balding angrily

Here’s another piece of fiction. Jerry and I are big fans of Miranda July, and I tried to emulate her with this one.

When Fidel Castro moved into the corner house, the big two-story, yellow-sided ranch, Derek and I rode our dirt bikes down there to have a look. Three huge moving trucks blocked traffic turning onto Sage, making neighbors go back, turn on Mesquite, Harwood, then again at the other end of Sage. The trucks were piled high with masses of blanket-wrapped furniture. As the mover’s unloaded, we hoped to see signs of a kid – a bunk bed, a bike, a basketball hoop. Heck we would’ve been happy to see a toy baby crib. But it was all serious stuff – dark wood, marble, tall mirrors.

Then we saw Fidel himself come out of the house and give some directions to some movers holding a heavy desk. He pointed, and they walked away. He shielded his eyes from the Texas summer sun and scanned the neighborhood, focusing on us hanging over the handles of our bikes.

He smiled and waved, and we waved back. Walking toward us, he called, “You kids thirsty? I got some cokes for the movers.” I’m sure Fidel sounded a lot more Cuban than that, but I can’t fake a Cuban accent. So, I can’t write one either.

Derek and I looked at each other and shrugged. “Sure!”

“Cool! I’ll bring ‘em out.” He disappeared inside his house and came back with two red cans with the familiar white swirl. Mom let me have Cokes, sure, but it was rare. And this was before kids couldn’t trust their neighbors; a new neighbor was an immediate friend.

After he gave us the Cokes, we popped the tops and took long, deep gulps. “Thank you, sir.” Derek was always the more polite one between the two of us, with his sirs and thank yous.

“Is this all for you or you got a family?”

Fidel looked around him with his hands on his hips as if to locate a wife and kids. “Nope. Just me. What about you kids? Where do you live?”

I pointed up the hill to the other end of Sage. “826. One house down from the corner. Derek lives across the street. He’s got a sister in high school. She baby sits us sometimes.”

“That so? And what’s your name?”

“I’m Alex. Everyone calls me Big Al.”

He held out his hand, and I shook it. “Nice to meet you, Big Al.” He withdrew his hand and put it back on his hip, smiling. “I’m Fidel.”

We didn’t know what to do with that; we hadn’t heard of Fidel as a name before. Derek pointed his bike toward the creek at the end of the street. “Well, we gotta go, sir. Nice to meet you.”

“Yeah. Nice to meet you.” Following Derek, I waved back at Fidel. “And thanks!”

We parked our bikes on the muddy shore of the creek, took our shoes off, and walked through the slow, cool water.

“Why do think he doesn’t have kids?” I turned to Derek. He shrugged.

“Dunno. Maybe he just hasn’t met the right woman. That’s what my mom says about my Uncle Jim. ‘Just hasn’t met the right woman.’”

A rock in the water caught my attention; it looked like a perfect throwing rock – three-sided, rounded corners, sized to sit snuggly in my palm. I picked it up and put it in my pocket.

“Yeah, but your Uncle Jim isn’t old like that guy. That guy’s got a long white beard.”

Derek shrugged again. “My dad says if I’m smart I won’t marry. Maybe he’s smart.”

I thought about that; it seemed logical. “Yeah, I bet that’s it.”

Derek gave me a sly, funny look and winked. Then he tackled me, pinning me to the mud, and wrestled the rock out of my pocket. He sprung up, and jumped around in rocky creek, throwing up huge splashes of muddy water. I got up, laughing.

“Give me back that rock!” I screamed through my laughs, and started chasing him.

He turned and yelled back, his voice bright and loud. “Gonna have to catch me!”

There has to be a better way to die than naked on your bathroom floor. Well, obviously there is. Probably 10,000 better ways. Running with the bulls. In the arms of a hot guy. Heck, I would have been happy to have died during a particularly nice wank. But naked on your bathroom floor? That tells the world that you were clumsy. You slipped and fell. Clumsy moron. Clumsy, naked moron.

Would I do it again? What do you mean would I do it again? Would I have taken a shower? Probably not. Or at least I would have watched my step getting out.

Oh! Would I live my life the same way? Of course I would have lived it differently. What a dumb question. Do you ask that of everyone that comes through here? I can’t imagine everyone’s waltzing through the gates going, “That was perfect! Wouldn’t change a thing!” And if there are those people, I don’t want to know them. In fact, you can write that on your little form there. “Does not want to be around people with no regrets.” Gah, can you imagine spending an eternity with a bunch of unbearably satisfied people? Makes me shiver.

No, please put me with the people that are just like me. You guys tortured me enough in life surrounding me with a bunch of differing opinions and different outlooks on life. It drove me crazy. All I wanted was a world where everyone agreed with me, and it seemed like at every turn someone was coming up to me and shoving their differences in my face. You know I used to fantasize about marrying another guy named Alex who looked just like me? Talked just like me? Same build? Same fashion sense? Yeah, of course you know. You’re you. But then you sent me this guy who was skinny and sweet and, well. Happy. It drove me out of my mind.

And the people he brought into my life? Chatty and friendly and nurturing and gentle? I could have done without all that, thankyouverymuch. If you’re sending me back down, please get it right.

No going back, eh? Well that’s good. Life was shit. Just as long as you put me with a bunch of me’s. And just as long as I get to have lots of sex.

I gotta say, that’s one thing you guys got right. Sex was awesome.

Sex with Jerry? It was awesome. I just said. Are you listening?

It was always a surprise. Like Easter baskets when I was a kid. I knew I was going to get treats. And I knew they would be delicious. And I knew there would be a lot of it. But I never knew EXACTLY what the treats were going to be. Sometimes there were solid chocolate bunnies. Sometimes there weren’t. Sometimes there were peanut butter eggs. Sometimes there were jellybeans. Sometimes not. Sometimes there was a totally new candy that had just come out. And sometimes there were hollow chocolate bunnies. You know, there’s something I gotta tell you. Those hollow chocolates were a real fuck you. A real donkey punch. You peel off the foil, and you see this huge bunny or Santa or whatever, and it’s HUGE, and, like, obviously full of chocolate. And you bite into it. And, like, nothing. Air. You bite into air. I hope you’re sending the inventor of hollow chocolate somewhere else because that is a mortal sin if there is such a thing.

Anyway that’s what sex was like. An Easter basket. Pretty damn familiar and predictable but just enough variation to keep it exciting.

Oh, I see what you’re trying to do. You’re trying to get me to say that I loved Jerry because of his differences. I put it to you that I would have loved him more had he been just like me.

No, no, no. The sex would have been BETTER.

Nah, ignore what I said before. Comparing sex to an Easter basket? That’s retarded. Believe me, the sex would have been better if he was just like me.

We’re done? That’s cool. Just point me to my area full of me’s, and I’ll be outta your hair.

But you just said no one goes back.

I thought you guys weren’t allowed to lie. Like that was a rule or something.

Fine. But don’t expect me to like it. And don’t expect me to be singing your praises down there. I’ll remember this. Mark my words.