by Jeff Parker
Mostly the usual stuff. He shines the flashlight on an expensive-looking silver luggage set. He climbs toward it but once there his eye catches something back in the corner of the compartment. He points the flashlight and sees the very same Phuket Thailand bag he stole the CD player from. This had never happened before, that he’d encountered the same bag twice.
He climbs over the expensive silver luggage set and punches the Phuket Thailand bag, not knowing exactly what to expect. It does not react. He unzips it and shines the flashlight in. It’s packed much like it was before, like it’s missing something about the size of a body. He climbs in and pushes his shoulders back into the flannels, extends his legs as far as they’ll go. He zips himself in. The bag is longer and stretchier than his father’s suitcase.
He takes out the stolen CD player, fits the headphones over his ears, and starts the piano music again, dulling the bus noise to a background buzz. He breathes in the smell of this kid’s bag—not nuts exactly, more like the underneath of library desks. He closes his eyes. He grips denim, feels his hands into a small cardboard box. He shakes it and it flutters. Band-Aids, he guesses. He sees only dark and hears only this strange piano music. He puts the box of Band-Aids into his pocket.
It’s more comfortable in this bag, Hryushka thinks. I feel all here.
When the Greyhound comes to a full stop—how did he miss the pulling off the highway?—he doesn’t hit pause on the CD player. The door on the luggage compartment roars open, annoying him. He’s lifted with the Phuket Thailand bag and thrown on the sidewalk.
Hryushka hears people move all around him, picking up other cases that are not him. It seems like he waits forever, for all of the buses to pull away, for someone to give the now seventy-pound heavier Phuket Thailand bag a puzzled tug, and then comes the unzippering.
When the bright bus station lights shine in, Hryushka prepares a big smile for a boy who turns out to look exactly like he expected him to look. They stare into each other’s faces, each of them thinking the other is something he is not. Hryushka breaks the silence. A pancake in general, he says.
Owned
THAT’S US, TWO DUDES AND THE GIRL WITH THE iguana down her shirt. You can tell the bartender’s a little concerned. Yeah, I would be too. But the iguana’s mine. Sylvia is Brian’s. We’re all on these big red horse tranquilizers that were Sylvia’s so in a sense we’re all—me, Brian, everyone else in the world, the bartender and the iguana—we’re all hers.
The bar is the bartender’s. The big screen TV is his and so is the cable. The draft Buds are ours only because we just bought them. Prior to that they were his. I’m not saying anything any normal person don’t already know. The palm tree and that planter with all the dirt the palm tree grows out of are the bartender’s. The windows that remind me of sunlights because the whole joint reminds me of a greenhouse are his. I’m tired.
The Knicks are mine. The Pacers are Brian’s. The iguana is Sylvia’s now. It never sits still for me. I don’t even know why I brought it, but after we took the pills it seemed like the right thing. It bites me. It sits under her shirt, softly pressing its nails into her white tits. Softly, I’m guessing, because, I’m guessing, it’s not breaking the skin or else she’s just not saying anything. She’s got its neck pressed into the blue vein at the base of her neck. Its tail rides out from underneath her shirt.
I tell her the thing’s going to bite. “It’s mine,” she says.
“You can have it,” I tell her.
“I’ll pay you,” she says. “I’ll pay the shit out of you.”
“Just buy the next beer,” I say.
The bartender is yelling at his customers, the ones that raised certain concerns in quiet tones about the iguana being in the bar. He’s yelling for them to get out of his bar and take their quiet concerns with them. “I’m supportive of regular occupants of barstools!” he yells. He’s not ready yet to call the barstools ours.
Brian wants his Pacers. He wants his Pacers bad. He didn’t know they were playing. He didn’t know he’d be watching his Pacers. Now he wants them though. “I love this team, man. I want this team,” he’s saying.
I lean over and nap. And when I hunch up, Sylvia has the iguana in the planter. It’s snapping at her and she’s thumping it with her jet-black nails. Brian is able to lift his chin off the bar because the Knicks are ahead. He’s forgotten that his were the Pacers. The bartender is curled up in the corner asleep underneath the sinks.
Sylvia takes off her shirt and wraps up the iguana’s head in it. She flips it. It flings its tail at her. She spits on it. It hisses.
“Throw me a spoon,” she says. I throw her a plastic spoon. She spoons soil on it now.
“How do you have the energy?” I manage.
“It’s mine,” she says.
James Stories
James’s Fear of Birds
I KEPT EPI THROUGH THE WEEKEND. IT WAS MY girlfriend’s bird, a wretched thing. I watched it while she cheated on me with some dude in another town. She left every couple of weeks and I kept Epi during these times.
James came over a lot. Birds terrified him. He’d sit on the couch eyeing her, drinking this scotch we drank over ice that we both swore made us hallucinate.
Why are you so scared of birds anyway? I asked James once.
This thing from my childhood, he said.
What happened?
I don’t want to talk about it just keep that fucking bird away from me.
This was easier said than done. I kept Epi on the floor. She’d walk up your feet though, trying to get to your shoulder. A cockatiel. A sorry specimen.
