Tin.Can.Goat

Three ducks swam across a pond and skimmed insects and pond scum into their bills. One female, ate slower than her male and female friend, but it wasn’t because she was slow. It was because she was keeping her mouth full so she wouldn’t say anything to upset the drake who was insistent on talking non-stop himself.

“So, I was thinking that later this day, or maybe tomorrow, I’d have you two over for dinner,” he said, sucking down moss and large blood-filled mosquito. “Also, we could have your husbands and kids show up and we could all play some games. My wife bought a tic-tac-toe lawn game. We’d have a lot of fun.”

The first female—the slow-eating one—swam a little forward past the other two and snatched a water skipper from the top of the lake.

“I was going for that. Just like you to jump in and grab it when you knew I was going for it,” said the drake.

“I had no idea,” the hen replied.

“I know you and I know you do that just to irritate me. Wouldn’t you agree?” He asked the second hen who shrugged and went back to skimming the water with her bill.

“I don’t think that’s a fair assumption of me,” the first hen replied, and nodded at the second hen.

“I think I know you better than you know yourself. It’s something you do because you find joy in doing it. You enjoy the opportunity to piss people off. Especially me.”

“Whatever.” The first hen ruffled her feathers and with a breath, dove under the water, breeching the surface a few inches from the drake.

“Why did you do that?” the drake asked. “I was finally getting my hair dry and you just got it wet again. I can’t believe you did that on purpose.”

“Sorry, I didn’t even aim for you. I think it’s because you drifted down towards me when I was under the water. Basically it was an accident.”

“Accident my ass. You do this just to piss me off. Why can’t you be more like her.” The first hen looked to where the drake pointed.

“Like who?” she asked. “You’re pointing at the bank and there’s nothing there.”

“You know who I was pointing at,” the drake said. “She must have moved, but you know what I meant.”

“Listen, I don’t think it’s that big of a deal to get worked up over. It was an accident. Let’s move on.”

“I still think you did it on purpose. You do everything mean on purpose.”

“Ya’ know, I think I’m going to go eat over there by the geese. They don’t look like their being that picky about whom they eat lunch with.”

The drake flapped his wings and raised his chest up out of the water, then settled down with a splash. “Don’t start getting all whiney on me,” he said.

“No, it’s ok. I’m just gonna go over there,” the first hen said, and paddled away towards the geese.

The drake watched her swim off and yelled out to her, “Hey, where did our friend go?” She didn’t turn around or answer, so he dipped his mouth in the water and scooped up some passing food. “Seriously!” he called out again. “Where did she go?”

The first hen stopped swimming and turned towards the drake with a big smile cracking her bill. She laughed a couple of times and the drake asked “What?” with a mouthful of grub.

“Well,” she said, “When you were ranting at me, I gave her a nod to swim off in another direction. You know why I did that?” The drake shook his head and she continued. “Because, since she left, I’ve been taking a crap each time you got ready to take a bite. I would wager that you’ve now eaten three mouthfuls of my poop.”

The drake spit and yelled obscenities at the hen, but she just smiled.

“And now you know what it’s like when I’m really doing something on purpose,” she said, and swam away.

[680]

Trace let his car drift into the space between a rusty old Ford pickup truck and a blistered Toyota Camry and dropped the transmission from neutral to park. He clicked the parking brake down with a slam of his foot and turned off the ignition.

“Assholes,” he muttered under his breath and slammed the car door.

Even though there were four vehicles parked outside the Quiznos, only one couple sat at the tables inside the restaurant; a guy and a girl and the guy was staring out the window at him. Trace stared back until the guy broke away and said something to the girl.

Keep staring retard. I’m really not in the mood, Trace thought and walked in through the front doors.

The girl behind the counter was polite and fast. Trace liked it when things seemed to work in his favor and so far this night had been this way, but the each time he looked up, the guy staring at him and it made his blood boil.

Douche bag, Trace thought as he stared the guy down. He watched the guy say something to the girl, but rarely dropped his gaze from Trace.

Trace paid and thanked the girl, but stopped as he heard the guy whisper to the girl.

“I’m sorry?” Trace said, turning to face the couple. They looked at him, but didn’t answer. “Now I don’t think you meant to call me that.”

