Endear Yourself to Capable Men
- Oct 30, 2020
- 2 min read
by Nick Black
The men walk without talking. Many I don’t know but here to my right is Porlie, trusty Porlie, Porlie who I’ve known since we were 12. I’ve never liked Porlie. Whenever I look over, he’s mopping his face, handkerchief bunched in plump, soft, pale hands. Could hands like those pull a skull in two? I think not. I don’t even know if skulls are designed that way, or I’m confusing them with coconuts.
The posse’s spirits lift with every trill of birdsong. The mountainside’s beautiful, flooded with light. It’s an afternoon for fishing and making love in meadows. How the hell will we turn this into violence when we get to Amy’s place?! The river sparkles through the trees below before twisting away from town. In the other direction is the grocery store where we’re headed.
I imagine Amy down there, surrounded by bikers. In my head, they’re all facing forward, like they’re posing for a photo. I’m hoping she’ll understand this is a rescue. A rescue from herself, maybe. Given enough time.
I overtake Porlie, slapping him on the arm as I pass, which makes him laugh, and mop his neck. The next walker on is a red-vested old fella I’ve seen sunning himself in front of the bait store. He plucks a pipe from cherry lips to cry hullo. What use is he going to be in a rumble?! I keep walking, squeezing the tears I feel forming back into my eyes. Finally, I find a man I like the crappy looks of, moving fast between the trees. As I draw level, he peers at me with piss-sack eyes and shakes a rusty handsaw at me in greeting; a salt-of-the-earth type. I should have asked him to rally a crew for today. He draws back lips to show blood-pinked teeth, and again shakes the saw. Maybe it isn’t a greeting. In fact, is he even with us…?
I hurry along.
The trees open out and we stop for lunch in the clearing. Porlie sits unwrapping sandwiches. Thick soft slices of sourdough, crisp bacon, thick-cut turkey, lettuce, tomato. I have a knob of unidentifiable cheese and a cupcake, which I boot into the bushes, loosing a clutch of birds.
The sky ripples around the sun. Male laughter and grass smoke waft. I have an idea to get the men’s blood up. It’s a doozy. We catch a rabbit and get someone to hold it by its hind legs while the rest of us try to hit it with stones. We’ll really be aiming at the man, while pretending to target the bunny. We’ll laugh as we bleed out our compassion and ready ourselves for battle. I applaud my cunning with another slug of beer.
Well that was a stupid idea, I tell the rabbit, some drinks later, as a well-slung piece of flint bursts the skin of my shin open, and the men all heartily cheer. I laugh too, but they ignore me and keep throwing.
Nick Black writes about people talking. Relentlessly. He tried throwing a passing dog in once but didn’t know quite what to do with it. His writing has been published in lit mags including Okay Donkey, Splonk, Lost Balloon, Ellipsis Zine, Entropy, Bending Genres and Jellyfish Review.
