How Best to Avoid Dying

by Owen Egerton

  Then one of you shot an alligator. What the fuck was that? What, it got a little too close to the fence? They’re endangered, for God’s sake. It wasn’t even a clean shot. It took hours to die.

  You know what we did? We had a funeral for it. Do you get that? We love the alligators. Troy ceremonially skinned it. He’s wearing it. He’s creeping around the swamps calling himself the Resurrected Gator Lord, whispering mad plans. And I don’t blame him. You’re the ones who brought the crazy.

  The night Troy took Eve 9 I walked an hour toward town. I found a roadside bar and sat on an open stool. I didn’t have any money. None of us have money.

  I wanted to be drunk, to root for the Cowboys on TV, to go to sleep in a big bed alone with Eve 9 and have babies and name them Rachael and Amber. Then one of you came up to me. An old man with a splotchy face. I expected him to insult me or push me. I wanted him to. Instead he bought me a beer. My first in twelve years. One of you bastards came up and bought me a beer. Jesus, that got me. There, right fucking there—love while I suffered. I drank and cried. I drank and talked. I mumbled that Troy was fucking my girl, my Eve.

  “Whoa,” one of you said. “My granddaughter goes to school with one of yous. Her name is Eve.”

  “What’d he do to your granddaughter?”

  “No, her friend! A little girl.”

  “What’s he doing to children?”

  I could have stopped it. Could have stopped all of this. Could have explained. Could have walked away. Instead, I had another beer and let you talk. It was so easy. A raised eyebrow here, a look away there, and with in half an hour you were all convinced that Troy was not just fucking the alligators, but screwing the kids, too. All you wanted was the least excuse, the tiniest hint, that your hate was moral and sweet and good. I gave you that in abundance.

  Then I walked back to the farm. I could have gone anywhere and there was only one place I could go.

  I thought it’d be quick. You’d come, arrest him, and leave the rest of us to our happy lives. You’d leave me and Fay and Eve 43 and the alligators and everyone. I told you, I warned you, just him.

  Now look. You changed our prayers to death chants. Eve 9 chews her tongue and won’t sleep. I try to feed her, but she won’t eat. You’re killing us.

  Tonight, before I came here, I went looking for Troy in the woods. I wanted to convince him to give up, to give himself to you. It’s freezing tonight. I was shivering fully dressed. And Troy is out in the trees, slinking around naked under that rotting alligator skin.

  He found me first, jumped from the shadows and grabbed me by the shoulders.

  “Brother. Baby brother,” he said. “We all need to die. I know that now. I have a plan. We’ll be dead when they come. All of us.”

  “Troy, they just want you.”

  He shook his head, said I’d been right the whole time. That you people are evil fucks.

  “Troy, I did this.” I told him about the bar, about my words and my silence.

  He didn’t speak for a long time. He looked more dead than the alligator skin. Then he stepped back.

  “You don’t deserve to suffer with the Family.”

  I said nothing.

  “Go,” he said.

  “Can I take her with me?” I asked.

  He shook his head and turned away.

  “Can I say goodbye?”

  As he walked back into the swamp, the skin slid off his back.

  When it’s cold, like tonight, the gators swim to the bottom of the swamp and dig holes. They crawl in and go dormant for the night. But tonight it’s going to freeze. They’ll come up in the morning and find the surface is ice. And we won’t be there to break it for them. They’ll drown before it thaws. That’s bad enough. But if one gator doesn’t get below in time, before the waters freeze, he’s left above the ice watching his family drown.

  Nobody wants that.

  I’ll turn off the fence now. You can come in and rescue everyone.

  PIERCED

  Dear Halley,

  I’ve done something horrible. Really horrible.

  And right before your wedding night.

  I’d like to blame Rick. Best man, my ass. But it’s my fault.

  I’ve met other virgins, Halley. Plenty. But you’re different. You’re a virgin by choice. By commitment to a religious ideal that I don’t get, but I respect. I still remember the night on your couch and we were kissing and touching and you whispered into my ear, “Let’s wait.” Those were the two hottest words I have ever heard. I mean that.

