That's me in the yellow shirt, but those aren't prescription lenses.

It’s just this feeling that’s been creeping over me slowly.   It’s something about the daily struggles of my family.  They seem too canned.  And they tie up so nicely.  Here’s where my suspicions started:

-          my brother, Henry, who is almost comically competitive, is always finding ways to be better than me.  It’s always something physical that we can both perform at the same time. Also, these sorts of competitive storylines crop up a lot.

-          Mom and Dad sit me down a lot after I have problems with school or girls.  We have something  that feels like a wrap up lesson and after that every situation’s pretty much resolved.

-          If any of us says anything funny, no one really laughs.  They just sort of pause for a couple seconds.  Like someone else is laughing somewhere that I can’t hear.  It’s creepy. There’s so much silence in my home.

I can’t say I don’t like it here.  My family is happy.  But it seems like we skirt real issues.  I’ve never been to a funeral.  I don’t know anyone with any good diseases.  My sister, Piper, had a caffeine problem for a week when she had to take the SATs but Mom and Dad sure showed her.  Dad started smoking and Mom started drinking a lot.  The house was finally fun and it seemed like we were pushing the envelope a little but now no one does anything.  I’ve decided to test the limits. My latest experiments:

-          competitive Henry put up some tape between my bed and his to separate our sides of the room.  Instead of giving in to the clichés, I decided to just stay in my own bed and soil my sheets. Conclusion: Mom and Dad were concerned for my mental health and I ended up spending the night in a rubber room. It didn’t seem like a logical jump but it definitely raised the stakes. The doctor was someone famous.

-          our wacky neighbor, Wendell, is constantly barging through the front door.  He never knocks and he always has crazy ideas.  So when he came through the other day, I punched him in the face.  I told my parents I’d been having dreams of people breaking and entering into our home. Conclusion: my parents bought an outrageous security system to put me at ease.  Wendell forgave me and his nose, which I totally broke, was healed like he had witch powers.

-          this cute girl that I’ve been eyeing at school, hinted that she wanted to go to the Winter Semi-formal.  So I stabbed her in the hand with a ballpoint.  Conclusion:  I had to go to the principal’s office and meet with some guidance counselor about anger management.  And then the ‘hot bad girl’ at our school totally wanted me.  Which set off this series of one ups between Cute Girl and Bad Girl.

I can’t believe I’m crazy.  When my family is in the living room, everyone talking sort of cheats left or right towards our front door.  Like we’re presenting for someone else.  My dad talks in this very obvious three joke patter.  It’s always observation-little joke-big joke.  And then pause.  Other hackneyed things I’ve noticed:

-          my grandma isn’t very three dimensional.  She’s mostly just obsessed with sex.

-          my dad is a loveable doofus.

-          we always have huge meals but no one gains weight.

-          we all look a little too attractive and without any family resemblance.

-          if I destroy something in my house, it comes back. It is visually consistent.

-          Dad’s work friends whom Mom doesn’t like are seriously tame.

-          I always bust in on Mom and Dad about to kiss.  They never finish.

-          if I’m not doing something that day, somebody else has a crisis.  But there’s never more than three crises going on at one time.

-          I’m not getting older.

I don’t know who to send this to.  I don’t know how to escape.  I’m going to stand in the living room.  Hold this message up to towards the wall we always cheat towards.  I’d pray to a god to help me but we steer pretty clear of religion around my home.  We must be a network show.

The crushed whiterock in moonlight–at least, when the moon was full–it gave off enough glow to see by without headlights.

We would drink too much and drive too fast and try to prove ourselves wrong concerning our invulnerability–our untouchability–although by then a few of us had already provided examples of what happens at the place where the law of averages catches up with you.

It was a little like a game. We would turn the lights on as soon as someone suggested it. But no one wanted to be the one to suggest it.

I don’t know who the first one of us was who veered from the right to left side of the road, adding a complicating element.

Is it still a game of chicken if only one of you knows you’re playing?

I was in the passenger seat when it happened, something only those in the car witnessed, something only those people who witnessed it would believe.

