I answer to Maggie Random or 'yon luscious lady,' your choice. Wal-mart contracted me as a mystery shopper. 40K managers tremble before me. They dread and fret, pad payroll and recite customer satisfaction mantras in anticipation of my visit. Power trips, I called them, still do, my own private power trips.
My job abused my stationwagon, too many miles on too low a gasoline octane. The valiant old heap died outside Dunlap, TN. I distrusted my mechanic. They should be rake-thin, scraped-knuckle towheads, but mine waddled outside with three spare tires around his middle. Breathless, he wheezed instructions to the town's only motel, flapping an oily dipstick rag for left or right turns. My mechanic, name tagged Rob, told me that an angry farmer's ghost haunted the site of his old melon patch (aka motel lobby.) I toted my Samsonite up the cracked pavement absorbing late afternoon shadows. My portable NOAA weather radio beeped and reissued its violent lightning storm warning. Lightning burns six times hotter than the surface of the sun, know that? Yeah, what are you, a meterologist guy? Lousy weather, lousy luck, lovely fall foliage, quite an October trip I had. You won't believe, sitting across the counter from me in this little dinette, what horror I survived at the Dunlap Motel.

Stomach cramps woke me at midnight. Shuddering, gut-wrenching brown squirts. Enthroned on a motel's john during Tennessee's worst recorded lightning storm. You remember? Tongues of light raspberrying everything in sight. My open curtains framed the panorama. I'd carried an unlit candle to my journey to the porcelain god, but bolts illuminated my room. I hoped Rob right, that the motel really was haunted. I needed to kill something several times. I spurted another loose brown stream into the bowl and vowed, again, I'd never eat truckstop fried green tomatoes.
A bolt like twenty halogen bulbs ripped skyward directly outside my motel door, Room 13 at ghost central. A strange bark, sharp and high like a terrier's, sounded. Without cease the barker traveled from one end of the motel hallway to the other, accompanied by a hollow bouncing sound. A bowl perhaps, rolled by a dog? A genuine clown rehearsing his partner, perhaps a practical joke. Hey, illness knotted my guts; you can't expect logic. Then my stomach unclenched, and I laughed. Halloween travelers asked for trouble, no, begged it off rotund locals. The barks increased tempo and traveled shorter and shorter arcs across my door.
I wiped, flushed, and tugged loose the towel rack bar. I slapped the metal bar into my palm and approached the door. The rolling stopped and the dog/jerk snuffled and yipped in the slit between the door and floor. My back ached, my head hurt, and barks couldn't keep me awake. Fever dried my mouth, made my cheekbones puffy yet heavy. Before I yelled a curse and threat, silence fell. A creepy, ear-strained-for-sound silence. A soft 'bump' against the thin plywood door. I licked my lips. I admit the bar slipped a hair in my grasp. Another bump to the door, another, a hit, harder. Deep menacing growls slid into the door beneath the thunderclaps. A rabid terrier or creepy mechanic, although how he lowered his girth floor-level eluded me.
"Joke's over, oil-pants. My gun's aimed straight at you," I lied. My bowels gurgled and churned. Tomatoes kill weaker women.
The bumped mounted to shuddering blows. Quick eager barks conjoined to the melody of vibrating wood. I squeezed together my buttcheeks and stood beside the doorframe, bar like a ready baseball bat.
A wooden panel bulged. A cheesy lighthouse print rattled against the exterior wall. Blurred into a solid sheet, lightning whisked by my window. Frenzied barks exploded from the opposite side of the door. I heard the bottom door panel splinter, groan and burst. I chopped down and screamed.
A round dark shadow rolled, dodged and feinted as I chased its knee-high form. "What-are-you?" I demanded with each ineffective blow. Pain jangled from my wrists to my elbows. Beneath the thin carpet waited poured concrete. The whatever rolled between the two beds and stopped.
I paused while a third lightning burst outlined a round, seamed face. An orange pumpkin, actually, yeah a jack-o-lantern like we create with mummy. Carved with a smirk and eyes singled black around the inner rind. I wondered who remote-controlled it until I noticed its green glowing interior cavity. A haunted jerk-o-lantern.
The pumpkin barked, rolled behind me and knocked my legs from under me. My back and neck slapped the floor, and I briefly spun away from consciousness. My sphincter relaxed and christened panties and carpet.

