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Goosing Demons

Approx. 4000 wds.

Short Story: Michael Lee Smith

            Prozac withdrawals?  Sun spots?  No, it had to be the face on the Water Wiggle. 

         Cole Nicely even tried the blame on Mrs. Delano, the woman next door, chasing her little white poodle around the backyard, wiping its ass with wads of toilet paper—a scene so silly, so unnatural, that it unraveled him.  The blame was four sizes too large, though, and the wrong color. 

         “It’s the face,” Cole mumbled, referring to the phenomenon  that had irreversibly changed his life.  

         He sat in the lawn chair, held the hose at arms length, and through the gravity of some sort of deep reluctance, studied the toy's crossed eyes—nearly hypnotizing.  Its face seemed almost Buddha-like.  He strongly suspected it had kidnapped his brain and driven it somewhere really strange, somewhere way past Bum Fuck. 

         "With the stereo cranked and the top down!" he shouted, hearing an unintended but distinct squeeze-toy quality in his voice.  Shook his head again.

         Surrounding him was the unfamiliarity of something that should be quite familiar—his own backyard.  His domain, now un-mowed, ringed by untrimmed hedges.  Its unfamiliarity brought a sudden feeling of isolation and loneliness creeping toward him like so many small vicious animals, slinking through the tall grass.  

         Leigh and the kids had bailed out a week or so before, Cole couldn't remember.  What he could remember, though, were Leigh's eyes, the fear, that dog-loose-on-the-freeway look she'd had the last few weeks.  As if he had suddenly become a stranger—in her house.  A dangerous stranger. 

         Alone now. 

         Except for the Water Wiggle.

         But with knots of fatherhood and husbandhood gone at least he could think.  And he did.  Thought of weird people.  People who were what he wasn't.  Believed in things he didn't.  Whose decisions were based on ancient superstitions.  Or chicken entrails stirred in the sand.  People who lived by moon phases.  Or, were simply the slaves of faulty brain-chemical milkshakes gone sour.   

         Him? Let's see.  As logical and straightforward as an . . . anvil! He remembered seeing himself in a mirror that morning, suddenly and inexplicably questioning the nagging sense of dishonesty he sensed had infected him?  Shook his head once more.  Thought he heard something rattling.

         Anyway, that fateful morning a startled stranger stood in front of him, mirror reflecting reality in its undeniable and truest sense.  The dishonesty clinging to him like some kind of scummy film that wouldn't wash off.  Take a big brush to scrub it off.  Harsh bristles.  The Water Wiggle's face, somewhere in the back of his mind, mocking him with that goofy grin, those crossed eyes.

         "Not much on moderation," he whispered to himself, recalling how he had dealt with his epiphany—with lips moving in spastic little convulsions he couldn't quell, words tumbling out like freed animals—he’d confided to his boss, Burns Noble, that Burns might be taking his little surly dictator role a bit too seriously.  Then afterwards, intoxicated with the freedom, suddenly, gleefully, informing his co-workers, friends, family members, in short, everyone who touched his life, exactly who smelled like a wet dog.  He'd snapped.  The proverbial snap, that submerged fear that he now suspected lay deep in every humans’ soul.  Or did it?  Was it just him? 

         What else would explain such actions by a grown man, a grown man who should know better, a grown man trying to survive and prosper in the first wink of the twenty-first century?

          "Don't even think about it!" Cole Nicely shouted at his audience of lawn and trees.  "Sure, everyone runs it a lap around the ol' noodle now and then.  The lure of that freedom.  Shooting from the hip.  But don't even think about it." 

         Two weeks ago, mere minutes after Cole's appraisal of his boss' character, Burns Noble had fired him.  Cole had come home and found refuge in the only place it was offered—the face of the Water Wiggle.  Sunk into the sagging and frayed webbing of the lawn chair and squeezed his eyes shut.  When he opened them, there sat the Water Wiggle at his feet, staring up at him, imploring him to look at his problems in a different light—a lighter, more goofy, less serious light—kazoo light, if there were such a thing.  That irreverent look as subtle as . . . well, subtle.  

