Snake Girl VS the KKK

by Peter Joseph Swanson

  Chapter ten

  Michael returned to Joanie’s apartment and waited. He poked his head in the fridge to see if she had a bottle of her usual Boone’s Farm. There wasn’t any. He looked through a gossip magazine and read about Madonna marrying Sean Penn, and appearing in Desperately Seeking Susan. He decided that she looked easy enough to dress like if he should do her in drag. “Layers of naughty lace… dozens of rosaries. Gotcha.” Then he did the big pile of dishes in the sink because not only did he want to be useful but also he found a cute pink gingham apron.

  Joanie returned, saw him and said, “I hope you’re also not wearing my panties, too.”

  “Too beaucoup in the ass.”

  She punched his arm. “Thanks for doing the dishes.”

  “You’re out of wine.”

  “It would have been nice for me to come home to a glass. But you would have chugged it all in two minutes so I suppose I’d come home to nothing, no matter what. God, after a shift at work I love a tall glass of ice cold Strawberry Hill.”

  He asked her, “What’s the thing you hate the most about your job?”

  Without thinking long, Joanie answered, “When somebody brings a clothing item to the register. I swear they’re never priced right or else they just won’t ring up at all. And I can see the damn clothing section from where I’m standing. But I have to get on the mic and say ‘price check, register four’ for each and every damn thing that won’t ring up. I liked the good ole days of normal price tags you just read with your eyeballs. They say it slowed things down. Bullshit. What do you like least about your job?”

  “Chapped lips.”

  Joanie got herself a glass of water. “Seriously.”

  “Dancing all night up on the bar. That’s where all the cigarette smoke floats up to, right where my head is. I feel like a slutty chimney sweep by morning. Boy I could use a smoke right now. It’s been a few hours since I’ve stripped and I’m going through second-hand smoke withdrawals.”

  “You don’t smoke otherwise?”

  “Not unless I can bum one. Smoking my own would be God’s way of telling me I make too much money.”

  After gulping her water, she loudly exhaled and slammed the glass down on the counter. “Oookay! Let’s get you to your farm before they throw all your old toys away.”

  “Back to hell?” Michael corrected her.

  “Whatever you want to call it, you decide. You’ve got to help sort through all that old farm stuff. You have to help your brother.”

  “I hope I find an old stack of comic books or something cool like that to read. I wonder what happened to all my old comic books.”

  They got in her station wagon. After driving up and down the hills of the blacktop through the warm countryside, Joanie dropped Michael off at his farm. “Bye bye and be good!”

  “Do I have a choice? I’ll call you tomorrow when I want you to rescue me.”

  She asked, “You’re going to spend the night?”

  “Sure. Might as well.”

  Joanie winked. “Are you scared. All those monsters in the barn you told me about. They might still be there. And the scarecrow! The demon scarecrow! Every farm has one, right? Oooh!”

  He waved her off. “Around here I’m the monster now. I bet I look fabulous tarred and feathered.”

  She drove away. He watched her go. He started singing the song “Sweet Dreams” maniacally. He noticed a collie was watching him.

  “What. Why are you looking at me? You’ve never heard Annie Lennox on a farm? Well, don’t be so goddam shocked. She likes to sing around a lot of cows… she did in the video. British cows! How about that!”

  The dog didn’t look shocked.

  Michael spoke sweetly. “Here Purina Breath. Don’t be shy. What’s your name?”

  The dog just sat there, watching.

  “You’re supposed to be a farm dog. You’re suppose to be a watch dog. How do you know I’m not here to bite all the chickens’ heads off? Bark at me.”

  The dog was silent.

  “Maybe I’m really a raccoon dressed up like a gay man!”

  The dog looked serious.

  “Okay, then. If you won’t tell me your name then it’s Purina Breath. And I guess you prove what I’ve always suspected. If your hair is gorgeous, with that marvelous natural blond color, you don’t have to do anything and they still take you in.”

  The dog looked at him sideways, her tongue falling out to wiggle like a wide wet noodle.

