Who's It For?
Maurice looked down on me as I sat slumped and jelly-legged on the curb. He said, “If you don’t use that shit, you gon’ lose it. You know that right?”
I stared back at him from a distant world. A Sour Punch Sour Straw dangled pathetically from my frozen mouth. I felt the sugar strewn about my upper lip, I felt the green cylinder crushed beneath my teeth like a collapsed tunnel, but I did not feel what Maurice was telling me.
I chewed dully and listened to highway 80 roar, letting the moment pass before saying, “Luthe wuh?” shrugging, and inserting another green cylinder into my acid-stained mouth. Maurice stepped back and considered me like Mike Huckabee might consider a Syrian refugee.
Face sharp with scrutiny he spat, “Why do you always focus on the negative, man? I said use it or you will lose it. But man, maybe you already have, shit.” With that he shook his head and crossed the street. Leaving me to sit alone under the buzzing fluorescent lights of the Hyde Park AM/PM, swatting flies and sucking the green taste from my mouth.
. . .
When I was little my family owned chickens. We lived in a familiar country house with a long steep driveway at the tip of a downward sloping cul-de-sac. The gravel cracked underfoot and the dark stained wood creaked in the wind, but in general the old place spoke with a stately air. One entered the house on its top floor, and as one did one saw into the open wood-paneled living room, through the sliding glass doors, and out onto the Sierra Mountains. Defiant points dappled in white, shining sharp as insults in the sun. As the driveway descended to the house, so did the house descend into the verdant gorge behind it. The bottom floor, consisting mainly of bedrooms, opened to a machine-leveled yard sentried by tall pine trees. The forest stood impenetrable at that flat green space’s edge like a canopy-darkened challenge. The trees in there were all gnarled knuckles and spider-fingers. It was on this plane between my bedroom window and the tree-line, this flat world between shelter and wilderness, that we saw fit to build their coop.
Mom and Dad decided that it was important to build their coop as a family. After two symposiums (in which carpentry and general handiness were called into question) and a planning/strategy meeting (in which three-dimensional comprehension was mocked) the coop’s erectile excellence became symbolic and paramount. There were sheaves of paper; blueprints and shopping lists and maps and plans and contracts and affidavits that were drawn and signed and torn and drawn again until finally my sister suggested that we just go, “see what they have,” at the hardware store. Where no family ever fought.
In the end, Mom and Dad just let us build it ourselves anyway. And so a wire box framed in two-by-fours and crooked nails came to stand in the plane’s center like the point on a five-dice. David Foster Wallace might describe this space using the word, "quincunx,". Surprisingly, the chickens were even louder than our Jack Russell, Rufus. But the noise was a happy noise that filled the intermediary space with bright life. I used to love hearing the Cock’s triumphant morning screams, peering at their hazy morning shuffles and their wary morning pecks. On them, each day looked like a whole new life, like they’d learned all they’d ever need to learn and fit perfectly right where they were. It seemed to me that their coop was more for us than it was for them.
. . .
I sat under AM/PM’s flickering epileptic lights for a while. But it started to get late and, more importantly, I ran out of Sour Straws so, with earthen reluctance, I stood up from the hot curb and ambled slowly back down the hill toward bed.
Summertime in Vallejo feels inescapable and ancient—somehow stirring the air with my movement increased the night's heat. With no scene, with nothing to distract me but the constant stream of passing head and tail lights, the word, "hot," echoed around my mind like a mantra, drowning all other realities in smoldering resentment. Have you ever felt the irrational, borderline insanity that a merciless heat induces? That feeling like time no longer exists, like you'll be sweating grimly in your boxers forever, wondering at half-capacity what mistakes caused you to wind up here, where it's so fucking hot? It was too hot for such feelings. So hot, in fact, that my brain resorted to its most basic function—onward.
. . .