         Now, this pilgrimage into the back yard was a regular part of his afternoon's activity, even though Leigh was gone.  Gotten honest with her, too, cleansing himself, telling her their deteriorating marriage was his fault, all those high expectations he had placed on her years ago.  Wasn't that what you were supposed to do?  Fucking communicate your true feelings?  Been a little blunt maybe, but it seemed the only way to do it at the time.  Leigh hadn't seemed to comprehend that the expectations were his fault, and that her inability to live up to them was not the issue.

         Cole looked up at the clouds.  Sighed.  Changed tracks.  Tried explaining to himself the magnetism of the Water Wiggle.  Couldn't.    He was hardly a religious man, too cynical to hitchhike that particular bandwagon.  Not even spiritual.  If not for his ulcer, the bottle would look pretty goddamned attractive.  Become a numb, slobbering alcoholic.  Other compulsive activities were out, too . . . including sex, because of his on-again-off-again, well . . . you know, “erection problem.” 

         “Hard drugs.” He didn’t even realized he’d said it.  “Hard drugs?”

         Frowned.  Those days were too long gone to be recaptured. 

         His life was screwed up, that was certain.  Spoke to the Water Wiggle, succumbing to a wave of self-pity.  "I'm unemployed, goddamn it."  Stared at it.  "And don't give me that what-in-the-hell-does-it-matter-in-the-big-picturelook."  Sighed again.

         Cole pulled the Water Wiggle closer.  "At this point, ol' buddy, I'd have to conclude that you've steered me wrong.  Or maybe—"  Paused a long minute, reconsidering, brightening.  "You steered me right and I can't see it yet."  The Water Wiggle looked back at him, grinning, cross-eyed. 

         "I could go back to Burns on my knees and plead insanity or something.  It all started with that, after all." 

         Waded through the fog of more conjecture, desperate in nature.  "Could tell him I was drunk.  Or have a brain tumor that makes me insane.  Maybe I do." His tone had become almost hopeful.  Heard it and smiled.  "Check myself into a mental institution,  then afterwards—"  

         Reverently, Cole leaned forward and positioned his confessor-cum-prophet-cum-god on the lawn table in front of him.  “Am I all I’ve done wrong?  The sum total equals my soul?

         “Or am I just what I continue to do wrong?  Knowingly?”

         He stood and began pacing.  "I don't want my life back.  Not the way it was."

         Then, behind him, in Mrs. Delano's yard, the poodle began barking . . .  Zippy, or Sparky, some other name he associated with excessive neurotic doggie energy. 

         "Shut up!"

         Cole gazed across the lawn and imagined another of his neighbors, Veronica, mowing the lawn in a string bikini ---the only bright spot of these last days in hell.  She'd done that once, last  week—until she caught him ogling her.  He theorized she mowed in her string bikini often but, of course, since he'd been at work, he'd missed the show. 
         Opportune distraction.  Poor substitute for anything significant, anything a devotee in search of cosmic meaning might . . . 

         Spun around and looked down at the Water Wiggle.  "Inspire me."  Then after a moment.  "I just need one little victory.  One little miracle." Held thumb and index finger apart, barely.

         The poodle continued barking from across the fence.  Cole shot a threatening glare at the dog, but the grinning face of the Water Wiggle tugged at his attention.  Studied its face for a moment, frowning.

         He asked the Water Wiggle: "How do I impress her?" Waited.  Thinking of Leigh, he said, "Sure I know I'm looking at unrealistic expectations again—but they look pretty good."  Searched the Water Wiggle's plastic face.  Squinted.

         After a moment it came to him.  "Honesty?"  Sighed.  Has a diverse repertoire of sighs today. "Haven't gone far enough with it, have I?  You mean, I'm supposed to use it in everything."   Considered that a moment.   "Even that?  Even with . . . (and here, Cole thought it wise to clean up his phrasing) romantic passion?" 

         Water Wiggle didn't answer of course, nor did its expression change, but to Cole, the face had become as animated as a mime's. 

         "Okay, but—"  

         Stood pondering honesty and its practicality regarding Veronica.  Heard her pushing the squeaky lawnmower out onto the patio where she had started it the other day.  To his knowledge, she had no idea of his employment status.  That left open the possibility that she might reappear in the string bikini. 

         Cole looked quickly for a place to hide, then he remembered what his guru had advised—honesty.     

