Stabs at Happiness

13 Stories

By Todd Grimson

Schaffner Press

Copyright © 2012 Todd Grimson
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-936182-44-2

Contents

Hurt’s Rescue,
Brighter and Brighter,
Batista’s Lieutenant,
Stabs at Happiness,
Amnesia,
What the Matter Is,
P not Q,
ub,
Wrong,
Kansas,
Nothing in Tangier,
Ooze Out and Away,
Lamentations of Babylon,

CHAPTER 1

HURT’S RESCUE

It has been hours, the small outboard motor pushing their boat upstream against the sluggish current of this unnamed greenish brown river. They are many twists and turns away from any line existing on official maps. By now he has no real idea whether he is in Bolivia, Peru, or Brazil. Tranh simply has to trust in his crew. He doesn’t like it, but this element of unknowable risk is part of what he is being paid for.

There have been so many shades of green, from violet-tinged green leaves, greeny-blue wet vines … at other times pale green fading into gray green shadows, or yellow green glistening in the sun. Sometimes in the undergrowth the vines obscurely squirm, and huge flowers unfold, cerise or marigold-yellow, vermilion, fleshy blossoms amid an empire of insects and all manner of birds.

Tranh is stoic, as are the two European slaves here in exchange for James Patrick Hurt, the British anthropologist who walked away into the Peruvian jungle some six years ago. The story goes that Hurt, 27 years old at the time, just left his group’s campsite, moving deeper and deeper into the jungle, satisfying his desire to explore unknown regions, seeking forgotten ruins, until he was taken captive by some nameless tribe.

Hurt was not killed, but kept as a slave. Now, finally, after two unsuccessful expeditions bankrolled by his wealthy relations, there has come a rumor that a white male, perhaps Hurt, has been sold to a tribe more amenable, more agreeable, who although difficult to find are not impossible, and so Tranh is here to see what he can do.

This tribe is neither completely inaccessible nor opposed to commerce. They have taken hostages and then returned them in the past. Part of the purchase price, in addition to the two young white males, includes machetes, salt, t-shirts and cold hard cash. Of course it is the matter of the replacement slaves which renders the deal so shady, most likely illegal, no matter how willing these young men seem to be. Tranh is uneasy, but this part of the transaction is beyond negotiation. The homosexual submissives are from Belgium and Germany. They are slender, reasonably goodlooking, and — as specified — natural blondes. Allegedly this adventure constitutes each candidate’s lifelong fantasy fulfilled.

The village they arrive at after a long, slow bend in the river is a ramshackle collection of rundown, unpainted houses and long -houses, some partly constructed of corrugated tin. There is a great deal of rattan involved, bamboo, bleached dead wood, wire and string.

The afternoon temperature is such that, without wind, most residents as well as their dogs sleep or, at any rate, take a siesta. A few chickens stagger about. There is one flaming orange some -what the worse-for-wear parrot mumbling unintelligibly now and then from his perch.

The boat’s motor has been turned off; they drift to the meager beach. Some villagers now begin to gather, often wearing faded, out of fashion t-shirts and little else. The men are almost all squat and muscular, with penis-sheaths, wearing knives, some with bones horizontally perforating their septums. They are variously tattooed and scarred. The women often sport black fedoras but do not cover themselves in multicolored shawls the way women do in Lima, Quito or Guayaquil. At least today, in this heat, these females are most often topless, with floppy, sagging pancake breasts, breasts however ornamented with white or pink or orange painted stripes. Both sexes tend to have painted markings decorating brown cheeks, wooden labrets through lips, and so on.

Tranh is American, born and raised in Houston. His parents were “boat people.” The consulting firm he works for was warned not to send a white man here.

He is directed now to a large central open-air structure, along with the translator, who does not speak this tribe’s dialect but some intermediate tongue. The pilot of the boat, who carries an AK-47, is nominally in charge of the European slaves.

The headman appears, looking as if he has just arisen from a nap. He and Xoao, the translator, exchange greetings and commence some sort of leisurely conversation.