  He went inside and opened the fridge to look for any beer or wine. Dad sometimes had Coors and Mom sometimes had Mogan David. Not now. That was usually when they entertained and that was usually in the winter. He saw a bag of plums. He closed the fridge and regarded the forest green crock-pot sitting on the counter next to the tin breadbox. Mom used to make stews for supper in the crock-pot when she’d be working outside all day. In the sink were a few unbreakable plastic dishes he grew up with.

  He rummaged through the cabinets and found a can of Campbell’s Chunky soup and ate it. He looked at the crock-pot again. He thought about all the times the molded glass lid had crashed to the floor but didn’t break. He took the lid off and dropped it. It hit the begrimed white linoleum with a bang. He was surprised how loud it was. It made him realize how quiet everything was out in the country. The lid didn’t break. He remembered sometimes breaking things on purpose as a kid. It was his way of testing how strong matter was. His memories now just made him feel destructive and bad. He went back outside to look around. The dog was sitting in the driveway, watching him. He went to it. It didn’t get up. “Nice watch dog. Just watch. Just watch me never come back here ever again.”

  He faced the hot summer sun still blazing in the western sky. It would probably be the last time he saw the farm so he tried to remember every detail. A warm breeze shook the leaves as a cloud’s shadow slipped over the barnyard. He wondered if it would rain but saw that the dark clouds were too few and far between. He took in the sight of the vines behind the house that were covering the summer kitchen window and he tried to take a photograph of it in his mind. He noticed that the backyard needed mowed. The clothesline had an ugly brown throw rug over it. Two yellow barn cats watched him from under the door of a shed. “Here kitty kitty.” They slipped away. A few black swallows dive-bombed at him. He yelled up at them, “I’m not going to eat your ugly babies so leave me alone!”

  Trying to ignore the aggressive birds, he went to the side of the barn where the horse stalls were. The collie followed him, keeping him in her sights. The swallows dive-bombed the dog, too, but the dog ignored the birds. There were no horses in the stall but it still smelled like citronella and some odd chemicals. He left the barnyard and passed a dying elm tree on his way to the fieldstone garage. He noticed that the branch that once held his tire swing broke off. The idea of the impermanence of things left him with an unexpected feeling of sadness. The gray cloud finally floated away from the sun and all grew bright again. Looking up into the tree now hurt his eyes.

  He went behind the barn. Two shallow puddles of water, caused by tractor tires, had a purple iridescent sheen to it. He presumed Dad had put the oil there. Every summer Dad would dump a bit of old motor oil in puddles to kill the mosquito eggs. Michael turned around as if Dad should be standing there. It seemed odd that he wouldn’t be. It was his farm. His oily mark was still here and there.

  Michael climbed over the gate and went into the back pasture. There was a zapping noise off to his side where an electric fence was still on. The pen was empty so it wasn’t keeping a cow or goat from escaping anymore. Past a silo, the herd of poled Herefords were up to their bellies in pond water to get out of the heat. He could smell the water. It had a green scum growing at the shore. One cow lifted its tail and then dumped a bunch of runny poop into the water. Then it drank. Michael made a face. If he drank that water he’d surely get sick and die. He wondered how the cows got away with it.

  He walked down a steep hill. There were cow pies here and t
here but he didn’t see any cows anymore. He went over another fence and stopped at the creek where it was wide and shallow. A well beaten path of tractor and wagon tire marks went through the mud.

  He heard a motorcycle. He wanted to run and hide. The culvert at the upstream end of the property was too far away to get to in time. So he stood, grumbling, as the motorcycle came over a hill and then charged right at him. It was his big brother. When he pulled up he turned off the motor. “Hey you.”

  Michael waved a fly away from his forehead. “Hi bro.”

  “Look at you.”

  Michael looked down at himself. “Yep.”

  “Don’t you ever do laundry?”

  “I’m clean. I think.”