         "Honesty . . ." he whispered to himself, turning back toward Veronica's yard.  "A good demonstration of honesty . . ."

         Again he was drawn to the face of the Water Wiggle.  Its expression said, "Imagination, Cole!  Imagination's better than intelligence."

         "Easy for you to say.  You're—"  He studied the Water Wiggle again—white plastic dome of its head, its body, which was merely a green garden hose—then it dawned on him.  "You're naked!" 

         Cole nodded. "Sure! The most honest form of presentation.  Nothing hidden.  No deception.  Just pure vulnerability.  Yea-as!"

         Veronica on the patio, trying to start the lawnmower; it sputtered and coughed, then died.  He couldn't see her behind the patio fence, and, he realized—she couldn't see him! 

         Addressed the Water Wiggle.  "You’d better be right."   He began pulling off clothes.  The air felt foreign on his skin, the parts that weren't used to being embraced by it. 

         With one last cautious glance around the yard, Cole stepped out of his boxer shorts and dropped them onto the pile.  Moved behind a bush near the fence that separated his and Veronica's yards.  The lawnmower started.

         Cole waited, contemplating a plan.   She would mow the outer perimeter first, and when she neared the shrubs, he would simply step to the fence and address her.  Lay the honest approach on her—tell that he was physically attracted to her and would like to get to know her better.  Again cautioned himself in regards to expectations.  Then simply said: "Screw it."

         Cole Nicely smiled at his good fortune; how many people are lucky enough to realize all that he had realized in the last few weeks?  How seriously life tends to make one take it.  How it dares one to do otherwise!

         Like an infant child, left naked, will eventually and inevitably discover its genitals, Cole discovered his.  And that discovery heightened his sense of freedom.  Cole shook his penis. Wagged it at nothing.  At everything!

         How lucky for him that he found the Water Wiggle.  How free and full of discovery he felt at that moment, looking at things in a totally positive light, all the possibilities . . . then something bit him on the ass and he swatted it. 

         The lawnmower approached.  He dared a quick glance around the hedge and saw Veronica pushing the mower toward him, wearing—the string bikini!

         The moment before Cole stepped into her view he felt a harmony with the world that he hadn't felt since, well, since . . . the blurry decade of Peace, Love, and Better-Living-Through-Chemistry.

         That harmony propelled him into the open and made the smile plastered on his face as easy as falling off a log.  Took only a second of contemplation to come up with a greeting.  "Hi neighbor!"  Brought his hand up and offered a little salute. 

         Veronica, startled.  Eyes as big as lawn mower tires.  Stops.  Lawn mower continues forward on its own power.  She stands staring at him before fleeing toward the house.  He watches her run, mesmerized momentarily by her nearly exposed bottom, bouncing and swaying in that rhythm that can only be described as feminine.  Then, the lawn mower captures his attention.  Propells itself into one of her Azalea bushes where it stopped and now shuddered ferociously, lurching forward then falling back, forward, then back. 

         Cole contemplated climbing the fence and turning it off; the noise was deafening.  Distracting.  Needed to think.  And quick!  

         Another noise captured his attention.  Behind him—Mrs. Delano’s poodle barking.  Cole spun around.  The poodle had somehow managed to get on his side of the fence.  Looked at Cole and yapped again, displaying a doggie grin.  Before he could move, Zippy, (or was it Sparky?) broke and ran toward his clothes, lying in a pile in the center of the yard.  The poodle was still grinning, obviously enjoying its adventure onto foreign soil.  Reached his clothes.  Snatched his boxer shorts and galloped happily toward the far side of the yard.

         Later, after Cole was finally able to capture the small animal, rolling on the ground with it, he looked up and saw a squat, pot-bellied policeman with mirrored, aviator-styled sunglasses aiming a shiny revolver at him.  It was all a cliché, except for two things: The revolver was shaking.  And the cop looked frightened enough to accidentally pull the trigger.

         "Freeze!" the cop shouted uncertainly.

         Only then did Cole notice Mrs. Delano, Zippy's owner, on the her side of the fence, wide-eyed, wailing, and pointing at him, muttering incomprehensibly.

         Oh how Cole wanted to show them the face of the Water Wiggle.  Suddenly realized how important that was, explain what they were seeing.   Was Zippy female?

