8

1

Eric tosses night-glow emergency phone number

magnets at a 1970’s retro avocado-green fridge, hard

enough to rattle the rebuilt compressor. “Rebuilt” used

loosely; he brags weekly of having fixed the botched part,

defending his neophyte mechanic’s talents by blaming

subsequent failures on untouched pieces. Marsha has

owned this fridge for years, since we first met. We’ve

shared many reheated carryout steakhouse dinners, and

for that to continue I pray Eric gets smart soon. The

magnets, comped from his part time at KCPL Energy, he

handles with dirty fingers and perpetually-grimed

knuckles; this makeup seemingly imperative to his skill;

he’s good. The magnets rarely reflect. A hit, and a loose

coil somewhere vibrates applause.

“Heard you and my mom this morning.” He

breathes this revelation through the widened gaps of his

clenched, yellowed teeth. He doesn’t smoke cigarettes. The

hue has always baffled me.

“Which part? The moans or the screams?”

A magnet ricochets. A rare miss. Eric has a

shaggy-haired, hunched-shouldered look somewhere

2

between flea market redneck and barefooted hippy, with

the mental disposition of both extremes to keep him

consistently at the verge of Red v. Blue political

explosion. For as long as I’ve known him he’s sworn to

one day “get back at this fucking world.” For what, he

never addresses. Possibly for giving him the ever-scent

of sun-baked urine and rubber. I keep Marsha’s windows

open when he’s home.

This morning’s post-coitus exchange warrants

all the more mutual antipathy considering our close

ages. Eric and I share nostalgic referents: G.I Joe cartoons

and China-made cereal box toys. We even shared a

classroom once in fourth grade, but only briefly, as Eric

ultimately traded education for paint fumes and

carburetors. His then neighbor, still his neighbor, now a

friend, Ferret, embraced the role of teacher. By the end of

what would be fourth grade, Eric knew how to lynch a

smooth joint. I like him for this. So far, only this.

I break his magnet’s fire line for a slice of cheese

and some mayonnaise. The refrigerator door handle

stinks of spilled milk, long forgotten, but fitting to the

kitchen’s organically-upholstered décor. Things spill.

Things stay. Bread crumbs decorate mildewed counter

tile grout. Aerosol degreaser overspray lacquers the walls,

the oven, and the dying plant leaves to a spotty,

reflective patina. The daytime home remodeling TV

3

shows that Eric calls “school” would name this style

Vagabond Rustic. I let the door swing hard against its

deteriorating gasket and make a show of wiping my

greased hand on a nearby towel. “You should major in

house cleaning. And fix this gasket.”

“Do me a favor and hit her harder tonight. I like

that.” He grins, gathering magnets from the door.

“That’s your mother.” It’s the only threat I have.

I’m not his father. I’m his peer. Marsha and I will never

marry. She’s too old. I’m too smart. It’s a shame Eric

and I can’t bond. Grade school clique residue keeps us

forever apart: he, an angry deadhead—torn jeans and

Metallica t-shirts his uniform; me, intelligence and a

taste for sweeter sounds. Perhaps if something were to

change we could all come together as a family. A

hastily-soldered yet solid family.

“If you listen hard enough, you’ll hear me moan

back from my room,” Eric says. A magnet cuts the air.

His mother’s sudden appearance curbs my

rebuttal, breaching the kitchen in a shirt I left on her

floor weeks ago. I think I originally took it from Eric’s

closet in a hurry to escape Eric’s inconvenient return

home. This was before his mother and I decided to out our

relationship. We’ve since grown comfortable with him as

we’ve grown comfortable with ourselves.

4

“How’re my boys this morning?” Her skin smells

of copper and her hair of headboard woodstain; we

redecorated earlier this week.

“It’s three thirty in the afternoon,” Eric says, but

smiles like he’s delivering genuinely helpful

information.

“You know I’m great,” I say.

“What’s for breakfast?” she asks, reaching for a

mug from the delicate stack of clean-enough dishes

filling the sink.

“Sausage.” I smirk. An angry magnet shaves

my earlobe, whapping to the fridge door. I’m impressed.

The compressor reports with a tinny vibration.

“I thought you fixed that, Eric.” She fills the cup

with yesterday’s coffee and sets the microwave for a full

minute.

“Probably the cylinder block this time. I’ll get to

it tomorrow.”

“Have you checked the mechanic?” Another

missile, this one hard into my back, then drops to the

ground. “Watch it, son.”

Another magnet, to my neck, then the ground. I

kick the felled weapon under the refrigerator.

“Can it, Eric. Mitchell’s back isn’t right. You

know that.” She turns to the cabinet for bread. I leverage

her turned interest to pantomime sex, hips and ass slaps.

5

Eric takes the bait and throws an entire stack at my

chest.

“Fuck!” I yell, genuine pain.

Three days ago Ferret asked Eric and I to help

him sleeve a dead llama, with an understood-beer-and

conversation payment. Ferret’s first words upon our

arrival were an unprovoked insistence on the animal

having been found dead; “I didn’t kill it.” Which means,

in Ferret-speak, that he did kill it. Ferret would kill

anything if it meant keeping the skin.

I don’t know if sleeve is his word or legitimate

taxidermy jargon; he says it with such nonchalance that

I’d argue for the former. It means the opposite of

skinning; replacing the treated hide over the stuffed

mold, post-gutting. The term sleeving misleads a textile-

savvy layman such as myself, implying a simple loose

wrap with zero mess. But the fit is tight and produces

plenty of mess. They should call it socking, “or Marsha

stuffing” I said to Eric during our visit, choking back a

laugh. I blame his subsequent animosity and hesitancy

to help after my fall on this beautiful comment.

