How Best to Avoid Dying (11 page)

As I pick away, sweating and grinding my not-so-false teeth, I groan. Groans of stubborn desire, well so I thought, but I begin to sense that the groans are more ones of pain.

             
Then I make another realization.

                             
I wasn't the one groaning.

                                              
I stop in mid-pick.

I listen…I listen again. I skip the third listening and move straight on to my fourth listen.

Could the groan be coming from my yellow gem?

No wait, just wait (and a fifth listening).

Is the gem moaning? Or worse, is it the tree? Have I discovered that trees do indeed feel pain? Please no, a hard salt-encrusted
No
. If trees feel? Years of pulp and paper screaming at me for past crimes. Writing, reading, bottom cleaning. No. Not the tree, I couldn't live with the guilt. It would be too much. Far too much. Like beets on a salad.

What then? I poke at the bark. What would this be? Then, wonder of wonders, a section of the wood, incredibly similar to the shape of a small lizard, transforms into a golden purple. And my stone seems in a timpth of time to be bedded in a purple pillow of this lizard shape's head, with a newly appearing counterpart. A twin, if you will, only a space away.

“Well, well, well, well,” said I. “What is this?”

To my surprise (though probably not to your surprise, you smug little bastard) the lizard spoke up.

“See here,” the voice began. “I am a creature of skin change.” His accent seemed to be German, or Chinese. Same thing in its fullest. “I am a chameleon, a rather rare wood-dwelling chameleon, and you, fair digger, have not only destroyed my summer home but also waged war against my eye.”

“I saw only a stone.”

“Yes, a stone. A false eye. I lost my real one some years ago in a boating accident. So now I have this glass clump instead. Because of its foreign origin it remains unchanged as my color blends.”

“Yes, well. Sorry.” I did feel bad. Imagine. But he's the one who put it in the tree.

“I have filled my wound,” he says, slowly crawling higher up the tree. “And will never fully blend in again.”

2

Don't Tell

           
•
   
Don't Tell

           
•
   
Look, don't tell anyone this happened.

           
•
   
Of course not.

           
•
   
Because I'm not like you. This was a one-time thing.

           
•
   
I understand

           
•
   
But, well, it was nice.

3

The Turtle and the Snail

~
A bedtime story
~

One day Mr. Turtle and Mr. Snail slowly slumped along the shaded forest path, conversing, cajoling and singing happy songs.

Happy is good.

Mr. Snail turned to Mr. Turtle. “Isn't it a wonderful day?” said Mr. Snail.

Of course happy isn't everything, some things like heroin or certain women make you happy, but rot your heart. Heart rot.

As they were talking, two speckled bunnies streaked down the forest path, hopping and giggling.

“Hello slow-pokes,” said one bunny laughing cruelly while leaping from side to side of the turtle and the snail. “You should leave your heavy homes and come run with us.”

“But the shells are our protection. Our special talent,” said Mr. Turtle.

“Have it your way, slow-jokes. Ha!” said the other bunny and off the two bounced faster than running water. But not faster than a shallow woman's appetite for something new. That's for damn sure.

Mr. Snail began to weep. Which is dangerous for a snail, because tears have salt. Burning tears. Tears burrowing into skin and soul. Those kind of tears. But you wouldn't know tears. No. No time for tears. Too busy snuggling with your new Math Professor boyfriend—wooing him with your child-sized tennis shorts and a Joe's Crab Shack neon tank top.

“I just wish I was speedy-speedy as the bunny,” said the sad little snail. “Or pretty-pretty like the butterfly. Or smarty-smarty like the fox. There's nothing special about me.”

“You're my friend,” said Mr. Turtle. “You're special to me.”

“Thanks, Mr. Turtle,” said Mr. Snail with a slow smile. “But the bunnies are so mean.”

“Don't let them get you down,” said the wise and happy turtle. “It's not like a woman you trusted and cared for dropped you flat on your ass after two and a half months of love-giving. Heaps of love-giving. When she was hurting, you were there for her. You even loaned her money, which
she never paid back, not that you want it. You don't want it, although it would pay for the Pink Floyd CD she never put back in its case so it's too scratched to play anymore because she never had respect for anything that wasn't hers, fucking selfish soul-ripper, Mr. Snail. So take it easy, Mr. Snail. You're fine just being you, Mr. Snail.”

“I'm tired of being me,” Mr. Snail said. And without another word he slipped from his shell.

“You look like a slug,” said Mr. Turtle.

“But I move like a sparrow.” And with that Mr. Snail darted down the path. Of course Mr. Snail still couldn't slink that fast, but compared to his previous speed with his shell-home, he was really moving. “Goodbye, Mr. Turtle,” Mr. Snail yelled, leaving Mr. Turtle in slimy cloud of dust.

Mr. Snail was having a wonderful time rushing past trees and stones. The forest was an exciting blur. “Weee,” he squealed. He had never felt so free, so alive. That's when he came upon the corpses. Two speckled bunnies, their soft fur shredded and their eyes wide and glassy.

Mr. Snail heard flapping wings pounding above. He looked up to see a dark brown hawk with a blood stained beak hovering above him. Sound familiar? Hawk. Beautiful at a distance. Deadly cruel when close. Then off to new prey. Heart-eater!

“If only I had my protective shell,” thought Mr. Snail. “I could hide and be safe. But I've exposed my soft, sensitive self and now that bitch of a hawk is going to eat my heart.” He let out a tiny, frightened sob. The hawk turned its head, drawn by the chance to cause pain, and stared at the naked snail.

“Caaw Caaw,” cried the hawk.

“Crap,” squeaked the snail.