         Really.  It was all in good fun—the Water Wiggle's face would illuminate that.  It had to! 

         Came to him all at once, as revelations often do—that somehow he had been duped.  And the Water Wiggle's goofy grin, that grin that was so imprinted in his mind, became something evil and recriminating. "You fool," the grin said.  "You desperate fool.  There's nothing of substance in the face of a child's water toy.  How dare you even seek it!"

         But Cole Nicely would have lots of time to think about things like that.  Right now he was busy getting arrested.

         Booking ceremony: humiliating, as booking ceremonies are designed to be.  And Cole stood, as full of remorse and embarrassment as any jilted disciple has ever been, nearly naked, unprepared for the extra humility his boxer shorts supplied, the ones his daughter had given him, the ones adorned with little red Teddy bears.   Soon, escorted down a bleak hallway (to the accompaniment of whistles and catcalls) and delivered into a cold gray darkness, all the while speculating on his fate, the fate of a man who dares lightening up, dares becoming totally honest in the early portions of the twenty-first century.  What hell awaited him?

         "What about some clothes?" Cole asked desperately as the jailer pushed him into the cell.

         "We'll get around to it," the jailer responded, then said,  "Hey, Cole!  Cole Nicely.  Brought you a friend.  Name's Dog Fucker."

         The cell door clanged shut with all the humor of a guillotine.  

         Cole stood, wondering why the jailer had shouted.  The shout seemed directed over shoulder, behind him. 

         Slowly, orchestrated by dread, Cole turned around.  On the lower bunk, staring back at him, was him.  Cole Nicely, looking somehow just a tiny bit . . .different.   More solemn and stoic than Cole imagined himself. Radiating more self-assurance than Cole Nicely ever remembered possessing.

         “Is fucking a dog supposed to be cosmic?”

         His voice sounded different, like the first time one hears it on tape, different, but definitely his voice.

         “What?”

         “Is fucking a dog supposed to be spiritual?”

         Cole considered it a moment.  “Depends.”

         The Cole on the bunk raised an eyebrow. 

         “Depends on circumstances, the dog, the definition of cosmic, or maybe the position.”  Somehow the figure seated on the bed demanded debate, confrontation.  And for some reason, Cole found himself neither frightened nor awed.

         “Going to show me your dick, Child-toy worshipper?”

         A put-down, obviously.

         Cole opened his fly, extricated his penis—disappointedly shrunken as a result of the cell’s temperature, but enough to make the point—and wagged it.  Grinned, but with less conviction than he would have liked.

         “What’s the point?”  The Cole on the bunk smirked.

         “If you don’t get it, there’s no explanation.”

         “Right.”  The smirk broadened, or expanded, or did whatever smirks do when they’re full of themselves.
         “Lighten up, man.”
         The smirk became a scowl. “How profound.  A suggestion as deep as the proverbial spoon.”

         “Oh yeah?”

         “Hasn’t helped you much, has it?” the Cole on the bunk motioned around the cell. 

         Cole felt the blade of truth nick him. 

         “Lighten up,” he countered, the lack of conviction in his voice as cruel and humorless as—Cole looked around the cold cell—his surroundings.  His surroundings assaulted him then, the reality, as if they had grown animate.  Gray walls moved in.  Coldness became a color, or rather, a non-color that wrapped itself around him in a frigid, painful embrace.   Sounds from beyond the cell became a brutal roar that  invaded his ears and penetrated him.  The sound expanded in his throat, choking him.  Cole threw his head up and stretched his neck, gasping for breath. His eyes focused on the ceiling.  It looked heavy, ready to . . . .  Cole pushed his way to the corner of the cell and withered, fighting his surroundings, fighting the roar, gasping for breath.  Curled into a ball.

         The other Cole’s voice came at him from across the cell on heavy black boots.  “Wait for the padded cell,” crashed into a kidney.  “Wait for the strait-jacket,” jarred his forehead.  Pain reverberated through him as the boot came again, “Wait for the electrodes . . . electrodes . . . electro . . . .”

         Cole clamped his hands over his ears.  Squeezed his eyes shut.  “Lightenuplightenuplightenup!”