The window was down, and I had extended my hand to let the wind ash my cigarette for me when the car with no lights went by on our right. I could just make out the front seat passenger in the other car’s dash lights, their face a mirror of mine, their mouth a big black O.

Well, of course, we do hats.

Listen Orville, I’m not gonna sit here and blow smoke up yer ass. Either you want embroidered shirts or you don’t.

If you don’t, then I’ll cut out early and make water somewheres else.

But if you DO, then let’s us get down to it.

Long-sleeve shirts, Orville, with your insignia right here, above your heart.

Sellmans: Since 1974

I could even get em to put a bull on there for you or a side of beef, a steak even.

Let me get real with you here. Right here, right now as the song goes.

Them shirts your people are wearing, your receptionist and the like, they look like they had a logo iron’d on.

Are those iron ons, Orville? And did you get them from Ken Steckler?

Because, and if I weren’t such a gentleman I would tell you what I really think, because Ken Steckler doesn’t understand quality personalized garments the way I do.

Did his daddy raise him in the business?

Could he, if his back was against the wall, use a sewing machine?

That’s what you’re getting with Ken Steckler.

Poor quality with no guarantees.

Now sure, you might save a buck or two up front, but it’s gonna cost you on the back end with fading and peeling and what not.

Listen, I can personalize em for free. I’m gonna tell my boys at the factory to put the goddamned first names on there for free.

You want all capital letters? Done, sir.

Painful to me/ Rips right through me

Well, so Depeche Mode was this really great band–they may still be a band, for all I know. And Daddy was eighteen years old. This image right here comes from the cover of their album Violator.

The reason you’ve never heard them is that Daddy doesn’t really listen to them anymore.

Because people change.

That’s right, tattoos don’t change because they’re forever.

Except when you gain weight or get a sunburn or sometimes just because.

This one? Well, Daddy was sixteen. And Daddy thought the Tasmanian Devil was awesome. He kind of emblemized everything Daddy was about as a sixteen-year-old. And so Daddy got him tattooed on himself.

He looks like he’s bursting out of Daddy’s skin because that’s what the Tasmanian Devil does–have you really never seen the Tasmanian Devil on TV?

Only on Animal Planet?

Wow. Just wow. Okay, the Tasmanian Devil rips through everything. He spins and he rips. And also, I think Daddy wanted to show that he was an innate part of Daddy’s persona. Coming forth, as it were.

No, Daddy doesn’t spin and rip through things. Not anymore.

True men don't/ Kill coyotes

This? Well, Daddy was twenty years old. And he loved the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Not more needs to be said about that, probably.

At least, Daddy hopes that's what this means.

Daddy doesn’t actually recall when and how he got this one, so Daddy doesn’t know who Jedidiah is. Maybe–I think I remember this–Daddy wanted the artist to like sign it.

That? That is the name of a empty-souled tramp that should have by all rights been your mother.

No, no. Daddy loves your mommy very much. Very, very much. But daddy’s heart is a thorny place, full of querulousness and second-guesses.

Someday soon, one of yous is gonna need me

Shame. The truth is I never thought about feeling shame. For the exhilaration. I experience exhilaration when I see blood. I’ve realized it’s a bit strange, sure, but not shameful. But then Maggie Watson looked at me that way she looks at me, like she feels sorry when I talk about it, like I’m wounded somehow down to my childhood, and I have to admit it makes me think. It’s a good friend who can make you think with just a look. Anyway, my brother, he does AA, and I’ve heard him say he did and maybe still does a “fearless moral inventory.” And if it works for alcohol why can’t it work for seeing blood? My fearless moral inventory. Why do I get excited when I see blood.

I think maybe it’s more about when you know you’re good at something.

I think perhaps it’s more about when you feel calm upon seeing something most others find repulsive, or scary, or alarming. I see a gouge in a cheek bone and I get ready to fix it, to fill it, to stop it.

I’m a cutman. You want to have me around.

And so, Maggie Watson, I guess my answer is that I was forever impressed with my mother’s ability to fix my scrapes without a flinch. I guess that’s it. That’s my moral inventory.

