Lick Your Neighbor (7 page)

“Randy, please! Just go help my husband first and then you can go back to drinking your life away.”

“Deal. But if I can’t go see what the word is on the street, then I’m going to need some leads from you, Sis.”

“Leads? Like what?”

Randy got down on the floor. “I don’t know, some clues. Did you notice anything unusual happen lately involving Gus or other turkeys perhaps? Besides the whole hanging business of course.”

Randy got into the push-up position. His arms immediately started shaking and his face turned red.

“No, not really,”
Andie said.
“Just normal getting-ready for Thanksgiving stuff. Oh there was that stupid article he wrote.”

Randy did one push up. Then two. Then his arms gave out and he slammed face first into the floor. He came up holding a bloody nose.

“What article?” Randy asked, stumbling back into his chair. He tore open one of the bills on his desk, crumpled it up, and stuffed it up his nose to stop the bleeding.

“The article he wrote for the Duxbury Times. About Thanksgiving. Did you read it?”

Randy glanced at the stack of newspapers in the corner of the room. It reached the ceiling. “No I’m a bit behind in my newspaper reading.”

“Well it was some nonsense about John Alden’s diary, which the Preservation Society apparently found. The article was about the Pilgrims, Thanksgiving, and the, uh, what the hell was that word…oh, the Auwaog or whatever. You’ll have to read it yourself. So are you going to get him out of jail or what? Hello? Randy? Randy?”

The phone lay off the hook, resting comfortably on the soft pile of homefries. The door to Randy’s office swung back and forth as if a rhino had just barreled through it.

Out of the corner of his eye, Salty Peter swore he saw the Tasmanian Devil spin past the kitchen. But when he turned to look, there was nothing there but a few papers swirling in the doorway.

At the diner counter, Donna paused to wonder if what she just saw was an optical illusion. Randy Tinker, the laziest, most out of shape and consistently drunk man she’d ever known, just hurdled the counter, did a spin move around a customer, sprinted out the door, and dove into his car through the driver side window à la Dukes of Hazard.

Something was most certainly up.

6
Disappearing Savages

Excerpt from the diary of John Alden

N
OVEMBER 15, 1620

I will use what little strength is left in these worn, wet bones to wield this quill once again. Much has happened. But oh how my tender body aches! With exhaustion, yes, but also with longing for some flowering wafer-cake to come lay down beside me. Many nights have I lain in bed dreaming of a friendly face and warm body beside me. We embrace, I look at her and she at me, and deep in each other’s eyes we see that rarest of gazes….absolute acceptance.

But alas, the Shiteflower has nothing to offer beyond the beastly men, prudish wives, and sickly children that are all around me. My soul for the warm embrace of a fair-faced cuckoo-bud! At least I still have my nightly dreams, where all I wish for is mine for the plucking. But before I go to that sweet slumber, I must press on and write of the sundry of amazing things that have happened as of late.

A party of ten of us sailed ashore yesterday. We traveled to and fro the land in a rickety little shallop boat that barely fit all of us. After a light breakfast of moldy cheese and half-spoiled beer, our adventure started with a brisk single-file march up the beach. We were all in such delightful spirits to be off the smelly Shiteflower that we sang this bold song as we marched.

O Martin said to his man

Fie, man fie

Martin said to his man

Fill thou the cup and I the can

Thou hast well drunken man

Who’s the fool now?

I saw the goose kiss the hog

And the cat lick the dog

I saw a hare hump the hound

Fourteen miles above ground

I saw a maid milk a bull

Every stroke a bucket full

Luckily Reverend Brewster was not there to hear us sing, otherwise he would have opened his Bible and flames would have shot out of it, singeing our beards and nose hairs right off. I’ve never actually seen him do this, but he’s warned us of it enough times, and with such vigor, that he must be serious.