The hawk swooped down, moving like wind. Mr. Snail tried to scamper, tried to scurry, but could only squirm slowly away. He could feel the flapping fury just behind him and knew any moment he would feel the snap of the hawk's beak. But then, just before him, appeared Mr. Turtle. And did you know I know Mr. Math Professor? That's right. In fact, I'm having lunch with him today. Did you know I know about your secret shoebox? The one you keep in the panties hamper. I wonder if Mr. Mathy would like to know what's inside the magic shoebox? I doubt you've told him. I doubt you've told anyone ever. Or how about some other little secrets. Diary entry, April 5, 1987? How do you think he'd like knowing about that? Who's exposed now?

“Into my shell, Mr. Snail,” Mr. Turtle said. Mr. Snail dove as best he could into the shell and Mr. Turtle pulled in his own head and legs. The hawk, unable to slow its dive, smacked into the rock hard shell and fell unconscious onto the forest floor.

“Thank you, Mr. Turtle,” said Mr. Snail, fitting himself back into his own shell.

“What are friends for?” said Mr. Turtle. Then the two tied the hawk to a stone and feasted on its body, devouring the bird piece by piece, slowly. Its pitiful hawk cries filled the forest until Mr. Turtle snipped off its tongue with his snapping jaws.

Sleep tight.

4

Everyone Else

Remember the man who used to work the smoothie shop? He's dead now. Remember the librarian, the one with the big tooth?
Dead. Remember that one kid who got held back in third grade because he kept crapping his pants? He's pretty sick. He'll be dead soon.

I guess that's everyone.

LORD BAXTOR BALLSINGTON

Stanley adored being alone with his penis. Especially in the morning. Stanley was laying awake in the early stillness that always followed his wife's departures. She had woken an hour before, hurriedly dressed, and left for her law firm. Stanley was currently unemployed.

Stanley yawned and smiled, his eyes still closed. Trickles of gold light dripped through the curtains, but the room was dim enough and the curtains thick enough to keep Stanley separated from the oncoming day. He let his hand wander.

“Hello,” he said to his penis.

Stanley rolled back the sheet and there stood his friend, proudly surveying his realm. As a child, Stanley had christened him Baxtor. Later he added the last name, Ballsington. Most
recently he had granted Baxtor a royal title. It was now Lord Baxtor Ballsington.

“I'm sorry I kept you waiting,” Stanley whispered.

“Never worry,” Lord Baxtor Ballsington said, his voice deep and stately.

“You're a king, Lord Baxtor.”

“No, no.”

“She was late leaving today,” Stanley said. “Maybe we should have done it when she was in the shower.”

“You are naughty,” Lord Baxtor said, nodding.

“But now we have all day.”

Stanley wrapped his palm about Lord Baxtor Ballsington and indulged. The process was lacking in creative verve, but there was more than enough enthusiasm. Stanley didn't fantasize. He didn't need to. He was right where he wanted to be. Pleasure, rhythm, and soon a mounting pressure, a building tension, like a tottering on the edge of a cliff, franticly waving arms, don't fall, do fall, don't, do, too late to stop now—that's when his wife opened the door. Stanley yelped, Paula screamed, Baxtor did what Baxtor does.

Paula closed the door again. Stanley curled into a ball. Baxtor cowered away.

“It's natural,” Stanley said a few minutes later, kneeling in a bathrobe before his wife. She sat on the couch, her face in her hands.

“It is not natural,” she looked up. Her eyes were red and teary. “You're married.”

Stanley dropped his head.

“I need some coffee,” his wife said, standing from the couch.

“Aren't you going to be late for work?”

“Work? Fat chance. I can't go to work in this state, with the image of you defiling our bed in my mind.”

Paula was a lawyer with the firm Chills and Grey. She loved it. She adored the cool, clean halls, the hardwood floors of her office, the windows with their six story view, her large oak desk where Melissa, her office assistant, would place coffee or a Red Bull while Paula spoke on the phone, laughing at jokes only lawyers would understand.

“So I told him, he might as well file for a 438 as hope for an opposition being granted.” And they laughed.

But it was always a somber laughter, the laughter of the trenches. She knew the intimacy of battle, the rush of the fight, the rich smell of others in fear. And beside her, like a squire, was her office assistant Melissa. Always there to supply a file or a fax, a Red Bull or an encouraging grin.

Today was casual Friday at Chills and Grey. The employees could wear whatever weekend-esque clothes they desired. Melissa looked best in her casual attire. Sometimes she even wore shorts. Long legs. There was something intriguing about Melissa's thighs. It was those thighs that had encouraged Paula to take on the Hot Springs Low Carbohydrates Diet. Soon, she imagined, her thighs would be as slender as her trusty squire's. Sometimes she wished she could look a little closer at those thighs, in an academic sense.

“I can only say sorry so many times, Paula,” Stanley said, standing in the doorway of the kitchen.

“I want you to promise that you will never do that again.” She was watching the coffee drip drip drip.

“Never?” He said. She spun around.

“Yes, Stanley, never,” she said. “Is that too much to ask?”

In truth it was, but Stanley just shook his head. Baxtor grunted.

“What was that?”

“Nothing,” Stanley said. “I'm going to take a shower.”

“No funny stuff.”

In the shower Baxtor just hung there, letting the water dribble off his deflated form.

“Baxtor, I had to promise,” Stanley pleaded. “Don't give me that look. Come on.”

“No, no. Don't concern yourself with me. No.”

Stanley and Paula had had sex a total of three times in the last eight months. None of these instances had been much of a success. The last truly enjoyable bout between the couple had been their second wedding anniversary last spring. That was nice. Sweet. Warm. Paula had been drunk. Drinking was an essential part of foreplay for Paula.