- – -

The Vaseline. It’s not just a bucket of grease from Walgreen’s, you know. We make a mix, it’s of course a secret recipe, and it works. If we unleashed this stuff on the world we’d make at least many thousands, if not millions. Okay so thousands. Sometimes I think about supplementing my income (and filling my free time between fights) by, I don’t know, freelancing at a summer camp or something. Hate to let kids just bleed into some paper for a half hour and sit on the side of the field.

- – -

Trying to Be the Trainer. This is a rookie mistake, and I’d be straight-up telling lies if I said I never did it. Embarrassing, that’s what it is. God bless those kindhearted men (rest in peace, all of them) who set me on the right path and smacked my mouth to show me what was what.

Listen. As a cutman, can you give some encouragement? Yes, of course. Can you subtly motivate your fighter by talking about the shallow cuts the other guy is planting on him? Sure. But just don’t cross the line and try to train that fighter. You’re a cutman, always remember that. You’re there to fix the cuts, not train a boxer. No shame in fixing cuts, son. Never.

My paintbrush, so to speak

"My god! He was just here!" "Ma'am, his room is next door."

Do you know how much I’m going to miss you? I’m going to miss you so bad. But don’t hang on just for me. I want you to be free. If you’re seeing the light, go towards it. Fly towards heaven on the angel’s wings. Squeeze my hand twice if you can hear me and understand what I’m saying.

I’m right here. It’s not like I’m in a coma.

You sweet brave boy. That’s what you are, just a boy. It’s too soon. This is shitty and unfair. Whoever made these rules, god or whoever, they suck. I hate this. Say hello to heaven for me. I might be a while. Try not to miss me too much, I’ll be there as soon as I can.

It’s a staph infection. It’s serious, yeah, but they caught it in time. A couple of weeks worth of antibiotics and I should be completely okay.

There isn’t enough air in here. I can’t breathe! I’m too goddamned young to be a widow!

We’re not married. Not. Married. We’ve been dating, what–a month?

Listen, would you mind not fucking with my steeze? I’m trying to process my grief here.

By all means, psycho. Carry on.

Shirley Temple before she was a drink

1. I don’t know any sharks.

2. Ok, let’s say I was going to meet some. Like at a party I was invited to by some mutual aquatic life acquaintance .  I couldn’t just stereotype them, could I? I should at least meet them, right?

3. So I’m at this party and my friend, Greg, who is a grouper eel, introduces me to this shark by the name of Montrose and he’s a little intimidating with those rows of teeth and all, but he wonders if I play squash and I tell him, yeah, I’ve tried it. And he says, Great!

4. A week goes by and I’m mowing my lawn and Montrose pulls up right in front of my house. Said he saw me when he drove by earlier.  He and Mrs. Shark are looking at the neighborhood.  It’s closer to work and their boy, Carloff, is going to try out for the swim team.  I ask him jokingly, “Don’t you think having gills is kind of cheating?”  And Montrose says, “Isn’t using a harpoon in a fight instead of your evolution given gifts kind of cheating?”  What a zinger.  I love this shark.

5.  I’m having this poker night at my house and Montrose comes over.  Brings over these delicious crab stuffed crabs.  Greg the grouper eel is there and a couple of human guys from work. And a manta ray whose name I keep forgetting.  And we’re playing five card stud and Montrose gets up to use the shower for a second, he has to keep wet, it’s an ocean thing and when he comes back in, my coworker Brian the human starts doing the Jaws theme, “Dunh dunh dunh”. Everyone gets real uncomfortable.  Montrose looks pissed.  I hear his razor sharp teeth grind. But then he looks right at Brian and says, “You know, I don’t watch Silence of the Lambs and think all humans are crazed demented cannibals.  So I’d appreciate it if you didn’t stereotype my people because of one movie.”  The manta ray says ‘Aw, snap’ which makes Greg spit root beer everywhere and everyone just loses it. The manta ray’s name turns out to be Ray.

6.  I’m at work the next day and Brian doesn’t show up.  I figure he’s embarrassed about the Jaws thing.  And then around lunchtime, someone runs in and tells me that Brian was eviscerated outside of his apartment last night.  In fact, it looks like someone slurped out all his guts and spit out his pacemaker.  The whole town is scared about a bear being in the vicinity.  I have a weird feeling I know who it is.  I call up Montrose.  He says he’s been playing golf all morning but he’d meet me for drinks after work.

