The Grinders, Part I

After my eighteenth birthday, I was still in the ninth grade. I'm not stupid and my parents didn't neglect me. I just liked playing hookey. Plenty of smart people do that. Anyway, I had an assignment over the weekend to take notes at an art museum.

The morning of my museum trip, I was visiting my aunt and uncle. My aunt carried a package of doughnuts through the door. I had missed dinner the previous night, and my relatives had run out of breakfast food. I quickly flung open the package, and stuffed a doughnut halfway into my mouth.

"I guess we'd better go to the museum," my aunt said.

"Let me finish these doughnuts," I responded.

Soon, only maple doughnuts were left. Although I detest maple, I was so hungry that I scarfed down all six of them. With each bite, I felt more nauseated.

As we drove to the museum, my aunt mumbled something. Then she said, "Aren't you like hearing me?" She made some other comment that I do not recall.

Finally, we arrived at the museum. I do not know if my relatives helped me walk into the building. But by the time we got in, I was nearly immobile. The room seemed to spin, and I doubled up in nausea. All I could see were bleary blobs and shadows.

Suddenly, a faint pink oval covered in a choleric yellow materialized before me. In my aunt's voice, the oval said, "Well, this is kinda cool. Don't ya think?"

I turned away. All I could think about was my nausea.

The oval appeared again. This time, the yellow and the pink seemed almost separated.

It said, "Hey, I asked you a question. I want an answer."

I fell to the rug. I was determined not to disgorge inside the museum. I sealed my mouth so tightly that I felt something crunch. I screamed in pain. I saw strange ovals and cylinders moving everywhere. I reached my arm out and said, "Take me home. Please take me home."

Somebody lifted me by my shoulders and led me through the bleariness. Then I found myself in a brilliant white light. I vomited. After that, my nausea subsided and I could see clearly. I found myself standing outside the museum. My aunt stood by me, shaking her head.

My mouth stung and ached, as if I had been punched. Under the strong aftertaste of vomit was the metallic flavor of blood, and I realized that I had broken a pair of molars. I said to my aunt, “I broke my ---“

“Get in the car!”

I got into my aunt's car. As she drove, she said, "I can't take you anywhere without your making a scene."

"It wasn't my fault. I was ill. I--"

"Excuses. Always excuses," she said while she played with her bleached hair, "I thought you seemed pale and I worried you were sick. Then when you threw yourself to the floor and reached to the painting of a lightning bolt in the shape of Death's hand, I'm like, `Wait a minute. This is too dramatized to be real.'"

"God! Do you think I'd barf on purpose? And, oh, I ---"

"Hey, don't talk that way. Sure, I grant you was sick and all. But you weren't that sick. I mean, you're like well enough to quietly step into the restroom and puke all civilized. I mean the way you acted, you're like trying to get a bunch of people, art goers, the such, intellectuals or pseudo-intellectuals or whatever the hell they call 'em to like you know notice you and such. I mean ya didn't have ta holler, `Take me home.' Stuff like that."

We arrived at her home. I brushed my teeth, and examined the damage. Two molars --- one above the other --- had enormous fractures. I took a long bath.

I walked to my own home. When I entered, I called, "Hello?" There was no answer. After a few moments, I heard a "pop" sound from downstairs. I went into the basement. I heard a bang from a closed door. I tried to open the door, but it was locked. I peered through the keyhole, and saw my father. He was wearing only his underpants. He sat on a motley-colored mattress, with a revolver in his hand. Little holes covered the walls.

My father pointed the gun at his temple. His arm started to tremble. It shook so violently that the weapon almost fell out of his hand. Eventually, his arm stopped shaking. He was motionless. He looked like an iron statue transfixed on his mattress, with his iron gun welded to his temple.

My father's finger began to wiggle. It oscillated gently against the trigger. The trigger compressed almost undetectably at first. Then it slid back to its original position. The trigger compressed again, this time farther. The trigger continued undulating for perhaps five minutes. I looked away.

"Bang!" The gun fired. I don't remember what I thought at that moment. All I recall is confusion.

I heard my father moan, "Why, why, why can't I do it." I looked through the keyhole a second time. He sat on the mattress, still holding the pistol. The pistol pointed toward a wall. Tears streamed down his face. His shaggy, grey beard glistened.

He pressed the barrel to his temple again. He whispered something to himself. Suddenly, he jerked the gun away from his head, almost involuntarily. The gun fired instantly.

My father dropped the gun, leapt off the mattress, and moaned. He opened a bureau, and pulled out a picture which I could not discern. He sat in a corner, staring at it. He smiled. Then put the picture back on the bureau, and removed a large tape recorder. The device started playing "Tangled Up In Blue,” by Bob Dylan.

