A Normal Guy

         I know better than to answer the phone on a Sunday morning--the only person with the nerve to call our house at eleven-thirty on a Sunday morning is Neil.

I pick up anyway, thinking maybe I'm lucky.
         Or wrong.

         "Hello?"
         "Kate? Neil. I need your help! It's an invasion!"
         "Invasion? Neil-"
         "Tell NO one. And bring Neosporin."
         "Neil, it's a Sunday. What kind of invader would invade on a-"
         "AVAST, YE SCUM!" The line goes dead.


         Neil is not the kind of guy who has bats in his belfry; the bats packed up and moved out within a week. A thorough examination of Neil's philosophy on life demonstrates his total inability to think inside the box. Hanging out with Neil ought to require at minimum a first-aid kit, a pilot's license, a torque wrench, a bologna sandwich, and a degree in nuclear physics, and that might get you through the first week. Fortunately for me, I have known him long enough that I am not susceptible to amazement at each new expedition into living and breathing absurdism.


         As I walk up the front steps, I hear the rotary motor of a worn-out kitchen blender and a series of loud, rapid slapping noises.

         He answers the door. There is a colander on his head.
         "You're our last hope, Comrade!"
         "What can I do... erm... Commander?"
Playing along is difficult when I don't know what the game is.
         "You've brought no one with you?" He walks outside and conducts a preliminary investigation of my perimeter, anticipating any form of contraband normalcy.

         He's dressed for fallout: a fluorescent fishing vest, overtop a black turtleneck, a thick toolbelt strapped on over a pair of sagging camo pants with hunter orange socks hitched up to the knees underneath his chunky Doc Martens. Armed to the teeth as well, he has three flyswatters in his right hand and a spatula in his left, and two industrial cans of Bug-B-Gon and a fourth flyswatter stashed in the toolbelt. As he turns to go back inside, I see the double-sided flypaper tacked onto the seat of his pants.
         I remind myself to question nothing.

         "Of course I brought no one."
         "You'd think so, of course. But you know how the Infidels are, they're ...everywhere."
         As I step inside, I realize the scope of the chaos. Not only is the blender running, it's spewing vibrant orange goo across the kitchen walls, and I notice a recipe printed off a website for homemade insect repellent. The cupboards are completely emptied out, pots and pans strewn across the floor.
         "Who are these Infidels, Neil?" I don't see anything that remotely resembles an Infidel. I do see a lot that resembles an enormous mess.
         He looks around, pans left, and points to the ceiling.
         "There," he hisses.
         "That looks like a fly to me."
         "Alone, they're no challenge. It's when they get together that they're unstoppable." Neil looks around again.
         "Unstoppable?" His grandfather peeps into the kitchen. "I thought you fixed that sink, Neil, m'boy."
         "No, no, Gramps, it's Infidels this time."
          "INFIDELS?" Gramps bellows. "Infidels! Why didn't you say so, my boy? Let's GO!" He hops out to the living room, his cane in the lead, and starts tipping things over to look behind the furniture. Plants and lamps topple over and I scramble after him, putting my hand on his shoulder in hopes of settling him down, or at least rescuing a few of the house plants.

          "Mr. Wattersly, he's talking about the flies."
         "Well of course he is--What? What's flies gotta do with infidels?"
          "They ARE the infidels. Neil's just being silly about it."
         "Well why didn't you say so?"
          I hear a *SMACK* in the kitchen, and Neil hoots. I run in to see the spoils, careful not to trip over all of the clutter in the kitchen.
         "One down," Neil grins.
         He's nailed it with the spatula, and I note a greasy smudge of Infidel on the wall.
          "Boy, what're you doing with my--WHOOOOOOOA!!!!"
         Gramps staggers out to the kitchen in a hurry, slips on a slick puddle of anti-Infidel orange yuck, and stumbles over the upturned crockpot in the middle of the floor.
         We both scramble to help Gramps up, and he looks up at Neil with an extraordinary expression on his face.
         "When you gonna grow up, Neil, m'boy?" he wheezes, and Neil looks at his feet.



          "Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeey, Kate!" Neil breaks out his gameshow host voice the next Tuesday on the other end of the phone.
         "Hello, Neil." I silently wonder what came of the breach in fly security but can't ask.
          "Are you doing anything tonight?"
         "You mean besides sitting around?"
         "D'you want to come along with the guys?"
         "What's the project this time?"
         "We were planning to go to the Chinese place and get some food. Food is an integral part of mischief, madness, and mayhem after all."
         A beat, uncomfortably long.
         "Sounds fun."
          "Shall we pick you up at six, then?"
         "Okay."
         "Do you have a ukulele?" he asks, completely serious.
          "What-" I stop myself. "My uncle has one in the attic."
         "Can you borrow it?"
         "I think so." I venture again. "Neil, what do you-"
         "Ukuleles are automatic fun."
         I have to bite my lip. "See you at six?"
         "Okay, Kate."

         I wait outside, ukulele in tow. Neil's friend Craig pulls up in his dad's red convertible, with Neil sitting in the back, digging through his knapsack.
         "Put this on," he tosses me a plastic grass green hula skirt. I shrug and put it on over my bellbottoms. Craig hands me a lei.
          "So what are we doing?" Now is the time to question.
         "The Hula," Neil looks at me as though I should have caught on by now.