The bar he picks is a little out of the way and caters mostly to fish out of water.  They keep sprinklers going the whole time for the Waterbreathers but they have a bright yellow rainsuit for me.  Which makes me feel a little like the guy on the Gorton’s fishstick box.  Montrose is at the end of the bar.  He’s sipping a real Bloody Mary.  I sit down next to him.  Order a Shirley Temple.  Tell the bartender I want the human variety.  He’s a marlin. He sort of chuckles darkly.  I guess it has a double meaning.

I tell Montrose about Brian.  I say it offhand, just like I would tell anyone a story about some guy being chewed.  My tone is flat, conversational, properly shocked.  Montrose snorts a little when I say a bear did it. He thinks bears are brainless, lazy.  Not worth the rug they wear over their bones.  I say some people think that sharks are just the bears of the sea.  Montrose gets quiet and then he opens his mouth.  Asks me if I see anything in his teeth.  And there it is.  Brian’s wedding ring sitting like a crown on one of those shark incisors.

I say, “Yeah. I see something.”

He says, “Could you be a pal and get it out? No pilot fish today. And no opposable thumbs, you know.”

I reach inside his giant maw.  The bar gets quiet.  All I can hear is “Benny and Jets” playing on the jukebox. His breath stinks like tuna and something else.  Some sweet kind of beef.  The Brian kind.  My hand is shaking. The ring is way back.  I have to lean my head in a little.  Water or saliva drips down on my neck.  I touch the metal, cool and wet. I slice my thumb a little on the tooth.  It hits the tongue. Montrose can taste it. He shivers. I grab the ring and pull back.

Montrose smiles.  ”If you need another poker player, I know a hammerhead.  He’s dumb. He’ll lose money like starfish lose limbs.”

I smile.  Elton John finishes.  My drink comes.

7.  Oh, and Montrose said my blood tastes like crap.  I have a rare blood type and he says it is repulsive.

Strangely, perhaps, she never imagines that she has extra toes. Which, given that she wears pointy-toed heels a lot, is probably a good thing.

Where she feels like she has more fingers than she does. Usually it’s a supernumerary pinkie, but sometimes its a thumb.

Sometimes, she feels like she has two ring fingers on each hand.

Her imaginary supernumerary digits always mirror; that is, she never has like an extra imaginary pinkie on her right hand and an extra imaginary thumb on her left.

And for some reason, she never feels like she has an extra index finger.

That’s what got me to thinking that there might be some convoluted pathology involved.

If it was me, the first imaginary digit I’d have would be an index finger. That just makes sense.

Contributed by D. Huskins (Italy, TX)

“SkinZ”? You couldn’t come up with anything better than “SkinZ”? You see those dudes warming up over there? The ones that look like a bunch of white, naked Harlem Globetrotters? They’re called “The Basket Free-Ballers” for chrissake. How are we supposed to compete with that?

Wilt Chamberlain? Seriously? I thought we agreed no ringers.

Towel!

Nice man boobs.

What don’t you understand about “post up?”

Guess that’ll teach you to dribble between your legs.

Towel!

I see you’re sporting your Irish.

Doug, bro. I like you, but not that way.

Holy shit. Is that exhibition basketball great Meadowlark Lemon pissing in our Gatorade? How are we supposed to compete with that?

Hanging from the rim? Really? Really?

Whatcha got, huh? Whatcha got? Nothin’. You got nothin’.

Whoah. Easy. Watch where you’re swinging that thing, Stilt.

Nice fadeaway shot.

Towel!

Is that your mom? Over there in your little cheering section? She’s got an incredible ass. And not just for a lady her age.

My bad. I thought this was “No Blood, No Foul.”

John, seriously. Keep your ball sweat off the ball. Nobody wants that.

It wasn’t that he snapped at the waitstaff. Although I’m sure they adulterated our food for that.

It was his “little joke” of licking the credit card before handing it to the waitress.

It was gross, yes.

But mostly it was unsettling.