Groggy and still prone, I felt for my weapon, but my fingers sank into slimey pumpkin pulp. I shrieked and jumped up. Must've spent minutes flicking my fingers. The jerk-o-lantern seeded me. Expected me to bear its fruit!

Furious I kicked its side and rushed for the bathroom. "Help me," I probably screamed. I'm a trace foggy on my dialogue. I tried slamming the door, but my demonic barking pumpkin lodged inside the crack. Both arms pressed to the door couldn't close it. From its smirk oozed pulp, seeds and a fetid rotting odor. Impossibly, the wet mess flowed over tiles and between my bare toes. I cried, cursed, yelled for God.
Up to my ankles and still the ooze rose while green light reflected from the tub and sink. Slivers of pumpkin skin clung to my inner knee. The dry brown stem stretched, turned flexible like a serpent, and struck my solar plexus. Then my nose. I maintained pressure on the door. Then the stem-roped curled under my hair and encircled my throat. Choked, I released the door and slipped and fell backwards into the tub. I unwound the stem and grabbed the shower rod. Immobile.
The pumpkin bowled into the tub and splinters flew onto the floor. I bashed down with the toilet lid, but my slimed fingertips lost their grip. I'm sure I screamed for help then. Balanced by the curtain rod and one foot in the hollow soap holder, I hovered over the rolling, howling produce fiend.

Ball lightning shattered the bedroom window and struck the pumpkin. I shielded my eyes as green and white lights engulfed the room. Ozone and roasting pies of childhood memory assaulted me. A howl rose and died. An eternity later, I opened eyes to a dark bathroom. A dry orange stain, a thin dehydrated ripple led from the tub outside. Until my legs trembled from strain, I hovered above the tub. Then, one metric unit at a time, I dismounted. I leaned against the doorframe and surveyed the bedroom.
Toasted seeds scattered across the carpet remained. I filed my few belongings into my Samsonite and zipped it shut. I never took my eyes off those pale oval seeds of terror. Had I mistakenly ingested one?
Clad in fouled underwear, I opened the broken door and left. My backseat suited me fine. Scared Rob into an apoplexy next morning.

Proof. I carried ziplock baggies for dirty panties, feminine emergency, that rigamarole. Why didn't I bag proof for posterity? Like ultimate truth, humans pursue but never capture proof. Words, my seeds of terror, defamiliarize our animal and vegetable familiars. By metaphor I magic my life. Read that somewhere. Excuse me, due to mystery shop Mount Pleasant's supercenter tomorrow. Think my story worth a BL sans T and Pepsi?

Mr. Spickle and the Wayward Wind

Hips, elbows, neck, jaw. Joints were Mr. Spickle's most prominent feature. Mr. Spickle was a hinged man, an energy-efficient, methodical man. He used a rehearsed method for every single action. Twenty-eight brushstrokes cleaned his teeth and gums. Another stroke? Decadent. Mr. Spickle enjoyed order and ordered his neighbors to follow his rules. He was so hinged people expected him to become unhinged. Real soon.

Each 5 AM, Mr. Spickle measured his hedges. With a carpenter's plane, he reassured himself that his foliage never exceeded three feet two inches height. Every second Saturday, he measured other homeowners' hedges. For homestead symmetry. He poisoned other people's weeds.

Mr. Spickle alphabetized soup cans. He said, "All clever pepole alphabetize their soup cans. ABCs are the most important things. Asparagus-Broccoli-Chicken Noodle!"

His neighbors wanted cleverness and no trouble, so they copied Mr. Spickle. They unbraided phone cords, aligned placemats with their tables' wood grain finish and dry-cleaned their curtains on a weekly basis.

One hectic day, a day when Mr. Spickle had more than four things to do in less than two hours, a wayward wind blew through the sleepy neighborhood. The wind breezed between the white starched curtains in Mr. Spickle's kitchen and knocked his paper lunchbag to the immaculate tile floor.

"I hadn't planned on this!" huffed Mr. Spickle. He wiped off his lunchbag and anchored it with an apple. "Bothersome breeze."