  “It looks like you stole those pants from that evil scarecrow!” He laughed. Michael laughed, remembering how he used to put up scarecrows here and there. And then he’d talk to them. He’d tell them what he’d done in school. He’d preach to them his Sunday school lessons, as if scarecrows had a soul. One day his brother told him that all scarecrows were evil and were going to get him in the dark of night—so Michael started to see monster versions of them in the darker shadows. “I guess this time you got lucky… you got the scarecrow. Got his pants off, anyway.” He scoffed. “You still look like a girl, anyway.”

  “I do not. I’ve been working out. See? I’ve got Joan Crawford shoulders.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  Michael huffed out his chest. “Nothing. Never mind.”

  His brother readjusted his green billed cap. “Aren’t you a bit old for all that?”

  “Thirty-one isn’t that old.”

  “What? Aren’t you twenty-nine about now?”

  Michael quickly counted on his fingers. “I am? I lost track.”

  “I’m your older brother. I’m thirty-two. There’s three years between us.”

  “Oh.” Michael smiled, now feeling young. “I am? I forget about stuff like that.”

  “What kind of world do you live in where people don’t keep track of how old they are?”

  Michael gave up counting on his fingers. “I didn’t know it was important.”

  “How’s the acting in the big city?”

  Michael blinked. “Acting?”

  “I was told you went to the big city to be an actor. Did you do any of that kind of stuff?”

  “Oh sure. I played all sorts of parts.”

  “Isn’t there a Shakespearian theater there? You ever play in one of those things? I can never follow a word they’re saying.”

  Michael said, “Oh sure. Nobody can. That’s how it’s supposed to be.” He switched to a heavy accent. “Thee thou-est and thigh as ye eat the turkey leg off the tip of ye Excalibur!”

  His brother looked embarrassed for him. “What part did you play over there?”

  “At the All’s Well Playhouse, I auditioned. That’s all. I just auditioned. I did a big speech from Othello where I realize I’ve just murdered my love… by mistake. I’m very upset and full of deep intense acting. He was a black man so I did very dark makeup. I wore very exotic clothes. I had all of the thees and thous all memorized to be in the right order. I was so rehearsed I knew I’d get in the company and then make a real living.”

  He said, with ridicule, “You played a jungle bunny?”

  Michael put his nose in the air. “I’ve played all sorts of parts. I’m very creative. It was my most serious role. When you play that part you have to have a terrible nervous breakdown right up there on the stage, for it to be good.”

  His big brother smirked. “But you aren’t in that acting group are you. So what happened? What was wrong with your audition?”

  Michael put his fingertips on his lips. “I got the hiccups.”

  “Oh.”

  Michael turned away and looked at the hilltops of hay and corn. The tassels stirred a bit in the breeze, moving them in waves. Some of his long hair blew in his face. “I wonder when and where they’ll do the reading of the will. I’m so full of suspense. I wonder how it all plays out. I wonder if there will be lightning and thunder.”

  His big brother asked, “Getting greedy, are you now?”

  Michael forced his hair behind his shoulders. “I’m not sure. It’s hard to think about what you don’t know anything about. I think greed is based on having some sort of expectation of something. I know I’m not going to become a farmer, now, because of all that’s happened. That’s for sure.”

  His brother pulled a toothpick out of his pocket and started to chew on it as if it was a cool thing to do. “Damn straight. I’m the executor of the will. I’ve already seen the will. I saw it when it was all drawn up. It was five years ago.”

  “What’s it say? Am I cut out of it?”

  “Of course not. But I get the farm and the rest of you relatives get the rest. You and the uncles and the cousins.”

  Michael felt his heart sink. “After the farm, what’s left?”

  “There’s the farm sale. Dad put you in with everybody else because he expected you to be dead before him, anyway. So your uncles and cousins won’t get as much now.”

  “Are the tractors and equipment part of the farm?”

  “Sure. They stay put, of course. You can’t farm without all the tractors and the equipment they were made to pull.”

  Michael asked, “And the house? It’s part of the farm?”

  “Of course it is. Don’t be a bonehead. The house is on the farm. And it’s not on wheels. So it’s part of it all and it’s staying and it’s mine.”