          Through the roar of his words, through the din beyond came the cold and recriminating voice again, rocking back and forth on bloody boots:  “Party down, dude.”

        Vomit.  And silence.   Or near-silence, compared to the roar.  His face was wet.  Tears.  Slowly Cole opened an eye.  The grayness  assaulted him again, none of its ominence diminished.  The concrete floor was still cold but somehow he found that soothing. He lay there, eventually and inevitably thinking of what got him into this predicament—the goddamned Water Wiggle.

         All he had done was start telling the truth.  Was that such a sin?  He cursed the Water Wiggle's cunning intrusion into his psyche.  Cursed his lapse into insanity that had led him to believe that honesty and frivolity could unburden his life.  Longed to step back in time to that moment when he looked down and saw the Water Wiggle staring up at him, imploring him to lighten up, cast off his yoke, yakkety, yakkety. . .   This time, with the assistance of the lawnmower he would chop the Water Wiggle into plastic confetti.

         "A goddamned water toy," came a voice from the bed.   "You made it a god.  You’re certifiable, man.”

         Cole didn’t respond.

         “I was once employed. Gainfully employed, productive.”

         “Bullshit,” Cole said. “You produced shit on your nose—from Burns Noble’s tight little asshole.”

         “I once had a family,” the voice said in an overly-dramatic tone. “A lovely wife.”  Cole knew the other Cole was enjoying this. And that one had stung. 

         “Yeah, but you took her for granted, you piece of shit. You arrogant, selfish, humorless piece of shit.”

         “Was that me?” Tone of mock wonder.

         “Yeah, it was you.  You and your fucking fear. It controls you.  The fear you’re so full of you can’t even see.   It’s covering the inside of your eyeballs.”
         But the gray was back.  And the air was gone again.

         The floor had long since ceased being soothing.   Wasitme? Wasitme?  Cole gazed across the floor, as if in a trance, and tried to make himself deaf.

         Then, from the periphery of his hearing, thought he heard a whisper:

           "We're coming Cole.  Just ask for us." 

          A smile formed, it felt like a razor's slash.  "Now I'm hearing voices. Other voices. A goddamned choir."  He plugged his ears with his fingers.  After a minute he wondered, who's coming?   Pulled his fingers out. Listened.  Just ask for us?  Ask for who?

     Little whisper came again.  "You have to believe in the humor, Cole, humor . . . saves us.  Gooses the demons." 

     Finally, Cole heard himself whisper, "The goddamned Water Wiggle." 

     Hadn't goosed any of his demons.  Pissed them all off.  "Yeah, you've been a big help."  The floor came into focus, the concrete.  "You saved my ass."

     Laughter.  Whispered cartoon snickers.

     "Yeah, go see Burns.  Go hang out in his backyard.  Or Veronica's.  Go grin at Leigh."

      More snickers.  Then after a pause, "Are you asking?"

     "No!" Cole almost shouted. Then it occured to him: what the hell difference would it make? What if he did ask for the Water Wiggle to come and save him? What actual harm could it do?

     Grimaced.  Made a face.  Finally, with some effort, through clenched teeth, he whispered, "Come and save me."

     Nothing happened. 

     Waited until the wait became cruelly humorous, then closed his eyes and unconsciously pulled another sigh from his bag.  Had to rummage around in the bottom.

     An indecipherable span of time passed.  But suddenly Cole sensed, then heard the atmosphere of the cellblock changing.  Murmurings grew louder. Someone screamed.  He opened an eye.  More screams. Running feet.  Muted kazoo music somewhere in background, vague, its source untraceable. 

     The other Cole, the one in the bunk stirred.

     Cole saw them then, more incredible than anything he could have imagined, a column of Water Wiggles, a dozen or more moving down the aisle toward his cell. 

     Sat up.  Rubbed his eyes.  When he reopened them, the Water Wiggles were still moving toward him.  Screams continued.  Someone laughed.  The column stopped in front of the cell that contained the laughing inmate.  The Water Wiggle in front turned its head toward the cell door and a blue flash of electricity jumped between its crossed eyes and cell door's lock.  Door sprang open.  In perfect English, in a voice that sounded like some sort of small, silly cartoon character, the Water Wiggle said, "Thank you.  You're free." 

