Buick Cannon: (A Joke From the Moon) Read online

  “Jesus, Buick, calm down, will ya? It’s no big deal. I’ll fix you a drink and everything will be peaches.”

  Buick raised his eyebrows. He finally took a drink. “Stupid expression,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Peaches,” he said. “Why didn’t you say peaches and cream? You left the cream out. You were back there in the portal with me, weren’t you?”

  “Buick, what the hell are you talking about?”

  “Who gives a crap about peaches and cream anyway? No one I ever knew cared about peaches and cream.”

  “Some people do,” Dan said.

  Buick grunted. He drained another beer, and now there were two sitting on the bar along with the shot.

  “Jesus, Buick! What’s got into you?”

  “I see terrible things, Dan-O! Gulp gulp! Down it goes!”

  “You seem to know an awful lot about it.”

  “Porn, Dan, the man. If you were in the porno business, you’d know!”

  Dan finally laughed for the first time. “You can’t be serious.”

  “I have never been more serious!”

  “Shut-up, Buick,” Dan said. “You’re giving me a headache.” He went back to polishing glasses.

  Buick shut up and picked up the third beer. He drained it in seconds. He was having a very unusual day.

  CHAPTER II

  The next day proved as beautiful as the day before. The sky was clear and blue. Trees were in full bloom and green. Summer was almost here, and Buick breathed in the fresh air, which made his nasal passages like desert sand, and he constantly picked his nose. That drove him crazy, especially since it was so dry and nothing was in there. It was a bad, unattractive habit, and he was picking his nose now as he drove the Cutlass into work.

  He parked the car, got out, and slammed the door. He rubbed his nose. Nothing was in there. He inspected his finger, and sure enough, it was just a finger, nothing adorning it of any kind. Buick sneezed three times.

  “Ha-choo! Ha-choo! Ha-CHOOO!”

  Eyes watering, nose tickling, Buick unlocked the door to Little Time To Read and stepped inside. Books surrounded him. The magazine shelf was in chaos, in total disarray because of the neighborhood kids. They left the magazines lying everywhere. He’d have Christine or Marion take care of it.

  Buick went to his office and sat at his desk. It was a light-stained oak and very nice. Buick had a special attraction to it. It was bold and heavy with a computer monitor where he could look up books, arrange payroll, keep track of the inventory, and all that stuff. The top was cluttered with important papers, but he ignored them. A black coffee mug sat next to the monitor full of pencils and pens. A tissue box sat next to the coffee mug. Shelves along the walls behind him held folders, notebooks, more folders, and random books. A filing cabinet was behind him to his left. A window on the wall opposite the filing cabinet revealed a pine-laden forest and trees shedding light into the office. A calendar hung on the wall behind him where Christine and Marion marked days off. The calendar was a Colorado pictorial Marion had gotten him as a gift. He thought it was the most asinine gift he’d ever received. A calendar depicting Colorado landscapes when he lived in the mountains of Colorado, seemed, well, slightly redundant. The tropics would’ve made more sense.

  Buick put his hand to his head, a trifle groggy and stale from his night at Gilmour’s. He couldn’t remember walking home.

  He rubbed his face, trying to bring life back into eyes, and looked up. The portal was in front of him for the second time.

  “You again?” he said.

  The portal, this time, was a rip in the air, not exactly a rectangle. A swirling vortex of wind and bad breath rushed out at him, making Buick wince. A figure, wearing a ripped, grease-stained half-shirt, crawled up and over the edge of the portal. Dead, milky blue eyes stared at Buick. Green, toxic skin with boils and lesions patched his arms and upper body. The man was hairless. At least he was in style, Buick thought, thinking about the military cuts from the day before.

  Buick raised his eyebrows. “You know something, goddamnit?” he said. “I have work to do. I can’t just stop what I’m doing for every Tom, Dick, and Harry portal that opens in front of me!”

  The thing reached out with one dead hand. Its fingernails, Buick saw, were cracked and broken. Mud or blood or something along those lines lay caked underneath. The thing opened it mouth wide and gaped at Buick. The teeth were green and chipped. Some were missing. Its tongue was green, too, with mold and white fur on it like an ugly coat.