The girl answered first. “Call you what?”

The guy grew a set. “You’re hearing things,” he said.

“Yeah, I am,” Trace said. “I heard you call me a name and I’m really not in the mood, but if you want to push it, I’ll get myself in the mood damn quick.”

The guy snorted and shrugged. “Whatever buddy. Move on.” He dismissed Trace with a wave.

“Yeah, I thought you’d puss out,” Trace said, and turned to leave.

The girl stood up and pushed a finger into Trace’s shoulder. “Watch your mouth asshole.”

“Listen lady,” Trace said without turning. “I’m gonna leave so you’re not spending the rest of the night in the hospital waiting on the puss next to you to wake up. So back off, keep chewing your cud, and leave me alone.”

Trace took a couple of steps and turned. “Ya know, if you want. You could just leave with me now, save that puss the heartache later when you end up tellin him you slept with me anyways. Nah, never mind, I don’t want to see him cry.”

The girl laughed and poked Trace in the chest again. “What the FUCK makes think I would ever leave with you?”

“Well,” Trace said, scratching his temple. “I figured that, like most women, you’d rather be with a guy that’s got a nine-inch cock, instead of a guy that smells like one,” Trace said and winked while blowing her a kiss.

The guy lunged at Trace. Trace side-stepped, and threw a right hook into the guy’s jaw.

The girl stood in shock as the guy fell, bouncing off the table, knocking their food to the floor, and hitting a chair before collapsing in a heap on the floor.

Trace rubbed his knuckles on his shirt and looked at the girl. “You ready for that ride?” he asked.

She didn’t reply.

Trace turned and pushed open the restaurant door.

“That was awesome,” the girl behind the counter said.

Trace looked back over his shoulder. “I know,” he said, and walked out the door.

[584]

No one played together more than Billy and me. We played every day after school until one, or both, of our moms called us in to eat supper or to turn in for the night. Most days, if someone was looking, we’d be found down by the canal racing sticks, leaves, papers, plastic lids, or too small to smoke cigarette butts in the fast-moving water. It was fun, a lot of fun, and I never wished it to end, even on the day I killed Billy.

I watched as he struggled against the rusty steel grate, his hands pushed against it, but he didn’t rise up. Once his strength was gone, he collapsed and the current crushed him against the grate.

I should have run, but I didn’t.

I should have run for help right after I clocked him with the rock, but I didn’t.

No, I waited there to make sure he didn’t get back out. Would I have hit him again if he tried to crawl out? No. I’d probably just kicked him in the face.

I ran all the way home; I had to make sure it looked as if I hurried. I banged on the front door; I don’t remember my mother locking it.

I heard her footsteps thunder down the hall as she walked to answer the door and realized that I had no tears. Desperate, I thought of sad things; my father dying, my mother leaving, my best-friend’s recent death, but none worked.

I punched the wooden porch support twice, but it only stung. Then I noticed a nail, leftover from the Christmas decorations that hung there only seven months prior, sticking out from the wall and I slammed my forehead into it. I was sobbing by the time mother answered the door.

“Why?” she asked, tears filled the corners of her eyes. “How could you do it? We raised you better than this.”

I thought it would be her that was shocked when the door opened, but instead it was me.

“Billy,” she said. “His mother just called me, said you tried to kill him with a rock and that you pushed him into the canal. You watched! You watched as the current carried him downstream and pulled him onto the grate. Do you know the worst part?—” She sniffed and wiped a hand under her nose. “—He told his mother that you stood there and smiled.”

I recoiled, unable to comprehend how she could be saying what she was saying; how could Billy be alive?

I turned from her and ran. My head throbbed and blood dripped into my eye, but I ran. I had to see the body, assure myself I was right and that Billy was still pressed against the grate under the water.

I tripped and scrambled up the green, weedy slope and stopped once I saw Billy standing on the gravel path, staring down into the canal at his feet.

I called out to him, but he did not turn. I moved closer and called again, but he did not answer. I moved closer still, but he just stood and stared at the canal.

I looked at his head, there was no rock wound. Stranger yet, his hair and clothing were bone dry.

