Just Another Obsession - Part II

By Bettyann Moore

The basement never really existed for Porpoise. When he was little, his parents told him, he took a scary tumble down the rickety stairs and ever since, the door had been locked. When he got older and perfectly capable of navigating any kind of surface, they told him that it was his dad’s “special place,” the only area in the house that he could truly call his own, and therefore off limits for everyone, including Thea.

So, when mother and son were enjoying a rare moment alone at the breakfast table and Thea dangled a well-worn key in front of his eyes, Porpoise had no idea what he was looking at. He knew it wasn’t a car key, though having a car and getting away from his obsessive father was foremost on his mind lately.

“What’s that?” he asked his mother.

“A key, silly.”

“Mom ...”

“Okay, okay, Mr. Grouchy Pants,” Thea said, placing the key in his hand. “It’s your ticket to sanity.”

“Meaning …?”

Thea sat in the chair opposite her son and closed the boy’s fingers over the key. “Meaning,” she said, “that I – we, your dad and I – know things have been rough for you lately. This is the key to the basement.”

Porpoise was even more confused.

Just Another Obsession - Part I

By Bettyann Moore

When Porpoise saw the white, half-moon on his dad’s upper lip that morning, he knew it would be a long day. Brian McAllister was chugging antacid again. He’d put his family through holy hell the last time, during the weeks leading up to April 15. Tax time was long past, but Porpoise knew he needed to lay low until this new crisis – whatever it was – passed.

It wasn’t easy. Father and son worked side-by-side on the family’s crop farm. Porpoise’s only reprieve came during school hours and the long bus ride to school and back through flat Wisconsin farm land. Today, though, today was Sunday and spring to boot; it would take an act of God to keep Brian out of the fields today.

“Go change your clothes,” Brian said, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

“But ...” Porpoise looked down at what he was wearing. Coveralls, check. Stained, but clean t-shirt, check. Seed cap, check. Barn boots by the door, check.

“No ‘buts’, we’re going to church.”

It was then Porpoise noticed that his dad was wearing a crisply-ironed white shirt and black creased trousers. You could cut yourself on that crease. His mother, cooking something at the stove, was wearing her good blue dress and – holy mother of God – high heels. She turned then and he saw that she was wearing one of his dad’s barbequing aprons. “COME AND GET IT!” was emblazoned across the chest. Porpoise winced. She gave him one of her looks.

It either said: “Humor your dad, this, too, shall pass”, or “These high heels are a bitch!”

Thunder and Barbeque - Part 2

Fortunately, the hospital wasn't far from the park. Valerie drove Corncob to the ER and somehow talked the nurse into letting them see Michael once the doctors were through with him.  Michael lay in bed with the sheets pulled all the way up to his chin. A clear plastic tube ran under his nose, and he stared at the ceiling.

"You okay, Michael?" Corncob said.

"No, Cornelius," Michael said, "I am definitely not okay. If I were okay, I would not be in the hospital with heat stroke now would I?"

"I guess not."

Valerie clucked her tongue. "You look better now than when they put you in the ambulance, if you ask me." Corncob winced as he saw Michael gather a breath for a scathing retort, but Valerie cut him off. "Corncob here is just concerned for you, that's all.

"He's fine," Corncob said. "If he were in trouble, he wouldn't be this ornery."

Michael clenched his jaw and stared back up at the ceiling. "I'm so overjoyed by you both coming in here to offer your well-wishes. I can feel my strength returning, buoyed on by your outpouring of sympathy and understanding."

"Don't mention it," Corncob said.

Thunder and Barbeque -- Part 1

Image by M.Minderhoud via Wikimedia commons

If there was one thing Corncob enjoyed, it was pumping gas. The way the gasoline kept the spigot's handle cool in the summer heat, the reassuring throbbing of fuel surging into the tank, and the heady vapors that reminded him of cut grass and, for some reason, licorice. Corncob glanced around the pump to make sure Michael was still inside the store and eased the spigot's latch back a notch. He closed his eyes and leaned against the car. He could fall asleep like this, he thought.

The pump shuddered and came to a stop with an unpleasant jolt.  Corncob sighed as he opened his eyes and put the spigot back in its cradle. He got back behind the wheel and hung onto the last moments of peace until the his partner slid into the passenger seat with his third extra-large coffee of the morning, slamming the door behind him

"What the hell is it with Oklahoma ?" Michael said.

"The heat? The oil wells? I'm sure I have no idea."

"It's the cowboys."

Corncob paused, thinking.

"They play in Texas, not Oklahoma, Michael."

"Not the Cowboys, the cowboys, Corncob. You know, Wyatt Earp, Wild Bill Hickok, High Plains Drifter –"

"Oh, like Lonesome Dove."

"No," Michael said as he slammed his coffee into the cupholder, "Ow!" He sucked some coffee from his thumb. "Not that sentimental claptrap. I mean real manly-man cowboys."

"Brokeback Mountain?' Corncob pretended to check his blindspot so Michael couldn't see his smile.