by Brian Hodge
“Tell us a story. Old Man Jonston been following your career. He told us about them wars you was in. Tell us about Grenada. Tell us about Panama. Tell us about Saddam. Tell us about all them demons you conquered,” came the squeaky recognizable voice of Tom from the other side of Timmy. “Come on man, we gotta long time to kill.
Wandering Minds
by David Whitman
Carl Levine looked out the window and saw Russ Wilson’s dog, Ka-pow, shitting on his front lawn.
“That goddamn son of a bitch! It’s all over for that fucking dog!”
The feud had been going on for the last two years. It had started when Russ had taken to parking in front of Carl’s house. You don’t own the damn street, Levine, Russ had said. From there, it had elevated into an all out war.
Every day they could be seen shouting over the fence that separated their yards, each of them daring the other to come over and put a little action into those fighting words. Both men could often be seen sitting at the window, just waiting for the other to make the next move.
As Ka-pow did his business, he seemed to be smiling at Carl. Here’s my gift to you, he seemed to say. The poodle didn’t even try to run when he saw Carl running toward him, hands outstretched. The dog finished its business, kicked his back legs twice in a kind of burying movement, and then escaped through a trench under the fence.
Furious, Carl ran over to the wooden fence and peered over it, blue veins bulging across his bald head.
Russ was sitting on a lawn chair, wearing his favorite food stained Hawaiian shirt, scribbling on a crossword puzzle. Ka-pow sauntered over, spun around twice, and sat down next to his master.
“Goddam you, Wilson!” Carl yelled. “I told you about that damn dog! You’re not going to be happy until I kill the little son of a bitch!”
Russ looked up from his crossword puzzle, as if he heard a fly buzzing somewhere within the vicinity of his ear, and scratched his beard lazily. “That you, Levine?” He looked over at Carl. “What’s the idea? I’m trying to sit here on this bench and enjoy my week off and now you’re harassing me. Go back in the house, you little man.”
“I’m telling you, Wilson,” Carl said. “I’m going to kill that little bastard. I want you to get over here and clean up the mess he left.”
Russ frowned. “What are you talking about, Levine? Ka-pow’s been sitting here by me for the last half-hour. If he had gone off to relieve himself, I would have seen him go. Now go away and leave me alone.”
As if listening to his command, Carl disappeared.
Russ patted the poodle gently on the head. “Good boy, Ka-pow. You’re always making your Poppa proud.” He loved making Levine’s life miserable. It provided entertainment to his boring life ever since his wife, Mary, had left him, the miserable bitch. “Now,” he said, scratching his long beard with the pencil, his concentration turning back to the puzzle. “What’s a six letter word for supplant?”
Just as he started to write the answer down, a pile of dog shit landed in his lap with a disgusting plop. He looked up from his lawn chair, stunned.
Carl was leaning over his fence waving at him with a shovel, an enormous grin on his face. “Eat shit, Wilson! Next time that dog comes over on my lawn, I’m gonna shoot the fucker!”
Russ looked down into his shit buried lap, his mouth open in wide “O” of disbelief. That bastard has some balls after all, he thought, before his shock gave away to anger. He stood up from his chair, throwing his crossword puzzle book on top of Ka-pow, eyes bulging with rage. “Levine! I’m going to kill your crazy ass!”
Carl smile widened, exposing his yellow teeth. “Why don’t you just come over and try it, you shit eater? I think it’s about time I put you in your place.”
Russ ran over to the fence and began to climb, his pudgy body dancing precariously just at the top, before he slipped and fell into Carl’s lawn. He landed on his back solidly, feeling the air explode from his lungs, his Hawaiian shirt ripping open from where it had caught in the fence. His hairy belly stuck out like an obscene parody of pregnancy.
Before Russ could get to his feet, Carl brought the shovel down on top of his head, gritting his teeth as it connected with a dense thud.
The shovel wriggled in Carl’s hand before it came alive with a burst of painful electricity. He could feel pulses of energy blasting through the handle and into his body. As if he was holding a live power line, Carl danced up and down energetically, spittle flying out of his chattering teeth.