I like birds. I mean, I like the idea of being a guy who likes birds. Someone who might watch them as the main activity of a day. That’s the kind of thing I like people thinking about me.
But in reality I’m not so good with pets. Like when Epi shits on my shoulder, I crumble her up in my fist and throw her fast pitch into the cushion. Then I immediately feel bad. I pick her up, lovingly this time, rubbing her head. I apologize. I pray that she will not die. I pray genuinely for her sake and not for the sake of my own ass. Then I kind of forget about it. And she nips my earlobe or something and I do the same thing all over.
James likes watching this. He hopes I’ll kill her. That’s how much he hates birds. He wishes they all were dead.
I wish all birds were dead, he says.
We’re well into the scotch that makes us hallucinate.
The thing is James kind of looks like a bird. He has this huge nose. You can’t help but think: beak.
About 3 a.m. I call my girlfriend’s apartment and some dude answers.
Hello, he says.
Who is this? I say.
Who is this? he says.
Who is it? James says.
Shhh, I say. Look, as far as I know you’re not supposed to be there.
Eff off. Mina said I should meet her here tonight. She gave me a key.
How do I know you’re not robbing the place?
Come on over, he says. I’ll kick your ass.
Naw, I say.
What are you? Her boyfriend?
She said she wasn’t coming in until tomorrow.
She’s meeting me here in the morning, man. Is that going to be okay with you?
Well, I still don’t know you’re not robbing the place.
Why would I pick up the phone if I was a robber, you dumb eff?
Get him to tell you something only she would know, James says.
Tell me something only she would know, I say. It’s kind of embarrassing to be doing this in front of James.
If only she knows it, how do I know?
You know what I mean. There’s two of us, we’ll come over there. We’ll call the cops.
I said come on over. What do you want anyway? I met her last week in the tampon aisle. Big Bear. We’ve been doing it ever since.
All right, I say. It’s probably true anyway. True enough.
Bye, I say.
B
ye, he says.
Epi shits on my shoulder during the call. I feel the spot of heat, but don’t thump her off.
Well. You already knew she was cheating on you, James says.
Yeah but.
Wait a second, he says. You knew he was there, didn’t you? Why’d you call if you thought she was out of town?
I don’t know. Answering machine. I wanted to talk into her answering machine.
We sit for a while. Sit very still. Then Epi hops across the floor towards James’s feet—the James on-ramp. I intercept her.
We need to kill that bird, he says.
We’re not killing the bird.
We need to kill that bird.
Couldn’t I just spray paint WHORE on her door or something?
That’s doable, James says, down the line.
I live in a pink house and not many people drive down my street. Epi hops off my finger and stands there like an idiot. In the street. She has no idea.
I’m not really into this, I say.
It has to be done.
I pull off my Puma and half-heartedly wing it at her. She hops out of the way and stands there again, watching us. Then she hops toward us. She doesn’t want to waste any of her precious shit on the ground when she could drop it on one of us.
That’s not going to cut it, James says.
He removes a hammer from his back pocket.
Where’d you get that?
Earlier, he says.
Epi is nearly upon him. He trembles slightly then punts her back out into the street. He follows, brings the hammer down on her square. Her body explodes. But James doesn’t stop there. He pounds again and again and again until she is a bloody nothing.
He throws the hammer into the flower bed and we sit down to smoke. We smoke.
This is not right, I say.
We sit there a while not looking at the street.
You want me to tell you why I’m scared of birds? he says. It’s simple, really.
Here, there is a pause.
A duck’s quack doesn’t echo, he says.
Every sound echoes, I say.
Not a duck’s quack. We had one once at the Grand Canyon.
You brought a duck to the Grand Canyon?
We found one there. As you said, everything around echoed, voices, our footsteps, whistling. But when that duck opened its beak, nada. It bit too.
Then Epi appears on his foot. He loses it. I mean he really goes out of control at this. I am shocked, but composed.
I reach down and she hops onto my finger. She sits there long enough for me to examine her. Clean. No damage. She scales my arm.
Not again, James repeats over and over.
We better get inside, I say.
And this is the weirdest thing. As soon as we step through the door, she flies. She flies, man. All around the room, seven, eight, ten times. This bird has never flown in its life.
So James and I, after this, are pretty confident we’re just sharing a vision. And we kind of get into it.
Epi flies these circles of varying width. A dropping appears on the top of my foot as if out of nowhere. I left the Puma somewhere in the street and I don’t care. Then at the completion of one circle she goes right for James, lighting on his shoulder. He’d be freaked out normally, if just a normal hallucinatory bird landed on his shoulder. But this is a hallucinatory bird that he just hammered into the pavement, so he’s petrified.
And there, after a moment, Epi transmogrifies into my girlfriend. My girlfriend sits there on his shoulder, and she watches me. But I can’t be sure we’re sharing the vision anymore, so, to calm him, I say, Go with it. This is all a hallucination, man. That bird is dead in the street.
I know, he says, all of a sudden I just feel completely deflowered.
Which is good, for him.
The Back of the Line
AS I TURN INTO THE DRIVEWAY, A TURN I KNOW BY memory, I don’t even look up. I run into the back of a man. The top of my head contacts him first, then the rest of me.
