Cruddy - Lynda Barry [56]
I looked at him expectantly but all he did was nod and gesture to the stocked shelves and say, “Hungry? Can I interest you in anything? Buns? Sweet relish?”
I was wondering if it was the presence of the Monkey that kept the Turtle from bringing up all the bulging questions. I was watching his eyes but they were giving no clues. The irises were showing and I was surprised by the color. A tiger color, orange-yellow flecked with brown.
“Tray,” said the Monkey. “Tray.”
The Turtle nodded. The Monkey said, “Sec,” and left the room.
“Hillbilly Woman,” said the Turtle.
“Turtle,” said I.
And then he kissed me. Hard. Very hard. Mashing his mouth against mine. When he pulled away I saw his gums were bleeding. The Monkey came back with a smaller version of a lunchroom tray. The Turtle pulled out a bag of the ancient smokeable and dumped it on the tray and proceeded to roll a few fatties.
The Monkey said, “So, Turtle. You got something for me, right?”
“There has been a complication.”
“Fuck.”
“Yes.”
The Turtle pushed a paper twist at the Monkey who stuck it in his mouth and lit a match.
“Fuck,” said the Monkey, and then he took his inhale.
“Indeed,” said the Turtle. We passed several circles of Sir Fatty. I was getting very stoned. I reached into Vicky’s purse and said, “I got a surprise for you, Turtle. Guess what I have of yours?” His tigered eyes flickered the smallest warning flare and I stopped.
The Monkey blew out a cloud and said, “What is it?”
The Turtle’s eyes flickered again and then went out.
I said, “This.” I pulled out Trina.
The Monkey started laughing.
The Turtle reached for her, saying, “Lost, and by the wind grieved, Ghost, come back again.”
After many different subjects were brought up and commented on and dropped, the Monkey said to me, “Were you like, in a car accident?”
I said, “Car accident?”
“Your nose and your teeth. What is the deal? No offense, OK?”
I can be very sensitive about the various smashed aspects of my face but Sir Fatty got me feeling free. My teeth have certain benefits. I can whistle ear-splitters. I can shoot unbelieveably precise jets of water across a room. I shot one out for the Monkey. He seemed like the kind of person who would like it. He fell against the cooler scream-laughing. I had a new friend.
The Turtle said, “And now tell us the story of your finger.”
“Finger?” said the Monkey.
Instinctively I closed my left hand into a fist. When it is in a fist, my finger situation is hard to detect. People almost never notice it unless I want them to. But the Turtle had noticed it.
“Please,” he said. “Show us.” And I hesitated but the father’s voice did not scream at me for the hesitation. When it came to my finger situation I do not think the father had anything more to say.
The Turtle set Trina on the condiments shelf and took my hand and opened it.
The Monkey said, “Whoa.”
My left index. Called the pointer. I only have half of it. Tough crabbing scars cover the middle joint and creep down the sides, giving it a melted candle look. They’re called keloid formations. Some people are prone to them.
I watched the Monkey slowly hide his hands. I have noticed that people will do this. He said, “Accident?”
I said, “It was removed.”
The Turtle said, “Violently? Purposely?”
“Both.”
The Monkey said, “Wait, man, whoa. Someone like, cut your finger off on purpose? Like, not a doctor? Like, just an average person?”
I started laughing. It was the word “average.”
There was a knock on the side door. A man saying, “Danny? Goddamn it, who you got in there with you?”
The Monkey jumped, freaking. “Fuck! FUCK! Uncle Myronto!” He clawed at the air to try and break up the cosmic clouds.
“He wants my head on a spike,” the Turtle said. “We must depart.”
I grabbed Trina and shoved her in Vicky’s purse.
The Monkey said, “Other door, other door. THAT door! Go! Go!”
We slipped out, keeping close to the cinder-block walls, listening to Uncle Myronto scream at Danny from the other side. BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! “Open the door!”
A cop car skidded