstanding, and that no, he wasn’t pleasuring himself, he just got an unfortunate boner. Also, what’s so bad about a boner? They’re only natural . . . just like butts and backs and heads (tee-hee) and hair.

  He escapes titters and taunts by exiting the room and gently closing the door. He stays and listens. Mrs. Vogel is milling about, causing a ruckus, dropping things, and the majority of the kids are still laughing. He shakes his head and feels the tears well. “Why?” he says in a crackly, hurt voice.

  He starts on his way to the principal’s office, but he’s stopped right after he exits the older grades’ wing and enters the school’s main hallway. “Jensen,” he hears in a Southern drawl. “Whatcha up to, boy? You’re lookin’ mighty distressed.”

  Jensen turns around to face none other than Mister Chad, the weird guy in administration who’s always hanging around school events and pretending he matters in the scheme of things.

  “Um, hey, Mister Chad. Well . . . Mrs. Vogel got real mad at me.”

  “Well, why’s that, son?” asks Chad, putting his hands in his front pockets and leaning down.

  “Well . . . this girl . . . I never paid attention to her name . . . saw that, um . . . I had an erection, which I got on accident, and she told Mrs. Vogel that I was doin’ nasty things when I wasn’t!”

  Chad’s face turns red and he starts stuttering. “Well, I mean . . . that’s quite the predicament, ain’t it, son? To tell ya the truth, I’m not sure what to do about the situation. Were you on the way to see the principal?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, there’s no need for that if it’s an accident, son. I tell ya what, why don’t you keep yourself from gettin’ embarrassed any more and take a walk with me. We’ll smooth things over with Mrs. Vogel and make sure she understands the, um, delicateness of this situation.”

  All Jensen can say is, “Okay,” despite his being truly grateful. It was hard enough (tee-hee) telling Mister Chad what had happened, but it would’ve been even harder explaining it to the principal, considering he’s a super old-fashioned, professional gentleman.

  Their footsteps echo as they walk the deserted hallways. Jensen looks around and tries not to notice the overall goofiness of Chad’s demeanor. It’s like he tried being a business savvy adult, but for whatever reasons it never worked out. Instead, he comes off like an overgrown child imitating an adult. Jensen wonders if he’ll turn out like that himself. Hopefully not.

  Hopefully he won’t be a goofy half-version of a man that’s neither accepted by the rapidly growing, men-weary feminist-type society, or by the already dying, masculinity-worshiping, Baptist biscuit-hounds. Chad is nothing in Jensen’s eyes. Nothing.

  Nothing.

  Nothing.

  Nothing.

  It’s weird, wondering how a man such as him has got on THIS long. How does he have a halfway (at least for this shithole area) respectable job when he’s such a doofus? Hard to imagine.

  “But I won’t have to worry about that,” says Jensen to himself, under his breath. It’s his thoughts breaching into his conscious talking. Weird.

  The couple minutes Jensen has to wait outside Mrs. Vogel’s classroom door while Chad goes in to fetch her . . . are stressful. He listens hard; he wants to pick up on the conversations about him. He wants to be in the know on who’s saying what about him. Is he already not accepted by everyone? Is he already an outcast before high school? It’s starting to look like that . . . a whole lot like that. It’s sad. So fucking sad. He didn’t ask for this shit. No he didn’t! He had to go and get a stupid-ass boner, and that girl had to see it and get the wrong impression, the impression that the boner was for her!

  Ha! For her!

  “Oh, god,” says Jensen, feeling the wooziness. This all seems like a strange nightmare that will soon be over. It’s like those “naked dreams,” where you’re naked in front of people whose opinions you consider. When you’re up there, exposed as who you really are (without all the flashiness and associations that come with manmade clothes), you feel like a helpless, blubbery seal! Well, all be damned! This isn’t a dream, and here comes Vogel through the door with Chad, and her face is all flames, and Chad’s is all confusion.