The switch was sudden. Carl found himself inside Russ’ portly body.
Russ let go of the shovel and looked down at himself, his mouth dropping open, bewildered to find himself in the thin and wiry frame of his hated enemy.
Carl, his ass planted firmly on the ground, looked up to see himself standing in front of him with a shovel at his feet. Ka-pow was standing off to the overgrown grass, his head cocked to the side curiously, a small whimper escaping from his furry lips.
Dazed, Carl got to his feet, rubbing his head dumbly. Something was wrong, he felt heavier somehow, and he was wearing Russ’ Hawaiian shirt. He looked over at himself. He felt like he was staring at his own reflection, only he didn’t have any control over what it did. In panic, he fled into his house. Russ, just as frightened, ran into his house as well.
Ka-pow watched the both of them silently and began to whine.
Mrs. Anderson, the elderly neighbor across the street, was wondering just what the hell was going on. She had just seen them fighting on the lawn and then she had seen Carl run into Russ’ house and vice versa.
Carl was looking into the mirror of his bathroom and wondering what in the hell Russ Wilson’s reflection was doing in it. He ran his hands through Russ’ thick, curly hair, feeling for the first time in years what it felt like to actually not be bald. He began to finger his newly acquired beard inquisitively, pulling his hand away with disgust when he saw that it was dotted with food. He had never been able to grow one himself-it always came out looking vaguely like some kind of animal mange. The smell of Russ’ body odor wafted into his nostrils and he flinched, his eyes wincing at the ripeness of the scent. To say something weird had happened was an understatement. They had switched bodies. His brain was actually floating in the disgusting skull of his hated neighbor.
He jumped when the phone rang, stumbling out to the living room, his mind still trying to get over the shock of what had happened.
Vacantly, he picked up the receiver. “Uh, Hello.”
“Levine, you bald asshole! Give me back my body!”
“Wilson, what in the hell did you do?” Carl asked, his voice whiny and high.
“ME!” Russ shrieked into his ear, causing him to flinch in pain. He still felt a dull ache from when he had apparently hit himself with a shovel. “ME! Levine, I think we’d better get some goddamn facts straight here! First, you throw a pile of dog shit into my lap! Second, you attack me with a shovel! And now, you’ve somehow stolen my body from me! I just looked into the mirror and saw your chrome dome shining at me, I damn near lost my eyesight from the glare!”
Carl, finally getting his bearings, shouted into the receiver, “You big, fat, lumberjack-looking redneck prick! You think I’d want your out of shape, near death, pile-of-lard-of-a-body with egg yolk in the beard? Don’t you even wash this mountain of waste?”
“So what are you trying to tell me, Levine?” Russ shot back. “You trying to say you have nothing to do with this?”
“That’s exactly what I’m trying to say. What do you think, Wilson, that I’m some kind of black-magic-practicing warlock? Obviously something weird happened. We’re going to have to try and switch them back somehow. Come back over, and I’ll smack you over the head with the shovel again.”
“What, are you crazy? Has the sun been burning into your smooth plate of a head too long? I’m not going to let you hit me with a shovel again, even if I am in your body.” There was a pause and Carl heard a faint zipping sound. “Oh, and don’t it
figure. Let me correct that last statement. I’m not going to let you hit me with a shovel again, even if I am in your body with the little, itty-bitty dick. Jesus, Levine, it looks like a baby’s broken pinky. No wonder you don’t have any kids.”
Carl looked into the hallway mirror and watched the bearded face of Russ Wilson turn red with embarrassment.
“You still there, Levine?” Russ asked. “I have a better suggestion. How about if I come over and hit you with a shovel, or actually, I mean me. Jesus, this is getting confusing!”
“No way. You’re not coming near me. I’ll call you back, Wilson. I need some time to catch my breath.”
“Before you go, Levine, I got one last thing left to say. If this is some kind of permanent deal, I think I got myself gypped in a major way here. Almost like trading in a Porsche for a Yugo. You take care of that fine piece of machinery you got there, Levine. Because I’m going to take it back.”
