Grundish & Askew (14 page)

“Yeah, it ain’t like him. We gotta keep an eye on him. Maybe he just needs a little bit of sleep. This is a pretty stressful situation and maybe he just needs to chill out, reflect on things a little. Let’s let him sleep for now.” Grundish stands and fills his plate from edge to edge with food from the counter. He sits again at the table. The waistband of Buttwynn’s silk boxers constricts uncomfortably around his expanding stomach. Grundish pulls the elastic band up over his stomach, over the navel, to a place where it doesn’t have to stretch so much. Chunks of egg and pancake stick to the thick bearded area around his lips. Grundish doesn’t care. He stuffs a sausage into his mouth and goes to check on Askew.

•  •  •

Damn. He looks so comfortable. I don’t wanna bother him
, Grundish thinks to himself about Askew. Laid out, spread-eagle on his back on the Buttwynn’s bed, Askew sleeps the REM-deprived sleep of the overweight, of the sleep apnea afflicted. His snores are gentle. His round, uncovered belly rises and falls, rises and falls, rises and falls, and then the snoring stops, followed tens of seconds later with the abrupt choking sound of his body trying to start breathing again. The intermittent snoring and choking are a gentle lullaby to Grundish, a sound he finds it hard to sleep without. Some people need relaxation tapes of classical music and rainstorms. Some need white noise. Grundish needs Askew’s snores to fall asleep. In the trailer, Grundish could always hear Askew snoring. Like an infectious yawn, the snores always seemed to affect Grundish likewise, making him want to snooze, too. Despite having just slept the night away, and largely due to the breakfast gorging he had done, Grundish decides to try for more sleep. The Buttwynn’s bed is far more comfortable than the theater chair Grundish slept on so he pushes Askew out of the middle of the bed, over to one side, and closes his eyes himself. Flashes of light glimmer on the backdrop of his closed eyelids, streaks of color appear and then evaporate; his inner voice speaks nonsense in a derailed train of thought, consecutive sentences having no connection to each other, phrases and concepts melting with no concern for their meaning. And then: Grundish sleeps.

And then: Grundish awakens. He is roused late in the day, just after dusk, by a bare-chested, partially robe-covered, dirty boxers-wearing Askew. The short, overweight man has climbed atop the slumbering Grundish
^[27]
, and dangles his mangled red face right above his friend’s. Breathing the labored and congested rattle of the heavy smoker, Askew wheezes his stale bum-breath in Grundish’s face.

“Come on,” says Askew, shaking Grundish by the shoulders. “Wake up. You gonna sleep the entire time we’re here? I’ve got some shit I wanna show you. Shit you’re gonna be proud of.”

“Get off’a me, you filthy animal,” grumps Grundish. “Your breath stinks like you haven’t brushed your teeth in a week. Your face is crusty and you’re getting some kind of greenish tint around the areas where I stitched you. And something on you stinks like death. Go take a shower and get yourself cleaned up and then come back to wake me up.”

The round little man lets himself go limp on top of the big man. “I just wanna cuddle, Honey Bear. Will you give me a back rub?” Askew nuzzles his muzzle up against Grundish’s neck.

“Get the fuck off me, you homo, and let me sleep!” The tight muscular arms push quickly, launching a flabby ball of Askew into the air and away from the bed. A wild guffaw trails Askew as he arcs through the air, his silk robe flapping behind him like a cape. Gravity’s pull on Askew is abruptly halted as his mass meets the floor and both refuse to budge for the other.

“God damn, Grundish! I was just playing. You don’t have to get all mean. Does this mean you don’t love me no more?” Askew stands up, places his hands on his sides and cocks his hip.

“Go!” Grundish shouts and pulls a pillow over his head to block out Askew.

•  •  •

Askew leaves. Askew showers. Grundish sleeps. Askew returns. Grundish arises.

“Come on,” urges Askew. With the blunderbuss gripped in his hand, slung recklessly backwards over his shoulder, he leads his best friend down the hall. “I know it ain’t your birthday, but I got you a little present.”

“Hey. Don’t point that fucking thing back at me. I don’t ever like having a gun pointed at me.”

“All right, ya big wuss,” says Askew, letting the gun hang, its flared barrel now threatening the floor. The two men, similarly dressed in robes and sock garters, wear the clothes so differently. Grundish, with his tattoos, thick beard and large frame carries the look of a deranged and dangerous loner, one who lives in a cabin stacked wall to wall with useless clutter and perhaps an arsenal of guns. Askew’s appearance, on the other hand, is more that of an innocuous village idiot or that of an overly medicated and brainsick mental patient who has perhaps just recently shat himself. “Close your eyes,” Askew says. “I want this to be a surprise.”

