A 52-Hertz Whale (11 page)

—Stanley P. Duckett

From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: November 22, 2012 at 9:46 PM
Subject: RE: Thanksgiving

Happy Thanksgiving to you, Stanley. Sounds like your day was slightly more eventful than mine. I have never really followed the Eagles or football but I'd wager that it is probably more interesting than solitaire. After my 14th game, I heated up this frozen casserole that I found in my dad's freezer when I cleared out the apartment. The label was in my mom's handwriting and she used to be a killer chef, but she passed away almost a year before my dad. Needless to say, the casserole tasted a little stale.

Thanks for asking about Elsie. We talked on the phone today. She was making a Tofurky for the holiday and then I guess tomorrow she and Angry Guy are going to the Keys for a little vacation and to shell. I guess that kind of thing is easy to do when your house is also a boat. There is a plan in place for me to visit, but Elsie hasn't been able to commit to a date.

Regarding
Intervention
, I've experienced enough holidays-turned-interventions with my sister, so I stay away from those TV shows about addicts; I find they're misleading. One Christmas, my sister actually threw an entire turkey at my father's head when he confronted her on stealing 20 bucks from his wallet, as my apron-clad mother (who just spent hours preparing said bird) wailed in the background. To this day, I can't eat turkey without feeling sick to my stomach. Here's the thing about real life interventions: no matter how uncomfortable things get, you can't change the channel.

Best,

Peter

DECEMBER 2012

From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: December 6, 2012 at 4:56 PM
Subject: RE: Party

Dear D-Dog:

Sorry about the lag time in my response. Had to work double shifts over the holiday because we were busy with the schools out for Thanksgiving.

Anyway, I'm guessing that you want to know how the party went. I had to wait for the guys to pick me up on King St. Given that's my normal habitat, no one thought it strange for me to be standing there pacing back and forth. I took your advice about deodorant and bought a stick at the 7-Eleven. Clinical-strength stuff. Don't know how well it worked though. My hair was soaked before Coxson's car even pulled up.

For the most part, the ride to Smith's was uneventful. It was Coxson, Sam, and some other kid I don't know that well. The guys talked about previous “party fouls.” Most involved Sam. Allegedly, Sam once peed in some kid's mother's flower pot. At one point, Charlie ashed out the window. The ash flew through my window and onto my lap, singeing my fur pretty bad. I knew Chin Piercing would have a shit fit (Urban Dictionary, 2012) when he saw the damage. But I was lucky. The whole costume probably could have gone up in flames. Then Charlie offered me a cigarette. I refused, saying I wasn't into the whole yellow teeth look he had going on. Sam and the other kid in the car thought that was hilarious. Charlie—not so much. He gave me the same look in the rearview mirror that he'd given some guy earlier who'd flipped him the bird.

Anyway, I'd never been to Craig Smith's before, but it wasn't hard to tell which house it was. Cars were everywhere. Inside, people were clutching beer bottles and red cups filled with something called jungle juice, which sounded like a drink that an Abominable Snowman would like. Smith poured me a cup. Wearing the yeti costume meant sweating and sweating meant I was thirsty, but I couldn't drink with my Abominable head on so I went to the powder room and guzzled the juice in one long swallow. I knew that there was alcohol in there, but it was so sweet and good.

More to come. If I don't start this Biology assignment on cellular respiration, I'll bring down my average to an “A–.”

Keeping it real,

J-Wow

From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: December 9, 2012 at 5:35 PM
Subject: RE: Party

Dear Jamesicle,

You master of suspense! You're like the Hitchcock of email stories! Stopping right before things were gonna get nuts, dropping that big ol' cliffhanger on me! I'm hanging on a cliff here, and the muscles in my fingers and forearm are burning! The mind races: After imbibing the juice of the jungle (BTW, jungle juice has been around since approximately the Middle Ages and has been passed down through countless generations of inexperienced drinkers), what became of our furry and freshly inebriated hero? Will he suffer the same fate as his email confidante did at his first drinking party, vomiting so profusely all over the host's kitchen counter and dinner table and couch and dog that the host freaked out and called the paramedics? Or will he soar through the jungle (juice) like Tarzan? There's no telling.