As the day went on, the marching this way and that became quite a bore until, suddenly, we saw six Savages! They were walking around on all fours and barking like dogs. Or maybe just the dog they had with them was doing that…things happened so quickly it is hard to say. The Savages ran into the bushes as soon as they spotted us, and we immediately gave chase. But even though we reached the bushes no more than a few heartbeats later, the Savages were nowhere to be found when we got there. They vanished, as if the bushes had swallowed them. I tell you I do not like this place.

Beyond the bushes we came across a little path which led to an opening with a bunch of heaps of sand, some covered with dirty mats. The Reverend said it was a burial ground and that we should not disturb it or else we would risk angering the Savages greatly. I do wish he had said that before some of the men pulled bones out of the ground and started fake sword fighting with them.

Then, from behind one of the sand heaps we saw some colored feathers peek out. Thinking it was one of the Savages wearing a headdress, we all readied our weapons. But, thankfully, it was only a Turkey. We all had a good laugh when it came strutting out. A few of us strutted around mimicking the Bird for the fun of it. But then Governor Bradford got mad, called us all a bunch of sheep-biting foot lickers, and then he shot the bird. What a waste of gunpowder. Those nasty birds, with their tough, dry tasteless flesh, are not even good enough for stew.

I must say, I hope there are not too many of those angry disappearing Savages around. A few here and there would be nice, just to spice things up a bit, but I don’t think I will be able to deal with hordes of these Wild Men roaming about freely. I wish we could round them all up and put collars and leashes on them. Children could take them out for walks in the mornings and evenings, and perhaps on weekends we could play fetch the corncob with them. I would sleep much better at night if that were so. We do have guns and swords, yes, but little good that would do against stampeding Savages. Especially since I honestly have no idea how to fire my musket. Captain Standish must have assumed I knew how when he handed me one, but he was grossly mistaken. I know that these little pellets and this powder are supposed to go down the barrel, but in what order? Powder first? Pellets first? And how much of each? Do I fill it to the rim? And should I throw a lit match down there as well to get things started? I tell you it’s a mystery. Oh well. I figure I will just shout “Bang! Bang! Bang!” and throw rocks at the Savages if it ever comes down to it. It is not like they would know the difference, seeing as they are, you know, savage and all that.

—John Alden

7
Blowing Kisses in the Cell

I
T HAD TAKEN SEVERAL MONTHS OF
courtship, hundreds of cold showers, a back shave, and ultimately a wedding ring before Gus Stitch had the honor of spending the night with Judy.

It only took Gobbling Gus the turkey a few hours.

On the first night he came into her life, and every night thereafter, Gobbling Gus spent the night in Judy’s bed. Not because that’s where he preferred to roost, but because Judy wouldn’t let him sleep anywhere else. No matter how hard he tried, Gobbling Gus spent every night locked in the warm, suffocating, desperate embrace of Judy’s frail arms. And surprisingly strong legs.

For a few weeks life was quiet for Gobbling Gus and Judy, as they went about their daily routines of watching soap operas and crapping all over the carpet, respectively. But like all celebrities, Gus soon received his call to fame, as mascot of the Duxbury High Fighting Gobblers football team. The appointment was born of an emergency when, on the night before the big homecoming game, the Fighting Gobbler mascot costume was stolen by football players from the school’s archrival, the Plymouth Eagles, in a caper that almost certainly involved someone, somewhere, at some point, getting a wedgie.

After a frantic search for a replacement costume, including a disastrous and ill-advised attempt to superglue hundreds of turkey feathers and a paper beak onto a stray dog, the team’s coach placed a call to Judy Stitch, asking if Gus was available that day.

“Available for what?” Judy asked.

“To lead our team proudly onto the field of battle against our greatest foe.”

Gus had charged onto the field that day with a tenacity and crazy look in his eye that was infectious. The entire Duxbury High football team—who hadn’t had a winning season in over fifty years—fed off of Gus’s energy and rumbled onto the field right behind him, screaming and flapping their arms like a bunch of avian lunatics.

