by Robert Bevan
Baby amma love you like a wolf loves the moon,
Probably in a park, after mid niiiiiight,
Floyd rummaged around in his clothes pile, sniffing and testing the rigidity of a series of identically torn jeans. Eventually, he settled on a pair and struggled into them like an extremely low-rent belly dancer. Then he pulled on a black t-shirt sporting a lovingly rendered picture of an eagle driving a Cadillac. He gave double finger-guns to his reflection in the microwave-oven.
Take off your leash darlin’ and be my,
Wolf Fuuuuuuuuucker!
The first order of the day was breakfast, so Floyd rolled himself a fat little joint and lit it. He stomped his foot to the time of the drum solo while he inhaled deeply. Not smoking their profits was another one of Bucky’s proposed business action plans, but that philosophy conflicted directly with Floyd’s own business action plan, which was to be mostly high as fuck.
He stomped his feet and realized that the beat was off somehow. Frowning, he switched off the CD player and, sure enough, there was a rhythmic thud reverberating through the floor, as though some invisible fat man had carried on dancing.
Floyd frowned at his joint. He and Bucky grew and sold a strain you could smoke all day without losing your shit. Was he paranoid?
I don’t know, he thought, am I?
The thudding stopped.
“That’s better,” Floyd said aloud. And then he stood in the quiet. The thing about quiet, he realized, is that if you notice it, it gets louder. Seems to fill your mind. He shuddered and reached for the CD player.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
“Holy shit dog,” Floyd shook himself. It was the trailer door, nothing weird. Just someone at the door. He stubbed the joint out on a nearby pizza box and opened the door. He squinted through the bright morning sunshine to see a familiar face.
“Zeebass? That you?”
“Ay, Floyd, my man, what’s happening?”
Zeebass was a sixteen-year-old white boy who had watched one too many Cheech and Chong movies. A mess of decades-out-of-date fashion choices and erratic adolescent facial hair made him look like he’d turned up to a Halloween party dressed as The Guy That Wouldn’t Get Laid.
“Shit, Zeebass, I thought…” What had he thought? Nothing. “What brings you here?”
“Well,” said Zeebass. “I brought a croquet set, so I thought maybe you and I could go and play a couple games of croquet.”
Floyd looked down his nose for a while. “Are you fucking with me, Zeebass?”
Zeebass laughed his stoner-boy laugh. “Yeeeeah! I don’t know what croquet is. I just came here to buy weed.”
“That’s real funny. You're a funny guy.” Floyd spoke distractedly as he looked over Zeebass’s head at the surrounding park. He and Bucky were off the beaten track as far as the rest of the park went, a good distance from any neighbors, which suited them fine. They were also close to the overgrown municipal land where they hid their crop, which also suited them fine. Right now, though, something about the isolation was bothering Floyd in a way it never had before.
“You okay, man? You sort of zoned out on me there.”
Floyd blinked and looked down at Zeebass. “I’m fine, man. You want the usual?”
“Yeeeeeeah!”
Floyd fished a plastic baggy out of his shorts and exchanged it for some folded bills in a fluid motion. He didn't bother counting the money. He and Bucky’s ‘No Fuss No Muss’ policy was a big part of their service acumen.
“You sure you’re okay, Floyd? You look a little pale.”
“Yeah, I’m fine, Zeebass, I just took a really big shit today and it made me feel empty inside.”
Zeebass nodded solemnly. “I know how it is. All existential n’ shit.”
Floyd nodded and closed the door without a further word. Why was he feeling so… uneasy? He reached out to the CD player again but before he could turn it on, the low thudding began again. In a burst of speed he’d not called on for some time, Floyd rushed out the trailer’s front door. There was nothing. No one. The park was empty, but the thudding continued. Now that he concentrated, he could tell that it seemed to be coming from the bathroom.
Slowly, he crept back into the trailer and, holding his breath, reached for the bathroom door handle. Then, he quickly threw the door open.
The room was almost exactly as he left it, with Miss Pick O’ The Peaches August 1979 still staring out from the open magazine. The lid on the toilet suddenly slammed down, and Floyd let out a weak gasp as his heart accelerated in his chest.