  “I’m tellin’ ya, Mrs. Vogel, it was all a misunderstanding! Boys have this type of thing happen to ’em from time to time . . . hell! I won’t beat around the bush no more. Boys his age get multiple ’rections a day, and I can’t believe you’d punish a boy for somethin’ that’s perfectly natural. I mean, this isn’t the age of sexual repression, Mrs. Vogel. You can’t make him feel no more ashamed of what sprouted up between his legs than you could a girl for having her time of the month.”

  Vogel says through gritted teeth: “This isn’t like that, Chad.”

  “Then how is it?”

  “My student accused him of pleasuring himself while watching her!”

  “How do we know that student didn’t just assume that when she saw that he had a boner . . . I mean erection.”

  “We . . . we can’t.”

  Chad sighs. “Mrs. Vogel. I’m asking you politely, let it drop. Let this boy back in your classroom, and don’t give him no lip about anything. Don’t make him feel uncomfortable or ashamed for something that’s entirely natural. If you do, I’m gonna have to report you on the grounds of discrimination against the male sex.”

  “Well . . . I never!” Vogel instantly realizes she sounds like an old, proper British lady. Weird how things work out, huh?

  However, she nods her head, and Jensen is allowed back in her classroom.

  ***

  The whole time, for the rest of the day, Jensen gives the girl who accused him of having a boner forher a mean, ghastly, diabolical stare.

  And realizes she’s blushing.

  And so is he.

  ***

  At the day’s end, Jensen is walking from the classroom thinking of how things may look up for him. Right before high school . . . he may get a girlfriend to bone continuously. Who would’ve figured? He sure wouldn’t have.

  Walking to the school’s back, he runs into his savior, Chad.

  “Hey there, bucko,” says Chad, looking too happy. Like he’s glad to have found someone to act fatherly to. “Did everything work out for ya?”

  “Yeah, it did. Thanks for all that. I can’t believe Mrs. Vogel got so bent outta shape. It was weird.”

  “Women are a mystery, son. Say, you don’t much care for music, do ya?”

  “Um . . . yeah. Most kids do,” says Jensen with a don’t-you-know laugh.

  “Well, I’m havin’ a show tonight with my band! Would you like to come down and give us a listen?”

  Jensen is momentarily confused. Chad . . . this big, goofy mongoloid . . . in a band? “Wha
t kind of music?”

  “Why, the lord’s music, son! Bluegrass!”

  Ugh . . . I think I’m gonna be sick. “Uh . . . I’ve never been much on country . . . ”

  “Nonsense! Our outfit is good, son. We’ll turn ya on to it. I’d sure like it if you came. It’s in a church. Come on, it’d do ya some good to get in church.”

  Well . . . he did save me. “Um, sure. What time and where?”

  “I’ll pick ya up! It’d do my heart good to get a young man such as yourself to church.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Innocence of Thought Corrupted

  It’s nearly sunset, and the sky has that . . . feel. Sure, the look is one of beauty, but there is also a feel associated with it. It’s a different sky. Not that monotonous blue sky every sentimental poet dreams so dearly of. No, this sky is wrong. It’s full of blended colors, the way of the universe; the true way. No angles. No solids. Just free collisions.

  The sky, Jensen feels, sums up his move.

  A move away from solid grounding.

  A move into unfamiliar territory. But possibly better territory.

  And there’s Chad-the-man’s car. The man is smiling behind the wheel. He drives a pickup truck, but it’s not rusty. It isn’t that big, either. It’s simple.

  I gives you my loves.

  Jensen shuts the door of his house, thinks not of his parents’ thoughts and emotions, because they don’t matter anymore. They never did, really. This is him. This is his movie.

  He gets in the man’s truck and thanks him for stopping by.

  “Take a look in the back,” says Chad.

  And so Jensen does. There’s a black banjo case. He naively asks if he can touch it.

  “Why sure, son. Go right on ahead.”

  And so he does.

  Does you gives me yours?

  “How . . . how long have you been playin’?”

  “Oh, around twenty years! Started out as a small boy. Ordered my first one from a Sears catalogue after I saw a band perform at my church. Thing is, I never got serious about pursuin’ music as a career ’til now. You nice and buckled in?”

  “Yeah. That’s pretty cool you’ve been playin’ that long. Why didn’t you try to make money off it?”