Read Online Inappropriate Behavior: Stories by Murray Farish - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Murray Farish
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Then the day of the rally he calls back and says, Listen, Iâve got a better idea.
He says, At the rally, the candidate is going to take questions from the audience. Except theyâre not really questions from the audience. Actually, my brother says, the candidate is only going to call on people from the campaign who are pretending to be people who just showed up to the rally. Do you get it? he says. Do you think you can handle it?
I tell him, All my life needed was a sense of somewhere to go.
Yeah, he says.
That night at the rally at the VFW hall, there are about thirty people there, and at least half of them work for the campaign. I recognize them from the headquarters, where I go every morning to get more fliers and bumper stickers for my milk crate.
The candidate is short. Shorter than he appears on the sign, which is just a picture of his head. But he looks taller on the sign.
The candidate saysâI love Lubbock. Iâm practically from Lubbock. I think Lubbock is Godâs country. Are you tired, he says, of the government getting your tax dollars? Are you tired of the liberals in Washington, DC, telling you how to live your life, and giving your money to deadbeats and dropouts? Some people clap, mostly the people from the campaign.
The candidate saysâDo you want a congressman who believes in God? Isnât it time we started listening to what God is saying to our hearts, instead of what those liberals are saying to our heads?
Now Iâll take some questions, the candidate says. I raise my hand, but just as I do, I notice the Dry Lady in the crowd. The candidate points his finger at me and says, Yes sir, you there. Good to see the young people out tonight. You might could use a haircut, but still, good to see you. He chuckles. Go ahead, sir, you may ask your question.
The Dry Lady is looking at me. The candidate is looking at me. My brother, who has been following the candidate around the stage with the microphone cord in his hands, is looking at me. I suddenly canât remember the question I was told to ask. I suddenly panic.
I suddenly need to have a movement. I have gone to the clinic at the university and have gotten literature that says that people who have trouble with their bowels should never ignore the need to have a movement, and should never resist the urge to go. It was a pamphlet, which also listed a number of techniques.
The candidate and everyone else is still looking at me. The candidate is still smiling, but I can see the smile changing. His eyes are hardening, and his lower lip is coming up, flattening the smile into something else. It feels like the candidate is standing right on top of me, and now he doesnât seem short anymore. I have to go.
I turn and run, the crowd parts, Iâm waving my arms and shouting. I donât know what to shout, so I shout, Lubbock! Lubbock! At the door of the VFW hall are three people who work for the campaign. I turn back toward the candidate and my brother. I want to say something, Iâm sorry, something. But one of the people standing by the door grabs me and pushes me out into the night.
Iâm off balance now, but still running. Energy policy. Oil drilling. That was what I was supposed to ask about. Clive says the police would be very interested in looking at over 175 songs about a fourteen-year-old girl, even if she is a world famous actress and my chances of actually meeting her areâand youhave to understand this, he saysâabsolutely zero. Iâm running to my car, trying desperately to clench my rectum, the movement is coming on its own now, and thereâs nothing to be done.
I stop between two cars, a Malibu and the gold Valiant that I know at once is the Dry Ladyâs car. I hurry my pants down and squat there in the parking lot.
I wait.
Nothing happens.
Allison. A long time goes by.
I strain. I push so hard I start to fall, and then when I try to stop myself from falling, my feet catch in my
He says, At the rally, the candidate is going to take questions from the audience. Except theyâre not really questions from the audience. Actually, my brother says, the candidate is only going to call on people from the campaign who are pretending to be people who just showed up to the rally. Do you get it? he says. Do you think you can handle it?
I tell him, All my life needed was a sense of somewhere to go.
Yeah, he says.
That night at the rally at the VFW hall, there are about thirty people there, and at least half of them work for the campaign. I recognize them from the headquarters, where I go every morning to get more fliers and bumper stickers for my milk crate.
The candidate is short. Shorter than he appears on the sign, which is just a picture of his head. But he looks taller on the sign.
The candidate saysâI love Lubbock. Iâm practically from Lubbock. I think Lubbock is Godâs country. Are you tired, he says, of the government getting your tax dollars? Are you tired of the liberals in Washington, DC, telling you how to live your life, and giving your money to deadbeats and dropouts? Some people clap, mostly the people from the campaign.
The candidate saysâDo you want a congressman who believes in God? Isnât it time we started listening to what God is saying to our hearts, instead of what those liberals are saying to our heads?
Now Iâll take some questions, the candidate says. I raise my hand, but just as I do, I notice the Dry Lady in the crowd. The candidate points his finger at me and says, Yes sir, you there. Good to see the young people out tonight. You might could use a haircut, but still, good to see you. He chuckles. Go ahead, sir, you may ask your question.
The Dry Lady is looking at me. The candidate is looking at me. My brother, who has been following the candidate around the stage with the microphone cord in his hands, is looking at me. I suddenly canât remember the question I was told to ask. I suddenly panic.
I suddenly need to have a movement. I have gone to the clinic at the university and have gotten literature that says that people who have trouble with their bowels should never ignore the need to have a movement, and should never resist the urge to go. It was a pamphlet, which also listed a number of techniques.
The candidate and everyone else is still looking at me. The candidate is still smiling, but I can see the smile changing. His eyes are hardening, and his lower lip is coming up, flattening the smile into something else. It feels like the candidate is standing right on top of me, and now he doesnât seem short anymore. I have to go.
I turn and run, the crowd parts, Iâm waving my arms and shouting. I donât know what to shout, so I shout, Lubbock! Lubbock! At the door of the VFW hall are three people who work for the campaign. I turn back toward the candidate and my brother. I want to say something, Iâm sorry, something. But one of the people standing by the door grabs me and pushes me out into the night.
Iâm off balance now, but still running. Energy policy. Oil drilling. That was what I was supposed to ask about. Clive says the police would be very interested in looking at over 175 songs about a fourteen-year-old girl, even if she is a world famous actress and my chances of actually meeting her areâand youhave to understand this, he saysâabsolutely zero. Iâm running to my car, trying desperately to clench my rectum, the movement is coming on its own now, and thereâs nothing to be done.
I stop between two cars, a Malibu and the gold Valiant that I know at once is the Dry Ladyâs car. I hurry my pants down and squat there in the parking lot.
I wait.
Nothing happens.
Allison. A long time goes by.
I strain. I push so hard I start to fall, and then when I try to stop myself from falling, my feet catch in my
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