That’s just what happens sometimes, he thought. You know, because of gravity and what not.
As reasonable as his head was sounding, his heart did not seem to be convinced. Nor his dry mouth or tight balls. He crept over to the toilet and slowly lifted the seat. Underneath, nothing but water and a few snail trails.
What had he been expecting? Toilet ghosts?
Holy shit, toilet ghosts. That'd be terrifying.
Floyd backed out of the bathroom and closed the door behind him, feeling much safer, somehow, when he did so.
He would finish his breakfast, and then he would go and check on the crop. He suddenly felt a strong desire to be outside and away from the trailer. Only…
Shit, if Bucky comes back and sees the porno mag, my entire racket’s up. He’ll probably hide them all. Tell me it’s for my own good like some kind of hairy, porn hogging asshole.
Floyd turned around and stared at the bathroom door. He breathed heavily through his nose and counted to ten. Then he opened the door once more. The bathroom was still as unremarkable as he’d left it.
Come on, man. Grab the titty mag and get on with your day.
He reached out a hand. The toilet seat suddenly flipped open with such force, it smacked against the porcelain with a hollow boom.
Floyd stumbled back, his mouth trying to form every curse word at once. There, at the bottom of the bowl, was not the ordinary water and shit he had come to expect. There was a green, pulsing light. Deep and dark, as though the Jolly Green Giant had stopped there to take a piss on his way to the urologist.
Just when he thought his sanity had been stretched beyond a reasonable breaking point, Floyd heard a voice. A voice that seemed to come from everywhere at once, a voice that seemed to bloom in his brain like an awful, jagged weed.
Zabor…Zabor…Zabor…
While Floyd’s higher functions were incapable of doing anything beyond staring open-mouthed, his survival instincts kicked his legs into gear, and he rushed out into the daylight, putting as much distance between him and the trailer as he could before collapsing onto the ground in a coughing fit.
Chapter 5
Bucky sweated in the unairconditioned office, the collar of his shirt prickling him in uncomfortable ways. Across from him sat Alfred Stonebaum himself, his carefully neutral expression a far cry from bright smiles of the Stonebaum & Stonebaum billboard that loomed over the town from the peak of East Titty.
The local Texaco was but one of Alfred Stonebaum’s many investments. He owned half the town, it seemed, but made most of his money selling the other half. His real estate agency looked like a cozy residential home from the outside, but the massive mahogany desk in his office, separating him from anyone he deemed worthy to grant an audience to, was anything but cozy.
“We have applications, you know,” said Mr. Stonebaum, looking over his glasses at the meticulously hand-copied form Bucky had spent most of yesterday transcribing in black ink, then filling out in blue ink.
Bucky cleared his throat. “I do know that, sir. My...” Roommate sounded too immature. Partner made it sound like they were gay. Friend wasn't quite professional enough. “...associate spilled a beverage on my original application.”
“You could have picked up another one. We have many more where that came from.” Mr. Stonebaum's gaze darted to a stack of completed applications on his desk, then back to meet Bucky's. That was a show of strength if he'd ever seen one. An uns
poken challenge to prove his worthiness over these other applicants. Bucky knew the high-stakes world of international business was some dog-eat-dog shit, but he hadn't expected it to be quite this severe right out of the gate.
This is what you signed up for, Bucky. If you can't hack it at this level, middle management will eat your ass alive. Now come on and get your head in the game.
“I could have done that, sir, yes.” Bucky stared harder into Mr. Stonebaum's eyes. “I could have gotten in my car and driven back here to Texaco, walked in with my head hung low, and groveled for a second application. And then what happens? The cashier recognizes me from before, and word goes up the chain of command that Bucky Wallace can't fill out a goddamn application.”
“I honestly don't think anyone would have noti–”
“Or,” said Bucky. “I could have taken some initiative. I could have done something to demonstrate to you that when life starts throwin' curve balls, Bucky Wallace is a man who can think on his feet and remain cool under pressure. No bullshit or excuses here. When I got a job to do, I get that shit done.” After a slight pause, he hastily added, “Sir.”