Gus took flight like a missile as he crossed the thirty yard line, and flew right between the uprights for a field goal. Even though the game hadn’t started yet, the scoreboard operator put up three points for Duxbury, which sent the crowd into a frenzy.

Gus circled back around the field and buzzed the announcer’s booth on top of the stands. After spitting out his coffee, the announcer turned to the scoreboard operator and said, “That turkey’s ego is writing checks his giblets can’t cash.”

The game started off with the Gobblers returning the opening kickoff one-hundred yards for a touchdown. In the end zone, the entire team, including the water boy and school principal, flapped their arms and strutted back and forth for well over five minutes. The ref gave them a fifteen-yard penalty for unsportsmanlike conduct, but it didn’t matter. The rout was on.

Throughout the game, more than any other player, the team’s starting middle linebacker Robert Fulton exploded with power and fury. Years later, Robert would still remember the incredible strength he felt burning inside him that day as he turned in the single greatest performance in the history of Massachusetts State high school football. His final stats for the game included a staggering ten sacks and four interceptions, three of which were returned for touchdowns.

As the clock ticked down, the scoreboard read 64-0 in favor of the Fighting Gobblers. It was their first win over their rivals from Plymouth in almost thirty years.

The crowd rushed the field as the buzzer sounded, and Robert marched around with tears in his eyes, holding Gus high above his head as if the turkey was the goddamn Vince Lombardi Trophy.

But that was then. One day you’re a wild man, freely roaming the field of battle, feeling truly alive, with a mighty bird at your side. Six years later, you’re in jail, sharing a cell with the guy who was just arrested for murdering said bird.

Dale, leaning against the concrete wall, glanced at Robert Fulton from the other side of the holding cell. Robert sat on the edge of the bottom bunk bed, rubbing his Popeye forearms. He had a black eye, busted lip, one finger missing, blood stains on his shirt, and a scar running down the length of his face. Robert peered at Dale like a rabid dog peers at a man doing the Electric Slide in a bunny suit.

Dale waved a timid hello.

Robert took a good minute to hock up what seemed to be every drop of mucus in his head and then spit it onto the floor, inches from Dale’s feet.

Robert then told Dale what he was gonna do.

“Here’s what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna stretch your dick out like a piece of licorice, shove it down your throat like a feeding tube, and then make you piss down your throat through your licorice dick until you choke on your own rancid piss and die.”

Dale let out a nervous giggle. Then he saw the dead serious look in Robert’s eyes and began frantically banging on the bars.

“Officer! Officer! I need some assistance in here!”

Officer Truax meandered in.

“What’s the problem?”

“Do you have any single cells available? This double just isn’t working for me.”

“This isn’t a hotel.”

“He’s going to kill me.”

“Who? Robert? He wouldn’t hurt a fly. Would you, Robert?”

Robert considered this.

“I might.”

“See!”

“Oh just sit tight,” Truax said. “Your lawyer is here. You want to complain about the accommodations, complain to him.”

“Who’s my lawyer?”

Truax held up a business card.

Randolph “The Hammer” Tinker
Attorney at Law
“I nail justice in the face.”

“Dammit, Andy,” Dale said.

“He just drank a pot of coffee while downing the entire bowl of M&Ms on my desk, one by one,” Truax said. “He swallows them like pills. No chewin’ or nothin’. Said he couldn’t help it. Something about a sickness that runs in his family. Like alcoholism, but with chocolate. That true? Cause I think I might have that same disease, but with marshmallows instead of chocolate.”

“Are you seriously asking me if there’s such a thing as chocoholism?”

“No,” Truax scoffed, “of course not.”

“Good.”

“I’m asking you if there’s such a thing as marshmaholism.”

Dale stared at Truax for a moment.

“There isn’t.”

“Are you sure?” Truax mumbled, his mouth suddenly and inexplicably full of fluffy white marshmallows. “Cause I can’t stop eating these things.”

“Yes I’m sure! There are no chocoholics
or
marshmallowholics.”

“We prefer marshmaholics.”