Every morning I put on gloves and boots and walked out to their coop to feed them and look for eggs. When I lifted the top to their coop, oftentimes one of them would stay roosted and I’d have to push her off her nest. It always made me sad to do this because it dismayed them so, and they made such sad mourning sounds. Such expressions can a Chicken manage, such painful accusations.
Some mornings, as I'd steal their children for my breakfast, I'd feel eyes on me from the forest. The Chickens I was used to, I knew the way their look felt on me; but this look was a big question mark rubbing at the nape of my neck. Something inexplicable was vying for my attention; a great big feeling with teeth and hair.
On these mornings I'd let Rufus out first and then shuffle slowly to their coop, keeping my eyes on the forest, ready to act should the movement I always suspected actually occur. Every time I took my eyes off the forest’s border, my imagination jumped over it, eager to take a job from my eyes. "Did that branch move?" I'd ask my memory, "Was that a shadow I saw quivering? An eye I spotted glinting?" And then I'd look up, intake breath as if I'd been struck, see nothing, look down, grab as many eggs as I could, and run back to the house. As operations go it probably could've been more efficient.
But one morning my imagination and my eyes collaborated on a project, and teeth and hair gained flesh: I sent Rufus out first and he bolted for the forest, halting anxiously at its edge. Neither he nor the chickens were making any sound, so my quick breath filled my ears anxiously. I walked out into the frozen space confused, and Rufus ran back to me, whining and slavering. Where was all the noise? I peered around, the crease in my brow asking this question inaudibly. Then something cracked in the forest—deafening by comparative silence—and out stalked something from a TV show.
The cat was hulking and tawny. It's smoky eyes looked made-up and the hair on its back had a prickly, electric quality. It almost looked like a statue or something that belonged in a museum, and shock rippled through my quaking body each time I realized that it was, in fact, alive. Nothing moved, and for a moment I thought that if I blinked I'd find myself in a more accommodating reality. But before my eyelids had the chance to flicker, the cat pounced atop the chicken's coop, and yowled amongst flutters and cries. That word, "yowl," it doesn't quite do the sound justice. It was fear, pure and striking. It wasn't a sound at all but a flash that sunk. The cat glared at me, hatred and malice in its amber eyes, and then turned on Rufus, who’d begun growling proudly to my right.
. . .
At the bottom of the hill sat a squat Seven-Eleven. The taste of Sour-Straws had fermented in my mouth and the ghost of green-flavor set about haunting my palette. Chewing on stale gum that didn't exist, I walked toward this oasis in the desert.
It was cold and sterile inside and I wanted to lay down so I could feel the cold tiles on my skin. The store’s surgical lights had a fine strobe flicker that made each new moment feel separate and distinct from the previous ones, and everything was tinged with a shimmer of steel and blue. "Ooh," I thought, "Fancy," and sidled up next to a fully stocked drink-fridge, my eyes low with desire. Playfully, I pointed at a dark-blue Powerade. "I'll take you," I thought, "aaaand you, and you," and soon I had a bag full of brightly colored plastic and a belly full, once again, of Sour Punch Sour Straws.
But before proceeding with my Odyssey, I needed to relieve some pressure. After a brief inspection, however, it became clear that this establishment prized the appearance of cleanliness over its actualization, and, on principal, I refused to expose my genitals to such abject refuse. So, I left the cold convenient store and walked around back to piss away from the street. As I passed putrid barrels and pungent cans, I heard a slap and a whimper. Curious but apprehensive, I crept into a strange scene.
There, ten yards into the shadows and facing me, was Maurice. His hands were in the air and his eyes were crossed in the attempt to perceive the muzzle nuzzling the space where his eyebrows connected. I felt momentarily jealous when I heard Maurice's bladder release, but then I heard the assailant speak.
"Did you just piss yourself?" laughed a high-pitched voice. "Okay, gimme yo shit, bitch, or I'll add blood stains to those pissy ones."
My heart began to race as I apprehended the situation. I checked my phone but it was still dead. I had a decision to make: I could pick up the rock by my left foot, creep forward silently, and attempt to save Maurice, or I could back slowly away and forget all about him.