  “Well why would they give you the lion’s share like that? I can see why they wouldn’t give me a farm. I can see why they wouldn’t want me to have much. I pissed them off real bad by running away like that before high school. I know that.”

  “They didn’t want the farm split up at all. That’s all. They didn’t want it turned into subdivisions. They wanted to keep it together and keep it in the family. They have pride in the family. So it goes to me. All the cows stay too.”

  Michael frowned. “It’ll be missing a bull. Who knew it was so dangerous. Sure, they’re all dangerous… but who knew that could happen.”

  His brother sadly nodded. “He had to die for his sins. The sheriff shot him six times in the side and it didn’t kill him He shot him six times in the head and that didn’t kill him either. So I told the sheriff to shoot the bull in the eye and that might get the bullet into the brain. I said the skull was too thick to let bullets through. So he shot a couple of times in the eye and finally that bull went down.”

  Michael shuddered and regarded the fields again. “Maybe you should plant it all in trees. The whole place.”

  “What? They take so long to grow.”

  “It’s a shame they weren’t planted a long time ago, then. This place could be a wildlife preserve.”

  “That is boneheaded. It’ll be farmed like a farm. That’s it. Beef cows and the corn and hay to feed them.”

  Michael wanted to rip the toothpick out from between his brother’s lips and throw it down. He thought it looked so utterly redneck. “That causes so much erosion. There’s an old Indian saying: We don’t inherit the land from our parents but we borrow it from our children.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Do you even have any kids? Do you have the burden of property or even understand what that is? That’s why you don’t need to inherit anything. I have the kids. You didn’t even get married. You can’t pass land on to somebody who don’t have kids. Everybody knows that. You’re a dead end.”

  Michael tried to butch it up. “It’s a shame I couldn’t get Lizzi to come with me and help with the farm sale.”

  He chuckled. “Shit, boy. Everybody knows she joined the Army to become a stupid dyke.”

  Michael was startled. “What? Who said that? How would you hear anything about her?”

  “Everybody talks about everybody at the pool hall.”

  “Oh? What do they say about me?”

  “How funny it wa
s that you brought Lizzi with you when you last went to church with Mom and Dad… how funny that you tried to pretend she was your girlfriend.”

  “Well she wasn’t a pet hamster. What else could she be?”

  “Everybody knows you’re as gay as pink gerbils.”

  “What?”

  His big brother snarled. “It’s decent of you to try and hide it. Nobody likes to see a self-righteous pansy strutting around wanting special rights. But it’s funny anyway.”

  “Who told you I’m gay!”

  “Nobody had to tell me, you bonehead. You can just tell. You’re such a pansy.”

  “I am not!”

  “A total girl. All while you grew up people laughed at you behind your back.”

  Michael blushed. “Did not.”

  “Dad was so embarrassed of you that there were times he wanted to dig a hole and crawl into it. Or put you into it. Or chain you up in the attic.”

  “Like when?”

  “Like when you’d skip down this very path like you were doing the Judy Garland yellow brick road thing, singing the song. What a pansy!”

  “I did not!”

  “You sang ‘Follow The Yellow Brick Road’ pretty loud.”

  Michael opened his mouth wide. “I… I was just… I was…”

  “And at school. Whenever you were around other little girls you wanted to play with them and not the boys. You always played those hand-clap games and you sang with them those bone-headed songs. You were loud. There was no missing it.”

  “Well, the girls were more interesting… more creative and did neat things with their hair and… those songs were made up.”

  “And then when you got old enough to figure out you weren’t a girl, you’d stick corn cobs up your butt like a fag.”

  Michael turned redder. “Did not! How would you know that?”

  “I walked around the corner of the brooder house one day and saw you through the weeds. I couldn’t believe it. But I could. I always knew you were a pansy since we built the tree house and you wouldn’t come down to kill the natives. You said you were Jane. You made mud pies in a tree house! What a fag! I told Mom and she started to cry.”