Carl hung up the phone and inhaled deeply. He walked over to the sofa and sat down, his tired breath escaping his newly overweight body like the hot gas of a farm animal. At least I’m not crazy, he thought, because if I am, then Russ is on the same ride.
Carl looked down at the colorful, but ugly, flowered shirt that he was wearing with strong aversion. The side of the food-stained shirt was ripped, and he could see Russ’ obscenely fat stomach protruding from within the folds. All his life he had eaten well, steering clear of high fat foods and red meat. Now he was sitting here with an immense beer belly that he had acquired in seconds.
He was about to get up and call Russ and try to figure something out when an evil smile took control of his bearded face. I probably won’t be in this body permanently, he thought. It’s time to give old Russ Wilson a little payback for the many years of harassment. It’s take to take old Russ on a little adventure.
Carl walked out of his house, whistling an old disco tune. He saw Russ, or rather he saw himself driving away, skidding the wheels of his dirty station wagon as he went. Probably went to get himself a therapist, he thought. Hell, I’m badly in need of one myself.
He got in his car and drove into town, the smile never leaving his face.
“Now, let me get this straight,” the tattoo artist said to Russ. “You want me to write ‘I love Jesus!’ on your forehead?”
“Yes,” Russ said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his neighbor’s wallet. “If you’re worried about the money, I have it right here.”
“This ain’t about the money, pal. Don’t you want to at least think about this? Okay, you like Jesus and all, but do you really need to turn your forehead into a billboard? I mean, I’m not into religion, but don’t you have a better way of professin’ this kinda love? Can’t you just donate money to your church or something? Roll up your sleeve and I’ll put it on your arm.”
Russ shook his head back and forth, his perpetual grin never leaving his face. “It’s for a friend.”
The tattoo artist sat back against the counter. “A friend? Why don’t your friend come down and get this? If you ask me, this is pretty far to go for a friend.”
Russ began to get up out of the chair. “Look, if you won’t do it, then I’m sure that there are people who will.”
The artist put his heavily callused hand up against Russ’ chest. “Sit back down, pal. I’ll do it. I just wanted to make sure that you really wanted this.” He pulled a waiver out from his desk. “You’re gonna have to sign this, I ain’t getting my ass sued.”
Russ sat back in the chair and began to rub his hands over Carl’s bald head. “I’ll sign anything. My friend is going to love this.”
The artist picked up his needle. “All right, any special color or font you want this in?”
“How about a green New Times Roman?” Russ asked. “Can you put a little red heart on my cheek too?”
When the beautician spun the chair around towards the mirror, Carl couldn’t help but laugh at the reflection of his fat neighbor.
“I told you it was too drastic for you,” the beautician said. “You’re not the only one who is going to be laughing. Want me to at least shave off the cherry red van dyke mustache?”
“I’m laughing because it looks great. Leave the mustache just like it is, thank you very much. My friend is going to love it. This is just the way he always would have wanted it.”
Carl’s hair, or rather Russ’ hair, was permed up into an enormously high, stiff Afro. It rose at least three feet from the top of his head and it was bluer than the waters of the Caribbean. He had gotten the beard shaved, leaving only a droopy mustache that hung down about three inches from his chin. He smirked at his reflection and then broke out into hysterics again.
“You really do like it?” she asked.
“Miss, I love it. Are you sure you didn’t learn your trade in heaven? I only want you to do one more thing.”
“Just don’t tell anybody that you got this makeover from me, okay? What do you want?”
“Can you put a big-ass flower in it?”
When Carl, stroking his long mustache, pulled back into his driveway, he saw that Russ was still out somewhere with his body. Ka-pow was sitting on the lawn, giving out a low growl when he saw that his master looked like a clown.
Carl reached up and patted his Afro, staring at the tiny poodle. “Even you can’t piss me off now, you little fuckball. Wait until your master gets a peep at his new look.”
He walked into the house and threw his car keys on the front table. When he glanced up into the hallway mirror he immediately fell to the floor, overwhelmed with laughter.
