Grundish & Askew (19 page)

“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Dora.” Jerry grabs her hand and bows down to her level.

“Hi,” says Dora. She winks at him again.

The wink makes Jerry smile and look away.
You’ve still got it, Ole’ Jer Bear
, he thinks to himself.

•  •  •

Dora actually does not usually wink at anybody. On the rare occasions that she does wink, it is with her right eye. When she is nervous, the left side of her face cramps up and causes the eye on that side to involuntarily blink. The blink is not a disturbing facial tic that makes people look away. Instead, it is quite appealing. Most people assume that she is winking at them. Women who talk to Dora usually feel like there is some sort of inside joke that they share with her. It makes them feel superior. Men assume she is flirting with them. In her early teens, the boys all figured Dora was easy because she was always winking at them. She was cute in an undernourished, troubled-kid sort of way, and friendly, and she seemed to wink a lot. So the boys were nice to her. While the other girls in junior high were having innocent crushes on the boys their age, Dora was getting rides from high school boys and doing the things that proved to make her popular with the guys. The rumors that she was easy made her a pariah amongst the girls in her school. The rumors also acted as a self-fulfilling prophecy. Dora realized that she could use her body to control boys. And then she realized it worked on men. And then her abusive alcoholic stepfather kicked her out of the house, and her mother didn’t stand up for her. Dora started hooking at fifteen and somehow managed to avoid the drug addictions that most of the other girls on the street fell prey to. The day she reached the age of majority, Dora took on employment at the
Scrub and Rub Massage Parlor
, the place where she met Randy Buttwynn.

•  •  •

“So, these are the boys you been talking about, huh?” says Jerry to Turleen. He nudges Alf the Sacred Burro out of the way and clears the area of the donkey’s vomit-shitballs with his feet.

“Those are they boys, they are,” answers Turleen.

Jerry stoops down to peer into the open sliding door of the van and catches a snoot-full of sour body odor. He recoils and takes several steps back. Looking up at the sky, he drinks in the fresh air and notes the smell of rain. “Well, we better get them up. That long black cloud up there is coming down. Before you know it, it’ll be dark, too dark to see.”

The chewed-up hemp rope dangles from Alf’s neck. Grabbing the rope, Jerry leads the odd-toed ungulate to the side of the van, its hindquarters facing the vehicle. “Watch this,” he says and winks at Turleen and Dora. He smiles when Dora winks back. “Kick! Alf! Kick!” he shouts at the donkey.

Alf bends down to pull more weeds and ignores the towering beanpole shouting in his face.

“Come on you jackass! Kick the van!”

Alf grinds the weeds and swallows, finding the greens to be slightly bitter but not unpleasant. He looks away from the crazed bucktoothed man barking orders in his face.

“Watch me, you obstinate burro!” yells Jerry as he bends down and places his hands flat on the ground. Bending his knees and launching his rear half in the air, Jerry abruptly straightens out his legs and kicks both feet into the side of the van. “Izzat so hard, you danged numbskull!?” He launches his hindquarters again and again, kicking at the side of the van, all the while spewing obscenities at Alf.

Alf looks the other way and regurgitates a donkey poop-ball. He wonders to himself if he should return to his favorite spot under the apple tree or if he should wait until the tall man regains his sanity. He decides to wait it out.

Awakened by the banging and retching donkey noises, Grundish hangs his head out of the side of the van. His face glistens with sweat. His shirt is soaked. The inside of the van is sweltering. “What the fuck?”

“Well, there’s one of em,” says Turleen. She gently elbows Dora and smiles at her. “Come on out, Grundish. I want you to meet Jerry, I do.”

A sluggish Grundish extracts himself from the backseat of the vehicle as Jerry continues to do his best impression of a demented burro, bucking and kicking at the side of the van. Alf stands to the side, feeling embarrassed for Jerry and his undignified display. The donkey looks the other way and pretends he doesn’t see what his owner is doing. Askew drags himself from the van and stands beside Grundish. They watch Jerry wind down.

With one last kick to the side of the van, Jerry straightens up to his full height and puts his hands on his hips. Between deep raspy breaths, he introduces himself. “Hiya, boys. I’d shake your hands, but, uh, I got the donkey vomit-shits on my hands right now. My name’s Jerry. Jerry Mathers.”

“Hi,” Grundish and Askew say.

