Jujo Flies A Kite

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“Jujo get back here!”

It was too humid for kite flying but you don’t stop Jujo. He was a furious child, prone to shattering glasses and bruising schoolmates. His pets died young, and his teachers took every one of their holidays. His parents had given up any hope of controlling him; that task now belonged to the young Ms. Curby, Jujo's newest governess. She was sitting on the park bench with her legs crossed while Jujo’s kite hovered overhead.

“Jujo, please- don’t go beyond the oak tree!”

Jujo walked past the oak tree. It wasn’t his fault, really… the kite had led him there. He let out more slack on the line and the kite angled upward, testing its freedom. Fueled by the blustery wind the kite denied gravity, climbing upright. Its tail was whipping madly, taunting Jujo like a schoolmate with his tongue stuck out.

Ms. Curby had told him not to fly his kite today but Jujo flew his kite anyhow. He wanted to.

“Jujo, be a good boy and don’t go beyond the picnic bench!”

Jujo walked past the picnic bench. It wasn’t his fault… the kite was inviting him. Ms. Curby was distracted, searching her purse for a tampon or candy bar. She wasn’t going to be chasing him today.

“Don’t go beyond the water fountain!”

Jujo walked past the water fountain. It wasn’t his fault… his kite was showing him the way. The sky was growing darker, with monstrous clouds of purple amassed over the park. The breeze, defeated, gave way to gusting current.

Ms. Curby pulled her hair from her mouth. “Jujo it’s going to thunderstorm!”

“I don’t care!” Jujo said gleefully. No profanity… he must be in a good mood.

Thunder sounded a louder warning but Jujo was riding this high… he had never flown his kite to this height. The pull from above was so strong it was lifting his heels off the grass. It was a glorious feeling… the wind blowing summer leaves from the trees and stirring his emotion, his stomach untying ten knots. He felt freedom for the first time… his heart losing its meter.

A louder punch of thunder scolded from above. The menacing heavens grew sinister… sickening.

Jujo’s kite climbed even higher, deeper into the darkness, wider inside the sky… The booming thunder made Jujo jump, and startled the dazing Ms. Curby.

“JUJO! You listen to me now!”

Jujo was hypnotized by the kite, now soaring on its own authority. He did not hear his governess' warning. He did not fear the sky's promise to storm.

Jujo did not see the fuck-crazy rapist emerge from the bushes and put a steak knife to Ms. Curby's throat, and he did not hear the rapist whisper in her ear.

The desperate criminal promised Ms. Curby that he would kill her, but only after the rape and mutilation.

Ms. Curby could feel the knife's teeth, and the rapist's stubbled beard, and she could feel her heart bumping against the walls of her chest. She reluctantly agreed to return with the rapist to the bushes, for the inevitable, but as she walked off she called out to Jujo.

“Be a good boy, Jujo, and put the kite away now.”

Jujo raised his hand over his shoulder, flipping Ms. Curby the bird without even looking back.

 

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Menstruation At Snake Lake

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Don’t ever ask me to come “out to the woods” again. I don’t want any guy pitching a tent for me. I don’t want to “rough it” in “the great outdoors” or use any phrase that requires “quotation marks.” Why? Because every time I go camping I get my period. It’s a rule- a guarantee. I even got it twice during two separate camping trips in May of ‘09. Thank you God for the double-yolked egg.

Is this a coincidence? A practical joke? My body must sense when I’m in the mountains because next thing I know I’m a river of blood. (Did you see those elevators in “The Shining”?) Camping is bad enough anyway… straining coffee through the French press, bugs in my hair and say goodbye to open-toed shoes. Plus the sun is murder on my skin… I won’t go out without three coats of SPF 90. But when my period starts it’s the perfect storm.

I’m in the bushes, squatting to pee or make turtles, and my boyfriend usually finds this a good time to pretend to “hunt” me with his finger gun. It’s hard to fake-laugh with poison sumac up your ass. Last time he asked me if I was laying eggs and I seriously considered shooting him with the rifle and calling it a hunting accident. And then comes the bleeding. Some girls have a really light flow but I’m like the Hoover Dam on a Tuesday morning. Ever use a pine cone as a tampon? It’s a great way to start a hike.

And the cramping? Big. Frigg. Imagine someone pummeling your pelvic region wearing brass knuckles and oven mitts. And not to be too grody but my nipples feel like they’ve been driving nails through drywall all day. I usually get my headache just before my boyfriend pulls out his acoustic guitar for some “campfire singalongs.” I spend the time calculating the temperature at which his skull would melt. And my body just feels…Blecchghh. It’s not poetry but there it is.

The last camping trip I brought along a pair of steel-toed boots so I had the option of crushing my boyfriend’s testicles if he decided to get funny again. I went through a whole roll of TP just spotting and he had to wipe with pages from his car manual! I admit it- I get a little cranky when I’m on the rag but he has this way of telling stories without a beginning, middle or end. He asked if I wanted s’mores and I slapped him so hard it brought tears to his eyes. He managed to swallow the marshmallows without me.

