Grundish & Askew (22 page)

Grundish and Jerry tacitly agree that the fight has gone too far and step in. Grundish grabs Askew from behind and drags him away from the bloody splotch on the floor where Chancho’s still-warm corpse is sprawled out. He throws Askew into the loveseat and stands above him. “No more!” Grundish shouts. “No more. It’s over.” With his shirt half torn off from the fight, Askew’s flabulous gut is exposed. Hanging from his neck is a rawhide strap threaded through what appears to be two human ears. Grundish cringes at the trophies around his friend’s neck and momentarily ponders where the second ear came from, the blond boy or Buttwynn.

Askew sits back into the loveseat; his insides are shaking like a leaf on a tree. A flap of torn skin hangs from his forehead and droops over one crazy bugged-out eye. His broken and bloodied smile chatters despite the heat in the room. Askew stands but makes no move toward Chancho. Jerry has already coaxed Dora away and escorted her to the loveseat.

“No more,” repeats Grundish, blocking Askew’s opportunity to return to Chancho. “It’s all over.”

“I know,” says Askew. “I know. But I’m wild as a bug and all shook up, man. I gotta get outside and breathe some fresh air. I can’t take it in here. I need water. Dora, grab me a cup. I saw a pump outside. I need fresh air and water.”

“Wait just a minute,” says Jerry, sensing Askew’s manic energy. He runs to the other side of the room and returns with a jug of water. “Take this. You won’t get any water from the pump out front. It don’t work because the vandals took the handles. But there’s plenty more water in here if you’re thirsty.”

Dora takes the water jug and holds onto Askew’s arm, walking him out of the room and out of the building. On the way out of the building, lurking in the cluttered network of halls and false walls made of boxes, Beaumont the cat lies in wait for Dora. Just before exiting the building, Beaumont launches a surprise attack on Dora’s head, leaping from atop a file cabinet, his stomach covering her face. He locks his claws into the sides of her head and digs his teeth into her flesh, scraping them on her skull. She drops the jug of water and dances a drunken jig, flailing and smacking at the enraged animal. Dora’s muffled scream and whirling form alerts Askew that something is wrong. Wired on adrenaline and half-crazy, Askew acts without thought. He grabs the wildcat, plucks him once again from Dora’s head, and flings the cat into the door. Once again, the sock-gartered legs deal out deadly punishment, this time on the dazed cat, mercilessly snuffing out Beaumont’s ninth life.

Askew picks up the jug of water dropped by Dora and exits the building. Leaving the smashed tomcat’s carcass in the entryway, Askew stumbles outside, the glaring sun forcing his pupils to constrict to pinpoints. Blood trickles from the torn flesh on his forehead and burns his eyes, clouding his already-blurred tunnel vision. He blindly staggers and bumps into Chancho’s station wagon. Dora trails him and helps roll Askew onto the hood of the car. “I’m so thirsty. So fucking thirsty,” he says. Twisting the top off of the gallon jug, he downs most of the container of dihydrogen monoxide. “Aghhhhh,” he groans and dumps the rest on his head. “I need more. Need water. Get me more water,” he tells Dora.

Alf the Sacred Burro remains behind the lime-green VW van and watches Askew squirm uncomfortably on the hood of the car while Dora returns to the building. Sensing something off about the moaning mortal – something sick and sour – Alf stays his position, hoping that soon the fur-faced man will return to him with a good supply of apples. It seems to Alf that the ratio of brown lumps regurgitated to the number of apples consumed has recently been thrown seriously out of whack, with the scale tipped heavily in favor of vomit balls. He feels queasy and respiration is a chore. But, for the time being, Alf does not feel like venturing out from his safe place. Alf will wait for his friend or Jerry before he shows his donkey face again.

Dora returns to the inner sanctum and finds Grundish and Jerry hefting Chancho’s floppy ragdoll remains onto a rolling metal table. Jerry leans over the body and gently slaps the fat, dead face several times. “I know, Amigo. I know, my friend,” he says. “Just remember, death is not the end.” Jerry wipes at a tear and steels his heart against the flow of useless emotions. He looks around the room at the blood and the damage to his property and shakes his head. In an effort to divert his attention from the fate of his friend, Jerry lists off the damage in a monotone voice. “Broken bottles. Broken plates. Broken cutters. Broken saws. Broken chairs. God damned broken laws. Broken bodies and broken bones.” He takes a deep breath and feels like he’s choking. “God damn. Everything’s broken.”