Mr. Stonebaum's eyes wandered down the page. “It says here you dabble in... entrepreneuring?”
“That is correct, sir.”
“Would you care to expand on that?”
“Not at this time, sir,” said Bucky. “I intend to devote all of my professional time to this company.”
“Very well.” Mr. Stonebaum continued down the page. “You have a black belt in three martial arts, one of which you developed yourself?”
“I call it Buckido. It's more of a supplementary martial art, employing the use of an umbrella to distract and confuse your adversary before you start wailing on him with Kung Fu or some shit. It mimics defenses common in the animal world.”
“I see. And you are a master of the shuriken?”
“That is the Japanese throwing star, sir. It's actually the perfect complement to Buckido. Allow me to demonstrate.”
“Please, that's not necess–”
Bucky stood up, wishing he'd had the foresight to bring his umbrella with him to the interview. “Let's say I'm me, and you're a three hundred pound black guy coming at me.”
“Mr. Wallace, I –”
“You don't gotta be black. I ain't being racial. I'm just sayin' it works on anybody. You could be Samoan even.” Bucky pantomimed an action that he realized might be taken as pumping a shotgun or jerking off on his soon-to-be employer. “This is me opening and closing my umbrella at you. Anyway, you're all, like, what the fuck? Then I leave it open and start spinning it around. It's got this black and white swirl pattern, so you're getting all confused and mesmerized. In the meantime, I'm pulling ninja stars out of my back pocket.” He opened his left hand to let go of his imaginary umbrella, then flicked his right wrist three times in rapid succession. “Pow! Pow! Pow! Three shurikens. One to the eye, one to the throat, and one to the nuts.”
“That's very impressive,” said Mr. Stonebaum. “Please sit down.”
“Yes, sir.” Bucky could follow orders, but now that he'd shown himself to be more valuable to the company than any of the other losers in that stack of applications, he'd throw a little bit of that show of strength business back at Mr. Stonebaum. He leaned back in his chair, rested his right foot on his left knee, and loosened his tie a bit. Here are the goods. Take 'em or leave 'em. He considered lighting up a cigarette, but thought that might be going a little too far.
Mr. Stonebaum scanned down the rest of the application and laid it flat on the desk. “I think I have all I need, Mr. Wallace. Thank you for –”
“Did you see the list of suggested questions I wrote at the bottom of the page?”
Mr. Stonebaum furrowed his brow and glanced back down at the bottom of the page. “I saw one question.”
“It's a short list. I didn't want to take up too much of your time.” In truth, it was the only 'Commonly Asked Interview Question' Bucky had looked up that he'd had time to prepare an answer for.
“Very well then, Mr. Wallace,” said Mr. Stonebaum. “Where do you see yourself in five years?”
Bucky put both feet on the floor and leaned forward. “I'm glad you asked that, sir. See, I didn't want you thinking I was gunnin' for your job. My ambitions go far beyond that.”
“Is that right?”
“You bet your ass it is. So I don't want you to think of me as a threat. I got such a diversified set of interests and talents, I could be anywhere in five years, depending on which way the wind blows, if you catch my meaning. I might be the head of R&B, or the –”
“Excuse me,” Mr. Stonebaum interrupted, which seemed a tad unprofessional to Bucky. “Did you just say the head of R&B?”
“That's Research and...” Shit. He could never remember what the B stood for. “Hell, I ain't got to tell you what it means. The point is that the possibilities are endless. In five years time, I might just as easily be the Senior Vice President of Inquisitions in Europe.”
“If that ever becomes a position, I'm sure –”
“Will you please excuse me for a moment?” Bucky's cell phone was vibrating in his pocket. He pulled it out and saw Floyd's name – and ass – on the screen. It ain't cool to go and change another man's phone settings. It was even less cool to be calling him when Floyd knew he was at a job interview.
Bucky stood up, took a few steps away from Mr. Stonebaum's desk, swiped the screen with his thumb, and held the phone to his ear. “This had better be a goddamn emergency. If you ain't got a tire iron up your ass right now, you're gonna have one there next time I see you.”
“Bucky!” said Floyd. He certainly sounded rattled. “Thank God you answered.”
