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

  “Well, I have,” Buick said.

  You’re like David Banner from The Incredible Hulk, he thought.

  That was true. He’d change when he got mad, like he was doing now. The werewolf in him was coming out. At least part of the way. Buick snarled and revealed massive, destructive teeth, a huge snout, glistening wet. His eyes were suddenly burning embers of fire and blood.

  Al Carty stumbled back, not thinking about his gun, and turned a sickly, pasty white. He stumbled off the porch, down the steps, and ran to his police car. He did not say a word; he did not scream. He was a man intent on his destination. Despite being an officer of the law, he knew some things defied logic, and this was one of them.

  Al Carty opened the door to his police cruiser. Before hopping inside, he looked at Buick, who suddenly had long pointy ears, a massive gathering of thick dark hair, and fiery red eyeballs. Al stepped inside the police cruiser, shutting the door after him, fumbled with the keys, and started the vehicle. Squeals, smoke, and the smell of burning rubber filled the neighborhood as he made his getaway.

  “Go on, get outta here!” Buick growled at the rest of them.

  The others did the same. Some stumbled and fell over one another in the streets. Some got in the wrong cars, trying to start engines with the wrong keys.

  Buick snarled and held his claws in the air. He was enjoying himself…a rather good time. He hadn’t felt this good in years!

  The clowns in the street managed to reorient themselves, and soon more skid marks, the sound of squealing tires, burning rubber, and blue smoke filled the air.

  Al Carty mentioned something about a hit-and-run in his report the next morning, referring to the bikers, but that was all.

  ~

  Buick closed the door behind him.

  Did something just happen? Did I do something?

  He put the dead bolt in place and smiled.

  “I am a fearless predator!” he wailed, and threw his hands into the air.

  Buick chuckled, walking through the house. He realized work wasn’t the most important thing today. What did he have to go in for? He owned the place. Marion had an extra set of keys. Well, he could at least take the time to call them. Christine wouldn’t like it. Marion would be in charge for the rest of the day. Serves her right for the way she treats poor Marion, Buick thought.

  Maybe he should go down to the convenient store and get an energy drink, a Rock Star, a KMX, a Monster, replenish the nutrients the alcohol had sapped from him. He’d fill the tank with gas and take a little drive into the mountains.

  Buick decided to do just that, and he took his time preparing. Nothing was more therapeutic for the soul than a long drive, he knew.

  He prepared a nice breakfast: French Toast, smothered in strawberries and sugar, two fried eggs, toast, a side of hashbrowns, and six pieces of bacon.

  “Thirty-seven, hell. I feel like I’ve been thirty-seven my whole life!”

  He slurped the breakfast down greedily with lots of ketchup and Tobasco sauce on the hashbrowns. He drank two cups off coffee and a glass of orange juice. On the way out the door, he grabbed a banana. “I feel so alive!”

  Mr. Anderson from next door was watering the flowers in his front lawn. Mr. Anderson was sixty-five, wearing bright, baggy Hawaiian shorts and an equally bright shirt with a safari hat on his head. The curve in Mr. Anderson’s back matched the hose he used to water the flowerbed under the front window.

  “Good to see you’re in fine spirits, Mr. Cannon!” Mr. Anderson called, benevolently.

  “Your fuckin-aye, right, Mr. Anderson,” Buick called. “I’m in a great mood!”

  “Fuckin-aye!” Mr. Anderson bellowed, holding his fist in the air.

  “Fuckin-aye!” Buick called, raising his hand and laughing.

  “Fuckin-aye!” Mr. Anderson called again and they both giggled like loons.

  Buick, still chuckling, walked toward the drive, pulling the keys to the Cutlass out of his pants.

  “Oh, it’s gonna be a great day,” he said, smiling, and stepped into the car. “Fuckin-aye!”

  ~

  He stopped at Curly John’s Convenience Store on the corner of Main Street and Sesquahinkie Drive and bought a large lemonade. He filled the tank with gas. Back in the car, he started up Canyon Drive, which turned into Highway 41, taking him deeper into the mountains.

