When I open the door to Dad’s apartment, I am hit with a wave of rank hot air. The air is moist, and I can smell an odd undercurrent of sweat and grass. Maybe urine. If there was such a thing as a sauna for horses, it would smell like this.
My father is standing in front of the sliding glass door that leads to his four foot concrete balcony. He has his back to me, and is naked except for what looks like some large belted underpants from the 1940s.
“Cool pants.” I say.
“It’s a modified pillowcase,” he says, not turning around. “I should probably be naked, but I put this on for your benefit.”
“Thank you for that.”
The pillowcase he is wearing has what looks like a wet spot blossoming out from the base of his spine, where he has it fastened to him with a black dress belt. I’ve just about convinced myself that it is sweat when he speaks.
“What’s the worst part of being a cannibal, Greg?”
“I don’t know, what?” I say, wandering over to the refrigerator. I need something cool to drink. It’s just too hot in here.
He rests his hand on the glass, and suddenly seems very tired. Exhausted maybe, or hungry. “It wasn’t a joke,” he says. “I honestly want your opinion.”
Opening the fridge, I find it empty, except for a few open packs of string cheese. “Um...fridge space?”
He leans his head on the glass of the window, and it makes a brief rubbery squeak. “Seriously, though,” he says. “What makes it a bad thing?”
I leave the refrigerator door open and sit down in front of it. I can’t imagine Dad will mind, at least not right now.
“I don’t know, gag reflex?” I say. “Things that make us gag when placed in our mouth tend to be...um...culturally inappropriate. Feces, vomit, body parts...”
He interrupts me. “I think it’s the murder,” he says. He hasn’t turned around, but I know he twitched his head, because I heard it slip on the glass. “When you think of that soccer team stranded in the Alps...”
“Andes.”
He turns around, resting his back on the window. “When you think of them,” he says, “you have more empathy for those that ate the already-dead casualties than for the ones that hunted down survivors and killed them for their meat.”
“I’m not sure it happened that way,” I say.
He slides to the floor, the sweat of his back leaving a long greasy smear on the glass door.
“But killing people for their meat and then eating them is worse, morally, than just eating human meat,” he says.
“I guess. Sure,” I say. “Two bad things is worse than one bad thing.”
My father tilts his head and stares sidelong out the window for a few seconds. He hasn’t really looked at me this whole time, just staring into the distance, idly bored, like he’s waiting for something.
“I’m not a cannibal, you know,” he says.
“I never thought so,” I say, and my stomach growls, which seems odd, considering what he just said.
“But I think about it sometimes,” he says, and it sounds strangely mournful, like he’s remembering a cherished relative who died years ago.
“Ah.”
He sighs loudly, closes his eyes and drops his head. “I wish there was a way to try the meat, you know?” he mutters. “Just try it, but not have to kill anybody, or eat meat that’s been lying around for days. Or weeks. That’s just gross.”
“Yes,” I say. “Yes it is.”
His eyes open, and he finally looks at me. Not right at me, but at a spot just above my right shoulder. “I have a plan, though,” he says.
“Does this have to do with the pillowcase?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Not really. Sort of. The pillowcase has more to do with you. The being naked part is, though.”
“And the heat?” I ask.
He seems to notice for the first time that I’m sitting in front of an open refrigerator and shivers. “That’s mostly to keep me warm while I’m naked, but I’m also hoping to create a comfortable environment for them.”
“Them?” I ask, looking around. I’m worried he might be keeping some kind of animal in here.
“The dragons,” he says.
“Of course,” I say, sighing. I shouldn’t be as disheartened as I am, since there is a possibility he might talking about komodo dragons, but I’m pretty sure he isn’t. Then I wonder how I got to the place where the prospect of my father keeping komodo dragons in his one bedroom apartment is a reassuring thought.
“I am going to lure a dragon to me, you see, and then I will live in its mouth,” he says. If he wasn’t so tired, it might have actually sounded triumphant.
“It seems a little dangerous,” I say. “With the sharp teeth and fire all around, I mean.”
He seems not to notice I said anything. “I will lie upon a cushion of soft flesh while the beast provides me my daily meat,” he says. “I don’t have to hurt anyone. I won’t need to work, I won’t need to go shopping, I won’t even need to go to the restroom. I can just be, and all my needs will be provided for.”
“So how long have you been waiting? You know, for a dragon to show up?”
“Too long,” he says, tapping the glass on his sliding door. “I’m beginning to think they don’t exist.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard that, too. I’m pretty sure they’ve gone extinct.”
“That’s not good,” he says, troubled.
“I guess not,” I say. “It kind of ruins your plan.”
Dad ponders silently for a moment.
“No dragons?” he asks.
“Nope,” I say.
He turns to stare out the window again.
“I guess you can go ahead and put on some pants,” I say.
“A hippo, then,” he whispers.
“What?”
He turns, looking right at that spot above my shoulder. “I will lure a hippopotamus to me,” he says. “And then I will live in its mouth.”
“A hippo?” I ask.
“Hm.”
I watch him for a moment. His eyes are active, darting around from what looks like one corner of his ceiling to another. I’m pretty sure hippos don’t eat people, but I’m no expert. Maybe they do. I don’t want to shatter Dad’s dreams twice today in any case, so I don’t bring it up.
“All right then, Pop,” I say, standing. “I’m heading out.”
“All right,” he says. “Shut the fridge on the way out, will you?”
I stand, closing the refrigerator door with a wet thunk. “Happy Father’s Day,” I say.
“Okay,” he says, clearly thinking about something else. “You too.”
Interesting. I had a similar conversation with my father on Father's Day, but it involved a bearded dragon.
Posted by: Enna Isilee | July 10, 2009 at 10:02 AM
I wonder what people taste like, too.
This is a bit late for a Father's Day post.
Posted by: Q | July 10, 2009 at 11:24 AM
Ah, dreadcrumbs. Always a treat. A tasty, tasty treat.
Posted by: Celes | July 10, 2009 at 01:19 PM
Awkward. I am entirely baffled.
Nevertheless, I am entertained.
Posted by: Katie-wa | July 10, 2009 at 06:46 PM
He should just live inside a whale, and eat whoever the whale eats. It's kinda recursive, sure, but moral constraints disappear in the belly of whale.
What happens in the whale, stays in the whale.
Posted by: Marcus Aurelius | July 11, 2009 at 07:59 AM
what happens in the whale stays in the whale..haha *sigh*
Always the cannibalism. Still, so well written.
Posted by: emilyf | July 16, 2009 at 08:46 PM
my god! that was funny, at 1st i had to knit my brows ... they began to smooth sentence after sentence, i couldn't help smirking.
funny, but weird. what the HEC*, who am i to judge? - never had such a conversation with my dad ... :)
Posted by: samosa | July 18, 2009 at 09:48 AM
Brilliant.
Posted by: Anidori-Kiladra | July 25, 2009 at 07:08 PM
Yum.
Posted by: Burning | October 02, 2009 at 11:25 PM