Upright Beasts (15 page)

I told him he should move inside, that he was liable to melt away in this heat, but he said the woman inside was not the same woman he married, and that was a terrifying thing.

Dad stayed there all summer. Momma wouldn't talk to him, just smoked cigarettes and glared at him through the window. I was sneaking out the back door to see Bobby Jackson that summer. He had a bright yellow motorbike and took me anywhere I wanted to go. One night, Bobby put his hands under my shirt and said we'd never be apart. I skipped right across the yard forgetting Dad was there. He was scowling as Bobby rode away through the night. In the weak glow of the streetlamps, Dad's face looked thin and green.

Finally, Momma went outside and grabbed his arm. “All right,” she said, “we have our differences, but who doesn't? I think we can start again.”

“I fear it's too late,” he said. When Momma tugged on his arm, he screamed in pain. The grass had already grown up through his skin. His roots had taken hold, and I had stopped bringing him food weeks before.

Slowly his body grew softer and greener until it split apart into the lawn. Momma cried a lot in the bathroom with the tub running. Fall crept up on us, and the summer was done.

Now Dad was just a thick clump in the dirt. I kneeled next to him and put down my ear. “Promise me you'll keep me nice and trim,” the wind whispered through the blades. I didn't think he could hear me anymore, but I said I would.

I mow lawns all around the neighborhood now. I have a shiny, red mower I can spin around on a dime. I charge exactly ten dollars a yard.

MY LIFE IN THE BELLIES OF BEASTS

I
was born prematurely and, as such, was a very small child. So small, in fact, that shortly after emerging into the world, I was gobbled up by a clever fox that terrorized my parents' farm. It had sneaked in the back door while everyone was distracted. My mother's tears of joy turned acid, and my father cursed the lazy farmhand he'd tasked with mending the fence. These were the first and last words I ever heard my parents utter.

It was cozy and warm inside the fox's belly. I barely noticed what had happened. To me, it seemed I had merely gone from one womb to another. When I was hungry, I ate the scraps of raw meat that fell around me. When I was sad and wailed, the fox howled lullabies to guide me back to sleep. All in all, my early days were bearable.

In time, I began to grow skittish. I was no longer a baby, and I needed to stretch my limbs. One day, as if to answer my prayers, the fox was cornered by a local hunter and his giant mastiffs. The fox tried to run away, but I had grown so large that I weighed her down, and she was torn apart by the hounds. I felt the cool air and saw the harsh sunlight for the first time before being swallowed by the largest dog.

I can't deny I felt a great sadness as I settled among the bits of organ and clumps of fox fur. Yes, the fox had kidnapped me, but she had also been my home, and that is never an easy thing to lose.

Still, the mastiff was roomier and more appropriate for a growing boy. I could feel my muscles developing as I did push-ups on the soft stomach floor and pull-ups on the outline of the mastiff's large spine. When the dog bounded through the grassy fields, I would crawl up his throat and rest my chin on the back of his massive tongue, gazing out at the dry, open world.

I even fell in love this way, believe it or not. There was a kind girl who lived next to the hunter's house who would feed the mastiff I lived in tasty leftovers through the gaps in the fence. She wore pastel sundresses and had dandelions in her hair. I couldn't believe how light and beautiful she looked in the sun.

“What are you doing in there?” the girl said when she saw me peeking from the back of the mouth.

“I live down here,” I said, ashamed.

“Well, come on out!”

She laughed, but I was afraid and slid back down into the guts. I didn't think a boy who had lived his life in the bellies of beasts was worthy of her.

I howled with self-pity, and the girl rubbed the mastiff's belly, saying, “There, there.”

Eventually my constant loneliness made me resolve to leave the dog's belly. And I did. Using all my strength, I pulled my way out of the mastiff's maw. It was dark outside the dog. My limbs ached, and I decided to rest. As I sat on squishy ground, I realized I was merely in another belly. The dog had been gobbled up by a grizzly bear when I hadn't been paying attention. I couldn't believe my bad luck!