  So Thursday night Rick took me out for a kind of bachelor party. Just him and me drunk on four pitchers of some microbrew called Hopalaician Trail. And Rick says, “Lets do something wild!” And I say, “No.” And he says, “Oh, the bit’s already in the mouth.” And I say, “There’s no bit.” And he says, “Prove it.” And I say, “How?” And he says, “Let’s do something wild.” And I say, “Like what?” And he says, “Prince Albert.” And I say, “Fine!” And then I say, “What’s a Prince Albert?” And he says, “Too late, you said yes!”

  Halley, please, if any love for me remains in your heart, don’t google Prince Albert. You won’t like it. It’s enough to know it’s like an earring. On my penis.

  I got it from this fierce monster troll-lady. Maybe 4’ 11”. Stout. Strong. Very strong. She had this hole-puncher thing and she saw my penis and you haven’t and I’m so ashamed.

  I woke up in the morning and I could tell something was wrong. It should never be this color. Outside of coral reef nature documentaries, I’ve never even seen this color. It hurt, more and more as the day went on. Like an itch and fever and bruise all in one. This will explain my constant sweating during the rehearsal, why I couldn’t stand to hug your father after he gifted us tickets to Hawaii for our honeymoon, and why I vomited a little on your shoe before saying goodnight. It wasn’t nerves or cold feet, it was an unclean piece of steel in my penis.

  It’s only gotten worse. I tried to take it out about an hour ago and almost passed out. My mother came in. I tried to tell her, tried to explain I had done something harmful to myself. She said that everyone felt that way the night before their wedding, but eventually you have children and it’s too late anyway.

  Oh, it’s bad. I’m looking at it now. It looks like a skinhead choking on a dumbbell.

  Halley, I could make it through the ceremony, I know. I could even limp through the reception. It’s only pain. Then, we’d have the limo and maybe you’d be frisky, cause you’ve been waiting, and I’d have to play coy and I’m not coy, Halley. I am not coy. And the limo would drop us at the airport because your dad got us tickets to Hawaii, though I hate the beach, but no one ever asked me. And then we’d get to security and I’d remove my belt and the change from my pockets and my shoes and I’d walk through the detectors and I’d beep. I’d beep, Halley. And they’d have me step aside, and buzz me with their metal detector wands while you looked on with that disapproving smile I love so much. And the wand would pass over my crotch and buzz and they’d ask, “What’s in the crotch, sir?” And what can I tell them? And they say, “Sir, what’s in the crotch?” And people are staring and backing away and one of the security guys is unlatching his gun. “Remove your pants, sir.” But I can’t show them, not for my sake, but for your sake. The only thing worse than having your first penis be a purple, pussy mess is seeing that purple, pussy mess in public. I refuse. I shake my head. My mouth dry, his hand on his gun. And the wand wanders too close and taps the wound and I scream and grab my crotch. And the gun’s pulled. And people scream. And I scream. And a shot is fired and I’m hit and I fall to the floor and I see blood pooling from me and I see you, shoes in hand, stepping back from the blood like a child from a wave on the beach.

  And then I’m dead.

  For you.

  And you’re left with an urn full of ashes for a husband. And when you shake the urn, Halley, it rattles.

  I can’t do that to you, Halley. I can’t. So this is goodbye
.

  Rick, that bastard, is waiting outside. We’re driving to Mexico where I can have this thing removed by someone who doesn’t speak the same language as I do. I don’t think I could face someone in English.

  Yours truly,

  William

  P.S. You’ll never see me again. I love you too much for that.

  CHRISTMAS

  It was Christmas Eve, almost Christmas morning. He was warm and asleep. She woke him by saying his name, and he opened his eyes to the flicker of candlelight.

  “Is the power out again?” he asked.

  “No,” she said. “Just mood lighting.” She was sitting up in bed, smiling at him. The bouncing light filled her face with shadows. Her hair was messed from sleep, but her eyes were awake and excited. “I want to give you your Christmas gift,” she said.

  “Now?” he sat up and rubbed the back of his neck. She nodded and bit her lip. Her smile was slight. A thin line. All her features were soft and thin. Except her hair. Her hair was long, kinky, and the dark brown of wet soil. He reached his hand into her hair, his fingers working through the thick. Even after two years the texture was wild to him. “Okay,” he said, smiling.