Well played, you little scamp!

Waiting on pins and needles (and trying not to feel like a complete dork because my life is vastly less interesting than yours),

Darren Starin'

From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: December 14, 2012 at 8:25 PM
Subject: RE: Party

Dear D-Dogg,

My sincerest apologies for the long silence again. As you might surmise, winter is the Abominable Snowdude's busy season and I've been swamped with overtime at work.

Basically, from where I left off, I guzzle the juice in about two seconds flat then plop the yeti head back on, leave the bathroom, and rejoin the party. I almost forget I'm James Turner. Almost. One glance in the general direction of my Chuck Taylors helps me remember that I have size 14 paws for feet.

Coxson wants me to retell this joke that I supposedly told during the car ride to the party. The problem is that I can't even remember the punch line and my tongue feels like it weighs two tons (just like a humpback's). I'm sweating and trying to recall what I said that was even remotely cool or interesting. I grab for the easiest thing: whales. Just as I'm about to spout some random fact about the social lives of male humpbacks, I suddenly feel seven feet tall. (That's my height for real in the yeti costume.) I deliver a punch line, something to do with the size of my (snow)balls. The guys roar and invite me to join them in a game.

Are you familiar with Seven Minutes in Heaven? Well, I wasn't.

We had to draw a colored paper with a girl's name on it from a baseball cap. Another jungle juice or two later, and it's my turn. With the paws, it's kind of hard to open the paper to see the name. Everyone thinks that's pretty hilarious. Eventually, Sam helps me. When he announces the name, I swear I see his shoulders droop a bit. And that's how I end up in a dark closet with Sophia Lucca, which might just be better than swimming with a humpback. From watching other couples disappear behind the door, I get the gist of what's supposed to happen in there. Once we're inside, the closet smells like rainy days and there's no place to sit except on a pile of old board games. Sophia leans her head against the door and a piece of gum gets stuck in her hair. Once we get the gum situation under control, all Sophia wants to do is talk. Which would be fine except that what she wants to talk about is my least favorite subject.

Me.

She wants to know my real identity.

She makes a bunch of guesses, including Robert Flemming, who almost died choking on a mouthful of marshmallows during this game called Chubby Bunny in eighth grade. The one minute warning comes from the people outside. I am feeling confused and happy, lost and safe. And I pull off the Abominable Snowman head.

What happens next is epic (Urban Dictionary, 2012). She leans into me without a word and kind of almost brushes her lips across my cheek. My mind is all high fives and smiley face icons. I would have stayed in that closet forever. But there is a pounding on the closet door. I turn the knob to open the door, trip over something that feels like a soccer ball, and then I realize what I'm falling over is my Abominable Snowman head.

I'll have to write the rest of the story in the next email because Mom is nagging me about having reached my limit on screen time today. Guess I'll go finish the next chapter of
Moby-Dick
for English or at least read the summary on Wikipedia real quick.

Later,

James the Abominable

From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: December 15, 2012 at 3:56 PM
Subject: Dude!

Dude!

You're the hardest workin' man in
snow
-business!

I'm ecstatic for you about the kiss, brother! Beautiful creatures, those female types. And that one of 'em would even consider putting their lips on one of our kind—dudes, I mean—truly boggles the mind sometimes. Your story makes me think about my whole Corinne thing a little differently. I feel lucky that I ever got to be with her, that we got to share what good times we did. We had tons of closet kisses, figuratively speaking (mostly), and they were absolutely thrilling, just like yours. Isn't that amazing? That another person can make you feel like your veins are flowing with liquid lightning? Much as I miss her, the mere fact that THOSE types of feelings are available even to someone like ME, is actually sort of amazing. (Note: this is a brand-spanking-new and likely temporary feeling, but for the moment, I'll take it over agonizing heartache, no questions asked.)

Also, this is nothing personal, just my observation as a person with a B.A. in Film Studies, but
one
cliffhanger in the party scene was cool. Two is making your audience a little impatient. You don't want to alienate your audience, dog.

So get on with it for Pete's sake (whoever Pete is—no one ever says)! Or at least for my sake! I have to hope that you didn't type your email with your only unbroken finger after Charlie Coxson beat the crap out of you.