         Admittedly it isn't a brilliant idea to begin with, hula dancing in the back of a convertible, yet here we are. I ride shotgun with Craig in the driver's seat. Neil stands on the backseat, playing the ukulele and yodeling away. We pull down Lamping Street and Neil breaks into a quavering falsetto. At first I wonder how in the world he's making so much noise, and then I realize after a sudden shrill upswell that it's a police siren behind us. I freeze, and Craig pulls over.
         The first officer is a big man--tall AND fat. He strokes his mustache with an air of authority before he shouts at Neil.
         "Drop the ukulele and no one gets hurt!" Neil sits for a moment, stunned, before setting it down and standing back up, hands above his head.
         "Are you kids aware there's a law against this kind of thing?"
          "What kind of law?" Neil draws an eyebrow, and I sincerely hope he's not planning to challenge City Hall over this one.
         "Hazelhurst City Ordinance, Number 57-Z, Subsection 2: 'no persons shall be found, in the operation of a convertible automobile, to be standing inside the confines of the vehicle while wearing any form of hula apparel and/or found to be in the process of making hula music."
          "What?" Craig is incredulous.
         "Passed in 1974, kids. And this appears to be a major violation." He gives us a stern look and verifies Craig's license. "You're all minors, so I think a warning will suffice. Don't let it happen again." The officer picks up the ukulele. "We'll have to confiscate this, I'm afraid."
         "That's my ukulele, sir--well, my uncle's. But I need it back!" I sputter.
         He shoves it into my hands. "All right, but don't you let that psychopath have it back, understood?"
         "Psychopath?" The three of us say it simultaneously.
         "Sir, he's no psycho," I put in. "A goof at most."
          "Same thing, in my view."
         "Hardly." Neil looks genuinely crushed.
         "One more word out of any of you and I call in your folks," the officer snarls.
         "Word," Neil says complacently, and I smack my forehead in dismay.


         My parents don't really care; at least I don't have a fine or probation. Granted, they weren't precisely delighted with me, but who would be? Neil's grandfather is a bit distressed, however; he's still limping on his left ankle from Neil's last inspired whim. Neil doesn't call this weekend, even though I know he isn't grounded. Craig calls on Sunday evening and reports the same.
         "Do you think he's all right?"
         "Maybe it's another one of his phases."
         "Please don't tell me he's going to go through his Tibetan Monk phase again."
         "I really can't imagine anything worse than another Neil Wattersly Vow of Silence Ceremony."
         "Or the time he insisted he was allergic to the letter Q. Oh, that was dire."


         Neil calls two Sundays later, subdued, reserved, and boring.
         "I'm making brunch. Gramps said to ask you over."
         "I'd be glad to."
         "See you at noon then."
         "Noon it is."
          "Bye, Kate."

         As usual, I arrive in the midst of action-- for once a far less exciting prospect than usual. Neil opens the kitchen door for me as he stirs a bowl of pancake batter. I sit at the table and wait. He pours out a panful and guards it, armed with his trusty spatula. Gramps Wattersly totters his way into the kitchen, leaning on his cane.

         "Ello, dear, glad to see you could make it," he wheezes. "Neil, did you offer our guest some breakfast?"
         "It's on the way, Gramps," Neil sighs, no dramatic flourish.
          "That's a responsible lad," Gramps chuckles and waves his cane before ducking back into the living room.
         Neil pulls out the platter of eggs and sausage warming in the oven, and sets them on the burner next to the griddle.
         "So... eh, how is Gramps, Neil?" I ask, hesitant. "Was he okay after that fall last week?"
         "Same old Gramps," Neil shrugs. "I mean, he's been getting a little more...I dunno. Doesn't like my jokes as much, I guess."
         "Well, was he mad about the mess?"
         "No, I took care of it." He looks away.
         "You can still have a sense of humor, Neil." I look at him and smile, shrugging my shoulders.
         "No, no. I need to be responsible now. No more weirdo. No more psycho."
         "You're not a psycho, Neil."
         "But everyone keeps telling me it's like I'm hell bent on nothing but trouble."
         "Well, maybe a little restraint is in order, but you're not deliberately hurting anyone. Some of us need a little madness."
         "But I...."
         "Just try to keep from talking back to the traffic cops next time."
          "I don't know that I can." He spears a sausage link and pops it into his mouth.
         "So what if you just need to goof off in order to be yourself?"
         "That's what I keep telling people."
          I sigh. "I really hate this growing-up bit."

         Neil flips his pancake. "Been fighting it for years."




Notes from the author:
Written in high school, revised dozens of times since. My first fiction story posted here on WdC. Not currently pursuing publication, but I've considered creating a series or writing a longer Neil book.
This story took first place in the now-defunct T-Zine's "What It Means To Be a Teen" contest in the "Teen" division, back in 2002.
I performed the first half of this story at Convention 2005's Open Mic Night.
thanks much to Rose Miavirre for the AwardIcon!