  Peekie was soon behind him, and tall green mountainsides surrounded him. A deep, gushing river ran along the left far below in a gully. He had to stop for a herd of deer crossing the road. They ran to his right, up the mountainside, and Buick continued to drive. It was a cloudless, beautiful day. He rolled the window down, the cool, crisp mountain air rushing in through the car. He turned on the radio. The local Peekie station was playing Paul Simon. He wished he’d grabbed a hot dog or a pack of donuts for the road.

  “Isn’t there a hot dog stand out here or something?” Buick said. “I said, ‘Is there a hot dog stand out here, or something!’” He giggled to himself, slowed the car and took a dirt road, meandering up the hill to his right, but it proved unpropitious. Buick was getting frustrated.

  A house was up here somewhere, he knew; he didn’t know how he knew that, but he did. He couldn’t get the thought out of his mind. A large black house was going to answer all his questions.

  “Just keep driving. I know there’s a big black house out here somewhere.”

  This was, he now realized, the most ridiculous adventure he could’ve taken.

  “What the hell’s the matter with you, Buick?”

  He drove for another two hours. The day was noticeably hotter each time he stopped and stepped outside. He had not passed a single driver since he’d left Peekie. The radio continued to play the same dirge, and Buick sang along.

  He rounded a large bend. To his right, across the river, a large black structure sat at the base of the mountain. He almost kept driving because the house seemed like nothing more than a huge shadow under the mountain.

  Buick stepped on the brake. Tires squealed, blue smoke rising, burning rubber. He parked the car at the side of the road, stepped out, and shut the door. He put his hands on his hips and muttered:

  “Well, I’ll be a turkey-coated, Spam-greased, ham and pickle on Russian rye.”

  The house didn’t look like a house but a massive cardboard cutout, spray-painted black. Either that or papier-mâché. Buick had been expecting something beautiful, something magnificent, awe-inspiring even, taking his breath away, some epiphany moving his soul, helping him to see with a different pair of eyes. But this was not like that at all.

  The house was sort of disappointing.

  Maybe he should rephrase the question? This was a joke.

  “What kind of tyrannical crap is this?” Buick muttered.

  He’d have to cross a dark green river, several yards wide, moving swift and deep.

  “No one said anything about drowning,” he said.

  Looking at the river did not boost his confidence. If he weren’t careful, it would sweep him down the current, around the bend, and into more rocks and deeper water. There might be falls around the bend for all he knew. There might be terrible hobgoblins with long pointed nails and slime dripping from their snouts. The moon might be somewhere around the bend, smiling with bright ruby lips, long auburn hair and…

  Oh…that was Christine.

  “I wish that girl would stay out of my thoughts.”

  Buick laughed, ran, and jumped into the river, making a huge splash. The water was freezing! The current was strong. It swept him to the left, far down toward the bend. It was always more swift when you were in the water, he thought. Always faster than it looked.

  He swam as fast as he could, paddling toward the opposite shore. Almost moving past the house, around the bend, and out of sight, he managed to clutch a sturdy shrub jutting from the bank. He took several deep breaths as the water pummeled against him. With some difficulty, he climbed out of the water, looking at the distance he’d traveled in
scant seconds. Buick looked at his drenched shoes and pants, his shirt, and cursed. He looked up and stared at the black house, holding his fist in the air.

  “What the hell is this supposed to be?” he shrieked.

  He walked across rocks and weeds, surveying the surroundings. Large trees shaded the entire area. For a second, he thought the house was black only because it was in the shade.

  Buick walked, nodding, as if it met his approval. He ascended the black steps to the black porch and stopped at the black front door. He did not knock. Under his touch, the doorknob turned to sand and dwindled. The door did the same. Suddenly, he was standing in a place without a door, and he surveyed the interior of the black house. It was the same mold, the same construction. Black paint met him at every turn. The windows were a flat, solid black. The floorboards beneath his feet were dusty, colorless, and opaque, malleable under his shoes.

