Read Online They Had Goat Heads by D. Harlan Wilson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: D. Harlan Wilson
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dangling over a chrome handlebar as words ending in -ly pour out of my speechhole. A seagull shits on the muffler. I wipe it off with a shirtsleeve and tumble into the surf.
A strongman swims closer to shore and introduces himself. He tells me his name (Giovanni Belzoni). We make smalltalk. He comments on the saltiness of the ocean, the curls in his beard. He explains how much he misses the circus . . .
Monkeys are perceptive. Monkeys are capable. Hence the expression: “Monkey see, monkey do.” Nevertheless do not approach monkeys exhibiting solar coronas or inflated penumbra. The same goes for all simian organisms and some plant life . . .
I have known strongmen who bludgeon idle circus-goers with rubber mallets. I have seen clouds evaporate into thin air.
I can tell you when the basement looks like the balcony—claustrophobic playgrounds of light beams and mothballs . . .
P.O. BOX 455
As I searched my wallet, the postal clerk tore up the book of stamps. I asked to see the manager. The clerk removed another book of stamps from a drawer and tore it up. Before I could respond she destroyed a third book. Then she called over the manager and told him I was responsible.
The manager eyeballed me. “It’s a federal offense to tear up stamps. That’s like burning a flag. That’s like burning your grandmother.”
“I never set fire to anything that didn’t deserve it,” I admitted.
A trap door in the ceiling scraped open. We looked up at it. It scraped closed.
I blinked at the manager. “Shaving is a crucial part of robosapien culture. Where is the toilet please?”
“The toilet is government property,” he said. “Are you a government employee?” The clerk swallowed a book of stamps. The manager looked askance at her, but he didn’t say anything.
“Excuse me.” I walked away.
The manager raised a finger. “Razors are not permitted in the post office! Come back her, sir! Security!”
A closet door rolled open. Inside an adolescent security guard in a tight-fitting uniform snored like a lawnmower. He snorted awake and lunged at me with a nightstick. I sidestepped him. The security guard fell onto his knees and the nightstick bounced off the floor and struck him on the chin. He cocked his head, unsure of what had happened, and slumped over unconscious.
In the restroom, a postman scrutinized a bald patch on his head. He quickly put on his hat when I entered, pretending to adjust it. I turned on the faucet of the sink next to him and lathered up my face.
“P.O. Box 455,” whispered the postman. He didn’t look at me. He continued to adjust and readjust his hat.
I ran a straight razor down my cheek and neck. “Pardon me?”
The postman’s hands fell limply at his sides. “P.O. Box 455.” His chin trembled.
“P.O. Box 455,” I echoed. “What’s in there?”
Now he looked at me. He covered his mouth, eyes round and gleaming, and shook his head.
I accidentally cut one of my sideburns too short and had to compensate on the opposite side.
On his way out of the restroom, the postman tripped over a garbage can. Stamped, unopened letters spilled onto the linoleum floor. The postman slipped on a letter and fell down. He slipped on another letter and fell down. This went on for two or three minutes. He reached for the doorknob each time before losing his feet beneath him. I observed him in the mirror. At last he was able to grip the doorknob and use it for leverage. Panting, he cracked open the door, glanced sternly at me over his shoulder, and slid out.
I splashed water on my face. I bent over and held my head under a hand dryer. It was a clean shave.
I stood, yawned.
There was a key on the lip of the sink. I picked it up and inspected it. The inscription on its bow read:
455
I ran a fingertip over the number. Dirt came off. Or oil. A black substance,
A strongman swims closer to shore and introduces himself. He tells me his name (Giovanni Belzoni). We make smalltalk. He comments on the saltiness of the ocean, the curls in his beard. He explains how much he misses the circus . . .
Monkeys are perceptive. Monkeys are capable. Hence the expression: “Monkey see, monkey do.” Nevertheless do not approach monkeys exhibiting solar coronas or inflated penumbra. The same goes for all simian organisms and some plant life . . .
I have known strongmen who bludgeon idle circus-goers with rubber mallets. I have seen clouds evaporate into thin air.
I can tell you when the basement looks like the balcony—claustrophobic playgrounds of light beams and mothballs . . .
P.O. BOX 455
As I searched my wallet, the postal clerk tore up the book of stamps. I asked to see the manager. The clerk removed another book of stamps from a drawer and tore it up. Before I could respond she destroyed a third book. Then she called over the manager and told him I was responsible.
The manager eyeballed me. “It’s a federal offense to tear up stamps. That’s like burning a flag. That’s like burning your grandmother.”
“I never set fire to anything that didn’t deserve it,” I admitted.
A trap door in the ceiling scraped open. We looked up at it. It scraped closed.
I blinked at the manager. “Shaving is a crucial part of robosapien culture. Where is the toilet please?”
“The toilet is government property,” he said. “Are you a government employee?” The clerk swallowed a book of stamps. The manager looked askance at her, but he didn’t say anything.
“Excuse me.” I walked away.
The manager raised a finger. “Razors are not permitted in the post office! Come back her, sir! Security!”
A closet door rolled open. Inside an adolescent security guard in a tight-fitting uniform snored like a lawnmower. He snorted awake and lunged at me with a nightstick. I sidestepped him. The security guard fell onto his knees and the nightstick bounced off the floor and struck him on the chin. He cocked his head, unsure of what had happened, and slumped over unconscious.
In the restroom, a postman scrutinized a bald patch on his head. He quickly put on his hat when I entered, pretending to adjust it. I turned on the faucet of the sink next to him and lathered up my face.
“P.O. Box 455,” whispered the postman. He didn’t look at me. He continued to adjust and readjust his hat.
I ran a straight razor down my cheek and neck. “Pardon me?”
The postman’s hands fell limply at his sides. “P.O. Box 455.” His chin trembled.
“P.O. Box 455,” I echoed. “What’s in there?”
Now he looked at me. He covered his mouth, eyes round and gleaming, and shook his head.
I accidentally cut one of my sideburns too short and had to compensate on the opposite side.
On his way out of the restroom, the postman tripped over a garbage can. Stamped, unopened letters spilled onto the linoleum floor. The postman slipped on a letter and fell down. He slipped on another letter and fell down. This went on for two or three minutes. He reached for the doorknob each time before losing his feet beneath him. I observed him in the mirror. At last he was able to grip the doorknob and use it for leverage. Panting, he cracked open the door, glanced sternly at me over his shoulder, and slid out.
I splashed water on my face. I bent over and held my head under a hand dryer. It was a clean shave.
I stood, yawned.
There was a key on the lip of the sink. I picked it up and inspected it. The inscription on its bow read:
455
I ran a fingertip over the number. Dirt came off. Or oil. A black substance,
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