His hand on Grundish’s elbow, Askew opens a bedroom door and leads the way into the room.

“Okay, is everybody in?” Askew asks in a wavering, spooky voice. “The ceremony is about to begin. Go ahead an open your eyes and feast them on this.” A look of pride flashes on Askew’s face, the look of a cat leaving dead rat on its owner’s doormat. He almost purrs at Grundish.

Before the men, strapped to a rolling office chair with leather belts, is a teenage boy who used to have stringy blond hair and a skeevy little mustache. The belts are cinched tight around his chest, making it difficult for the boy to breathe. His hands are pulled behind him and secured to the chair with electrical tape. The mustache remains but is crusted with dried blood and snot, looking like an afflicted caterpillar. The blond hair is haphazardly cut off in uneven patches and scattered about, some of it dried to coagulated smudges of blood on the floor. Some of it still kicked about by Askew’s feet as he circles the boy.

“You want to talk about a Fucker,” sneers Askew, his own face twisted and mangled, but not looking as bad as the boy’s. Askew, dressed in the silk robe, boxers, and sock garters, circles the teen. There is now a sense of danger to his aura; a distinct change from the harmless mental patient now into a keen predator. A disconcerting air of madness drips from Askew and puts Grundish on edge. Askew balls his fist and hits the boy in the ear. The boy screams. Not with his mouth. The mouth is covered with electrical tape that is wrapped around his head again and again. The boy’s cheeks are bulging with a pair of Mrs. Buttwynn’s underwear that Askew stuffed in his mouth before the taping. The boy doesn’t scream with his mouth. His eyes, though, silently shriek in terror.

“Askew,” Grundish says, trying to shake Askew from his spell, but to no avail. “Askew,” he barks. The sharp tone of Grundish’s voice breaks the trance and Askew looks at him.

“What?” His eyes unfocused, his heart visually palpitating in his chest. “What?” He steps back from the boy.

“What did you do to this kid?”

“He’s the one.” Askew smiles. He slows his voice and says it again. “Heeee’s...thhhhe...onnnne. He’s The Fucker you been telling me about. The punk that throws
fecus
at you while you work. The one that shouts
despairishing
things at you. Well, we finally got him. And I’ve been working him over for you. I wanna show you something.” Askew turns the chair to allow Grundish to see the other side of the boy’s face. Where his ear is supposed to be, there is nothing. The spot where the ear once was is now a jagged bloody circle of lacerated skin, thick and meaty at the edges, looking like under-cooked ham.
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Seeping from the wound is a sticky mess of rust-colored discharge. “I did him like that movie that we always watch. Cut his fucking ear right off. And he cried like a little bitch while I did it.” He digs in his pocket and extracts a pale floppy piece of skin that, at one point, helped to catch sound waves and direct them into the boy’s auditory canal.

His hand on Askew’s chest, Grundish eases his friend back from the boy. “Stand back and let me talk to this kid.” Askew first allows himself to be nudged back and then stands firm. Grundish locks eyes with him, pushes slightly on his chest, and speaks again, slowly and deliberately. “Please let me have a word with this kid. Go eat something. Go have a cigarette. Go take a shit. Just go. Okay?”

Askew eases up and walks backwards toward the door. “All right,” he says, “but don’t finish him off without me, Brother.”

The smile on Askew’s face as he exits doesn’t sit right with Grundish. The goofy, good-natured Askew that he has known for so long doesn’t seem to be anywhere behind the smile. The malignity in Askew’s eyes, something Grundish had never witnessed in all of their years as friends, slams Grundish like a kick in the balls.
Don’t finish him off without me
, thinks Grundish.
What the fuck does he think I’m gonna do
?

A warm circle of moisture spreads across the crotch of the boy’s pants as Grundish approaches him and walks behind the chair. Leaning in close to the still-attached ear, Grundish speaks softly. “Do you recognize me?”

The boy shakes his head from side to side and whimpers beneath the tape.

“Are you sure?”

He continues to shake his head
no
, not stopping until Grundish places his hand atop the boy’s head. “Well. I’m the guy with the sign. The loser that stands out on the side of the road with the arrow sign waving people in to get pizza deals and directing people to condo sales. Do you know what I’m talking about?”

The boy doesn’t move his head, but the rest of his body trembles violently.

“You’ve had so much fun at my expense, haven’t you?” Grundish spins the boy around and gets in his face. “Do you recognize me now?”

The boy shakes his head
no
again.