  Was his life a pile of sand, too? Was that what this was all about? Never in his life had he wanted to go back to the simple life of Buick Cannon, bookstore owner, friend of Dan Gilmour, overall devout citizen to his community, fair boss, and law-abiding citizen, who also happened to like very dark beer.

  He stepped inside and looked around him.

  “You don’t mean anything to me!” he cried. “Do you hear me? This isn’t anything I haven’t gone through before! This doesn’t scare me! Bite my little apple!”

  He walked farther into the house, ascending the stairs, putting his hand on the dusty banister as he climbed. Nothing met him. Bats did not fly from the shadows to consume his flesh. A lone proprietor did not hoist him over the edge.

  “Hello?” he called.

  This was no game. He wanted it to be. And perhaps, in some ridiculous sense, it was a game. Buick didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  He continued through the dark mansion, seeing nothing but empty rooms, rats scurrying on the floor, making rat noises. Spider-webs covered every window. He wondered what kind of creatures lurked under the floorboards.

  “Okay!” he shouted. “I’m here! What do you have for me?”

  There was no big mystery. Nothing flew from the shadows.

  Buick stood in quiet defiance. The mystery, whatever it was, went unexplained.

  Buick thought about Christine and felt a sudden, lascivious gorge of blood move upwards from his waist and into his throat. He’d ask her over for a few beers and a chicken dinner, a night in the bordello with all of his cryptic friends. Not that the ruler of such glee had promise.

  He scoffed, shaking his head. What mansions? Was there anything supernatural here?

  Does anyone smell a rat? he thought. I think I’m ill.

  Buick walked down a long hallway. Someone emerged from a spare room, an open door to his left, a white man, small, short, bald, wearing a wife-beater and red sweats. He was barefoot. The man held a large butcher knife in his hand. He had big, blue eyes, and they were wide and bright, like headlights. Before Buick could react, the steel penetrated his flesh just above his heart. A flaming rod of pain consumed his chest. Swimming sensations of unreality, wavering darkness, numbness acute enough to be a remedy moved through his brain.

  Buick fell backwards.

  The man pulled the knife out and plunged it into his chest again, which was now wet with blood. Buick put his hands to his chest to try and stop the flow, but the man was on him fast.

  The lunatic was a powerful feline. All Buick could see was the man’s face, grinning from ear to ear, eyes like Roman candles. Blood flew in loops and ribbons around him.

  That’s my blood, he thought. That sonofabitch is taking all my damn blood!

  He was surprised he hadn’t passed out yet. His eyes were still open, staring wide. The man climbed off and ran around Buick like a dog. He was on all fours, barking, stopping every now and then to sniff the air. Shocking Buick, the man bent down, put his mouth to the blood, and began lapping it up with his tongue.

  “You do the same, and you’ll be free, too,” the man said. The lunatic smiled and bent over him, licking the blood off Buick’s chest.

  Buick shook his head and tried to forget it. This was just some joke, some crazy dream he was having back home in his bed. He’d never left for the mountains at all. Christine was naked under the sheets, beckoning.

  But the next thing Buick knew, the image faded. There was no Christine. Instead, the man lifted his leg and urinated on him.

  ~

  At home, he continued to sleep, wrapping the pillow around his head and tried to arrange things in his mind in a way he’d understand. With sleep, that was difficult. The glue kept his eyes shut.

  Buick Cannon couldn’t arrange things sensibly; that was the problem. Arranging things was a burlesque adventure. He didn’t understand what was happening, couldn’t understand because of impossibility. Buick didn’t think about fishing, surprises, lunatic murderers, werewolves, anything beastly or unnatural at all. Logic and reason made him who he was. Creation was nothing to him as long as it was somebody else’s. Artists were mad caps, thoughtless adventurers from a world long dead. Buick was lost in the confines of infinite space and stars. Never married—had he graduated high school?—he couldn’t even remember that. Life (that loveable pile) was a series of forgotten events. Humanity was the delight, a comic adventure proved worthy in every phase of the game. Humanity was a circus.

  “You’re too much into your own world, Buick old boy,” he said, aloud. “The world is something better forgotten.”

  The doorbell rang.

