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Big Head
Big Head (Canal Street Station - Short Fiction)
I love to eat garbage. Since I'm being totally candid, I suppose you should also know I have a habit of noisily licking my testicles when I'm relaxing. Though both these practices can be problematic, the former recently served as the source of my epiphany, while the latter occasionally causes my friends some small embarrassment, no pun intended.
Before I describe my revelation, I hope you won't mind if I digress a bit. My name is Big Head. Since that moniker was given me by the hairy, reddish-faced man known as Abner Kernoodle, I suppose I could claim his Christian name as well, although it's never been required of me.
I'm presently ninety-eight years of age. I was born on the cool, oily concrete beneath the long-dormant engine of a '66 Chrysler convertible. The hulk of my birthplace still stands, perilously balanced on four cement blocks behind the bus station in Hot Coffee, Kansas.
Some of my happiest childhood moments were spent there, resting in the shade of the Greyhound freight dock with Momma and my two sisters. I still remember the comfortable drone of the television inside the terminal, the endless CNN reports concerning President Clinton and Monica Lewinsky. Those were happy times, but again, I digress.
As my mother's only son, I felt obliged to strike out on my own at an early age. Engulfed in a shroud of searing Kansas August, I trudged for two weeks, skittering my way through a strange land until finally arriving, starving and dehydrated at the Kernoodle farm. As I trembled on the verge of collapse while gazing through the wire mesh surrounding a group of fat hens, I was happened upon by a saint.
Emma Kernoodle approached me cautiously, waddling, speaking softly, the gentle, nautical roll of her ample hips somehow reassuring me of her kindness. Hours later, hairy, red, Abner arrived home as I lay on the porch, his wife offering me Gatorade through the hard, plastic teat of a turkey baster.
Concerned about a sticky, yellow goo oozing from one of my eyes, my plumpish savior directed a visibly unenthusiastic Mr. Kernoodle to load me in his pickup and whisk me away for close inspection by Doc Ivey.
"What are his chances, Doc?"
"Fifty-fifty, I'd say, Abner; pretty bad shape; mange, dehydration, worms. He's awful weak. If I keep him here a week or so, I might be able to get him back on his feet."
"Humph," Abner snorted, "and what might that cost a feller?"
"Thirty dollars a day," the doctor answered. Back at the farm an hour later, I rested in the bed of the pickup truck while Abner held an animated conversation with his kindly wife. Following that exchange, I took up comfortable residence on the Kernoodle back porch as Miss Emma proceeded to slowly nurse me back to health.
Although the Kernoodle's are poor and elderly, I'd place their ages around 350 or so, they are a lively pair. In spite of our inauspicious start, by Christmas Abner had befriended me and I'd become a full member of the Kernoodle clan.
More than two blissful years passed before disaster struck again. My favorite spot for reconnoitering is an indentation in the earth half-way between the Kernoodle driveway and the chicken coop. As I rested there one morning, ducking the chill January wind, Abner absently backed over me with his pickup truck. After rushed conversation, I was whisked away for another emergency trip to Doc Ivey's.
"How bad is it, Doc?"
"His hip's broken, Abner. I think I can pin it, though, right here," Doc Ivey said, pointing to a thin, dark line on the x-ray he was holding up to the light.
I love to eat garbage. Since I'm being totally candid, I suppose you should also know I have a habit of noisily licking my testicles when I'm relaxing. Though both these practices can be problematic, the former recently served as the source of my epiphany, while the latter occasionally causes my friends some small embarrassment, no pun intended.
Before I describe my revelation, I hope you won't mind if I digress a bit. My name is Big Head. Since that moniker was given me by the hairy, reddish-faced man known as Abner Kernoodle, I suppose I could claim his Christian name as well, although it's never been required of me.
I'm presently ninety-eight years of age. I was born on the cool, oily concrete beneath the long-dormant engine of a '66 Chrysler convertible. The hulk of my birthplace still stands, perilously balanced on four cement blocks behind the bus station in Hot Coffee, Kansas.
Some of my happiest childhood moments were spent there, resting in the shade of the Greyhound freight dock with Momma and my two sisters. I still remember the comfortable drone of the television inside the terminal, the endless CNN reports concerning President Clinton and Monica Lewinsky. Those were happy times, but again, I digress.
As my mother's only son, I felt obliged to strike out on my own at an early age. Engulfed in a shroud of searing Kansas August, I trudged for two weeks, skittering my way through a strange land until finally arriving, starving and dehydrated at the Kernoodle farm. As I trembled on the verge of collapse while gazing through the wire mesh surrounding a group of fat hens, I was happened upon by a saint.
Emma Kernoodle approached me cautiously, waddling, speaking softly, the gentle, nautical roll of her ample hips somehow reassuring me of her kindness. Hours later, hairy, red, Abner arrived home as I lay on the porch, his wife offering me Gatorade through the hard, plastic teat of a turkey baster.
Concerned about a sticky, yellow goo oozing from one of my eyes, my plumpish savior directed a visibly unenthusiastic Mr. Kernoodle to load me in his pickup and whisk me away for close inspection by Doc Ivey.
"What are his chances, Doc?"
"Fifty-fifty, I'd say, Abner; pretty bad shape; mange, dehydration, worms. He's awful weak. If I keep him here a week or so, I might be able to get him back on his feet."
"Humph," Abner snorted, "and what might that cost a feller?"
"Thirty dollars a day," the doctor answered. Back at the farm an hour later, I rested in the bed of the pickup truck while Abner held an animated conversation with his kindly wife. Following that exchange, I took up comfortable residence on the Kernoodle back porch as Miss Emma proceeded to slowly nurse me back to health.
Although the Kernoodle's are poor and elderly, I'd place their ages around 350 or so, they are a lively pair. In spite of our inauspicious start, by Christmas Abner had befriended me and I'd become a full member of the Kernoodle clan.
More than two blissful years passed before disaster struck again. My favorite spot for reconnoitering is an indentation in the earth half-way between the Kernoodle driveway and the chicken coop. As I rested there one morning, ducking the chill January wind, Abner absently backed over me with his pickup truck. After rushed conversation, I was whisked away for another emergency trip to Doc Ivey's.
"How bad is it, Doc?"
"His hip's broken, Abner. I think I can pin it, though, right here," Doc Ivey said, pointing to a thin, dark line on the x-ray he was holding up to the light.
23 pages, Kindle Edition
First published March 25, 2012
2 people are currently reading
4 people want to read
About the author
Jess Butcher
49 books2 followersJESS Butcher is the author of three Mike Bishop novels, SUN DOG, SIDEWINDER REQUIEM, and MULESHOE. In addition, Butcher has published FINAL THOUGHTS and 17, short fiction anthologies that feature titles from his Lexington Avenue Express series.
All of Butcher's titles are available on the Kindle e-Reader; SUN DOG, SIDEWINDER REQUIEM, MULESHOE and FINAL THOUGHTS are also available in Paperback.
Please note: Lexington Avenue Express and Canal Street Station titles are short fiction. These short story titles range from 1,200 to 4,000 words in length.
You may contact Jess Butcher by email at:
jessbutcher.home@gmail.com
www.jessbutcher-author.com.
All of Butcher's titles are available on the Kindle e-Reader; SUN DOG, SIDEWINDER REQUIEM, MULESHOE and FINAL THOUGHTS are also available in Paperback.
Please note: Lexington Avenue Express and Canal Street Station titles are short fiction. These short story titles range from 1,200 to 4,000 words in length.
You may contact Jess Butcher by email at:
jessbutcher.home@gmail.com
www.jessbutcher-author.com.
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