  Obviously, the thing was trying to scare him, to put him off in some way, but Buick wasn’t biting. Wind rushed past him, titanic gusts throwing every paper in the office into the air. The calendar flapped violently behind him and ripped away from the wall. The wind was so fierce, Buick’s chair rolled back and collided into the wall where the calendar had been.

  Buick put his arm over his eyes, shielding himself in case he got a paper cut.

  The huge, furry head of a lion emerged, replacing the dead creature, and filled the entire portal. It opened its mouth wide. A great wind, adding to the turbulence in the air, roared with thunder and stagnant breath.

  “Jesus, I just took a shower!” Buick exclaimed. “You’re ruining my hair!”

  He put his hands to his head and closed his eyes.

  From the lion, a tiny squeak came out, as if a great fire had been extinguished. The portal closed. The lion was gone. The wind stilled, except for a lingering odor of bad breath. Papers fluttered down around him in a silent rain.

  “Christ,” Buick said, bending over to gather the papers off the floor. “Look at this goddamn mess.” He put the papers on his desk and winced at the smell.

  “Next time, bring a maid!” he shouted to the empty air.

  ~

  Christine Duchamp was putting the magazine rack back in order.

  Stupid kids, she thought.

  Christine was twenty-five with long, slightly wavy auburn hair and a very cute, fair-skinned face, which was why Buick had hired her. She was wearing snug, denim pants, a dark green blouse (bringing out her bright, green eyes), and a white shirt underneath. She liked working for Buick. He grew flustered around her sometimes, forgot what he was saying, and blushed a lot. It was cute.

  Christine had pleaded for the job six months ago; she was adamant about how perfect an employee she’d be. She loved books. She loved to read, and she loved people who loved to read.

  “Well, no one reads in this town,” Buick said. “The shop is more for looks.”

  Christine raised her eyebrows.

  Buick wasn’t paying attention when he’d hired Christine, she remembered. He was staring at her full, rosaceous lips. Buick wondered what those lips looked like wrapped around his…

  “Mr. Cannon?”

  He shook his head, pulled from his reverie. “Uh,” he’d said. “Did you say something?”

  Christine smiled. “I was just wondering how often you get paid.”

  “That’s personal,” Buick said. “And I don’t think you have the right to ask—”

  “What I meant is, how I often do I get paid?”

  “Oh,” he said, blushing. “Every Thursday. Thursday is payday. You get a check every Thursday.”

  “Because I have a room to pay for and want to save up and get a car.”

  Buick said, “I was just wondering what those li—” He checked himself, hadn’t realized he’d spoken.

  “Sir?”

  He blushed. “Nothing,” he said.

  Buick was too old for Christine, and she probably didn’t want to work for a leering pervert anyway, but she had accepted the job.

  Christine giggled, thinking about the interview, trying to reorganize the magazine rack. Buick was a character, she thought.

  Marion came over to inspect the job she was doing. She was a short, stout, Puerto Rican girl, roughly thirty-five. Her butt was too big for the tight jeans she wore. She had that wobbly, short-legged walk, and she was weari
ng an extremely loud orange, red, yellow, pink, black, turquoise—something or other shirt which looked like salsa.

  “Book’s no’ like d’way you doin’ nat,” Marion said, in a thick, Spanish accent.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Christine frowned. She thought it funny Marion pronounced Buick’s name, ‘Book,’ when he also owned a bookstore. It angered Marion when Christine laughed because Marion never knew why Christine was laughing.

  Christine didn’t like Marion. Marion had been hired before her, so Marion had a way of making her presence felt—as if she had authority over Christine—when she damn well didn’t. Buick was her boss, not Marion.

  Christine, in front of the magazine rack, was already on the defensive.

  “De maga-zeene rack,” Marion said. “Ees no right. Boo-k no like de ’ot rod maga-zeenes on de bottom she’f.”

  “Buick told me to organize it the best way I think fit, Marion,” Christine said, as dramatically as she could. “The kids like the hot rod maga-zeenes on de bottom she’f. Have you every seen a six-foot ten-year-old, Marion?”

  “Boo-k’s no like the way choo taalk-ing to me.”