Waiting in Vain,

Darren and the Wailers

From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: December 16, 2012 at 3:48 PM
Subject: RE: Dude!

D-nominator:

So where did I leave off? Smith's party. Oh yeah. Coming out of the closet. Without my yeti costume on. That's right, from the neck up, I'm James Turner and from the neck down, I'm still Chewbacca's cousin. When my eyes adjust to the basement track lighting, the first person I see is Coxson. He's gape-mouthed as a guppy. And it takes a minute, but then I realize that I'm NOT the Snowdude and I'm NOT James, but some strange hybrid creature. The only noise comes from the iPod playing, some song that is really famous and I've heard a million times on the radio. Should remember her name, but it's the one where the chick sings about being on the edge of glory?

Charlie cracks his knuckles then shoves me. Once, twice, maybe three times. I completely lose track. Then there I am: tripping over my big feet, falling onto my butt, waiting for the horror of whatever is coming next. For some messed-up reason, I smile. Coxson goes, “What's so funny?” And because I'm nervous and it got a laugh before and I don't know what to do, I say: “Your teeth. They're the color of pee.” Kids are laughing and I wish I could disappear. Coxson takes a sip of his drink and then throws the rest in my face. The jungle juice is everywhere. A couple of people think I'm bleeding. The yeti costume is ruined.

Sam goes, “WTF?”

I figure he's talking to me. I wipe my mouth with the back of my paw and try to think of how to explain. All that comes to mind: Salt, Salt, Salt.

Then Sam says, “You're such an asshole sometimes.”

I am about to agree with him when Sam hands a napkin to Sophia and stares Coxson down. That's when I get it. He's not talking to me, he's talking to Coxson. Reprimanding Coxson, rather. In front of everyone. And even though I know he's trying to play hero for Sophia, I want to convince myself that maybe he is sticking up for me too.

To make a long story short, Smith asks me to leave and I start to walk home in the rain. Freezing rain, actually. Because it's about 33 degrees. Some poor kid splashing in puddles sees me and I think he might have peed himself. About a mile in, I come across a Pace stop and wait there in the shelter until the bus comes. I take off my yeti head when I get on the bus because I'm getting stares. The bus driver says I reek of alcohol and I don't have any money for the fare. Just before he kicks me off, Mrs. D'Angelo just appears and pays for me. All the way back to the subdivision, I sit next to Mrs. D'Angelo, thinking about how I almost kissed her granddaughter. And waiting. Waiting for a speech of some sort, or for her to say something. Anything. Mrs. D'Angelo is NEVER silent. But she just picks at the beads on her rosary until our stop. Then she links arms with me and we walk under her umbrella down the street.

On her porch, Mrs. D'Angelo searches her carpet bag of a purse for the key, unlocks the door, then directs me to go inside. I've been to Mrs. D'Angelo's house before for tutoring, and we always sit in her kitchen (which is spotless since she does the majority of cooking on this ancient stove in the basement). I plop down at the kitchen table out of habit, and she makes me espresso. No frothy milk, no sugar. Just plain espresso. It tastes like tar and I almost gag drinking it. Then Mrs. D'Angelo pours me three more of those tiny glasses. And the whole time, she's talking to me like I'm in AP Italian or something. She sounds mad too, but she always sounds mad when she speaks in Italian, almost like I should know stuff that I don't know. She pauses a couple of times, and I know she's waiting for me to say something. But I can't understand anything she's saying. I don't know if it's the alcohol or what. All I do is nod, smile, and repeat “si” like some dumb Rosetta Stone tourist.

When I finish the last of the espresso, Mrs. D'Angelo leads me to a bedroom upstairs and motions for me to get under the covers before leaving and closing the door. The blanket on the bed smells like garlic, dusty attics, and something spicy. Maybe incense. There's a picture of Mr. Lucca, Sophia's dad, on the nightstand with a little cross made out of dead palms tucked into the frame. I toss and turn because it feels like Mr. Lucca's watching me. And I wonder if he could see me from heaven or whatever while I was in a closet with his daughter. The comforter's garlic smell is also starting to make me feel sick. So I tiptoe down the hall to find the bathroom.