Ignace tossed five pennies into the toilet, and then he dropped his pants.
He caught the superstition somewhere-- a book or movie or parent-- that
giving money to a toilet keeps a person healthy. Or maybe he made a wish every
time he pissed, he forgot why he threw pennies into toilets. But he did know
his actions benefitted the community, either by the thousands of vermin that
died gagging on his donation, or the state workers who made small fortunes when
they recycled his septic into tap water. From this charity, he felt righteous
but nervous too, especially when his orange juice from concentrate tasted more
coppery than usual.
Someone had written on the wall to his right, "Saturdays 2:15AM."
He looked at his watch.
He performed another bathroom ritual-- not a superstition, not a habit
or tendency, but more like an event, a program-- when he exited the gas
station restroom; to the man waiting outside, he gave a smile and said only,
"Sorry." He developed this gesture from his brother, who always
dripped warm water on the door handle. His family's idea of humility involved
shoving the world's face into the unknown, and usually the unknown smelled
like urine.
The woman clerk looked at him queerly like it was 2:16 and the night had just
begun.
He felt lucky, not just because he lefthanded three Whatchamacallits past the
front counter in broad daylight, but also knowing that three steps later he
would drive to Delaware in a new car, the one he'd drive off in while
the owner tries to fix the overflowing toilet, tries to decide if he sees a
penny through the running water.
2 :
Ignace looked outside. He put his hands on the wheel, drove to his sister's
wedding, looked outside, and forgot moments of his life.
At seventeen, he sold candy to children at playgrounds. He'd drive up
to the fence, and the kids tossed their baggies of change through his window;
he'd replace the money with candy and send the goods back over. The gig
suited him: flexible hours, consistent pay, and dozens of pre-adolescents calling
him Candyman. People asked how was business, and he said it was sweet.
Outside was cold. He rolled down the window, took out his pocket knife and
fingered it.
Most parents of the kids who traded their lunch monies for candy had known
him since his childhood, and while they had no reason to like the boy, they
had no reason to dislike him either. One parent remained skeptical, however,
calling him a dealer, a thief, a cheat, saying that "if he's not
selling drugs, I'm sure that candy's laced with something."
The school board called him to a PTA meeting; they asked, "Are you selling
drugs? Is your candy laced with something?" He answered, "No. No,
sirs, indeed." They asked, "Well, then why do you sell these kids
candy?" He answered, "If I don't take their money, someone
else will, sirs."
A cold wind blinded him and he locked the brakes. He looked down and saw blood
on his hand, the pocket knife covered in it, and, in the cup holder, half his
pinkie finger pointing back at him, blaming him.
3 :
Ignace barely remembered his relatives, but there he sat, one of dozens at
the main banquet table of his sister's wedding reception. The room had
a low ceiling, making everyone taller. The wedding cake had green trim, somebody's
mistake, probably his. With her eyes glossy, the new bride looked at him and
her lower lip blubbered, then she looked at her new husband and smiled.
Some nephew crawled under the table over his feet, so he kicked him into some
old man, and everyone pointed and some laughed.
"Look here, you haven't changed a bit," a cousin marveled.
"You were always such a little bastard," said one uncle. "Look
at your pinkie." These and other remarks from relatives he had never met.
He gave a curious look and asked, "Do I know you?" They roared.
"Not one bit." Into their pockets he slipped small baggies of illegal-looking
white powder accompanied by a business card that listed the contact information
of his brother, who, unfortunately, did not make the reception.
Ignace swallowed three painkillers, looked at his mother smiling at him from
across the dance floor, and counted out three more.
He left early because of some business at the hotel; he left through the kitchen
door and wedged it shut behind him with a metal tray. The side doors secured
easily with a crowbar. He affixed a horseshoe bike lock to the front doors,
waved a sincere goodbye to his family, and proceeded to put their cars in neutral
and roll them into the Delaware. Everyone watched in silence as, by way of anguish
and impotence, some stranger reminded them of their happiness. Then his mother
smashed a chair through a window.
4 :
Ignace would forget certain times of his life. He rubber-banded hotel towels
to his bare legs, pulled on pants normally too big for him, and thought about
all the times he would forget.
One day at his high school, five football players picked up this skinny sophomore
everyone called Squirrel-- from his rat-tail haircut-- and hung him
by his feet out the second-floor chemistry lab window. Squirrel screamed for
almost ten minutes before the bullies brought him back in and stuffed him into
a fish tank. Squirrel mentioned these events casually at a club years later.
He must have told that story a hundred times.
He folded the bed sheets lengthwise and wrapped them around his upper body.
He concealed it all beneath a sweater.
Looking at Squirrel-- emaciated, buck-toothed, blue plastic barrettes in
his orange hair-- and listening to his story that night, he had felt terrible.
He empathized. He apologized for the bullies and immediately regretted it, lying
like that. They had shared their darkest moments, their sensitive data, but
he doubted he could care less, until he did. Squirrel left him, and he wished
he had fallen.
A bellhop helped him carry the television set from his room, down the elevator,
through the front lobby, and into the back seat of the car. Then the bellhop
ran upstairs to grab the remote.
5 :
Ignace, finally home after his drive, decided to give up his mischievous ways,
but first he ran a few errands. He went grocery shopping and brought fourteen
items through the express line. At the gym, he did half of his normal workout.
He snuck a Kit Kat on his way to mini-golf, where he marked down a birdie at
every hole. Speeding down the highway, he blew through two toll booths and then
took to the breakdown lane.
A young boy flipped him off from the child-seat in a blue minivan. He had no
time for games, so he gave the boy the pinkie.
He had less than a second to identify the matter that painted the car grille
and caused him to lose control, but he knew it looked at him before exploding.
The form of that creature and the mess made of it did not interest him, mattered
as little as driving the car over the guardrail, down the shoulder, and up an
icy culvert; he barely noticed. During the crash, he remembered his joy earlier
that morning while walking laps in the supermarket and making meals of the sampler
platters.
In his rearview mirror, he watched a blue minivan float noiselessly through
the air like dandelion seeds, like smoke, disease.
He exited the car that rocked upside-down but did not belong to him and climbed
the embankment up to the highway. Eight cars, one city bus, and at least a dozen
motorcycles. A Nintendo Game Boy fell out of the minivan window; he looked at
it. Ignace walked the scene: motorcycles on top of cars on top of motorcycles,
all silent except for the sound of earthless tires spinning forever, one lone
vehicle fading down the road, just missing the action. He looked back at the
Game Boy. Soon after, he stopped cheating, but first he decided that on his
short walk home along the traffic-free highway perhaps he had time for games
after all.
David Meiklejohn lives and writes in Austin, TX. This
is his first story for Lime Tea.