My bad, I say.
He gives me a little shove with a clipboard. Watch it, he says, and hands me a pencil, which I fumble and drop.
There’s a commotion, I see, now. A line of men from the door of the house all the way up the driveway to the sidewalk, where I am, at the back. All the men are filling out forms on clipboards with pencils. Cars stop in the street, pause, then back up to the curb. Men get out of the cars and fall into line behind me. Clipboards and pencils are passed back. There’s been an investment made on someone’s part in clipboards and pencils.
An application is clipped to each clipboard, your standard job app with some questions whited out and new ones penned in. It’s been through several rounds of photocopy.
Another car stops in the street. The driver points at the window of the house. Him and his passenger both squint, then the car backs on up to the curb. I have to step out of line to see what he was pointing at: A sign taped to the inside of the window next to the door, Boyfriend Wanted: Apply Within. The text is written in black marker, Sharpie, her unmistakable hand, on poster board. It’s written big so you make no mistake from the street.
She wastes little time.
I rejoin the line but the guy who was behind me, who I’d just handed a clipboard and pencil in a friendly noncompetitive way, won’t let me back in. He jerks his head. The guys behind him look up from their applications to give me the fuck-you eyes. I’ve never been good at lines. I go to the back.
I start filling out the basic information, and, as others get in line behind me, I play along, passing the clipboards and pencils back, a little less friendly now, a little more competitive.
I’m glad she thought to give pencils rather than pens because I’m not so good at filling out forms either and keep messing up. I write above the lines when I should be writing below them, my last name where my first should be, my city for my street address. I erase all over. I write n/a in a lot but at least I know to never leave a blank blank. Either write n/a or none. Like where it says Characterize your appetite for satisfaction. Use the back of this application if you need more space. I write n/a there. Where it says Your approximate annual income? I write none.
As I’m erasing and mostly n/a-ing, I glance at the faces of those leaving the house. Some were invited inside for a moment, some leave after passing off their clipboards and mumbling thanks. You can tell a lot by just looking. I know the looks. I’ve gotten and not gotten many positions. To those beaten, pale, I nod my head and bite my lower lip. To those with a little spring in their step, I jut my chest out and try to look bad.
Then James comes out wearing a t-shirt that says, Must Be This Tall to Ride.
James, I say, James, man.
I leer, he says.
I know that.
Some friend. He knows, he says to the sky, or to Jesus I guess. I’m at the bus stop yesterday thinking I’m casually giving this chick the eye when she snaps, he says. Starts screaming at me right there. “You numb pig. Why you leer at me? You’re no man.” I said, “Whoa. I hadn’t intended to leer.” She called me out, man. And you knew.
You look a little too long is all.
There’s a lot of things I never wanted to be that I’ve been, but I really never wanted to be that. Never.
Meanwhile the line moves forward and I move forward with it. James walks backward to keep up with me.
So I’m heading home with this self-loathing, this label, and thinking what I need to cure myself is a girlfriend. A real genuine girlfriend. One I can look at. Then I see this sign. He points over his shoulder to the poster board. Serenity.
You remember she’s my old girlfriend right?
Yeah, but she cheated on you all the time.
Still, I say.
It’s worth applying for, you know. It’s free.
I walk in place in line to get my shoelaces vibrating and distract me from these tools. I’m in this habit of watching my shoelaces. They vibrate when my feet hit the sidewalk. It kee
ps my mind off her. When it’s my turn I keep going up the steps watching the shoelace vibrations until the top of my head hits her, just like it did the guy at the back of the line, letting me know I’m there. She looks not pleased to see me.
How many goddamn clipboards and pencils did you buy for this? I say without meaning to.
You’ve got to be prepared just as much for success in your endeavors, my love, she says, as you are for failure.
So what are your qualifications? She snatches the clipboard and looks over it. This is not the free lunch line.
I’m of average height, I say. I drink but don’t smoke. My feet are soft due to daily cocoa butter application. I miss somebody.
It’s smudgy, she says.
I’m better with spray paint, I say.
I have a couple weeder questions. What’s the most interesting thing you could think of to do with this?
She produces a pork chop bone.
I fondle it, long since dried and sharp, like fish teeth. Slingshot, I say.
She jots something down on my application, in the space where it says Do not write here. For office use only. I broke up with you for a reason: You’re only the fourth motherfucker to give such an obvious answer today.
I sense I am not doing well and ask to use the bathroom.
Step inside, she says. I’m only giving you fair shake because I believe in equal opportunity for all scumbags.
Which I appreciate about her. In there, I take a little extra time. I never really thought I’d make it back. Sure, it used to be when we were broken up, well, once at least, she called me up and said, Do you think you can get hard? But those were different times. I breathe deep the smell of Anti-Bacterial Country Apple Hand Gel, which is, for me, the smell of her.
When I come out I say, You love scumbags.
But I want the best scumbag, she says, and hands me a plastic slingshot, the kids’ kind. And this? The most interesting thing? she says.
Pork chop bone, I say.
Okay, she says, nodding, holding eye contact now. Better.