The new arrivals are welcomed, invited to come in and recover from their journey, urged to recline on hempen pillows strewn around in the dirt.

The headman smiles, a smile which reveals that he is missing some teeth. He tells a story, which Xoao translates as:

“There was a two-headed bird who lived in a tree near the river. He had two necks, two heads, but just one stomach. One day the bird was wandering near the river and one head saw a beautiful golden fruit, which appeared so delicious at the first sight. He started eating the fruit with great pleasure and said it was the most delicious fruit he had ever eaten. Hearing this, the other head said, Please let me also taste this wonderful fruit you are praising so much. The first head replied, You know that we only have one stomach, so whichever of us eats, the fruit will go to the same stomach. I’m the one who found it. So I deserve the right to eat it.

“The other head became silent and disappointed after listening to such an answer. This kind of selfishness on the part of the first head bothered him very much. The next day, the second head found a tree bearing poisonous fruits. He took the poisonous fruit and told the first head, You deceitful fellow. I will eat this poisonous fruit and avenge the insult you have done to me. “The first head yelled, Please, please, do not eat this poisonous fruit! If you eat it, both of us will die, because we have only one stomach to digest it! The other head replied, Shut up! As I have found this fruit, I have every right to eat it. The first head started weeping, but the other head didn’t bother and ate the poisonous fruit. In the consequence of this action, the two-headed bird died and fell out of the tree.”

Tranh nods, though what he mainly feels is puzzlement, but the headman seems pleased by his response. Or he simply enjoys speaking of the two-headed bird.

Some kind of a beverage is offered. It is alcoholic, and tastes of … no flavor Tranh has ever put in his mouth before. He doesn’t like it much. The association it calls to mind is garbage, rotting papayas and some dead animal he once smelled in a backyard. Nevertheless he smiles and drinks some more.

The headman laughs. More of the nasty beverage is offered. Everyone drinks. There is some intoxication fairly soon. The head -man slaps Tranh between the shoulder blades.

The new slaves are stripped, and then driven around in a wide circle by some wizard or shaman in a complicated get-up while women and children in particular revel at the spectacle. The wizard uses a green birch-rod to strike the young men on their buttocks and thighs, leaving raised pinkish-red welts.

One of these young men had written, on a website, “I am a masochist prepared for total, permanent, No Way Out slavery. To be trained and used as a non-human beast of burden. Have no friends or family — can disappear without a trace. My limit is obviously death etc.”

Tranh thought it possible the use of ‘etc’ was a show of wit. But he wasn’t positive, given the differences in language. He made no effort to particularly communicate with either slave during the trip.

The other boy, from Brussels, had given his name as “dirthole.” Lower-case.

Now the headman shares a conspiratorial look with Tranh and says, “The mantis is trying to reach the cicada, to devour it, unaware that behind it is an … uh, oriole stretching its neck to swallow the mantis. And the oriole does not realize that there is a slingshot aimed at him. All are intent on what is in front, blind to the danger behind.”

The translator stammers during some of this. Maybe he’s having a difficult time. Or simply making things up. “Oriole” did not seem quite right.

Tranh sits with Waldemar the boatman and Xoao. However foul the local brew, they continue to imbibe.

The headman says, “But surely you want to see your slave!”

Tranh nods. The headman claps his hands and some shorter-than -usual tribesman, perhaps a dwarf, leads in a white man by a rope tied around his neck. This man has been painted, the left side of his face and body black, the right side red. It looks as if this was done some time ago and the paint is gradually wearing off. There are other miscellaneous decorative touches, such as a horizontal line of five small yellow dots beneath the orbit of his left eye. Three lines atop each other above his right nipple. He is wearing a penis -sheath and nothing else. There is paint in the short rough-cut hair of his head but there is no mistaking the blondeness underneath.

He is brought to his knees before Tranh.

“James? James Patrick Hurt?”

There is no response.

“Hurt?”

The headman shrugs expressively and then makes the universal pantomime of fingers becoming scissors to sever the waggling extended pink tongue.