I poked him, but he didn’t move. I waved my hand in his face, I screamed in his ear, but he acted as if I were not there.

Finally, I walked in front of him and jumped up and down until I slipped on a rock and tumbled into the canal. The current pulled me feet first toward the grate and I slammed into it and I folded in on myself.

I pushed hard with my feet and was able to get my head above the water. I screamed to Billy to help me, but he just stood there and smiled, looking past me and into the water.

I followed his stare and screamed as I saw the thing under the water that had transfixed his gaze, was my own lifeless body limp against the rusty steel grate.

[683]

I woke today more tired than I had been in years. The dark circles under my eyes drew sympathy comments from women at the store who thought I’d grown sick or turned Emo or Goth.

I sat down at the desk and began typing up the latest day’s story on my computer. I watched as the black letters fell onto the white-backed screen as whole words, then nodded off.

I’m not sure how long I slept, but when I awoke the world had changed. The computer required no monitor, for the very walls around me were the screen. I reached up and touched the wall in front of me. Instantly the thoughts in my mind printed themselves at the area I touched; This is awesome!

I swirled my hands and thought yellow; a blazing sun appeared. I put my hands around it, behind it, over and under it. Not only was it three-dimensional, but it was hot, real hot. I snapped my hand back and looked at the palm, a red blister had started to form where the heat was the most intense.

The sun blended into the white background and I didn’t like that, so I waved my hands about the room and thought darkness and the room’s light blinked out into the deafening blackness of a deep, earthen cave; only the sun still blazed before me, lighting my hands and face.

I smiled and softly blew across the sun’s surface; solar flares leapt and curled. I blew harder and longer, until my breath pirouetted the sun faster and faster. The faster the sun twirled, the longer and larger the flares that sparked, until one—quite large—broke off and spun into a counter-clockwise, synchronized orbit about the sun.

I marveled at its grey surface so close to the sun it must be burning, but its surface did not glow.

I blew on the sun again, continuing the rotation so that it should not stop. More flares erupted and more, if I may call them so, blobs of thick matter and gaseous broke off and fell into orbit.

First a yellowish-white; then a blue; next a deep red; a very large orange and white; another large, but this time a deep yellow and to my surprise, ringed; next a green-blue; a baby blue; and finally a rustic brown.

All of these planets followed orbits about the sun. I was amazed that there stood nine, but passed it off as my own knowledge of the solar system.

I dreamed of comets and one soon passed in front of my eyes.

I wished of asteroids and a large belt formed just outside, but sometimes passing through, the orbits of the nine planets.

The darkness bored me—so plain and simple—so I imagined trillions upon trillions of stars, galaxies, gasses, and other celestial bodies and they all became so.

I needed more and thought what better place to start than my own planet, Earth.

But that would be too contrived, too simple and unimaginative, so instead I chose Mars. The red planet held man enthralled for decades and I was no less than interested myself.

I hovered above the red surface and spit upon the dry cracked earth. From the pool of my spittle and formed a clay figure; four-armed, multiple legs, and one giant eye. I blew down upon this creature and smiled as it sprang to life. But wait…should I not supply it a mate?

I reached down and plucked a leg from creature and created another; similar in every way, but with one more leg.

I could see they were happy and I smiled in utter joy; this change to the world was magnificent, amazing!

I yawned, my tiredness overwhelming this newness about me. I touched the large cloudy planet and marveled at how soft it was to the touch.

Covering another yawn, I patted Jupiter and lay down my head.

When I awoke, it seemed as if a millennium had passed and as I raised my head from the desk in my office, I realized the entire fantasy was but a dream; and a short one at that, for the computer clock showed that a mere seven minutes had passed.

Still tired, I rose and walked to the bathroom to relieve myself before bed.

As I entered through the bathroom door and passed the mirror, I screamed in horror at my reflection. All four of my grey arms patted about my large body as I continued my scream at the grotesque creature I had become.

[755]

Charlie flipped through the row of comics, the titles flying past his fingertips powered by the superheroes within. His fingers rake up a cobweb and he shudders as it wraps around his fingers as he rubs it off on his pant leg. From the look of things, these comics had been here for years, but the old man—whom he worked weekends with and for, depending on your take on things—took great steps to ensure the care of the comic books was always professional and above all else, protected. From the looks of things, the old man must of refreshed the acid-free boards and Mylar bags every four to five years.