When I tried to escape the bear, she grew angry and climbed up a tall tree. I was almost a teenager now, and life felt like a rotten trap. Everything that seemed sweet contained hidden
thorns. If I had fresh honey in my grasp, it was followed by the painful sting of swallowed bees.

But life moves on, and one grows accustomed to anything. Years passed. The grizzly was drugged and placed on a boat that set off for a foreign zoo. The boat was caught in a terrible storm, and the bear and I were tossed overboard, only to be consumed by a shark that was later swallowed, accidentally, by a giant sperm whale.

I was now in the largest belly I had ever been in. There was nothing to restrain me anymore. I was a man, and I had to make a life for myself. I set to work, building a shelter out of driftwood scraps and skewering fish from the stomach's pond for food. Sometimes I thought about the little girl in the sundress and felt a sadness in my stomach. I lived in the whale for a long time. My skin grew spots, and my hair fell softly to the ground. My years were swallowed one by one by the beast of time.

Then one day, I noticed the whale was no longer moving. I hadn't felt stillness in many years. I was afraid and sat waist deep in the cold saltwater. I pressed my ear to the whale's rib cage and heard shouts and noises beyond the barrier of flesh. Then metal claws tore the walls of my world open, and I tumbled onto a wooden deck.

It took my eyes quite some time to adjust to the light. My old skin was covered in flecks of blood and slick blubber.

Between the unshaven sailors, I saw a woman looking at me and smiling. Her skin was crumpled with age, and her hair was long and white. She was wearing a green sundress and holding out her hand.

“How did you find me?” I managed to say.

“I've been searching for you all my life,” she said. She bent down to kiss me softly on the brow.

She helped me off the ship's floor and gave me a bowl of hot soup. The sailors waved good-bye to us at the next port. We married and bought a little apartment in the city, far away from the woods and wild beasts. Inside, we enveloped each other in our arms and whispered the words we'd saved up over all that time. There weren't many years left for us, so we were determined to live them happily. We drank dark wine and filled our bellies with rich meals of liver and ripe fruit.

Time passed, and my days were calm.

Yet despite all my happiness, life was uneasy for me on the outside. Often at night I would wake up in a sweat, my body encased in the tight sheets of our little bed in a cold apartment in a city surrounded by the warm sea. I felt small and alone in that dark room. I could feel the breath of my wife on my neck, but it felt like the breath of some unstoppable and infinitely large beast, the one waiting for the day that it would swallow me inside the blackness of its belly forever.

THE SOLDIER

T
he soldier was called into the sergeant's tent and slapped across the face. There was something the soldier had done, of course, but he wasn't sure what. The sergeant was yelling at the soldier, about either the shine or lack of shine on the toes of the soldier's boots. It was a hot day in that foreign land. The soldier left the sergeant's tent and, with the sting still blooming on his cheek, kicked a mangy dog in the ribs.

I would like to make a point here about violence inflicted on one person being passed down to another in an endless cycle. But the kick was accidental. The soldier was running to hide the tears welling in his eyes and didn't notice the dog in his path. The soldier was far from home. He was in a lonely place, and the men he was trying to kill always seemed to be hiding in large bushes where he couldn't see them.

The dog, however, was not far from home. He was a native dog and so was considered an enemy by the other soldiers. When the dog came by begging, the soldiers threw their empty bottles and cigarette butts at him. The dog would then run back into the forest only to come upon the rebel camp. There, the rebels, believing the black-haired dog to be an evil omen, would hit him and yank his tail.

The dog spent the days of the war like that, running to and from the camps, always in search of companionship. The soldier stepped on a land mine, and the sergeant died of an exotic
disease, but the dog was still there. There were no other dogs in the woods he ran through. When he was hungry, he sat on the ground and gnawed on his own leg. Sometimes at night he would see the face of the man in the moon and bark loudly in anger.

