r-kv-r-y
winter 2006 fiction
For Grogan
by Geordie Williams Flantz
winter 2006 fiction
For Grogan
by Geordie Williams Flantz
Neckties were invented to cut off circulation to the brain. Silk squeezes the carotid
artery. Your mind goes slack and numb.
Work didn’t have a dress code. She did. She packed my lunch and cinched my tie.
“How’s that?”
“Fine.”
I was choking.
Every morning. Get up, shower, here’s your lunch, how’s that, fine. Every day.
Here is how to turn your basement into a fiery vision of hell:
1. Knock out all dividing walls. Save the better lumber and wear a mask to smash through
plaster. Shatter her pictures and the blue vase she got from the Kyrgyz Republic. On a
budget, save and straighten nails.
Tuesday, after finding out my wife was a whore, I took off my patterned tie.
My scalp hummed like a reattached limb, the blood pumping through fallen veins, a blizzard of
whiteout pricks. Then I could see it, my life stretching out from flat feet to the smog and rat
choked coast. It was a lot like that elementary school where the boiler exploded: splintered
brick and childhood dreams scattered all around.
2. Dig a lot of pits. Rent a jackhammer to rip out the concrete floor. Start digging. Make a
series of excavations around the room, leaving walkways between. Build the ground up higher
at one end. The rest of the dirt can go in the backyard. Do some landscaping, or throw it on
the garden.
I pulled all my ties out of the closet. I put them in a box and wrote LATER on it with a black
marker. I set it on the table and left to get a sledge.
The first guy I didn’t know. He was an art student at the college. She was flattered someone
so young and beautiful could still lust for her.
Of course he lusts for you, I said.
The guy could do an amazing pectoral dance, had a segmented snake tattooed down the
length of his torso, one link for each of his lost loves. A snake, he said, because love was
eating him alive.
He’s twenty one, I said.
It must have been an earth worm. If I had that tattoo, it wouldn’t fit. I’d have to paint a
mural on a barn and then drag that around with me. I’d put it on wheels or something.
3. Make sure to cover exposed wood beams near the floor. Insulate the ceiling so your
upstairs carpet doesn’t melt. Consider ventilation. A simple air exchange system can be built
with ductwork and cheap fans, but results will vary. To guard more fully against asphyxiation,
consult a professional. However, a proper solution will cost thousands of dollars, so
remember -- the more noxious the fumes, the more realistic your design.
To get the jackhammer into the car I smashed a window. Shards of glass on the blacktop
caught the piled sky as a plane leapt past in a scatter of disjoined reflections. My knuckles
bled and I wrapped them in a shirt. The shirt was hers and halfway home I couldn’t take the
smell. My lungs squeezed themselves limp. I threw it out. My clenched fist dripped blood
down the face of the steering wheel.
4. You’ll have to buy a goat. This is for sacrifice and blood drinking. Start shopping early -
check the papers and for-sale ads online - but if you can, hold off buying until you need it.
Keep in mind, the longer you own a goat, the longer you’ll have to feed it and the more of
your shit it will destroy.
At home the room filled with dust and I couldn’t see. Things went gray and throbbed. My
skeleton ran in a confluence of hair-line fractures, I was sweat and clacking teeth. The
muscles of my back and neck wound tight, hunching me, as my brain slammed back and forth
inside my cracking skull.
Later, I stopped to eat salami and a jar of pickles, dripping over the kitchen sink. The doorbell
rang. A cop. A neighbor had complained of the noise. It was four in the morning. I explained
I was remodeling my home.
“In wingtips?” he asked.
I turned to the hall mirror and found an ashen face. My office-suit was gray with dust, fine
flakes of it clung to my hair, balanced on my lashes. I looked down and saw a hand caked in
blood, a thick trail running to my elbow.
“My wife slept with a sherpa,” I said.
The officer gave me a look. He had this bushy mustache, like someone carved him out of
hedges with a pair of shears. He was thinking I’d murdered my wife.
“Would you like to see?” I asked. “Come and see for yourself.”
Hand dropped closer to holster. “You lead the way,” he said.
We went down, the stairs creaking under our weight, and I showed him.
“What are all these holes for?” he asked.
I’d meant to diffuse the situation, but this wasn’t helping. “Not for burying people,” I said.
The officer gave me that look again, his arms out like he wanted something heavy to lift.
“Look,” I said, “she’s staying with a friend in the city.” I pulled a post-it note from my billfold
and handed it to him. “This is her number,” I said. “Check it out if you want.”
He stood there, looking. It felt like being thrown down hard on a block of ice. Finally, he
sighed and took the paper from my hand, his shoulders falling, posture relaxed. He grabbed
my jaw, firmly but without violence. He looked me in the eyes, turned my head, studied the
curve of my face.
“You know,” he said, his voice soft, “there’s something romantic in a broken man.” He
dropped his hand. “I’ve seen it and seen it,” he said, “but it strikes me every time.”
He turned and showed himself out. When he was gone, I crawled down a pit and fell asleep.
5. Build or buy a throne. Furniture makers may take a lifetime perfecting their craft, but a
table saw and sander will set you on your way. Use lumber saved from the walls or start
browsing rummage sales and antique stores. Modify a rocker or recliner. Just make sure it
looks imposing. Let your imagination roam free on the design, but here are some ideas to
start with:
- Dye it dark red and let the varnish run so it looks like dripping blood.
- Buy a pair of animal skulls from a taxidermist and attach them to the armrests.
- Inscribe something evil sounding on the chair back. Translate it into Latin, or, for the
less schooled among us, Pig Latin.
When finished, place it where you piled up the dirt.