I’m standing there. Looking down. Just watching Teddy sweep the scratchy mess into an ancient army green metal dustpan, all the while emitting exasperated puffs and mumblings about his linoleum floor, a very “old man” thing to do. My dad used to do that, too, right after he beat me up. Murmurs and overdramatic exhales, like I had totally inconvenienced him by making him take off his belt and reset the toppled furniture he had thrown me into.
Ponytail, the young mother whose week I just wrecked, is still in a squatting position. I am assuming she is a young mother, and sincerely hoping the famous Bobby who likes carrot flavor was not her husband or some long-haired rabbit she owned. She is still staring down at the slimy glass fragments, seemingly waiting for some of it to magically reassemble into jar form.
As I am standing, and those two are still playing carrot catastrophe, my eyes scan the place and I catch Wick Carmien, the only other customer in the store, make a beeline to the register and steal two cans of beans. I say that like he was being smooth. Like he was some sort of crafty rascal. Like if you weren’t looking straight at him in that moment, you would have missed it. What I really saw, though, was an ancient shaky twig hook his walking cane over the top of the register, and for a moment look like he was gonna take one of those old man tumbles, catch himself, slowly select two cans, actually checking them for dents like he was buying a used car, attempt to stuff one into the left pocket of his red Gore-tex windbreaker, realize it was too small, and then actually try the same thing with the matching right pocket and be sincerely surprised by the no-go of it. Actually it was freaking hysterical. Guess Wick thought he had all the time in the world for the lentil heist of the century. He finally gives up, and then, get this, takes a fucking shopping bag, fumbles with the plastic opening for what seems like half my life, drops the cans inside it, procures his cane, and leaves the store, dreamcatcher bells happily announcing his daring escape.
I barely turn my head to check back on double-feature carrot tragedy still in progress on the floor, and hear the bells once more. Tommy and Ponytail hear the second set of bells as well and stand up. The three of us are now staring in awe at what seems to be five kids (or midgets, yes, yes, Beth, little people) standing in a perfect chorus line across the inside of the front entrance to the deli. They are all holding kitchen carving knives in their little digits. How cute. They are donned in white plastic ponchos, hoods up, and they each have the same mask on. Okay, I shouldn’t even call them masks, ‘cause this seemed way worse. They had copy paper print-outs of the Gidgidoo’s face over their own, attached with purple produce rubber bands over their ears. Eye holes roughly cut out of the face prints, undoubtedly with the very same carving knives they were holding. Two of them have got Wick, now cane-less, by the arms, and he’s probably moments away from a coronary, as communicated by his eyeball popping oh Christ, this is going down look on his face.
“Get the hell out of my store, you little crappers!” Tommy shouts, and I can’t but help short a giggle at the word “crappers.” Really, Tommy? I know you were caught off guard and all that, but you spun the intimidating store owner wheel and that was the best you could do? Little crappers? Anyway, the Gidgi posse does not seem to budge, and Tommy’s already stomping down the aisle to get at the gun before they spot it.
So Tommy gets to the front first and attempts some sort of wacko Schwarzenegger dive behind the register while grabbing for the gun. He does get the gun, but doesn’t make it over the counter, slamming his head and body into the brown metal box. One of the kids (and yeah, I know they’re kids now ‘cause they are shouting stuff and sound like they all own little red Flyer wagons) grabs the barrel of the gun. Tommy, still on top of the counter, punches him dead in the face. I hear something crunch and the kid goes down, hard, and is out for the count. By this time my fight or flight has kicked in and I am sprinting down aisle three, chrome metal shelving parallel to the counter, and right behind two of the Gidgi-toddlas. They turn, see me, and desperately try to jab their knives through the potato chip and dog food bags now between us. But it is far too late. I push the entire shelving unit down over them, and they get pinned beneath it. All the while, I can hear Ponytail in the back, screaming. Nice of you to help us by screaming like that, Ponytail. Are you sure that is what Bobby would have wanted?
Without hesitation or mercy, I stomp on their little hands and swiftly collect the cutlery. I wheel around (in what I say was some damn impressive choreography—see people, you only caught the “Whoa” show on the street… I do my best moves inside) and turn my new knife set on the two kids still holding onto Wick’s arms, like they have got some sort of weighty collateral. I slash one kid across the face, cutting both his mask and left cheek in half, while driving the other knife (my mind registers it’s a bread knife) into the other kid’s upper arm. At this point, the kids realize they have other more pressing goals outside of hostage-taking, and practically throw Wick into a pyramid of rigatoni boxes, and bolt out of the store. As an afterthought, I pick up the unconscious trick-or-treater from hell that Tommy clobbered, holding him up with my left arm and balancing his dead weight on my hip, open the front door again, walk down the front steps and pitch the brat into the street.
As I turn to re-enter the deli, the two I pinned, who must have wriggled out of their metal shelf crab trap, run past me into the darkness. Feeling kinda proud, I enter the store, spin around in a move only the original Temptations could’ve appreciated, secure the door and stand there, hands on hips, protectively facing the street. I wait for that warm, approving clap on my shoulder from Tommy. Nice job, son, how about some free lemon-lime soda? Or maybe a smattering of applause from Ponytail and Wick. But it doesn’t come. In fact, there is no sound at all from behind me, yet I know they are all staring. Then, of course, it happens. Cause Ponytail is yelling, “RED! He’s RED! RRRREEEEDDDDDDDD!”
And I must say, I think she was really being over the top about it. I mean it’s not like I am the only one out there. I just might be the first one she actually saw. I lift my hand to my face, but I already know what to expect. Must have happened in the scuffle. My fake skin flap is hanging, half-on half-off my forehead, revealing the blood red mark of a serial killer. But you know, it’s really not fair. I stopped doing all that when Beth and I had Biya. Way before the Gidgidoo showed up. Also, I haven’t been able to score any glycerin or gelatin powder in weeks, so I have had to reuse some of my old skin patches ‘til I could make some more.
But there’s no time to think now. Tommy’s already got the shotgun pointed straight at my back. I only know that because when he boarded up the store windows with the this side up panels, he did it from the outside. So I can see the whole show behind me, unfolding in the reflection. And there he is with the gun. And there she is, hunkered behind him, clutching his right arm for protection and continuing to point at me, like he could get me confused with somebody else in a store of four. And there’s Wick Carmien, staring at all of us, still recovering from his rigatoni tumble, and looking really confused. And there I am in the purple comforter coat, deciding the jinx is up as I smile and rip the skin flap off and toss it over my shoulder. Funny, I don’t feel as upset as I think I should be at this moment. I do not feel the shotgun blast either.
Grandfather’s Room
Marvin Brown