        As the column approached Cole's cell, the other Cole came out of his bunk. "Get away."  He retreated to the far end of the cell.  "Get away from here!"

     The Water Wiggles stopped in front of their cell.  Another zap of blue electricity unlocked their cell door.  The lead Water Wiggle glided in, its head gently bobbing up and down, its goofy smile aimed at the other Cole. "Lighten up," it said, then zapped him with a blue charge. 

     Off came the other Cole's boxer shorts.  A grin formed.  A ding-dong daddy of a grin, one Cole would have sworn impossible on his formerly stoic mug.  The other Cole wagged its penis at the Water Wiggle.   His eyes sparkled.

     "You are free!" The Water Wiggle said. 

     And Cole, the naked one, began to fade.  But it appeared a happy fade.  A joyous fade to some cosmic playground on a faraway planet where gravity must be less cumbersome and voice mail has yet to be invented.

     "Cole," The Water Wiggle said, turning toward him, "our Illustrious Leader seeks an audience with you."  Paused. "Can you dig it?"

     After a long moment crammed so full of wonder that it sagged,  Cole laughed.  "You bet your skinny ass."

      The Water Wiggle nodded, its grin spreading, or so it appeared to Cole.  

     On the way back up the aisle several prisoners, a few perceptive ones anyway, tried laughing their way to freedom, but the Water Wiggles continued, with Cole in the middle of the procession. 

     "They're lying," head Water Wiggle said, apparently explaining why the other prisioners weren't being freed.

     It was obvious that they were faking their laughter.

     City  in chaos.   Water Wiggles zapping people with blue electricity, making them lighten up, then laugh about it.  Laugh until they retched.  Retching people right and left, strewn on sidewalks, collapsed in doorways, giggling. 

     Procession moved toward downtown. Water Wiggles gliding beside and around him.  Cole, too mesmerized by all that had happened and was still happening to ask questions.  Simply found himself laughing occasionally, laughing with humor, and with genuine . . . joy.   Living An Ed Wood Movie!

     Entered City Hall and glided up the stairway, Cole marching among them.  Had begun to feel important, and . . . well, validated.  Why, he guessed he was the only human being who had believed in them, shown faith against all odds.  Been imprisoned, by God.  Suffered tremendously for his faith. 

     The Water Wiggles escorted him through an important looking door into a large, well-appointed office.  Room full of Water Wiggles, standing against the wall, several surrounding a desk.  On the desk the Mayor's name plaque was turned upside down.  Behind the desk, through their slender bodies Cole saw another Water Wiggle.  This one wearing a crown.  Red jacket with gold epaulets on the shoulders.   

     The Water Wiggle chatter faded. The room became silent.  The Water Wiggles in front of the desk moved aside.  Water Wiggle who'd escorted Cole here glided forward and made an announcement,  "Cole is here."

     The room erupted in laughter.  Cole considered their response.  Seemed like some sort of salute.   He joined them.

     Then, King Water Wiggle cleared his throat.  Looked quite regal, with the exception of his face, which was simply the same exact goofy, cross-eyed face the rest of the Water Wiggles possessed.      

     Cole laughed again.

     "Thank you," King Water Wiggle said, referring, Cole guessed again, to his laughter, which must be some sign of reverence in their language.   King Water Wiggle stared at him a very long time.   Silence in the large room grew voluminous.  Solemn.  Then King Water Wiggle laughed.  Loudest laugh Cole had ever heard.  He Who Laughs Loudest --profound answer fell into Cole's lap.

     The laughter faded, but left its spirit.

     King Water Wiggle winked,  or so Cole thought, although his face didn't move a molecule.  More silence.  Like after a gunshot.  Letting the answer sink in.

     King Water Wiggle finally spoke, "For beginners, Cole the Believer, let's go see Burns Noble."   Nonchalantly blinked, letting a small blue charge split the air.  "Dig it?" Laughed again.  Enormous laugh.  Shook the walls.

     Cole laughed too, trying his hand at wall shaking, profound answer not lost on him.

     When the laughter finally faded, Cole wiped his eyes, leaned close to King Water Wiggle and winked.   Cleared his throat. "I can dig it."  Extended his thumb and showed it to King Water Wiggle.  Flexed it, ready for action.  "Yeah, I can dig it." 

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