Putting her hand on Jerry’s shoulder, Dora says, “I’m sorry about kicking your friend while he was down, Mr. Mathers. I di’nt know nothin’ but that he was trying to hurt my man. I di’nt want Mr. Chancho dead or nothin’.” Her left eye involuntarily winks at him but fails to lift his spirits. “Do you want help wheeling him out or anything?”

“No, no, no. It ain’t me, Babe,” answers Jerry. “I’m not the one wheeling Chancho out of here. I can’t do it. Grundish, there, is gonna take care of it for me. I need to just sit down and talk with Turleen. I’m planning on eventually hooking up with you all on the floating brothel business. But, I need to work out the particulars with sweet Miss Turleen before she tries to leave me again.” He looks at Chancho and tears roll down his cheeks. Jerry turns away. Turleen puts an arm around his waist, and they walk out together.

“I can help you, then,” says Dora to Grundish. “You want my help?”

Grundish shakes his head and says nothing.

“It wasn’t his fault you, know. Askew thought that man was a cop, or an attacker or something. He had good intentions.”

Grundish just grunts and starts to wheel Chancho’s body out of the room.

“Can’t you say nothin’?” asks Dora. “Can’t you say that it’s gonna be all right? Or that you know Askew didn’t mean to do no harm? You can’t be mad at him about this, you know.”

The cart stops and Grundish turns toward Dora. “I can’t tell you it’s gonna be all right. Askew just killed another person. That makes three people he’s killed in the past week.”

“I know that. He’s a little off right now. I’m worried about him, too. Heck, he killed Beaumont on the way out. But he’s trying to get himself under control. He told me. He don’t know what’s come over him. But he don’t like it, and he’s trying to control it. Please don’t be too hard on him.”

“Don’t be too hard on him,” Grundish gags on the words. “Don’t be too hard on him! Do you realize what he just did? He killed the guy who had our tickets out of the country. The guy who was gonna get us fake passports. Now we can’t get passports. And you know why? Because dead people can’t do anything but sit there and rot. Dead people do not make fake passports.” He holds Chancho’s cold hand up in the air and lets it slap back down to his lifeless belly. “Does he look like he can help us right now? And did you say he killed that cat? Christ! He’s out of control.”

“Well, the cat attacked me again,” she says. “And can’t you just get somebody else to get passports for you guys?”

“No. No we can’t! I don’t know anybody that does that type of thing. Do you? Jerry sure doesn’t. This greasy dead piece of shit here was Jerry’s only friend. So Jerry don’t know nobody else that can help. We’re fucked now. And if you haven’t noticed, your new boyfriend is turning stone-cold psycho. He’s cutting off ears as trophies and wearing them around his neck. Oh yeah, and he keeps killing people.” Grundish turns and pulls the cart out of the room, leaving Dora alone in the middle of the rubble.

On a shelf against the wall, Jerry keeps all varieties of bottled water. Spring water in sixteen-ounce bottles. Filtered water in gallon jugs. Five-gallon plastic bottles for water dispensers. Green glass bottles with sparkling water flavored with lime. Dora grabs three gallon jugs of water, wrapping her arms around them, hugging the jugs to her chest. Her face and head itch from the gashes left by Beaumont but she can’t scratch at the uneasy tingling with her arms full. She hurries out of the room to return to Askew.

•  •  •

With the jug hoisted above his head and water slamming down his throat, Askew soaks up the hydration, drains the second gallon jug, and tosses it to the side. His crapulous slug-form reclines on the hood, slow-baking him under the blazing sun. “More water,” he grunts at Dora.

“Baby,” she says, “shouldn’t you slow down with the water? You’re gonna bust your gut or something. Just pee out some of that water you have in you before you have more.”

“Narghhhh,” he grunts, eyes closed, barely acknowledging Dora’s presence. “So thirsty. More water.” He grabs another jug from beside him on the car and twists off the top.
Psychogenic polydipsia
^[40]
puts its foot on Askew’s chest, pries open his jaw, and dumps the third gallon of water down his gullet. Askew’s eyes flutter; his heart strains out a syncopated Latin rhythm. The muscles slacken and his head falls back, smacking the hood hard enough to leave a dent.

•  •  •

A whoosh of fresh air slaps Grundish in the face as he exits the building. Air that smells like a Florida autumn. Like dry leaves and plants and earth. A smell that usually feels like a new start to Grundish. Clean air, not like the fuming stench of cat urine in the building. On the hood of Chancho’s station wagon, Dora sits crying and cradling Askew’s lumpy head in her lap. “He’s dying or sick or something,” she blurts out at Grundish. “Help him.”

