Kyle found the old bathtub and vat of medical grade, thin-viscosity,
Vaseline behind the warehouse on Cicero that ran along the back fence
of Cisco’s Dry Dock Yard where he worked as a part time Boatwright.
He dragged the tub to where he was sure no one would see it, and
rolling the fifty-gallon vat of Vaseline across the yard of sail boats
perched end to end out of the water, he thought of how he had enough
lube for all the whimpering and desperate masturbators in the city to
get off with. He snuck through the lot and found a splintered old oar in
a shack full of lines and lifejackets. As he walked back to the Vaseline
drum pushed against the supplanted bathtub, he no longer knew
whether he’d have the strength to do this. When he saw what
he’d done so far, his grip on the oar handle loosened like it was a
blanket dragging behind him and the blade traced his last steps in the
gravel. Huddled masts swayed in the breeze over his head like a
metallic aspen grove, stripped of branches and rising off the riverbank in
the shadow of Chicago, which seemed quiet and impossibly far away,
beyond the chimes of the sail clips smacking against the halyards.
Sticking the oar shaft-deep into the rolled-over drum and scooping
out another paddle’s worth, scraping it on the browned-over, white
porcelain edge of the tub, he’d eventually smooth it out as if he were
frosting a cake. Covered in Vaseline, he rubbed his hands through his
hair, slicking it back, gel gushing out between his knuckles as he
squeezed his fingers together. The smell fired a feeling of calm panic
that carried him through the work of filling the tub, and he’d forgotten
about anyone at the gatehouse finding him.
He removed his shirt, now sweaty and clinging to his back, and
kicked off his shoes, socks, pants, and underwear so he was naked. He
rubbed his hands down his chest until it matted down the coarse black
hairs, and gel wiped off on his knees as he ran his hands up his leg. He
breathed in warm air, and reached his foot over the wall of the tub into
his waterless bath.
As he eased into the tub, the cool gel slowly engulfed his body until
his chin rested upon the many-peaked surface. He put a straw into his
mouth, pushed his legs further down the tub, and leaned back until the
Vaseline pushed its way over his face and his head went under. He
breathed deeply through the straw and swirled his hand over his face,
skimming the surface like fully evolved life breaking the surface of a
primordial bog. Nothing was happening as quickly as he thought it
would, so, cupping his hands over his nose and ears, he packed them
full, and all that was left was the sound inside his head of his distant
heart approaching, drumming closer, and his tight nervous breathing
through a thin straw. The world was being shaken out over him in
opaque sheets of sunshine, and he breathed deep, letting the gel coat
his eyeballs, until the tears had nowhere to go and puddled against him,
and he couldn’t see anything but a dull dark.
He breathed deeply pulling his knees up into his chest and folding his
arms around his belly, running a palm over his penis and back to his
stomach. It was warm and everything felt loose and free. Not wanting
to stretch out, he curled up to stay this way forever. Using his tongue
he pushed the straw out of his mouth. Tucking his head closer to his
knees, he sunk to his side completely under the surface and breathed
deep.
He breathed until the air was gone, and his inhalations pulled the gel
into his mouth, gnashing it between his teeth until he was no longer
conscious of hearing his own heart, of hearing anything. He cupped his
hands to his face. The next reflex of his lungs took gel into his throat,
then into his chest and stomach. When it happened, he no longer knew
anything. He forget his twenty-six years, his father, his mother, and all
the history of the world that mounted on his shoulders that he could
never get his mouth around, never chew up enough to know what to do
with. He forgot himself, and for what felt like a long time he was
nothing, cocooned in a strange darkness.
Then he was gagging on all fours like a new thing just given a
proper birth. He retched for air between purging some clear thick bile,
and started to hear the world awakening around him like the first
animals to crunch the underbrush before the day has completely
waned. Through burning eyes he blinked open a blurry mess of images
twisting themselves straight. A subtle feeling of having lost something
amongst the afterbirth rises, but that is to be left because pangs from
the simple and immediate hunger of an empty stomach and the need to
suckle are pulling him away. He will listen to his blood alone this time,
take no false stock in the world he just forced his way into. Gasping.
Somehow he knows what to do, who he is, and crawling off naked and
trembling, he opens himself again to the world for the first time, and
breathes deep
Vaseline behind the warehouse on Cicero that ran along the back fence
of Cisco’s Dry Dock Yard where he worked as a part time Boatwright.