Mr. Spickle opened a thick old cookbook. Curious, the wayward wind rustled the pages until Mr. Spickle used metal clamps to hold his place.

"Arrogant air," muttered the tidy little man.

The wayward wind overheard him and tickled itself. Here was a new game.

Mr. Spickle measured, cored, and blended as the recipe directed. He used precise metric amounts of flour, cheese and egg whites. When the book called for 10 minutes of firm beating, Mr. Spicle beat until his arm was sore. Ten minutes not a nanosecond more. When he reached for the sugar, however, the wayward wind interfered. The sugar spiraled up into the air, a glistening crystal funnel past the curtains and out the window. Neighbors who saw the sugar shower promptly poured their own sweeteners onto their flowerbeds. Eyewitnesses later reported that the red mums looked frosted. What clever subdivision folk!

"Daft draft!" sputtered Mr. Spickle. The waywrd wind hustled about the human's trouser legs and laughed up his sleeves. Then his wispy hairline was teased by the naughty wind. The thin strands resembled curious bug feelers.

He threw the whisk into the sink and rolled down his sleeves. "This chaos cannot continue!" Mr. Spickle distressed himself whenever he exclaimed. Taht he did so now compounded his intense exasperation. Mr. Spickle stomped to his closet and withdrew Thursdays' overcoat and hat. (Each day had its own color and therefore its own coat, hat, slacks, socks and tie. Weekdays meant a white shirt.) Mr. Spickle moved to shut the closet door but stopped with his hand upon the handle. Slowly he took off Thursday's pinstriped hat. He sucked his teeth and thought until a smile broke over his face. Much like a fuzzy white film gradually covers a fruitbowl, the same process worked inside Mr. Spickle's cogwork mind. An organic process, assimilating the given facts. When he withdrew from the hall closet, he clasped the brim of a great black tophat.

"Such bait will prove irresistable," Mr. Spickle told himself. "Now I must find the proper trap for this gauche gale." He removed an empty pickle jar from his blue recycle bin. "Perfect."

The wayward wind whirled expectantly on Mr. Spickle's doorstep. Such a pleasant pasttime, mucking up this rake-thin human's silly insistent ways. The doorknob turned. His tie, decided the errant eddy, needed to flap over his shoulder like a tail or a useless wing.

All plans were cancelled, however, once the tophat poked through the doorframe. Over eight inches of black felt balanced upon Mr. Spickle's wide pitted forehead. The wayward wind rushed to buffet the tophat onto the cement flagstones. As expected.

Mr. Spickle whisked up his right hand, which held the pickle jar, and clamped his left hand firmly behind the wayward wind's neck. How his palm ached from the pressure! Straining al his muscles, Mr. Spickle crammed the wayward wind into the jar and twisted shut the lid. He held it aloft like a torch. "Behold my new world order!"

His neighbors applauded politely from their porches. The women's claps resembled lazy moths with the women's two fingers curled over their fans. One heavy-set fella in clears called over, "Whatcha gonna do wid 'im, Spick-le?"

"In my hand I hold unlimited energy, a new power source." Mr. Spickle stepped forward and stood beside his mailbox to give everyone a better view.

A tyke quit pedaling his bike and squinted. "I'm so sure."

Mr. Spickle swallowed. "Imagine a city powered by windmills instead of foul, fetid fossil fuels. Imagine every city a windy city."

The tyke shrugged. "Oh, ok."

The wayward wind was not amused. Inside its glass prison, the weather front seethed and shoved. The wind tore arond the invisible barrier; it circled, seeking any weakness. Each pass made the air angrier. The vessel vibrated in the walking corpse's greedy hand.

"This pickle jar preserves my future wealth." Mr. Spickle compulsively tightened the lid.

And thus the warrior wind grasped the mechanics of grooved glass containment systems. Drawing together its energies, the wind reversed its direction. Faster than jealousy the wind struck the lid and spun it loose.

Mr. Spickle yelped and braced the jar under his armpit. "It's trying to escape!"

"Your wind wants to cut out, eh, Spick-le?" laughed the heavy neighbor.

Mr. Spickle sat on the jar. His fellow homeowners eyed one another over their hedges and white picket fences. Imagine the sight, a grown man hatching a jar.