  She turned away and reached under the bed. His hand fell from her hair to her back. He felt her warm skin through the cotton nightshirt. She faced him again and in her hand was a pistol. She held it flat in her palm, as if she were trying to guess its weight.

  “Is that real?” he asked.

  She placed the pistol in his palm. He found the gun heavier than he had expected, and colder. She smiled.

  “Where did you get this?” he asked.

  “It didn’t cost much.”

  “You hate guns.”

  “It’s not loaded,” she said. “I want you to do something. I want you to put this in your mouth and pull the trigger.”

  He snorted a laugh and waited for her to giggle. She bit her lip again.

  “Are you joking?” he asked.

  “Come on. No big deal,” she said. She snatched the gun from his hand and put the barrel in her own mouth. “Shie, no pwobem.” She pulled the gun out and laughed.

  “Don’t fool around.”

  “It’s not loaded.” She placed the gun back in his palm. “Do this for me.”

  “Why?”

  “For me.”

  “That makes no sense,” he said, holding out the gun to her. “Come on. Put it away.”

  She placed her hands under his and closed his fingers around gun. She raised herself to her knees and moved closer to him, lifting his hand slowly, the butt of the gun toward the ceiling. He was having trouble thinking. “Please,” she said. He didn’t resist her. Even opened his lips a little. He could taste metal. Tasted like lake water. He pulled his head back, away from the barrel like it was something toxic. “Shh,” she said. “You’re okay.” It was the tone she used when he got frustrated with bills, or couldn’t fix the heater. It was a sweet tone. Like a mother.

  He tried to think. He should stop this. He should want to stop this. He tried putting it all together, lining up all the elements. She wouldn’t hurt him, he was sure of that. She also wouldn’t put a gun in his mouth. But she was putting a gun in his mouth. His hands on the gun. He was not stopping her. Logic wasn’t working.

  She took her hands away and he started to remove the gun.

  “No, no,” she said. “Leave it there.”

  She leaned in and ran her nails along his scalp. The barrel rattled against his teeth. She was close, her breath on his scalp, her dark hair over his eyes, her breasts touching his chest, her smell all over him.

  “See?” she whispered. “This is good. You feel close to it all.”

  Tastes like lake water. That’s what he kept thinking. Lake water.

  She kissed his neck. “Now,” she said into his ear. “I want you to pull the trigger.”

  His eyes were stinging and his mouth salivating. His throat cramped. He couldn’t swallow his spit.

  She moved one leg over him, and with a knee on either side, let her weight rest on him. Her face was in front of him. Floating. Blurry. Candlelight slowed to a smear. He couldn’t read the numbers on the digital clock behind her. Couldn’t remember her middle name. He didn’t know her. Hardly knew her.

  She put her hands on his cheeks, hands so hot. Her expression was serious now, like a teacher turning stern. “Do this now, or I leave and you will never see me again.”

  He shook his head and moaned. A line of dribble fell from his lip. She leaned in, “Shhh,” and kissed his forehead, leaving her lips on him for a long moment. She leaned back. “This is happening,” she said.

  Throw the gun. Throw it against the wall, he thought. He could feel the barrel in his mouth, feel his tongue near the hole, feel her heat, her breath, feel his hands on the handle, her legs around his. Could feel each space of flesh, each moving blood cell. It was Christmas in his home, with his wife. It was Christmas and there was lake water and her moving against him. It was Christmas.

  HOLY

  We have a new holy machine. It will make you a saint. But it will cost everything else. To the world you’ll seem two steps north of brain dead. Dribbling and moaning. You’ll wear a diaper. But you’ll be seeing God the whole time. You just won’t be able to tell us about it. No words, no profound acts. Just God. That’s what you want, right? Just God. Come on. Let me strap you in.

  THE MARTYRS OF MOUNTAIN PEAK

  Kent is dead. All the kids at the camp are crying and singing and praying. They don’t know that it was my turn, not his.