Charlie flipped through more, looking for issues he didn’t have, or those that he couldn’t live without, when a large spider—roughly the size of a shirt button—crawled up his finger onto the back of his hand. He, of course, screeched loudly and tripping backwards onto his rear, slapped the large spider into and red and brown pancake. He quickly wiped the mess onto his pant leg and then looking at the back of his hand he wondered if it didn’t look to him as if that spider were going to say something to him.

He shook his head and went back to flipping through the books. He’d worked all summer for the old man, moving boxes, mowing the lawn, moving boxes, cleaning gutters, moving boxes, milking any animal larger than himself and with teats, moving boxes, and all the other things too difficult for an old man to do alone on an elderly, arthritic farm. Charlie did it all and even a little more, for a measly wage that barely brought in enough money to purchase his weekly comics down at the drug store. He was on the verge of quitting when—at a moment alone from the old man—he opened up one of those boxes they hauled all over and he discovered the comic trove within. That’s when he asked the old man if he could forgo the weekly wage and instead be paid for whichever comic he wanted from the boxes; to which the old man—and to Charlie’s surprise—agreed.

Now Charlie takes a half hour or so each Friday, thumbing through yet another box of papered gold. Everything would be perfect, if only the boxes weren’t so loaded with cobwebs. Charlie hated spiders and after smashing that last one, he thought he might have some respite, but as he thumbed on, yet another spider, although smaller, crawled up on his hand and as it raised its front legs, he smashed it.

Then again, as he thumbed through, another spider, smaller still, crawled up on the back of his hand where he immediately ended its life with a well-placed slap. Something was defiantly different this time, for Charlie distinctly heard the spider call out as his hand bore down upon it; the spider had yelled “Wait!”

About this time, Charlie thought he was losing his mind and he decided to pack it up and head home; besides, the shop was getting too dark for him to see clearly.

He picked up the cardboard lid and placed it securely upon the long-box. As he picked himself up and dusted off his knees, he looked down to and saw a small spider upon the box weeping.

“This is going to sound insane,” Charlie said, realizing as he did, that he did indeed sound insane and he turned and walked towards the door.

“Why?” cried a voice behind him. Startled, Charlie turned, no whipped around at the sound, but he saw nothing back there but the small spider, still weeping.

“Hello?” Charlie asked.

“Why did you kill my family?” cried the voice. Charlie could swear it came from the spider and he dropped to his knees so that he could eye it level.

“Are you talking to me?” Charlie asked, and with a stick he poked at the small spider, but it leaped onto the stick and crawled up onto his hand.

Charlie shook his hand, dropping the spider to the concrete floor where it skittered up the side of the box and back onto the lid.

“You were talking to me, weren’t you?” Charlie asked, leaning in closer to the spider.

“Why…why did you k-kill my family?” the spider asked, rubbing at its many eyes with a hairy leg.

“How the heck does a spider learn English?”

“They were all I had and you killed them!”

Charlie slapped the spider, ejecting yellow and red guts across the top of the box.

“Boring conversation anyway,” he said, and picking himself up, walked out the door.

[775]

“Come up here,” I called to my wife at the back of the line and she walked up behind me, third in line. The dark-haired woman I had brushed earlier called foul. “No, it’s roast beef,” I assured her with a smile, but she shook her head and whispered something to her partner. Which was fine, she’d see for herself once she up here.

“There sure is a lot of paprika in this creamed corn,” my wife said, licking the sauce from her plate.

“Mmm, yeah,” I replied, dabbing at the corners of my mouth with the cloth napkin. “It’s sure good though. That’s the farmer’s daughter’s third trip.”

My wife looked over at the buffet table. “The farmer’s what?”

“Never mind,” I said, and walked over to grab seconds.

The maître d’ started making rounds, clearing plates from the tables of the couple who’d finished their meals. The female next to us received their dessert first—cherry cheesecake—and they entwined arms nibbling the sweets off the ends of their forks.