The wind heaved and spun Mr. Spickle face-first into the catnip patch beside the sidewalk. A quiet rumble filled the neighborhood. Practical folks withdrew behind shuttered storm windows and peeped through keyholes or mail slots. Mr. Spickle slicked down his hair and crawled backwards toward his house.

The jar gave a jerk, fell over and cantered in the middle of the front yard. The scalloped lid flew off and struck Mr. Spickle's grey Volvo. The sharp lid drew a great silver gash from bumper to bumper. The wayward wind surged out of the jar, still spinning. It grew and grew like the Democratic deficit. The vast gale seized clumps of dirt and rained them on Mr. Spickle's head. Then it threw the tyke's bike at Mr. Spickle's head. And hit him. Then this natural force destroyed his furniture, bill receipts, even tore up his A-frame house. It tore up the entire block before blowing town for good.

Free and furious, the wayward wind earned a new name that day. Tornado, born from a pickle jar and a man with too many indulged anal-retentive habits. idea=9/9/98 written=9/10/98 revised=9/27/98

Tomahawk Trevor

The tomahawk in my back pocket is for Wendy. I glued the feathers onto the handle by myself. The feathers are crow and bluejay because eagles are endangered. Endangered means almost dead, like old Mrs. Logan my babysitter. She reminds me of a tortoise, all humped over and wrinkled. I take daycare with ten smaller kids. Wendy wears long silver hoop earrings that chime when she turns her neck. We visit Wendy's library every week; we whisper and walk single file. Last week Wendy read Pocahontas to my daycare group, and I saw the feathers. She wouldn't let me touch the book. I think all of Wendy's rules are stupid.

I sharpened my tomahawk with a heavy file. All night I rubbed the metal ax head until my reflection stared back at me from the edge. Native Americans used tomahawks to cut wood and bad people's heads off. You can't bury the hatchet until it's bloody. Bury the hatchet means to stop fighting.

Last week Wendy pretended she liked me. She held out the book so I could see the pictures. Her voice wasn't too loud or too soft. She finished and everyone clapped, but then she picked up another book. I wanted to hear the Native book again. I said so, over and over. Wendy made me sit quietly. She told me, stop talking, Trevor! Told me twice, and then she called Mrs. Logan. I had to sit and color outside the story room until the hour was over. I never heard the second story. I just heard the little babies laughing inside. Wendy is mean.

This week we learned about the circus. We made black paper hats in art class. We wear them today. Mine rubs my ears and makes them sore. Mrs. Logan taught us the word ringleader. A ringleader is the circus boss and carries a bullhorn. Mrs. Logan calls us little ringleaders all the way to Wendy's library. My tomahawk is not Dad's hatchet anymore because I glued on feathers. In the children's department, a striped tent fills the story room. Mrs. Logan steadies the support post, which is thin like a broom. Wendy greets us in a zebra striped costume. Her skin smells like apples. Apples are peeled with knives. She backs away and pats my ballcap. She doesn't smile until I'm seated beside the door. Wendy sits on her legs on a blue rug. The little kids sit semicircle around Wendy, almost touching her. A stuffed elephant and toy lion guard her back. Wendy starts Cannonball Simp about a circus dog. Wendy is stupid. I warwhoop and stomp my feet. The kids laugh. Mrs. Logan skitters in and tries to grab my shirt. I dodge her arm. Then I wardance around the ten sitting little Indians and Wendy. I draw my tomahawk and wave it at Mrs. Logan. The silly girls in my class shriek. I pretend to chop off Mrs. Logan's hand, or maybe I really do it because she starts crying. Then I run at Wendy. She falls onto her elbows. Her hoop earrings flash. I should stop fighting now. Wendy crawls backwards like a crab. Everyone is screaming my name, screaming Trevor. Like I'm the next performer in the ring. Wendy screams like a girl.

I chop the support beam for the tent. I strike until the wood splinters down to the ground and up to the top. The striped cloth hisses and slithers onto me. I feel like I'm towel-dried from my very own blood bath.

idea & written=9/28/98

THANKS for perusing; now, how about a little feedback?
Email me at [email protected].
Better still, scribble in my guest book.
Sign Guestbook
View Guestbook

Get your own Free Home Page

Hosted by www.Geocities.ws

Home