“Well,” says Jerry, pointing at Grundish, “you’re the big one. So you must be Grundish. And,” he points at Askew, “you’re the little feller, so you must be Askew.”

“Yep,” the boys answer.

“Well, follow me inside. We’ve got plenty to talk about.”

Grundish, Askew, Dora and Turleen follow the gaunt, gangling man into his building. When they are out of sight, Alf leans forward and lets loose with a powerful kick of his rear legs at the van. Two hoof prints dot the door and the side-view mirror falls off. Alf decides that maybe Jerry was onto something and kicks at the car several more times before returning to the apple tree.

With his shoulders hunched and his head slung low so as to avoid banging it on doorways and low-hung rafters, Jerry leads the group through the cluttered maze of stacked boxes and deep into the metal warehouse. Electromagnetic radiation spills into the dimly lit building from skylights above while burnt out florescent light fixtures droop uselessly from the ceiling. Green eyes glare out from behind boxes as they pass. A cat-piss-ammonia-fog clouds the air. “You might not believe it,” says Jerry, “but I’ve got thirty or more cats living with me here.”

“Yeah,” says Askew, “who would’a guessed?” His eyes water from the caustic cat stench. At regular intervals in the labyrinth of useless junk are litter boxes spilling over with stale litter and cat turds. A greasy tomcat with nicked ears and a respectable collection of battle scars mews and rubs against Askew’s leg.

“Look at that,” laughs Turleen. “You’ve already made a new friend, you have.”

“That’s Beaumont,” explains Jerry. “He doesn’t like anybody. Doesn’t usually even come out. Usually mean as hell. But he seems to like you, Leroy.”

“Lucky me,” Askew says. “And please, Mr. Mathers, just call me Askew. Nobody but Turleen calls me Leroy and I don’t even like her doing it.” Askew pushes the cat away with his foot. Beaumont takes it as an act of affection and circles Askew’s legs in a figure eight, rubbing his face and sides against his calves.

Dora squats down to Beaumont’s level and reaches out to pet him.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, young lady,” Jerry says.

Dora ignores the advice and moves closer to pet the cat. “Aw, he’s kinda cute for such a grimy old guy.” Before she can try to rub the back of Beaumont’s head, he takes offense at her interest. His brain stem receives a garbled message that the girl is a threat and tells his suprarenal glands to dump an overload of adrenalin into his system. Beaumont’s pupils dilate, his hair stands on end, chicken skin forms on his bald spots. He lets out a sickening yowl. Fight is chosen over flight. Beaumont launches himself at Dora’s face, a psychotic flying furball, missing Dora’s head and instead digging his claws into her shoulder and clamping his jaws down on her earlobe. He changes his attack and locks his front claws onto her cheek as she tries to shake him off.

Dora doesn’t scream. She remains completely silent, her mouth forming shapes of words but failing to give birth to them. Only a slight hissing sound escapes her mouth as she tries to run from the cat ripping into her head. A storage box sits in the aisle minding its own business. The flailing teenage prostitute with a feline stuck to the side of her face interrupts the box’s quiet time, tripping over it, and lands on top of Beaumont as she falls. The cat yowls and growls in pain and frantically tears at her face. Without thinking, Askew jumps into the fracas and plucks the cat off of the young girl. He steps back and squeezes on the cat. Beaumont’s struggles subside. Askew holds Beaumont in his arms. The feline calms and begins to purr. Jerry and Grundish both offer hands to Dora. She grabs onto each of the offerings and allows herself to be pulled to her feet.

“Oh, sweetie,” says Turleen, wiping at the bloody slashes on Dora’s face with a used tissue plucked from her bra. “You’re bleeding, you are. Let me get that for you.”

Shaking off the damage and wiping at the blood with her forearm, Dora fixes her gaze on Askew. “You saved me,” she says softly, wiping again at her face and leaving a bloody streak across her cheek. “Thank you.” She winks at him with her right eye. A slight crooked-toothed smile forms and she turns her head away quickly. Dora’s left eye involuntarily blinks out the Morse code for S.O.S. to Jerry.
Dot Dot Dot...Dash Dash Dash...Dot Dot Dot
says her eyelid, unintentionally.