My father set the tape recorder down, and picked up the gun. He shoved the barrel into his mouth and he closed his eyes. I yelled, "Dad, don't!"

A moment later, my father burst through the doorway of his room. He stared at me with his ruddy eyes. I wanted to run, but I knew I had to stay. Calmly, he said, "Son, come in here."

I followed him into the room. He put the gun in my hand and said, "Do it."

"No."

"Please, son. Do one last favor for your pa."

I stood motionless.

He cried, "C'mon, kill me!"

I put both hands around the pistol and pointed it at him. He grinned, and he closed his eyes. This was the first time in months that he looked happy. Suddenly, he gritted his teeth and hissed. I pointed the gun away from him, and I fired.

His eyes popped open, he gasped, and said, "Oh! I'm still here!"

He gazed at me in astonishment. Then he growled angrily, "Why can't you do what you're supposed to?"

"I can't kill you."

He said, "Gimme that," as he pulled the gun out of my hand. He turned around, screamed, and dropped the gun. The picture from the bureau was in fragments which littered the room. He knelt by one of the fragments and sobbed.

A few minutes later, he said, "What did you do today? I hardly see you anymore."

"I went to the museum."

"Were there pretty paintings?"

“I was too sick to really notice anything.”

“What was wrong?”

“I ate too many maple doughnuts. Those things are toxic.”

“I think I would like to try some. Give me a truck load. Maple is my favorite.”

“It’s better than shooting yourself,” I said as I walked away with his gun.

My father had been depressed for years. He had joked about suicide, but I never believed he was serious. After this incident, I thought about reporting him to the police, for his own sake. I decided it would be better simply to dispose of his gun. So, I went out during the middle of the night, and dropped it into a storm drain.

When I got back, I lay wide awake in bed. The image of my father with the gun barrel in his mouth flashed repeatedly in the dark void around me. I wondered whether I should have reported him. I heard my younger brother Titus start to howl in the other room. He did this every night, ever since a car hit him and left him brain damaged. When he started, I would know that I would not sleep. But this night, his nocturnal screams were a comforting distraction.

For months after the incident with the gun, my father would avoid eye contact with me and sometimes blush in my presence, never acknowledging what had happened. He was quiet when I encountered him. However, he gradually became talkative again, and started telling jokes on occasion. He returned to work, after being unemployed for a year.

This was a relief, but not to my physical pain. Since I had broken my molars at the museum, food would get caught in my fractured teeth. They were turning black inside. My gums were swollen. I was in agony. I always tried to eat food that I did not have to chew.

For some reason, I was self-conscious about this, and I avoided telling anyone. Finally, the pain became intolerable. I approached my parents and told them, “Mom, dad, there’s something I need to tell you.”

“What is it?”

“There’s a problem with my teeth.”

“You should be glad your teeth aren’t like Titus’,” my mother responded.

“That’s right,” my father said while grinning and trying to hold back a laugh, “Titus NEVER brushes his teeth.”

“Titus has a lot of problems we need to take care of, and premiums are high. First, we need to fix his teeth. Then we’ll worry about yours,” my mother said.

Two weeks later, I called a local dentist’s office and made an appointment. I did not know how I would cover this without my own insurance. But I decided that I had no other options. When I arrived, I saw a heavy, red-headed figure talking to the receptionist. For some reason, my entire body recoiled at the sight of this person. I immediately walked out the door.

I took a bus to a nearby medical clinic, hoping to find someone who could refer me to another dentist. Broken medical instruments were scattered along the halls of the clinic. Black spots were on the floor. Door frames were without doors. I stepped into the anteroom. There was no receptionist. Instead, a nurse approached me and said, "Who are you? What do you want?” I turned around and left.

When I arrived at my house, my mother said, "I have good news for you. You passed the ninth grade! Not only that, you did so well that they are letting you skip grades ten through twelve. Isn't that exciting? Let's celebrate. Let's go to Doctor Cathartic's Carnival together as a family."

I did not want to go to Doctor Cathartic's Carnival. Neither did my father. However, we did not wish to disappoint my mother. This was the first time my mother seemed enthusiastic about the carnival. Perhaps my academic achievements had cheered her.

Doctor Cathartic's Carnival was in season three hundred sixty-five days a year. It seemed more like an amusement park than anything else. My mother would take Titus to the carnival on all three hundred sixty-five days, without fail. They would stay from early afternoon till nightfall. If they left as much as an hour late, he would have a fit. Sometimes, he would hurl knives after they got home.

"The Grinders, Part II"