He rolled to his side and got up from the floor clumsily as he was still unaccustomed to having such a rotund body. He walked over to his stereo and popped in one of his favorite discs, the Bee Gees’ Greatest Hits. Back in the seventies, many considered him the disco king. One time he was even on American Bandstand. Whenever he was overwhelmed with joy, he would put in that disc and start pulling out moves from his bag of dancing tricks.
When Jive Talkin’ began to blast through his house, he began to jiggle around, his fleshy body vibrating the floorboards. As he shook his wide ass back and forth, he realized that he was not as good of a dancer in Russ’ overweight body. Deciding that he was not going to get too far moving his newly acquired heavy body, he resorted to his repertoire of dazzling hand movements, each hand flashing out with zest. He didn’t hear his doorbell, or see his front door swing slowly open.
Carl looked up and saw himself standing there-mouth hung open in astonishment. His eyes widened in stupefaction when he saw the green ‘I love Jesus!” tattoo written on his bald forehead. A large red heart dotted the cheek like an expressionate exclamation point. Russ returned the dismay, his mouth flapping open and closed mechanically at seeing himself with a blue Afro.
Carl grabbed his remote control and turned off the stereo. “Wilson! What in the hell did you do to my face!”
“Me! What did you do to my fucking hair! I look like a goddamn faggot! And you’re dancing my body around like that only makes it look worse!”
Carl walked up to Russ and examined the tattoo. “That’s not real, is it?”
“Damn right it’s real, Levine! I know how much you love Jesus and all!”
Carl grabbed Russ by the shirt, which unnerved him because it made him feel like he was attacking himself. “You bastard! Tattoos are permanent! At least you can always cut this hair off!”
Russ pushed him away. “Oh well. Maybe you can get it burned off or something.”
Carl screamed in frustration and ran down the hallway, his arms waving in rage, before slamming the bathroom door closed.
Russ walked over to the hallway mirror and began to examine his tattoo. “Boy, Levine!” he shouted to the bathroom door. “You should be thanking me! This tattoo is going to guarantee you a place in heaven! Old Saint Peter is going to open them gates real fast for you!”
Carl exited the bathroom, his jaw working up and down as if he was eating something. He sw
allowed exaggeratedly and said, “You goddamn son of a bitch. You had to take it too far didn’t you, Wilson? All I did was go and mess up your hair a little bit.” Angrily he pulled the flower from his Afro and threw it to the floor. “You had to go and get me a fucking tattoo. You had to go and scar me.” He turned away and headed into the kitchen.
Russ shrugged and followed him in. Carl was digging through a drawer of utensils. He pulled out a sharp looking knife and glared at him, unable to look very menacing in his blue tower of hair. “What are you doing, Levine? What are you going to do, stab me?” He began to back away fearfully. “Don’t forget that this is your body that I happen to be in.”
Carl put his hand down on the counter and slammed the knife down, cutting off his thumb with a thick squirt of blood. He looked over at his enemy, his face beaming triumphantly as he held the bloody hand before his face. “It’s gonna be pretty hard to button your pants now ain’t it, you fat fucking prick?”
Russ gaped at the severed thumb. “You bastard!” He ran over to the counter and promptly slammed his mouth against the edge, shattering it into a pulpy mass of broken teeth. He looked up and began to spit teeth out one by one. “Jesus! That hurt like hell!”
“I wouldn’t know about that,” Carl said, bringing the knife up and slashing his ear off with one wet slice. The ear went spinning through the air in a red arc before falling to the floor with a sickening slap. “The codeine is just starting to kick in. What did you think I was doing in the bathroom, whipdick?” He bent over and picked up the severed ear, holding it in his open palm. “It’s gonna be pretty hard to shout out wrong answers to Jeopardy now ain’t it, Russ? Unless of course you get that close captioned I’ve been hearing so much about. They got all kinds of things for the hearing impaired these days.”
Screaming with rage, Russ picked up a chair and slammed it over his neighbor’s head, totally forgetting that he was actually attacking himself. He brought the chair down again and again until he was sure that Carl was dead. It no longer even bothered him that he was staring down at his own corpse.