  ‘“Buick’s not gonna like the way you’re talking to me,’” Christine mimicked and smiled.

  “I’m go tell Boo-k!” Marion said, and started to cry.

  “‘I’m gonna tell Buick,’” Christine mocked again, sticking out her bottom lip. “Go pick your nose with a chainsaw, Marion.”

  Marion started crying. Her chin trembled and she turned, running away from Christine.

  Christine threw her hands into the air. “YES! VICTORIOUS!” she shouted, smiling broadly. “DRINK POISON, MARION!”

  ~

  Marion Stanz hovered over Buick’s desk, pulling tissues from the dispenser one at a time. She had roughly twenty of them clenched in her dark-skinned, trembling fist. She blew her nose, making a tremendously loud honking sound. Buick was impressed by the noise. He raised his eyebrows and nodded.

  “She no ’ave to taalk to me dat way, Meester Cannon.”

  Marion grabbed another tissue.

  “You know, Marion,” Buick said. “I can’t afford to buy a box of tissues every time you and Christine go to war. You really have that many tears you need the whole box!”

  “She tell me to peek my nose wit’ a chainsaw!”

  Buick suppressed a giggle. That was funny. “Using your finger is definitely safest,” he said. “Why just this morning—”

  “Meester Cannon, are choo going to dee-scipline or no?” Marion hopped up and down from one foot to the other, blowing her nose, and wiping her eyes. Buick was going to ask her if she had snot in her eyes, when she pulled another three tissues from the box and honked into the hankies.

  “I’ll discipline her,” he said. “I’ll discipline her. Take the rest of the afternoon off, Marion. You’re giving me a headache.”

  Wailing now, Marion cried, “She tell me to drink poison!”

  “Well, it’s not attempted murder, I guess. But it’s close.”

  Marion looked defeated and stomped out of the office. Buick was ready for a drink.

  “Christine!” he shouted. “Can you come in here for a minute!”

  Seconds later, Christine walked in with a self-congratulatory smile on her face. “You wanted to see me, angel-face?” she said, batting her eyelashes.

  “Cut the crap,” Buick said. “Why do you have to go to war with Marion all the time?”

  “I like it. She’s easy to get wound up. It makes me giggle.”

  “Christine, you are trying my patience. Marion is a good worker. I told her I had to discipline you, so let’s just pretend you’re working for free today.”

  “Aye-aye, Captain,” Christine said.

  “And please, no more jokes. It’s giving me a headache.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’re excused.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Christine turned like a soldier after giving a solid salute.

  “Oh, and Christine?”

  Christine turned and looked at Buick, raising her eyebrows. “Yes?”

  “Thanks for organizing the magazine rack. I’m sure it looks great.”

  Christine smiled and sauntered out of the office, patting herself, quite literally, on the back.

  ~

  “Like a couple of kids, those two, Dan-O,” Buick said.

  “Send ’em to their room and tell them to swap spit.”

  Buick looked at Dan across the bar. Gilmour’s was empty again today.

  “Either that, or put them in the ring and let them duke it out.”

  “I think Christine would have too much fun,” Buick said. “She wouldn’t want to come out of the ring.”

  “Christine is a feisty one.”

  Buick sipped his beer. “How the hell do you stay in business when no one comes in here, Dan?”

  “How the hell do you stay in business?”

  Buick raised his eyebrows and nodded. Good point. He couldn’t stop thinking about the happenings from yesterday to today. Not Christine and Marion, of course, but this new supernatural awakening, wanting him to come to terms with something out of this world.

  “You have something on your mind, Buick?”

  “Just the usual. I don’t know. You haven’t been seeing anything funny around her lately have you, Dan-O? You know, just…weird stuff?”

  Dan looked concerned. “Like what kind of…weird stuff?”

  “I don’t know, just…I don’t know. Forget it.”

  At that moment, the door opened, and three bikers walked in. They stepped up to the bar, one on one side of Buick, two on the other. The two at his right were dark-haired brutes, all with thick beards and mustaches. Buick got a whiff of the open road, sweat, and alcohol. Why didn’t bikers take showers, he wondered? Was it some kind of rule among road hogs? He looked at the blond biker on his left. This man remained standing, glaring down at Buick. Buick put his elbows on the bar and tried to make room for himself.