Tranh winces.

The headman, through Xoao, says, “We did not do this to him. They did it to him on the mountain. It’s better this way, he says,” Xoao goes on. “Now … he wants to be paid the rest of the price.”

“Very well,” Tranh says, slowly. “Bolivian or Peruvian?”

The headman says, no translation necessary: “Bolivianos.“

Tranh counts out the banknotes until the headman is satisfied. Banco Central de Bolivia on each bill. An old bald guy with a thick white mustache is pictured on some. Various hues are employed.

“Amigo.“

Soon food is brought in. Roast guinea pig, warm potatoes, pig’s feet, tripe, peppers in three colors and yellow corn.

Tranh says to Hurt, “You are going home now. We are taking you home.”

But he is unsure of the response. He compares this painted face to the memory he has of a photograph featuring a smiling youth in tennis whites. There seems little doubt about the identification, but he has no idea what James Hurt has been through. It all began, though, with him walking away on his own. That much was clearly established long ago.

Hurt remains on his knees, with his eye downcast, and will only accept food if it is thrown on the ground.

It is evening, and there are entertainments for the guests.

First there is a dance, in which almost everyone in the village stands quivering in place, whereupon several boomboxes are turned on. They are not quite in sync, but the loudest one features (as they all do) a cassette of what sounds to Tranh like Haitian voodoo drumming. He wonders if these people have ever possessed drums of their own, or whether they just like this tape, this performance, it’s a Hit.

The lively drum pattern has an emphatic pause after about ten seconds or so, and this pattern, followed by the pause, is repeated again and again. There are whistles or crude flutes in the music as well as what sounds like the “off” beat punctuation of a piece of iron (or some kind of metal, not really a bell) being struck hard.

At each pause, the dancers stamp their left foot; then at the next pause, their right. This goes on and on. Tranh finds it oddly compelling for a while.

Then in a few minutes he is bored.

The second entertainment, maybe an hour later, features two pubescent boys, each with his right arm tied behind his back, engaging in a left-handed knife fight. One boy wears a yellow Pink Floyd t-shirt, the other’s shrunken tee is pale blue and has something in white Arabic script. There is soon a lot of blood.

The men of the village hoot and holler enthusiastically while they watch. Tranh figures out that there has been heavy betting on this match.

It grows late.

Waldemar approaches Tranh at some point with embarrassment and asks him if he has any “spare” condoms. Actually, yes. Tranh keeps a few in his wallet at all times … because you never know.

Tranh sits up late by the fire, weary but uneasy about falling asleep here. He does not trust these villagers. Hurt lies in the dirt, curled up on his side, apparently accepting the transfer of title. Tranh smokes cigarettes. Occasionally he hears, he’s not sure from what direction, an outcry of Belgian or German pain.

Tranh makes an effort to talk to James Patrick Hurt, but perhaps too easily gives up. He just doesn’t know what to say to the man. There will be trained personnel to deal with him soon enough. The family can afford the very best. It’s not Tranh’s responsibility. He feels bad though. Meanwhile he checks the safety on his Glock.

When it is barely dawn, they are beginning to gather by the boat. Tranh and Waldemar discuss the mapless portion of the journey back. Tranh kept careful notes all the way here. Waldemar’s mood is not the best. He may be hungover.

When Tranh has the map out, Hurt standing nearby, now dressed in khaki cargo pants and a Sonic Youth t-shirt, his face still bisected into red and black, it occurs to Tranh to offer the medium -blue pen to the freed captive, turning the folded-over in-adequate map so that Hurt may write a message — since he cannot speak.

Hurt writes, after seeming to give the opportunity some serious thought:

Who I really am
I am a bad person
I lie
I cheat
I steal
I am much worse than you can ever know

Tranh reads, then gazes into Hurt’s calm blue eyes. Tranh is disturbed. He looks harder, looks harder, begins to say something, stops.

The headman, yawning in the morning light, comes to say goodbye. Tranh thanks him. They shake hands, after a manner. Handshakes as such are not a part of this culture.