THE HEAD BODYGUARD HOLDS HIS HEAD IN HIS HANDS

W
hen the Dictator settles on a day of shopping, the head bodyguard notifies the store twenty minutes in advance. In this way, assassination plots are eluded. The Dictator arrives in a black limousine along with his four favorite bodyguards. The head bodyguard sits in the front seat and lazily scans the tops of buildings for any glints that might signify a sniper rifle or bazooka. The Dictator reclines in the backseat between two of the other bodyguards—two brothers, in fact—and sips a small cup of single malt Scotch and water. Sometimes he will substitute the Scotch for an obscure brand of grape soda he has consumed since childhood, although only if the Dictator thinks that the bodyguards will not be able to guess the contents of his drink. This is why the Dictator only drinks from black mugs.

Hastily, the boutique has been emptied until only one female employee remains. It is well known that the Dictator is fond of well-breasted women, and indeed the woman in the red dress—for the Dictator prefers red dresses on well-breasted women—is the bustiest woman the store currently employs.

The head bodyguard has known the three other bodyguards for as long as he can remember. Their fathers were junior partners in the same law firm, and they spent their summers exercising at the same country club gym. As schoolboys, their physiques and
large allowances allowed them to twist and punch the arms and legs of smaller, poorer boys in the hallway between classes.

The head bodyguard has also known the Dictator for decades. By now, he feels the inevitable affection that results from years of proximity.

The bodyguards wear black Italian leather jackets, black sunglasses, and black slacks, and each carries a black snakeskin briefcase that contains various items the Dictator may or may not require. Each briefcase's contents are unique. The head bodyguard's briefcase contains the Dictator's honorary diplomas—for the Dictator never completed university work on his own, having dropped out to pursue a career in advertising—an address book of various allies and surrogates of the Dictator; a list of the Dictator's enemies, alongside each of their greatest weaknesses; a small box of ammunition; and two gold-plated .38 caliber pistols.

The Dictator stands at five foot seven, three inches below the national average, and has the vague sort of face that, if seen in a group photo, requires an extra second to place. In the store, the Dictator does not browse. Instead, he reclines on a white leather couch while the large-breasted woman parades the latest designs in front of him. The three other bodyguards stay in the store with the Dictator while the head bodyguard stands watch out front. This is the job the head bodyguard prefers, as it allows him to smoke his hand-rolled cigarettes and not deal with any fits the Dictator might have if the clothes do not fit him correctly. The head bodyguard takes a long drag of his cigarette and feels his chest fill up with scratching heat. He exhales into the face of a large woman carrying a small dog in her purse. Move along, the head bodyguard says, gesturing with his head. The head bodyguard takes off his jacket and drapes it over his arm. It is summer.

Inside the store, the other bodyguards nod along with the large-breasted woman at the outfits the Dictator has picked out. The Dictator carries a black credit card issued specially for him by the Minister of the Treasury, and when he pays for his clothes, he likes to say, Put it on the people's tab. A little joke. Today he is wearing a tightly tailored gray and purple pinstriped suit, ostrich skin shoes, silver cuff links shaped like roaring lion heads, and a bright yellow tie printed with ionic columns. Since assuming power, the Dictator has always clad himself in the most fashionable of modern garb. He says that this is to inspire the people, although the head bodyguard secretly thinks it is a compensation for the Dictator's otherwise forgettable appearance.

When he was a little boy, the head bodyguard once held the Dictator's head in the bottom of a toilet for a full two minutes while two other boys flipped the flush lever and punched the Dictator in his stomach.

The Dictator, for his part, remembers every bruise and noogie and night spent crying to his sickly mother about the bullies at school. After the Dictator assumed power—through a series of title changes, departmental merges, and power transfers that left the public completely confused as to who was in charge until the Dictator interjected his face on every billboard and screen—he tracked down the bullies who had tormented his school years. When he discovered that one of his most persistent tormentors had broken his neck in a freak hang gliding accident, the Dictator was furious. He crushed two rusty antique iron thumbscrews on his palace floor. Still, he succeeded in locating four of the most memorable bullies, and these he hired as his personal bodyguards.