Dale threw his hands up. “Whatever! You’re all really just a bunch of goddamn fat fatties who can’t stop stuffing your fat fatty faces with candy!”

Truax had another marshmallow poised to go into his open mouth, but he froze after hearing Dale’s outburst.

“I don’t think I like your attitude, Dale. Everyone is addicted to something. Drugs, power, sex. Might as well be to something wholesome, like these little sweet white puffs, made from 100% all natural unicorn poop.”

“That’s not where marshmallows come from.”

Truax grabbed Dale by the shirt and pulled him against the cell bars. “Yes it is, damn you!”

“Okay, okay! Marshmallows are unicorn poop!”

Truax let go. He popped the marshmallow in his mouth. “I really don’t like you, Dale. And if I were you I’d watch who I was calling a fat fatty fatso. Just because you made bail doesn’t mean you’re free and clear.”

“I made bail?”

“Unfortunately, yes. You’re almost out of here. For now.”

Dale turned to Robert and smirked. “Looks like I won’t be able to try any of that tasty licorice you were telling me about.”

Robert jumped off his bunk and took off his shirt, revealing a muscular chest covered in thick, black hair. He hooted and yelped, alternately beating on his chest, pointing at Dale, and then slamming his fists on the concrete cell floor. Then, still hooting, he jumped up on the bars and swung his body back and forth, building up momentum to hurl himself at Dale.

Truax tapped on the bars with his baton. “Now, now, Robert, settle down, boy. Or there’ll be no lunch for you today.”

With a grunt, Robert slid down off the bars and sulked back into a corner of the cell.

“I told you he was dangerous,” Dale said. “He’s like a wild animal.”

“Aw he’s just hungry that’s all.” Truax took out a notepad and pen. “What do you want for lunch, Robert?”

Robert shrugged. “Turkey sandwich. With mayo, mustard, ketchup, hot sauce, lettuce, tomato, onion, bacon, and pepper jack cheese. On Rye. With pickles!”

“Hey that sounds good,” Truax said as he wrote. “Might have to get one of those bad boys for myself.”

Dale’s eyes narrowed. “Hang on. Turkey sandwiches? After all this crap you two have been giving me about what I allegedly did to Gus, you’re going to eat
turkey
for lunch?”

“Yeah so? It’s pretty good with mayo, mustard, ketchup, and hot sauce.”

“You two geniuses do know that turkey sandwiches come from turkeys right? From turkeys like Gus. I mean, it’s not like there’s a turkey sandwich tree out back.”

Truax and Robert looked at each other. Each of them seemingly waiting for the other to say “Like hell there isn’t.” But neither of them could, in good faith, do so.

Truax crumpled up the lunch order paper and threw it on the ground. “God damn you, Alden. First Gus, then marshmallows, now turkey sandwiches. Any other of my favorite holiday traditions you want to shit on before Thanksgiving? I suppose next you’re going to tell me that the Pilgrims didn’t land on Plymouth Rock.”

“Well they didn’t actually
land
on it.”

Truax put his hands over his ears and walked off singing “la, la, la, la,” leaving Dale and Robert alone.

“I’ll see you on the outside one day, Dale.” Robert kissed his biceps and then blew the kiss to Dale, who instinctively reached out and snatched it out of the air. The moment his fingers closed, Dale realized he’d made a mistake. He stared at his fist. What the hell was he supposed to do with it?

Robert looked concerned.

The longer Dale held it, the more real the kiss became. They both stared at his closed fist in horror.

Robert pointed at Dale’s hand and, trembling, demanded, “Give that back.”

Dale had a decision to make. He could blow the kiss back to Robert, throw it to the floor in disgust, put it to his own lips, or, he could hold it hostage until he was out of that cell. Hoping it would ensure his safety, Dale chose the latter.

He put his fist behind his back and, defiantly, spoke. “No.”

That kiss you sent me

Carelessly blown from wet lips

It’s mine now, asshole.