  “What’ll it be fellas?” Dan asked.

  “Beers all around,” the blond one said. He glared at Buick.

  “You see something interesting?” Buick said.

  The man raised his eyebrows. Dan closed his eyes and prayed Buick would keep his mouth shut.

  The man, surprising Buick, did not reply. Neither did the others. Buick grabbed his beer and hopped off the stool, moving over to one of the pool tables. “I think I’ll play a quiet game by myself,” he said.

  “It’s no fun playing alone,” the blond biker said.

  Buick misinterpreted this. It seemed a strange thing for a biker to say. Were they a bunch of homos, he thought?

  “How about a game?” the blond biker said. On the back of his leather vest, it read, Road Hogs. There was a fat pig with sunglasses on, riding a motorcycle with flames and bones surrounding it.

  Is that ESP, Buick thought? Did I imagine that perfectly or what?

  “Sure,” he replied. “I wouldn’t mind a game.”

  “Care to put a little wager on it?”

  “I’ll wager I’m gonna kick your fat, road-hog, blond pa-tooty booty,” Buick said, and chuckled. He didn’t know what had gotten into him lately and didn’t much care. He was enjoying himself. Maybe it was the beer. Had Dan given him a shot? Or was that the night before? He couldn’t remember either way.

  The blond biker smiled, so did the other two. Behind the bar, Dan looked to the sky and prayed Buick wasn’t going to start any trouble.

  “I’ll rack,” Buick said, and began placing the balls in the black, plastic triangle. He lifted the triangle and nodded to the biker, who had grabbed a stick from a rack on the wall. The blond biker bent over the table, took aim, and broke the balls.

  Man, you sure look good from over here, Buick thought, and tried not to laugh.

  Colors scattered everywhere across the table.

  “Man, I love that sound!” Buick said. “The way those balls clank together like
that! Better than hooves on a cobblestone street. That is a satisfying sound, yessir! Whew!”

  “Buick, would you please shut up!”

  Buick, from across the room, looked over at Dan. “What the hell is wrong with you Dan-O?”

  Dan hid his face in his hands and shook his head.

  “Just go already, will ya?” the biker said.

  “Yeah, what kind of name is Buick anyway?” one of the darker road hogs said. “Your mother marry General Motors or something?”

  The other two road hogs laughed loud and hard.

  Buick glared at this man, wanting to say something vengeful. “Hey, you never said what we were wagering?” he said.

  “How about a hundred bucks?” the blond biker said.

  “A hundred bucks! Christ, you think I’m rich? You think I make lots of money? Dan, you got a hundred bucks?”

  “Christ no, I ain’t got a hundred bucks!” Dan said. “What the hell do I look like?”

  “I don’t know,” Buick said. “Life’s supremacy. I mean, when a man can just throw a hundred bucks away on a game of pool. That is cause for change, all right. Right?”

  “Why don’t you shut the hell up before you get hurt,” the blond biker said.

  Buick didn’t take this politely. “See, now,” he said. “You guys are just asking for trouble. You’re not gonna go away happy until you kick someone’s booty. Right?”

  “Pretty much sums it up,” the biker said.

  The other two bikers sat in chairs, grinning like a couple of kids.

  Dan shook his head, closed his eyes, hoping his bar would still be in one piece in the morning.

  “Just a total lack of consideration,” Buick said. “Total lack of respect. People died so you could live the way you do. You know that?”

  This seemed to confuse everybody except Dan, who sat chuckling behind the bar.

  “Just shut up and go,” the blond biker said.

  Buick bent over the table and decided to go for the bright red 3-ball. He shook his rear back and forth like a ten-dollar hooker. “Trying to rush me,” he mumbled. “I’ll take all the time I want.” He pulled the stick back and tapped the 3 into the side pocket. The bright red ball disappeared and rolled through the pool table. Everyone listened to it. “Hey, I got one!” Buick said, smiling from ear to ear. “Dan! Did you see that? I got the three! The three ball is in!” Buick shook his head, smiling. “Man, I never thought that would make it. The angle was tough. Why, not just anyone coulda—”