“I think you do. I think you know exactly who I am. It’s really funny to throw things at me and shout shit when you know I can’t catch you, isn’t it?” The boy’s bloodied eyes strain to escape the sockets. Sweat streams down his face. “Don’t bother shaking your head at me again. Don’t bother denying it. I want you to be a man now.” He gets inches away from the boy’s face. “You know who I am, don’t you?”

Finally, the boy shakes his head in the affirmative.

Grundish’s words come at the boy like an enraged pit bull barely restrained by a thin leash. The tendons on his neck pop; his teeth clench as he speaks. “I’ve thought every day about what I would do if I ever catch you and your little punk friends. I’ve fantasized about this day. My life is shit. And to have some rich little punks rubbing salt in the wounds, smashing my face in the shit that is my life, it’s a mighty hurtful thing. To have you throw things at me from your car has made me wish for the opportunity to snap your neck. I’ve found myself really wanting to hurt you. Wanting to hurt you bad. And now here we are, my prayers answered.” He squats down in front of the boy and stares him in the eye. “Should I let you up from that chair? Maybe take the tape off of your mouth? I can let you stand up and you can call me names. Call me a loser. I’ll bring a whole bowl of fruit in here for you to throw at me. Would you like that?”

The boy shakes his head and shudders. Tears course down his cheeks. His sweaty body convulses with fear.

“Then,” Grundish says. “Then we can see what a big man you really are. What do you think of that?” Standing again, he walks several circles around the chair, saying nothing, pausing behind the boy. Time stretches and contracts. Elsewhere, people are being born and people are dying. The only sound in the room is the low breath of Grundish and the muted whimpering of the boy. Grundish leans in close and speaks into the excised circle on the side of the boy’s head. “Can you hear me?” he says into the bloody mess of an ear-hole. The boy remains still. “Can you hear me?” Grundish says, louder this time.

The boy nods.

“It’s your lucky day. I ain’t gonna kill you. I ain’t even gonna hurt you. I won’t let my friend hurt you, neither. I’m not a killer, and I’m not about to start down that path now. Although if I were, you would be as good a starting point as any.”

Grundish spins the weeping boy around again to face him. “I can’t let you go yet, though. So you’re gonna have to sit here for a day or two. I’ll get you some water and a little something to eat in the meantime, as long as you can promise me not to make any noise when I take that gag out.”

The boy nods in agreement.

“So, while you’re sitting here, I want you to think about your life. About your future. You’re being given another shot at becoming a human being and not some shitty abusive little puke. When you get out of here, I think you need to go thank your mother for everything she has ever done for you. Tell her you’re sorry for being disrespectful, that you know you’ve been a problem, and that you’re going to be different. Maybe come up with a list of people who you’ve tormented, and then plan to make things right with them. You think you can do that?”

The boy nods in the affirmative again.

“Because if you can’t, then I can just let my friend come back in here and hang out with you. But I don’t think we want that, do we?” Grundish and the boy both shake their heads side to side together. “So, you just sit here and think about these things we been talking about, and I’ll get back with you later. And don’t try to escape or anything or I will have my friend have a little talk with you.”

In the center of the kitchen table is a silver serving dish heaped with juicy roast pork marinated in mojo sauce. Askew scoops a serving spoon of meat on top of the black beans and rice on his plate. He stares across the table at Grundish and says nothing. Grundish stares back, trying to read Askew’s eyes, trying to interpret his blank face.

“I don’t know why you boys are so quiet, I don’t,” says Turleen. She dumps a heavy load of hot sauce on her food. “But, I done cooked up one heck of a swell meal, I did. I wish I had some real Cuban bread to go with it, but this crappy French bread from frozen dough will have to do. It would be real nice to have some dinner conversation, though, it would. I’ve been cooking in here the whole time and haven’t had anybody to talk to. So, if you boys ain’t saying nothing, I’m just gonna monopolize the conversation, I am.” She reaches up under her dress and pulls out the throwing knife to slice up the baguette. The knife is lifted and brought down like a cleaver on the loaf again and again. It makes a solid chop on the wooden cutting board each time she lowers it and cleaves off a piece of the crusty bread. Normally either Grundish, Askew, or both would have commented on the impressive blade, not to mention the fact that Turleen was pulling it out from under her dress. Askew is oblivious to the knife; his thoughts are elsewhere. Grundish focuses his attention on trying to figure out what is going on with Askew and barely gives a second thought to the weapon. “Well, anyways,” continues Turleen, “I got things worked out for us to get to a safe place where we can lie low. But we can’t go there until tomorrow night, we can’t. I’m gonna tell you fellas all about it...”