“What is it, man? You all right?”
“Somethin' ain't right with the toilet.”
A mere tire iron wasn't going to cut it. Bucky took another step away from the desk. “Do I sound like a goddamn plumber to you? Ain't a toilet in the world can handle that much Cheez Whiz. But I'm in the middle of a fuckin' interview right now.”
“It ain't the Cheez Whiz,” said Floyd. “It's somethin' else. Somethin' evil. The water was glowing all green and shit, and there was these terrible noises coming out of it. I swear to God it said 'Zabor'.”
“What's a Zabor?” Bucky asked aloud, glancing back to see if Mr. Stonebaum might be able to shed any light on the subject. Mr. Stonebaum shrugged.
“How the fuck should I know, Bucky? But man, I'm scared.”
Bucky turned away from Mr. Stonebaum's desk and spoke into the phone as quietly as he could. “Floyd, don't you lie to me. Did you smoke anything from that one weird plant with the fungus growing on it?”
“I didn't, man. I swear! Are you coming home soon?”
“I think we're about to wrap shit up here.” Bucky looked at Mr. Stonebaum, who nodded. “But this don't sound like the kind of shit I want to handle sober. Meet me at Rusty's in forty-five minutes.”
“How am I supposed to get all the way to Rusty's? I ain't got a car.”
“That's why I'm giving you forty-five minutes, genius. I'll be there in ten.”
Chapter 6
Bucky may have slept in his trailer, but he liked to think that Rusty’s was his true home. A place where everybody knew his name, but nobody used it, because everybody was decent enough to drink their booze and mind their own fucking business.
On a hot night, Rusty’s would guarantee you a cold beer, a well-stocked jukebox, and at least two fistfights between incomprehensible old men.
As Bucky pulled the Continental into the cigarette-butt-studded car park, he looked at Rusty’s flashing red neon sign the same way some people look at flags, or crosses, or a baby wearing a flag and holding a cross. Spluttering and fizzing even in the early afternoon, the old sign wasn’t just a welcome. It was a promise of sanctuary.
He strode through the double doors and into the comforting dimness and dinginess of the bar beyond. Slow blues played through tinny s
peakers, and the low-hanging dome lights swung listlessly like UFOs that had nowhere pressing to be. Bucky drank it in, the way the red leather booths looked like prolapsed wombs, the way the bright green pool table was marred with the misshapen brown stain from that time Larry Fyne lost a bet that he could beat Bucky at pool using only his ass. Bucky sniffed the air, which, since the commies had outlawed smoking indoors, was flavored by a smoke machine that they had trained a cat to routinely piss into.
After a stressful job interview, it was good to unwind. He only wished he didn't have business to attend to. He went over to the bar where Slow Jenny was cleaning a glass with a rag that looked like it had previously cleaned a crime scene. Slow Jenny was named so for her endless patience with Rusty’s continuous rotation of insufferable assholes. In the face of puking drunks, ranting conspiracy theorists, and common garden variety fuckwits, she remained as calm and impassive as an Easter Island head smoking a joint.
“Why, Bucky,” she said. “Look at you all dressed up! Someone die, or someone get wed?”
Bucky looked down at his clip on tie, which he had forgotten to unclip. “Neither of the two, Jenny my darlin’. I was at an important job interview today.”
Slow Jenny’s eyebrows raised with all the urgency of a sunrise. “Is that so? Will I be pouring you a bud or should I break out the Dom Perignon?”
“Sorry, Jenny, I don't have time for pasta. You seen Floyd?”
Jenny checked her watch. “Not yet. Little early, even for him.”
Bucky nodded. “Damn fool pulled me out of a meeting. Hearing voices from the toilet or some shit.”
“We all have them days,” said Jenny sagely. “Get you a beer?”
“Better make it two,” said Bucky. “It’s been a long day.”
Jenny poured out the two draughts and added to Bucky’s ever increasing tab. Bucky downed the first with gusto and then sipped the second like a gentleman. He checked the time on his phone, ignoring the texts from Floyd, all of which were some variation of +WHY THE FUCK DIN’T YOU JSUT PICK ME UP?+
