INDELICATE INCIDENTS: 17-19
What's in a name.
17.
‘I don’t want to get back in the car,’ said Jakob the next morning.
I poked my scrambled eggs. Took another swig of coffee. The eggs had a greenish tint I wasn’t sure about. Normally I’d risk it rather than waste money, but not on a road trip.
Truck stop bathrooms were nightmarish enough.
‘Do these eggs look off?’ I asked. Jakob squinted at them. Leaned over and stuck his face too close to the plate. Sucked in air through his nose.
‘They smell like sulfur,’ he said. ‘And look like rubber.’
‘How do you know what sulfur smells like?’ I asked.
‘Chemistry class,’ he said. I poked my eggs again before dropping the fork with a sigh. ‘Frank, did you hear what I said? About the car?’ I tried to catch the waiter’s eye.
‘Yeah, I heard you,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to either. But the private jet’s at the repair shop.’ I waved at the waiter. He sailed right by me. I scowled at his back.
‘I’m sick of driving,’ said Jakob. ‘And your shitty music,’ he added. I made a noncommittal noise and coated my rye bread with a thin layer of butter. The waiter was still MIA.
Jakob stabbed at his pancakes with more anger than they deserved. He’d drowned the whole stack in maple syrup, slathered each slice with a grotesque amount of butter, and was hacking at it with his fork. It looked like baby food. I smacked his hand.
‘Don’t act like a child, Jesus,’ I said. ‘It’s embarrassing.’
‘You’re embarrassing,’ he muttered.
‘Good one,’ I said. I took a bite of my toast. The bread was stale, but I’d eaten worse.
Jakob poked at the soggy mess he’d made of his breakfast. His face was drawn and pale.
‘Eat,’ I said as gently as I could. ‘It’s a long drive. We’ve got another three days at least.’ Jakob looked up from the plate.
‘You said two days,’ he said.
‘I’m not good at math,’ I lied. Jakob continued to methodically work through his breakfast with no indication of enjoyment.
‘Where are we going?’ he asked again. ‘Who is this guy we’re staying with?’
I signaled the waiter for more coffee. He continued to ignore me.
‘I told you,’ I said to Jakob. ‘We’re going to Valesburgh. It’s where I live. We can stay with a friend of mine.’
Is he your boyfriend?’ Jakob asked, making a disgusted face. I snorted.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I work for him. He’s an old guy.’
‘You’re old,’ said Jakob. I smiled.
‘Twenty-four isn’t old,’ I say. ‘He’s really old. Grandpa old.’
‘We never had a grandpa,’ Jakob said. We ate in silence for a minute. I looked around the diner. It was antiseptically clean, no memories or personality or history to hold it together.
‘And you’re a mechanic?’ Jakob asked. Like he’d never said the word before. I chewed some toast to buy myself time.
‘Sort of,’ I said. Jakob squinted at me. Didn’t blink. I looked at my plate.
‘How can you ‘sort of’ be a mechanic?’ he asked.
‘I work on cars mostly,’ I said. ‘Other times I do other stuff. Bartend. Wait tables.’ Credit card fraud. Petty theft. Grand theft auto, one time. Identity theft. Shoplifting. Vagrancy.
‘So a part time mechanic?’ asked Jakob. I nodded. Close enough. ‘Then why does your car suck?’ he asked. I snorted. Jakob hunched over his plate, eyes cast down at the table. There was an awkward lull.
‘So, what do you like to do?’ I asked, to fill the silence.
‘Are you serious?’ Jakob asked around a mouthful of pancakes. ‘You don’t care.’
Instead of answering, I leaned over the table and grabbed a heaping forkful of Jakob’s pancakes. Between the syrup and butter they had devolved into a sort of pasty sugar mush. I jammed the fork into my mouth and chewed vigorously. Let my jaw drop open.
Jakob recoiled in horror.
‘There’s something wrong with you,’ he said.
The waiter came by with fresh coffee. He looked at me in horror, like I’d taken a dump on the table next to my crappy breakfast.
I ducked my head and forced down my sickly sweet mouthful.
‘Frank?’ the waiter asked, amused. Scorn and confusion and a little taste of realization in his eyes. Incorrect judgments whenever people hear my name and see my face.
Every fucking time.
‘It’s a nickname,’ I lied. Pointed at my plate. ‘Who do I talk to about these eggs?’
18.
My parents were expecting a boy. Dreaded the idea of a girl.
Kind of funny I ended up as none of the above.
Parents were terrified they’d only be able to have one kid. I was a difficult pregnancy for my mother.
She was sober through most of it, for starters.
My father had promised my grandfather they would name a boy after him. Thought I was their best shot.
The fact they had six boys after me without any issues is probably a metaphor for something.
Guess they could have given me a girl version of the name. Francesca or Francine. Frances. Wouldn’t have worked though. Those names don’t sit right on my skinny shoulders. Would have tasted strange and obscene in my mouth.
Any other name would have been a lie. It’s Frank. Always and only.
Still, I’m pretty pissed off I got named after a mean old coot who was by all accounts a racist, bigoted prick. My parents hoped he’d leave them something in his will after they gave me his name.
Joke was on them. There was nothing for my grandfather to give. Nothing to leave behind. He spent money like it would always be there, even when he had less than nothing.
No head for numbers.
I’m good at math. In theory. Bad with money, but it’s not the same thing. Math makes sense. Money is confusing bullshit. Run through it like water.
Jakob is good with money. Saves receipts. Keeps us on budget.
He was always the smart one in the family.
19.
They’re dead they’re buried in the basement the bodies are in the basement they didn’t burn oh no they couldn’t burn and here I am, trapped in this basement with their bodies and the stench, my god the stench, air thick and heavy, leaves me gasping without lungs.
I’m not a person anymore and I’m the last one left alive the single survivor of the carnage I’ve created.
My hands are bloody and my legs twist into sleek black tentacles.
Grady is there but not. Eyes vacant. Body limp.
One tentacle caresses Grady’s face, his unseeing unblinking eyes focused on something far away.
Grady’s gone away. Somewhere else. I sent him there and I can’t bring him back and we were always going to end up like this.
I can feel his flesh cooling against the tentacle. Smell the rot and decay in the air. My brothers are giggling laughing cackling, all sitting up with broken necks and eyeless faces. Missing limbs and deviant smiles.
But they’re still dead, and the silence comes back like a knife in the side. Stops me in my tracks but the tentacles are still moving, seeking searching.
I don’t know where they are or when the basement became a red and bloody sky and I’m climbing a stairway to heaven but I keep sinking down and they’re dead they’re dead and gone is as good as dead and Jakob is there too, fixed in a pool of white light and still as a betrayal and if someone is screaming it can’t be heard over the laughter of dead children.