  Rich is standing in front of us leading the songs. The ten kids who had Kent as a counselor are huddled in the front row. Already seven of them have announced that they’ve given their lives to Christ—although one is actually regiving his life, since he already gave his life to Christ as a sophomore, but since then he’s been smoking pot. None of the kids I counsel have given their lives to Christ, but they look pretty sad.

  We’re singing “Desperado,” but with the words changed. The lyrics are flashed on a screen.

  Desperado, why don’t you come to love Jesus,

  You know that he sees us

  For so long now…

  It was Kent’s favorite song. Pricilla Brone is helping Rich by leading the girl echo parts. She’s got tears on her face and her hair is all shiny. She’s so pretty it hurts to look at her, especially when she sings. When the song ends, Rich asks us to bow our heads and pray. All two hundred and six teenagers close their eyes and bow their heads, even the kids who hang out at the cigarette pit and usually make fart noises during the prayers.

  “God, Father, Daddy—thank you for letting us know Kent. We’re going to miss him,” Rich says. “But we know that now he’s with you and your Son in Heaven. Thank you, Daddy. Amen.” People are crying and hugging, just like last week.

  “Let me tell you a little bit about where Kent is now,” Rich says, his eyes twinkling. He’s smiling like a TV dad. Everyone wants Rich to be their dad. He’s kind and funny and tells great stories. Better than my dad back home in Houston who’s always grumpy and sleeps all weekend.

  “Heaven is a lot like Camp Mountain Peak, only better. You can bet Heaven’s got horses like we’ve got. The angels help on the ropes course and the apostles run the four-wheelers and maybe Mary and Martha are scooping Kent a Snack Shack ice cream special right now. I bet Kent is playing disc golf with his halo—oh sure, and they’ve got a video arcade like us and a thirty-person hot tub like ours and an Olympic-size pool—maybe bigger even, and in Heaven I bet they even have a forty-yard, two-story-high waterslide. Only the one in Heaven won’t have a low panel on the curve.”

  A few kids sob out loud. Kent had been trying to beat the Camp Mountain Peak speed record on the waterslide when he died. According to the slide’s digital timer, the record is 23.2 seconds, which I set way back in June. Kent was obsessed with beating it. He was competitive like that, which is totally not the point of Camp Mountain Peak. Rumor has it that when
the panel gave he was wearing Speedos and had greased up with baby oil. Total pride. For one thing, counselors aren’t allowed to wear Speedos or two-pieces in the swimming area. When I was a camper here five years ago, not even kids could wear Speedos or two-pieces, but they’ve laxed. And baby oil? I mean, what’s Christ-like about baby oil? I was going to die on the ropes course, fully dressed.

  “No, the waterslide that Kent is riding right now is faster and wilder than our slide and no chance of falling out, and even if he did, he’d just fall on a cloud instead of down a cliff. You know Kent is just loving that.” Kids nod along. Rich crouches down and kind of whispers so all the kids have to lean in to listen. “He’s looking down right now on us here and feeling sorry for us. Probably wondering why we’re so sad when he’s having such a blast. Probably hoping that we’re buying a ticket for the Camp Mountain Peak he’s at. Only we can’t afford that camp. We can’t even make a down payment. The price is way out of range. You know why? The price for that camp is perfection. Anyone perfect out there?”

  All the kids shake their heads back and forth.

  “Didn’t think so,” Rich says and stands up. “But it’s okay because you know who bought the ticket for us? Jesus did. He is perfect and with his own blood Jesus bought us all a pass to the best camp you can imagine, and it doesn’t last just two weeks, it lasts forever and ever.” He stretches his arms out, trying to show how much forever is.

  “And you got to know,” Rich says, looking real profound. “The waterslide is the only route from the ledge to the pool, and just like that Jesus is the only path that splashes into Heaven. Nothing else works. Jesus is our waterslide.”

  I’d heard this several times before, though the part about the waterslide is new. Every two weeks a fresh group of teenagers from all over America comes to Camp Mountain Peak, and every two weeks a counselor dies. It’s become an unofficial policy. Always an accident. One of us just acts a little less careful and the rest of us let it happen. It started early in the summer.