Two things: 1) blood is slick, and 2) Ferret is not

a professional. I took the low end when transporting the

freshly “found” body to Ferret’s basement, and slipped,

landing sandwiched between the greasy concrete and

300 lbs. of warm llama.

6

The resulting pain wasn’t muscular entirely, nor

a skeletal thing. Ferret said he had experience in blunt

force trauma and elected to inspect the contact point with

a stethoscope he kept to “ensure death, when it isn’t so

obvious.” I hoped he meant the animals. After awkward

minutes and additional strange jargon (these words I’m

positive are his: congetudinal breakage, suede abrasion,

100 lb test line stitches), he gave me the okay and

assured me that I was still good to sleeve. I worked well,

too, impressing both him and myself. He called me a

machine, and welcomed my help anytime. Eric and I, as

best we’ve ever done before, bonded…over blood. I fear what

that means.

“They’re fucking magnets,” Eric says, prying

more weapons from the fridge. “Don’t tell me that they

hurt your back.”

“They hurt my back.”

Marsha removes her coffee from the beeping

microwave, intercepting another magnet. “Eric Charles,”

she yells.

That sweet mother’s tone. Using a middle name

works for me, in a dangerous way. “I’m sure he didn’t

mean it.” I say, embracing the moment, nodding toward

the bedroom. She grins. Eric fumes.

I catch Eric digging under the fridge through

filth for my kicked magnet. His audible disgust warns

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me of the impending projectile, but I have other things on

my mind. Other positions and scents already clouding

my brain.

The magnet cuts the air. Contact with my neck.

But this time the smack against the sticky linoleum

doesn’t happen. I rip the projectile from my skin and

rotate to return it, but the magnet won’t leave my hand.

“I’ll keep it then,” I say, sex and sweat on the

brain, and escort Marsha to the back room, her coffee left

steaming on the kitchen counter.

An ambulance ride later and I’m tracking strangers like

barcodes. I’ve cataloged the entire waiting room in

sortable, delimited rows and columns. Thirty-six percent

blond or blond derivatives. Forty-two percent brunette or

brunette derivatives. Ten percent too bleached white to

know. Twelve percent other. I don’t normally think like

this, in numbers and charts. But for the last week,

equations have been my air.

A mother across this fluorescent bio-dome warns

her eight year-old boy in long-tail threats, slowly

bottlenecking into terse commands. He’s using a red

8

marker to color his left earlobe. From my position, his ear

appears vibrant with blood. The child obeys once the

haggard woman reaches single-syllable threats, but he

pouts in defeat, refocusing his crimson dye to the

webbing between his fingers. His sister, sick, a 101

degree temperature I can read for no apparent reason. The

boy and I commiserate. I don’t want to be here either,

friend. We end up here only when nothing else works.

We’re broken machines.

“That’s a fine mother/son relationship,” Eric says,

noting the exchange. “Yelling and teaching. That’s the

way it should be.”

“Your mom is not my mom.”

“Good thing. I’d hope you wouldn’t break your

own mother’s leg.”

Eric drove himself, opting out of the inevitable

awkward conversation regarding his mother’s new

injury. Something like this was bound to happen. Over

the last week, I’ve gained one-hundred seventy pounds,

most of it in broken spurts, but I’ve lost three inches

from my waist. My shoes ceased to accommodate the

shifting shape of my feet, so I wear boots made for

thyroid freaks. I’ve already lost two toes. And metal

detectors hate me. A crushed femur during sex was

bound to happen.

9

It started last Tuesday. I awoke from unsettling

dreams, as they say, to find my left elbow replaced by a

rotational hinge joint. Unsettling may be grandiose, as I

suffered no more than a repeating nocturnal saga

involving numbers, vivid fractions to infinity that I

hang on to like a fable. During sex, I dream numbers.

The dream isn’t, as it once was, fear-inducing; I’ve

crossed that divide between conscious visuals and

unconscious imagery, straddling a new experience. As

soon as a dream starts, I recognize the ruse and have

learned to enjoy the ride. But when I awoke, and the

articular surfaces of my humerus and ulna had shed

skin to reveal metal, waking life too, had crossed that

divide.

My chair moans under my weight. I move the

floor, taking a worry-abused copy of Good Housekeeping

with me. I have trouble thumbing through the pages.

“Who’s the one with questions of respect, here? You want

me to hit her next time.”

“I don’t really love my mom like that,” Eric says

in an effort to retract his earlier oedipal comment from

the kitchen (10,570 characters back). “The situation isn’t

something I know how to fight against. Sorry.”

He insists on calling his mother and me a

“situation,” and bears no restraint of hostilities. As far

as he’s concerned, we’re fucking daylight away from

jaundiced infants. “But look at that kid, Eric. He’s never

10

11

I can smell the hallway latex and colostomy plastic

pumping through the hospital vents. Dr. Fielding would call my

still-healthy olfactories a good thing. He’s a doctor, not a

mechanic, so of course he’s interested in keeping me human.

“So why do you say it?” I ask back to Eric. He sits behind

me with a geriatric topics magazine, his heart beating faster than

it should (98 bpm). “If you didn’t mean it?”

“To gross you out. What you’re doing is sick.”

“It’s not sick.”

“Explain it to me, then.”

“It’s love,” I begin, but catch myself. The word feels so

foreign against my tongue, tangential at best. Marsha and I used

to dance around the concept of love like verbalizing it didn’t

matter. Dr. Fielding said the first to go would be my fingers, and

that the brain would ultimately succumb, but that I should have

some time before I fail. Just last week I gazed in awe at stars.

Now I count them. “Love…” I start again, but a nurse interrupts.

She tells us that Marsha’s casted, then asks our relation. I

let Eric go without me, forgoing an explanation. I use my time

alone to catalog the speckles in the ceiling paint by size.