“That’s sweet,” my wife said, eyeing the couple.

“Sweet or not,” I said, “I’m holding out for the fresh-baked cookies.”

“I meant the…nevermind.”

“Alright,” I said, shoving more corn into my mouth. “Hey, being creamed corn and full of paprika and you know I’m a little lactose intolerant and this IBS thing I…”

My wife eyed me angrily and slapped the next spoonful of corn from my hand. “If you fart—for the love of God—I will kill you.”

“What if you changed that to if I fart again?”

“Oh damn you…it smells like rotten eggs back—“ she was cut off as our candle erupted in a methane-injected whoosh! of flame.

The other couples turned and stared. They once red-faced man who had earlier dumped his plate on the floor, now smiled openly. My wife hid behind her napkin, the red from her face blazed through.

I smiled, a little red-faced myself, and said, “Paprika” with a shrug.

From my left I hear the plate-dropper say “Thank God” and I turned in time to see his candle Vesuvius atop his table. Someone nearby giggled and the heat of their candle warmed the right side of my face, but I didn’t look; I was too busy watching my wife, who from behind her napkin, laughed in hysteric snorts and gulps of hiccupped air.

I heard a cough and turned to look at the brown-haired female. She winked at me and flashed a thumbs-up sign as her candle lit up the dim room; her partner—red-faced and smiling—slapped her shoulder and mouthed, ‘Oh my God’.

The maître d’ walked out around and blew out the few remaining candles; a house-maid followed, fumigating the air with a can of lemon-scented Lysol. “I think we’re done here,” he said, and with a snap of his heels, he turned and marched from the room.

My wife looked at me over the top of her napkin. “You are an ass,” she said.

“What?” I asked, innocently picking at my roast beef with my fork. “That’s way too much paprika in that corn.”

[514]

We were the first in line for the dinner, my wife and I. But we stepped aside for the more eager toothless old man and his obese wife, their two friends who stepped out of American Gothic, and the blonde and single heavy-set lady in sweat pants and flannel shirt could take up the three tables at the start of the room.

“Smells great in here,” my wife said through clenched teeth and exhaled wheezes as she raised her butt and tip-toed to squeeze her hips between the chair of the American Gothic father and the single blonde lady.

I followed her through without tip-toeing, but my front rubbing against the neck of the single lady. She turned around and stared up at me. I made my apologies with a blushed smile.

“My pleasure,” she said, looking me up and down; beef, it’s what’s for dinner.

I smiled and turned, my back blazing hot, following my wife across the paisley-carpeted floor.

“This one looks good,” my wife said, pointing at the table nearest the food.

I shook my head and pointed to another table nestled by itself in a hollowed out and multi-windowed turret. “Now that’s a nice one,” I said. “Let’s grab it before that other couple does.”

My wife looked to our left. “The two ladies?”

“Yeah, them.” I picked my way nimbly through the other tables and in the process; accidently brushed the short brunette woman of the lesbian couple on the shoulder. Her grey-templed partner gasped and she scowled, but I was polite and nodded a hello as I sat in the chair she reached for.

“That was rude,” my wife said as she sat next to me.

“Totally,” I said, tucking my napkin in my lap. “Is it that difficult to return a greeting?”

My wife shook her head.

“What?” I asked.

“It’s freezing back here.”

“Really? I’m freaking hot.” I took off my coat and air from the vent under my chair rippled the sleeve of my shirt. She looked at me, shivering under crossed arms, and sighed.

The maître d’ walked by carrying a bag of trash out the door and returned wiping his hands on the towel at his waist. “Welcome to the annual February banquet,” he said with a smile. “We’ve got something special for you tonight—” He rattled off the menu, pointing to each large silver container on the buffet table as he did. “You may all begin when ready.”

No one moved.

“Go,” my wife whispered, nodding her head towards the buffet.

“I’m not going first,” I replied, looking around the room at everyone else looking around at each other trying their hardest to no look too hungry.

A few minutes passed with no one moving. The maître d’ clasped his wrinkled and veined hands at his waist and looked from table to table to table. Finally, the silver-haired woman with the medical boots click-clacked her way to the front of the line. The rest of the cattle followed in a stampede.

[503]