Jerry flashes a grin at the girl and feels a stirring in his holy undergarments.
^[35]
“Well, come on, people,” he says. “Let’s go have a sit down and talk about your situation.” He leads them through the narrow aisle, around corners, through doorways, past dirty cats and overused litter boxes. Turleen follows close behind Jerry, walking with a slight limp and savoring the feeling of the throwing knife rubbing against her inner thigh. Askew is next in line. Beaumont remains at his ankles, rubbing against them when he gets the opportunity, and occasionally turns back to hiss at Dora. Dora trails Askew, watching him walk, staying out of range of the hostile feline. She feels drawn to the stout waddling man in front of her. He protected her. Something nobody had ever done for her before. Grundish lags behind the group.

Grundish senses something happening between Dora and Askew and is happy for his friend. He sees that the embers of Jerry’s soul still burn for Turleen. He finds himself thinking about Velda. His thoughts turn to their coupling in the Git-n-Go bathroom and he is surprised by the longing that grips him.

•  •  •

“Well, this is the inner sanctum,” says Jerry, his arms wide open, inviting his guests into his living quarters within the metal building. A scroungy cat lounges on each piece of furniture in the large room. Papering the walls are centerfolds from pornographic magazines depicting females with wide open beavers. Pushed against the walls are more waist-high stacks of storage boxes. Against one wall is an oversized waterbed with a purple velvet comforter and sheets. Grundish and Askew stand in the doorway with Dora and Turleen looking into the room from behind them. “Well, don’t stand in the doorway. Don’t block up the hall. Come on in here, boys and girls. Have a sit down and let’s talk.”

They file into the room and look around. Beaumont, in Askew’s arms again, leaps down and runs to hide behind some of the storage boxes. Dora is relieved and moves in to wrap her hands around Askew’s flabby bicep. She tugs at his arm and smiles at him. Turleen approaches Jerry and eyes him curiously.

“Jer Bear,” says Turleen, “What’s become of you? You used to be such a thick, sturdy man, you did. Now you look to be wasting away. I hope you’re okay, I do.”

“I’m just fine, little lady,” smiles Jerry with his hideous, jutting buck teeth. “I’ve lost a ton of weight because I barely eat anymore.”

“Well, I’m gonna fix that, I am. Where’s your refrigerator?”

“I don’t have one and don’t need one. I get everything I need from that food machine over there.”

Turleen looks in the direction that Jerry is pointing and sees a vending machine stuffed with sandwiches, rotten apples, and other foodstuffs. Beside the vending machine is a tiny microwave oven. “Well, how in tarnation do you keep your belly full just eating out of that there vending machine?” asks Turleen.

“I don’t keep it full, and I don’t want to. I’m on a starvation diet. I restrict my calories to keep myself just above the starvation threshold. It’s the key to my longevity. By staying just above the starvation level, my body focuses on survival. Studies have shown that the starvation diet can increase life spans by seven percent or more. Hell,” he laughs, “I’m eighty-nine and feel great.” Jerry looks at Grundish, “You wanna wrestle me, big boy? ‘Cause I’ll whip you if you do.”

Grundish shakes his head side to side and says nothing. He notices that Dora and Askew have vanished and wonders where they are.

“Yeah, Jer Bear,” says Turleen, “But there has to be negative side effects to a diet like that, there does.”

“Well, I take four or five naps a day. But who’s gonna complain about something like that?” he asks in Grundish’s direction again.

Grundish shrugs his shoulders, scratches at his beard and remains silent.

“And I’m always hungry and cold. I shiver when it’s a hundred degrees out. That’s why I wear sweaters, caps and even mittens sometimes.” He tugs at his baggy sweater and smiles. “And I have bouts of what my doctor calls Micturition Syncope, but you don’t want to know about that.”

“I do want to know about it, I do.”

“It just means that sometimes I faint when I take a whizz. It’s nothing big. Something I don’t mind putting up with in order to significantly extend my life.”

“Speaking of which,” interrupts Grundish, “where’s the john? I’ve gotta take a leak.”

“My boy,” laughs Jerry, “where I come from that means you’re going to steal a mirror. We call mirrors leaks.”

“Yeah, well,” Grundish shrugs and scratches at his beard again, not sure how to respond to Jerry’s nonsense. “I just mean that I have to go to the bathroom. Where’s your bathroom?”

“All right. You’re going to have to go back the way we came. Once you get outside, you’re going to take a left, walk five feet or more from the doorway, and then turn to face the building. And there you have it.”

“So, just piss outside. Got it.” Grundish turns and leaves the room the same way he came in.