. . .
I wanted to tell Rufus to shut up, but I was too afraid. I felt liquid warmth spreading through the stiff fabric of my jeans, and my left leg was shaking so badly that I wasn't sure it would support my weight. Rufus, encouraged by his own growls, began barking and thus earned the cat's full attention.
Summoning its most malicious expression, the cat stared unblinkingly at Rufus who, to his eternal credit, quailed not a bit. That stupid, proud, beautiful creature puffed out his chest in defiance, unwilling to acknowledge the cat's obvious physical superiority, and stared back into its molten eyes resolutely.
Shaking perceptibly, stinking of urine and fear and cursing my small young frame, I took a hesitant step backward toward the house. If the cat noticed it made no indication, unwilling to break from its ferocious staring contest with Rufus. They were locked in a mental battle, intent only upon one another. It was then that I saw my opportunity and, to my shame, took it. Abandoning my defender, I backed away until I felt the door against my shoulder blades. I reached behind my back, found the handle with my left hand's slippery fingers, and turned it with slow trepidation. The door opened with a biting, heart-stopping click, bringing both animals from their trance.
The cat swung its eyes toward me curiously and Rufus jerked in shock. Clearly, Rufus had expected me to stay resolutely by his side, and the confusion on his face was apparent. Feeling the house's warmth escape onto my open palm, I took my eyes away from the cat for a panic-filled moment, slid behind the wooden barrier, and closed it behind me. With tears in my eyes I peered through the door's head-jamb window at Rufus, who had turned his back to the cat and begun scampering towards the house. His little mind had just enough time to experience fear and betrayal before the cat pounced upon him, causing him to experience pain and death. I crumpled to the floor with my back against the door, felt it shake as the cat made contact with it, and screamed.
Mom and Dad rushed downstairs, but by the time I could bring them up to speed, Rufus was gone and the coop was all silence and bloody feathers.
. . .
I remembered Rufus' face as I'd shut him out and decided that I'd rather die with a full bladder than live with an empty one.
Softly, I put down my sack of snacks and picked up the heavy stone to my left. Waiting, fear welling inside my stomach and pushing up into my throat, I heard Maurice blubber, "I ain't got nothin', man, check my wallet." The assailant patted Maurice down and produced a brown leather wallet from his right back-pocket. As the assailant searched Maurice's wallet for anything valuable, withdrawing several credit cards and, just to be a dick, the picture of Maurice's sister, I crept behind him with athletic ability that had lain dormant since high school basketball.
I raised the stone in my right hand and swung it with full force at the assailant's head. However, as I did, Maurice had the bad sense to react to my presence. The assailant, seeing Maurice's eyes widen, had just enough time to turn and shoot before my stone crashed into his left temple with a potato-chip crunch. The bullet entered my right thigh just above the knee, and although I felt no pain, the shock of the impact pushed me to the ground, which in turn impacted my bladder past its retention capacity.
Maurice kicked the gun from the assailant's outstretched hand and searched his pocket for a cell phone. "You saved me, man!" Maurice sputtered as he dialed nine-one-one, "Thank you! You saved me! You saved me!" He took off his jacket, bent down, and wrapped it around my thigh. I heard the operator pick up the line. I still didn't feel any pain, but my head was light, and seemed to roll around on my body as if it were connected to it loosely by a ball bearing. "Don' thang me," I slurred, moments before passing out, "Thang Ruvus."
Maurice considered me like Mike Huckabee might consider a Syrian refugee who had just saved his life. Clearly concerned, he put more pressure on my now free-bleeding wound. "Ambulance is coming, man. Just—just stay with me," he yelled, and put the phone on speaker so he could attend me with both hands. It was a cliché thing to say, but its familiarity comforted me. I patted Maurice on the head affectionately. "Goo' boy, Ruvus," I said, as my eyes fled towards my brain, "Goo' boy."