His face betraying no emotions, Grundish looks at Askew laid out unconscious on the car and at the empty water jugs thrown about on the ground. He turns away from the scene without a word and reenters the building. When he returns, Grundish has four bottles of lemon-lime Gatorade. He hands them to Dora. “Here. He’s got water poisoning. He does this sometimes. Try to make him pee and keep feeding him these sports drinks. He needs the electrolytes. When he’s done with these bottles, go get more out of Jerry’s vending machine and keep pouring them down his throat. Otherwise, he’ll get more brain damage than he already has.” Grundish fishes a pack of Blue Llamas and lighter from Askew’s pocket and turns away again. Alf watches with a satisfied donkey grin from behind the green van as Grundish smokes and plucks fruit from the apple tree.

•  •  •

Askew finds himself holding his breath and swimming in an upward direction. The swirling murky muck slows his numbed appendages. Nearby, a naked infant dog-paddles through the ooze, chasing a one-dollar bill stuck on a fishing hook. The line from the hook drags the dollar bill in the same direction that Askew swims. He flails his arms and legs harder, struggling through the sludge, desperately seeking the surface. Seeking oxygen. His chest tightens. His lungs burn. Just as he is ready to gasp the brown sludge into his body, his head emerges from the slime. He devours the available air, huffing it greedily. A water snake glides by and twists its head toward Askew. The snake hisses and continues to swim toward the shore. Askew follows the serpent to the water’s edge and lies back, his legs still in the water and his top half reposed on
terra firma
. When he regains his breath, Askew pats at his pockets for his cigarettes.

And then from out of his head comes Buttwynn. Bloated, bloodied, battered, deceased, Buttwynn wearing thick glasses and a huge gingham apron with pockets. He stands in front of Askew, hands on hips, one ear missing, and stares disapprovingly at the shriveled trophies strung around Askew’s neck. And he speaks to Askew. And the voice is Grundish’s. “Give me my ear back, you little bastard.” He grabs at the rawhide tie around Askew’s neck and pulls, snapping it. The ears fall on Askew’s gut. Buttwynn snatches the ears and holds them in his palm, examining them to determine which is his. First he throws the darkest one into the water. He examines the remaining
pinnae
, furrowing his brow at the cartilaginous pieces, and finally selects one to stick back to the side of his head.

“You done bad things,” says Buttwynn in Grundish’s voice.

“I didn’t mean to do no bad things. I couldn’t help it. I really mean it. I couldn’t control myself. And when you became confrontational with me, I lost it.”

“You never thought about Grundish, though, did you? He’s been your best friend all your life. Always taking the rap for you when things got hot. If somebody was gonna go to prison, it sure as shit wasn’t you, was it? If someone wanted to beat your ass, he was always the one jumping in and throwing down for you.”

“I know,” says Askew sadly. “He’s my best buddy and I keep fucking up. I told him I knew I fucked up.”

Buttwynn interrupts him. “Grundish could be having a good time right now if it wasn’t for you. He could be sitting in a pool room playing Eight Ball. Or he could be making sweet love to Miss Velda, laying her down by the fire, possibly developing a mature adult relationship. Maybe even settling down with her. But he has to take care of you, doesn’t he?”

“I know, Buttwynn. I know. I’m sorry. I’ll just run off into the swamps and build a chickee hut. I’ll kill my food and keep to myself where I won’t ruin nobody else’s life.”

“You’re just saying that,” snaps Buttwynn. “You’re always saying shit like that. You know God damn well you ain’t never gonna do it. You’ll just stick around and stew the b’Jesus outta Grundish all the time.”

Askew says, “I might as well go away. Grundish ain’t gonna let me be in charge of the ladies now.”

Buttwynn dissipates in the air in front of Askew’s eyes and in his place appears Beaumont the cat, now grown to human adult size, with huge boot marks stamped all about his body. Beaumont sits on his haunches in front of Askew, licking at the boot marks, twitching his ears and whiskers at him.

“Be in charge of the ladies?” says Beaumont, also in Grundish’s voice. “You crazy sum’bitch. You ain’t fit to lick the ladies’ boots. You’d ignore ’em. Probably never make ’em actually work. Hell, you’d just be bustin’ a nut in all the employees and never see to it that they’re actually earning their keep. You’d let the ladies go to crap.”