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by Bradley Mason Hamlin
“I was thinking today,” said Frank, “that it would be really great to have a
sprinkler-head that spits whiskey.”
Joe stared at the grass lawn going brown. He stubbed his cigarette out in an
ashtray on the porch steps.
“You’re crazy,” he said, “it’s nothing special. Lots of guys go to the deep
end of the pool.”
Frank wiped the sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. “You’re
right,” he said. “I should see a head shrinker, talk about my childhood.”
“I know a terrific psychiatrist,” Joe offered, “name’s Johnny Walker.”
Frank cracked open a Bud, took a long gurgling drink, belched, and stared at
the lawn. “Did you know,” he said, “that the Chinese character letters for the
word ‘woman’ also mean ‘pig in the house’? How the hell are we supposed to
get along with the ladies--when the signs are so obvious that men are insane?”
Joe shrugged his shoulders. “You’ve probably got it wrong, or if it did mean
that, the dinks have probably changed it by now.”
“Did you know,” Frank turned to Joe with a menacing look, “that I’m a
quarter Chinese on my mother’s side?”
Joe blew half a smoke ring at the sun. “That must really confuse the pigs,”
he said.
Frank scratched his bald spot. “You ever read that book about the guy and
that broad that was fucking everybody down in Mexico?”
“You mean Spain?”
“Yeah, Spain, bullfighting …”
“The Sun Also Rises,” said Joe.
“Yeah, yeah, read that one at City College.”
“And?”
“Well, what the hell was all that about?”
Joe laughed while trying to light another cigarette. “What?” he said. “Why?
Who cares?”
The sweat dripped down from Frank’s sunburned head. “I don’t know. You
know, the sun just kind of sits there and burns ya. I never notice it coming up
or going down.”
“That’s what she said.”
“Huh? Excuse me …” Frank turned to the left and threw-up his breakfast
beer onto the already wilted flower bed.
“Good god! You have any food this morning?”
Frank pulled another Bud out of the 12-pack box and cracked it open. “Here’
s to you and yours,” he said, draining half the can.
Joe shook his head. “You look like Fred Flintstone drawn by an alcoholic.”
Frank smiled. “I feel like I have a great big whirling chainsaw inside me, like
someone’s trying to cut me apart from the inside out.”
“Have you tried an anti-acid?”
“I’m a bad man,” Frank slurred, “a bad man. You don’t realize it, but when
you do bad things evil grows inside your blood cells like a zombie flower ready
to explode. That evil has a root and a virus attached to the root and even if you
pull the damned evil weeds out by the roots there’s nothing you can do because
the virus gets loose and then you’re fucked good and solid.”
Joe took a deep breath, then started laughing. Beer shot out of his nostrils.
He couldn’t stop. He fell on his side, his body shaking.
“Noble creatures,” said Frank, “still laugh, even when jailed.”
Joe laughed harder.
Frank reached behind him and turned on the radio. Gerry Mulligan’s version
of “My Favorite Things” rumbled out over Joe’s laughter. The fat sound
bounced across the crumbling lawn, hit a tree, and stumbled back to the porch.
Joe sat up and opened a new beer. “Shit man, you crack me up.”
They drank the beer and listened to the baritone sax.
The sun didn’t rise and it didn’t sink. It just sat there.
“You know,” said Joe, “you have that big sun hanging up there keeping you
warm, cold beer in a box on your front porch, and you don’t have to go
anywhere, because you don’t have anywhere to go. Now, that’s not so bad as I
see it.”
Frank pointed to the tree at the edge of the lawn. “Look,” he said.
“What?”
“The tree, up there, look, the squirrels …”
In the shadowed arms of the cherry tree, two squirrels rattled the branches
with their lovemaking.
Joe shook his head from side to side in disbelief. “I’ll be damned. He’s really
giving her the tender nut.”
Frank smiled in spite of the vomit on his shirt. “Without love you’re left with
nothing but a thin society.”
This time Joe didn’t laugh. They were quiet until Joe felt like he should say
something. “Maybe she’ll call,” he said.
Frank opened another beer. “I wish I had a sprinkler-head that spits
whiskey.”
Bradley Mason Hamlin is a writer,
editor, and publisher, born in Los
Angeles and currently living in “Capital
City” Sacramento, California with his
beautiful wife Nicky and their many
amazing children. His poetry, short
stories, and articles have appeared in
books of selected writings,
anthologies, and several magazines and
newspapers in print and on line.
Brad & his wife Nicky own Mystery Island
Publications and publish an ongoing
in-print literary pop culture magazine
called: Mystery Island Magazine.
Recent work includes the editing and
formatting of Tough Company by
singer/songwriter Tom Russell,
featuring: Charles Bukowski. Brad is
also the creator of the metaphysical
crime series: Monster Zipper, featuring
the Intoxicated Detective. For more
information about Hamlin and other wild
things—visit: www.mysteryisland.net
Want more? Check out Hamlin's
story, "Suburban Cannibals."