Re: So Much Food in the Grocery Store After Dark, chapter 2
Posted by:
Ham on Rye
()
Date: November 05, 2011 09:17PM
I was in the 4th grade when I found out about it. I was probably one of
the last to know, because I still didn't talk to anybody. A boy walked up to
me while I was standing around at recess.
"Don't you know how it happens?" he asked.
"What?"
"Fucking."
"What's that?"
"Your mother has a hole . . ." -- he took the thumb and forefinger of
his right hand and made a circle -- "and your father has a dong . . ." -- he
took his left forefinger and ran it back and forth through the hole. "Then
your father's dong shoots juice and sometimes your mother has a baby and
sometimes she doesn't."
"God makes babies," I said.
"Like shit," the kid said and walked off. It was hard for me to
believe. When recess was over I sat in class and thought about it. My mother
had a hole and my father had a dong that shot juice. How could they have
things like that and walk around as if everything was normal, and talk about
things, and then do it and not tell anybody? I really felt like puking when
I thought that I had started off as my father's juice.
That night after the lights were out I stayed awake in bed and
listened. Sure enough, I began to hear sounds. Their bed began creaking. I
could hear the springs. I got out of bed and tiptoed down to their door and
listened. The bed kept making sounds.
Then it stopped. I hurried back down the hall and into my bedroom. I
heard my mother go into the bathroom. I heard the toilet flush and then she
walked out.
What a terrible thing! No wonder they did it in secret! And to think,
everybody did it! The teachers, the principal, everybody! It was pretty
stupid. Then I thought about doing it with Lila Jane and it didn't seem so
dumb.
One day I was standing around, waiting as usual, not friendly with the
gang, no longer really wanting to be, when Gene rushed up to me, "Hey,
Henry, come on!"
"What is it?"
"COME ON!"
Gene started running and I ran after him. We ran down the driveway and
into the Gibsons' backyard. The Gibsons had a large brick wall all around
their backyard.
"LOOK! HE'S GOT THE CAT CORNERED! HE'S GOING TO KILL IT!"
There was a small white cat backed into a corner of the wall. It
couldn't go up and it couldn't go in one direction or the other. Its back
was arched and it was spitting, its claws ready. But it was very small and
Chuck's bulldog, Barney, was growling and moving closer and closer. I got
the feeling that the cat had been put there by the guys and then the bulldog
had been brought in. I felt it strongly because of the way Chuck and Eddie
and Gene were watching: they had a guilty look.
"You guys did this," I said.
"No," said Chuck, "it's the cat's fault. It came in here. Let it fight
its way out."
"I hate you bastards," I said.
"Barney's going to kill that cat," said Gene.
"Barney will rip it to pieces," said Eddie. "He's afraid of the claws
but when he moves in it will be all over."
Barney was a large brown bulldog with slobbering jaws. He was dumb and
fat with senseless brown eyes. His growl was steady and he kept inching
forward, the hairs standing up on his neck and along his back. I felt like
kicking him in his stupid ass but I figured he would rip my leg off. He was
entirely intent upon the kill. The white cat wasn't even fully grown. It
hissed and waited, pressed against the wall, a beautiful creature, so clean.
The dog moved slowly forward. Why did the guys need this? This wasn't a
matter of courage, it was just dirty play. Where were the grownups? Where
were the authorities? They were always around accusing me. Now where were
they?
I thought of rushing in, grabbing the cat and running, but I didn't
have the nerve. I was afraid that the bulldog would attack me. The knowledge
that I didn't have the courage to do what was necessary made me feel
terrible. I began to feel physically sick. I was weak. I didn't want it to
happen yet I couldn't think of any way to stop it.
"Chuck," I said, "let the cat go, please. Call your dog off."
Chuck didn't answer. He just kept watching. Then he said, "Barney, go
get him! Get that cat!"
Barney moved forward and suddenly the cat leaped. It was a furious blur
of white and hissing, claws and teeth. Barney backed off and the cat
retreated to the wall again.
"Go get him, Barney," Chuck said again.
"God damn you, shut up!" I told him.
"Don't talk to me that way," Chuck said. Barney began to move in again.
"You guys set this up," I said.
I heard a slight sound behind us and looked around. I saw old Mr.
Gibson watching from behind his bedroom window. He wanted the cat to get
killed too, just like the guys. Why?
Old Mr. Gibson was our mailman with the false teeth. He had a wife who
stayed in the house all the time. She only came out to empty the garbage.
Mrs. Gibson always wore a net over her hair and she was always dressed in a
nightgown, bathrobe and slippers. Then as I watched, Mrs. Gibson, dressed as
always came and stood next to her husband, waiting for the kill. Old Mr.
Gibson was one of the few men in the neighborhood with a job but he still
needed to see the cat killed. Gibson was just like Chuck, Eddie and Gene.
There were too many of them.
The bulldog moved closer. I couldn't watch the kill. I felt a great
shame at leaving the cat like that. There was always the chance that the cat
might try to escape, but I knew that they would prevent it. That cat wasn't
only facing the bulldog, it was facing Humanity.
I turned and walked away, out of the yard, up the driveway and to the
sidewalk. I walked along the sidewalk toward where I lived and there in the
front yard of his home, my father stood waiting.
"Where have you been?" he asked. I didn't answer.
"Get inside," he said, "and stop looking so unhappy or I'll give you
something that will really make you unhappy!"