I agreed to go camping this weekend- one last time- but it’s only because my period isn’t due for another two weeks. We’re going with two other couples and there’s some talk of a hoe-down and/or square dance. They’re obviously kidding, right? We are gonna play some volleyball which is awesome because I kick- hold on a second. There’s something dripping down my leg… oh no… oh God… it can’t be…

Big frigg.

Wonderings...

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Can’t we leave some children behind?

I employ a strobe light during sex… to give the illusion of motion

What do you mean your granddaughter is unavailable?

A hand ain't nothin' but five fingers and a thumb

Will you marry me if I keep asking you?

Casserole is the dark secret of suburbia

How many people do I have to kill for it to qualify as a spree?

I'd like to hear from the urine-stained vagrant

Why is my wife so threatened by my Brazilian mistress?

 

Cold pizza is like fucking a corpse I’ve been told

Breakfast in the morning is such a cliché

May I speak to your other granddaughter please?

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Santa Claus In Anger Management

Judy, the group leader, was handing out Fudgsicles, which proved to be the breaking point for SC: “Keep those fucking things away from me.”

Now, the group responded as if Santa had shot an elf, another elf, and there was gasping and dirty looks and faces of absolute flabbergast. The mailman- who was here for kicking an Irish Setter- pointed at SC accusingly, standing up and declaring: “Words of fury, Judy- words of fury!”

“The suit is red, and the suit is silk, and I’ll be goddamned if some little shit is gonna dribble Fudgsicle on me!” Now Santa was standing, and his belly shook as he laughed, like a bowlful of something. “The assumption is I have a closet full of these, and the assumption is that money means nothing to me. Well you people can take your assumptions and go fuck yourselves!”

More balking from the group, and Judy threatened to recall the Fudgsicles. It took her ten minutes to get everyone back in their seats and to quiet the flow of profanity that had erupted. SC looked around the room, disgusted. He wanted a smoke- badly.

To his left sat Coco, a Puerto Rican prostitute, who was here for biting the nose off of her boyfriend’s face. Judy had helped Coco realize that she wasn’t a maniac- she just lacked the vocabulary to adequately express her rage. “I Feel” phrases might have saved the nose.

Across from her was Dr. Ben Bryer, a psychologist who had tried to run his wife over with his sport utility vehicle after she served him pancakes for the 9,674th consecutive morning. It was just his way of saying, “Enough with the pancakes.”

Santa’s story was much less horrific. He’d been in the self-checkout at the grocery store, behind a half-dozen teenagers who evidently weren’t familiar with touch-screen technology. It was late at night and the only register open, and the kids were giggling as they fiddled with the keypad, twirling in circles and jamming their fingers in each other’s noses.

Santa was watching them, waiting patiently with his can of baked beans, when one of the kids, a tall boy, dropped a handful of quarters on the ground. Santa sighed, and controlled himself until the boy looked down at the change and laughed hysterically, shrugging his shoulders and shaking his head.

Something inside SC snapped.

He lunged at the kids, overturning the candy rack, launching into a symphony of violence, an exercise in rage that would leave three dead and two in the hospital.

Snickers! He pummeled the tall boy’s face with his elbow, bending his braces and cracking his glasses.

Skittles! He grabbed the short girl’s ponytail and pulled it completely out of her head, jamming his thumbs into her bloody scalp.

Almond Joy! He bent another kid’s knee the wrong way and forced the boy to kick himself in the face. Santa had found his groove. But, as always, the police arrive at the pinnacle of the party.

Now he was here, court-ordered, in the recreation center of the Dorothy Heroy building, listening to Judy justify his outbursts as “occupation-based anger.” It wasn’t anger… he just hated everyone on Planet Earth.

Coco got a text message and accidentally dropped her Fudgsicle on Santa’s lap. There was a moment of silence, as Santa looked from the stain on his thigh to the petrified eyes of everyone in the room. 

He stood, and rolled up his sleeves.

Outside the snow was falling, and friends were calling yoo-hoo.

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In Carbonite

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In carbonite you can’t feel a motherfucking thing.

You can’t feel heartache, or loss, or pain… you can’t feel terror, or fear, or pain. Again.

You don’t have to think about what could have been, or what was meant to be, and you don’t have to delude yourself with thoughts of Fate, or the Force…

In carbonite a man stands, just as he is, just as he was, nothing more than he was ever intended to be.

You don’t see her face, can’t hear her voice, and there’s no worry over what happens while you’re wide awake in no man’s land. O, carbonite…

In carbonite you simply exist, for one second, forever, in a warm block of ice, in a world for the deaf and blind, and there’s nothing to say or do, even if you wanted to.

I hope I never get out.

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