Everyone is in the boat except for Waldemar and Tranh, who will push the boat off into the slow current downstream.

The headman says something else. Xoao translates:

“Would you recognize your dog if he went off white and came home black?”

Tranh does not answer.

After some time on the river Hurt begins to make a noise. When he will not stop, becomes louder, and seems restless, a prefilled syringe is employed. He quiets down as the intramuscular injection has its way.

When it torrentially rains, Hurt seems to take pleasure in the downpour. There is a different look upon his face. Eyes closed, he raises his face and opens his mouth.

After the rain stops, while the sun is drying everything, Tranh lights a cigarette. Then he notices how Hurt is watching, and offers him one too.

Hurt extends a trembling hand.

CHAPTER 2

BRIGHTER AND BRIGHTER

I looked back at the house for a moment, wondering if I’d forgotten anything. This old dark blue Plymouth was parked in the shade under a tree. There was a wasp buzzing around, and I was worried it might fly into the car. It seemed that kind of a wasp. The driver’s side window was rolled down.

Some kid came up on his bicycle. He looked about nine or ten. I recalled that taking care of Sivanderbilt’s children was part of Olga’s job.

“You can’t go inside,” I told him. “Something bad happened here. Some bad guys came and did something. You’re supposed to come with me to your aunt’s. Where’s she live again?”

“Pascagoula.”

“That’s kind of out of the way. Where’s your little sister?”

“She’s at summer camp, mister. Where’s my mom?”

“Already on her way to Biloxi. We got to leave. Right now. The bad guys might come back any time.”

“I need to pack some of my stuff.”

“No time for that. You’ll just be gone a couple days.”

“All right, sir. Okay.”

And like a good boy he got in the passenger seat of the car. I got the keys in the ignition and started backing us out.

“What’s your name?” I asked, once we were heading down the avenue. I didn’t have a viable license, so I had to take it careful and slow.

“Axl.”

“You named after Axl Rose?”

“Yeah. I guess so.”

“Guns N Roses.”

“Right. My original mom liked them and stuff. I wish though, I wish …”

“What?”

“I wish she’d named me Slash.”

This caused me to laugh, and we laughed together, like it was funnier than it really was. I thought I had maybe heard a story about his original mom.

“What was he, Slash, the guitar player?”

“Yeah. He looked stupid though, with that hat and his hair.”

“Guns N Roses … they was supposed to be real bad dudes, right?”

“I don’t know about any of that.”

“What happened to her, your original mom?”

“Sir, she lives in prison.”

We turned, and were speeding up, getting on the highway now.

“In Tutwiler?”

“Yes sir. That’s just for women. But Sivanderbilt … he grew up in North Carolina.”

“Did he now? I spent some time up there myself. I was in Azalea, North Carolina.”

“I don’t know that town.”

“Just up the road from Valley Springs.”

“Oh,” he said, Young Axl, pretending this was meaningful to him.

A little more than a half hour ago I’d been sitting down next to the kitchen table, there with my so-called friends. Some of them were folks I’d met up in North Carolina while they were paying their debt to society. I guess I might have been paying some kind of debt myself. Some would call it that. It’s too damn easy to judge.

People have a way of doing things, little things maybe, that show how they really feel … underneath their phony smiles.

“And Donnie Ray here, hey, Donnie Ray would like a drum-stick, isn’t that right?” Jimmy said. I did not want a drumstick. I never said I did. Those are for children.

Jimmy was smiling, red lips pulled back to show his snaggly old yellow teeth.

Sure, he and Sivanderbilt were pretty brave now, in the kitchen, drinking bourbon while Sivanderbilt’s woman fried us up something to eat. It was a different story, I’m telling you, an hour previous at the bank in downtown Mobile. But now I could see these motherfuckers looking at each other, real sly, like they’d come up with some way to cheat me on the count.

(Continues…)Excerpted from Stabs at Happiness by Todd Grimson. Copyright © 2012 Todd Grimson. Excerpted by permission of Schaffner Press.
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