  Puzzled, he sat up in bed. He looked at the clock on the mantle. It was 7:51 a.m. He still had his clothes on from the night before: blue shirt, slacks, no tie. He hadn’t turned down the bed. He put his feet on the floor, still wearing shoes, and grabbed his head. He needed some aspirin, the biggest glass of water he could find, and something to eat. Maybe he should try one of those energy drinks.

  The doorbell rang again.

  “Jesus, Mary, and the throne of England!” Buick said. “Why is my doorbell ringing on a regular basis?”

  He stood up. Hadn’t he just done this minutes ago with the police? When had he lain back down? Had he gone through the day and fallen asleep, imagining his trip to the mountains? Obviously…otherwise he’d be lying in a hallway bleeding to death while some lunatic licked up his blood and pissed on him. Where were the police?

  Buick walked out of the bedroom and down the hall.

  The doorbell rang again, and he cursed under his breath.

  “Why—if I didn’t know any better—?”

  The doorbell rang again.

  “If you don’t shut up I’m gonna shove that doorbell down your throat!”

  He opened the door. It was Christine. She looked pale and worried.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Buick demanded.

  “Uh,” she said. “You invited me to dinner? Did you forget?”

  “It’s not even eight o’clock in the morning.” He couldn’t remember asking her to dinner, just thinking it. He couldn’t remember driving back from the mountains, either, or had he dreamed that, too?

  “Uh, sir. It’s just after six p.m. That’s when you invited me. Six. I haven’t eaten all day because you said you were making chicken. I love chicken, sir. And I wanted to gobble up as much as I could. I don’t smell any chicken. So, I assume you forgot?”

  “Christine, whose idea was this?”

  “Why, it was yours, sir. You invited me. I thought perhaps you were a lonely old bachelor and needed a friend. So, here I am.” She smiled, almost paining him, making his headache worse. She held her arms out, turned, as if in a fashion show, and beamed.

  “Yeah. Yeah. I like what I see,” Buick said. “But I didn’t invite you. It’s eight o’clock in the morning!”

  “Sir, it’s just after six, I assure you. See?” She pulled up the sleeve of her dark blue sweater and showed him the time on a thin silver watch. The second hand was ticking. It was the kind of watch where the twelve, three, six, a
nd nine were all marked by a single line of gold. The big hand was just after the twelve mark, and the small hand pointed perfectly at the six.

  “Your clock is wrong,” Buick said. “Go home and go to sleep.”

  “But sir—”

  “No goddamn ‘buts’ Christine! I’m tired. I wanna go to bed. I wanna just leave this world behind and not think about anything else.”

  “Sir, I have to admit, I’m a little insulted. I don’t take kindly to strangers, and you’ve just pushed me over the edge.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “You sir. I’m talking about you. Now, if you want me, you have to come and get me!”

  “I’m too drunk. Go home and go away. I didn’t invite you to dinner!”

  Christine surprised him and pushed the door open, stepping inside, thumping him in the chest with her forefinger. “What the hell do you think this is?” she said. “You think this is some kind of joke? You think this is some kind of game we’re playing?” She shoved him down the hall, and Buick put his hand up to ward her off. “I’m not playing a game, mister,” she continued. “So, I don’t know what the hell you’re problem is. You’re problem is that you’re just a big game player. Game players don’t exist where I come from, Buick old buddy. Game players get shot in the dark. There are no such things as game players in the revolution. Game players get strung up by their egg-rolls.”

  “Would you make some sense and tell me what you’re talking about?”

  Christine blushed and held her hands out in front of her. “Gosh, sir. I thought you knew what I was talking about.”

  Buick looked skeptical. What had happened to his life suddenly? He was getting tired. The ridiculousness was starting to wear on him.

  “You can give me back my life anytime, Christine. You took it to begin with, didn’t you? You sold me to the devil. You had me cursed, didn’t you? All I wanted was to stare at your boobies, and you had go and spoil everything!”

  “Sir, all I wanted was what was best. For us. For the team! For this community!”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Us, sir.”

  “Haven’t we been through this already?”