He dragged the tub to where he was sure no one would see it, and
rolling the fifty-gallon vat of Vaseline across the yard of sail boats
perched end to end out of the water, he thought of how he had enough
lube for all the whimpering and desperate masturbators in the city to
get off with. He snuck through the lot and found a splintered old oar in
a shack full of lines and lifejackets. As he walked back to the Vaseline
drum pushed against the supplanted bathtub, he no longer knew
whether he’d have the strength to do this. When he saw what
he’d done so far, his grip on the oar handle loosened like it was a
blanket dragging behind him and the blade traced his last steps in the
gravel. Huddled masts swayed in the breeze over his head like a
metallic aspen grove, stripped of branches and rising off the riverbank in
the shadow of Chicago, which seemed quiet and impossibly far away,
beyond the chimes of the sail clips smacking against the halyards.
Sticking the oar shaft-deep into the rolled-over drum and scooping
out another paddle’s worth, scraping it on the browned-over, white
porcelain edge of the tub, he’d eventually smooth it out as if he were
frosting a cake. Covered in Vaseline, he rubbed his hands through his
hair, slicking it back, gel gushing out between his knuckles as he
squeezed his fingers together. The smell fired a feeling of calm panic
that carried him through the work of filling the tub, and he’d forgotten
about anyone at the gatehouse finding him.
He removed his shirt, now sweaty and clinging to his back, and
kicked off his shoes, socks, pants, and underwear so he was naked. He
rubbed his hands down his chest until it matted down the coarse black
hairs, and gel wiped off on his knees as he ran his hands up his leg. He
breathed in warm air, and reached his foot over the wall of the tub into
his waterless bath.
As he eased into the tub, the cool gel slowly engulfed his body until
his chin rested upon the many-peaked surface. He put a straw into his
mouth, pushed his legs further down the tub, and leaned back until the
Vaseline pushed its way over his face and his head went under. He
breathed deeply through the straw and swirled his hand over his face,
skimming the surface like fully evolved life breaking the surface of a
primordial bog. Nothing was happening as quickly as he thought it
would, so, cupping his hands over his nose and ears, he packed them
full, and all that was left was the sound inside his head of his distant
heart approaching, drumming closer, and his tight nervous breathing
through a thin straw. The world was being shaken out over him in
opaque sheets of sunshine, and he breathed deep, letting the gel coat
his eyeballs, until the tears had nowhere to go and puddled against him,
and he couldn’t see anything but a dull dark.
He breathed deeply pulling his knees up into his chest and folding his
arms around his belly, running a palm over his penis and back to his
stomach. It was warm and everything felt loose and free. Not wanting
to stretch out, he curled up to stay this way forever. Using his tongue
he pushed the straw out of his mouth. Tucking his head closer to his
knees, he sunk to his side completely under the surface and breathed
deep.
He breathed until the air was gone, and his inhalations pulled the gel
into his mouth, gnashing it between his teeth until he was no longer
conscious of hearing his own heart, of hearing anything. He cupped his
hands to his face. The next reflex of his lungs took gel into his throat,
then into his chest and stomach. When it happened, he no longer knew
anything. He forget his twenty-six years, his father, his mother, and all
the history of the world that mounted on his shoulders that he could
never get his mouth around, never chew up enough to know what to do
with. He forgot himself, and for what felt like a long time he was
nothing, cocooned in a strange darkness.
Then he was gagging on all fours like a new thing just given a
proper birth. He retched for air between purging some clear thick bile,
and started to hear the world awakening around him like the first
animals to crunch the underbrush before the day has completely
waned. Through burning eyes he blinked open a blurry mess of images
twisting themselves straight. A subtle feeling of having lost something
amongst the afterbirth rises, but that is to be left because pangs from
the simple and immediate hunger of an empty stomach and the need to
suckle are pulling him away. He will listen to his blood alone this time,
take no false stock in the world he just forced his way into. Gasping.
Somehow he knows what to do, who he is, and crawling off naked and
trembling, he opens himself again to the world for the first time, and
breathes deep
| r.kv.r.y. quarterly literary journal flash fiction summer 2008 a tub of vaseline by devin murphy |