A Very Short Covid Flash Fiction, Which Returns Us to the Topic of the Unreliable Narrator
While Also Examining the Good and Bad of Socially Accepted Stereotypes.
Time for a welcomed change from the insanity of Donald Trump
Some people are madly in love with Taylor Swift; others salivate over Brad Pitt. For me, the big turn-on is the first-person unreliable narrator in literature. I love the way a good short story writer or novelist can create first-person narrators, whom we are expected to look at ironically. That is, as they tell their stories, they don’t see that their views of what’s going on (views that usually makes them look good) are very different than, and sometimes even the opposite of, how we perceive those same views. Sometimes this discrepancy in viewpoints creates humor; sometimes it’s a bit scary. Sometimes it’s a mix, as in the wonderful first-person narrator called Fuckhead in Denis Johnson’s brilliant short-story sequence, Jesus’ Son.
In this collection, Fuckhead, a junkie, does a number of despicable things, once even punching his pregnant girlfriend in the gut, and yet most of the time he possesses a childlike innocence, as if he’s clueless as to how maneuver in “normal” life situations. Johnson further confuses reader expectations by giving Fuckhead a beautiful poetic vision and making him capable of amazing flights of language. By doing all this, Johnson deals with addiction and love in a world that is often loveless.
Consider this beautiful passage, written after Fuckhead is pick up while hitching in a pouring rain:
At the head of the entrance ramp I waited without hope of a ride. What was the point, even, of rolling up my sleeping bag when I was too wet to be let into anybody's car? I draped it around me like a cape. The downpour raked the asphalt and gurgled in the ruts. My thoughts zoomed fully. The traveling salesman had fed me pills that made the linings of my veins feel scraped out. My jaw ached. I knew every raindrop by its name. I sensed everything before it happened. I knew a certain Oldsmobile would stop for me even before it slowed, and by the sweet voices of the family inside it I knew we'd have an accident in the storm.
Below we find Bob Rizzo. He’s not, well, as fucked up or poetic as Fuckhead, but I wanted the reader, especially in the beginning, to think that he’s a bit of a selfish, big-mouth working-class guy, who can even be mean at times. I wanted to play with my reader’s expectations of this stereotype, only to undercut it at the end when, in his own way, Bob has an epiphany. But rather than spoil the fun, just sit back, relax, and enjoy Bob’s stream of conscious narrative. It’s deliberately one paragraph long because that’s how Bob thinks.
Comfort Food
It all came to a head when my wife wouldn’t stop messing with my stuff. With no grandkids to hug because of the virus, that’s all she does now: pick up my pajamas, hang up my keys, toss out cans of half-finished beers, and spend half the day organizing my shoes. I’d finally had it when I couldn’t find my Kindle for about the fifth time, so I told her that when they finally let her out of the house, she ought to wear a paper bag over her head instead of a mask. I had no idea what that meant, but she didn’t hesitate to punch back, saying, “Make yours a plastic bag knotted around your neck with that bungee cord you accused me of throwing out.” Forty-five years of marriage and she can talk to me like that! Amazing! If you really think about it, she was telling me to kill myself. You see, we had both been drinking. Normally we only drink at night but after she tested positive for the virus, we got quarantined like lepers and started to crank it up earlier than usual. It was tough, stuck in the house, with our youngest daughter forced to leave groceries on the front porch—us like two half-starved convicts, reaching through a crack in the door and dragging in the bags. Not to mention having to wash off everything. Have you ever tried rubbing a wet sponge soaked in Clorox over a cardboard box of rice without it seeping through? The last care package from the daughter was mostly donuts and junk food, so you know I didn’t make up that list. Oh, yeah, I forgot to tell you, my wife, who’s always struggled with her weight, has decided to let it rip now, like I’m supposed to sit home and watch her inflate like a goddamn balloon. Still, as tense as things were, we were managing until that she made comment about the plastic bag, which really set me off, so I decided to break quarantine and ride my bike to the beach and get some fresh air. I thought that might worry her, and that’s what I wanted to do, so imagine my surprise when I looked behind me and there was no wife standing panicked at the door, no wife chasing me down the driveway, saying, “Oh, Honey, please don’t. If you leave, I’ll just worry myself sick.” Years ago, I could’ve freaked her out with antics like this. Back then, it was the only way I could convince myself she loved me. I was about halfway to the beach when I realized I was weaving back and forth, and I knew it would be hard explaining to a cop why I smelled like Billy’s Bar and Grill at eleven in the morning after I smashed into a telephone poll. I passed a few teenagers on the way, two girls and a guy. The girls looked at me funny, kind of scared, like I was crazy, or maybe it was because I had forgotten to change and was still wearing my flannel pajama bottoms and leather moccasin slippers. One thing I swore I’d never be was a sloppy old man, yet here I was, a sloppy old drunken man, who could scare the crap out of teenage girls just by passing them on a bike. When I got to the beach, I parked the bike and sat on a metal bench with a bronze tag attached to the backrest. It read: “In Memory of Rodrigo Flores Who Loved His Family More Than Himself.” I wondered what tag my wife would purchase if the virus took me out. Probably something like, "In Memory of Bob Rizzo, a Self-Centered SOB Who Only Loved Himself.” Which is only partly true, because anyone will tell you that no one loves his family more than me. Shit, I even still love my wife. I grabbed my cell and tried to call her, but she wouldn’t answer. I texted her at least ten times, telling her I was sorry but still no response. That made me angrier than when she told me to suffocate myself. But mostly I was angry with myself, and I was worried about her. She’d been having sniffles and headaches, so we both feared the worst was on its way. Wonder if right now she was half out of her mind with a fever, wandering deliriously in the woods or sitting on a swing at the playground deciding whether to hang herself from a jungle gym. I had to get home. Someone had to save her, even an old drunk in his pajamas, who hadn’t had a haircut in two months or shaved since the lockdown. I got on my bike and rode as fast as I could. I searched every room in the house but no wife. Each empty room was like a kick in the nuts, and I knew whose fault it was. Finally, I heard the click of billiard balls in the basement, which is where I found her, casually shooting pool. Shooting pool! Do you believe it? “Just go away,” she said. “You’re a horrible man.” “You’re right,” I said, “I’m a bastard.” “Oh, so you think you can be cruel, and I’ll just take it and then forgive you.” I went over and started to rub her back. “Too much booze, too early in the day,” I said. “You feeling okay?” “Yeah, but I’m a little scared.” “You have a right to be,” I said. “Maybe we should eat some comfort food.” So that’s what we did. We went upstairs and grabbed some chocolate donuts from the freezer, not even taking the time to thaw them out. You’d be surprised how good they taste like that. I was going to get us a drink (what a dummy!) but she had already poured two glasses of milk and was about to make a pot of coffee. What the hell? I thought. She’s entitled to eat and drink any damn thing she wants. It only took us a minute to knock off our donuts and down the milk. She got up from the kitchen table and poured two cups of black coffee. She sat back down and grabbed another donut. She had vowed to lose three pounds that week, but I thought, Honey, you eat the whole damn box of donuts if you want. And that’s when I realized that all that really mattered was that we loved each other. It wasn’t pretty sometimes, but, dammit, we got by. I mean, how many couples make it forty-five years without killing each other? You’re probably surprised someone like me could have an insight like that, but it’s not all that unusual. Sometimes, it just takes me longer than most people to get there.
You can find Peter Johnson’s books, along with interviews with him, appearances, and other information at peterjohnsonauthor.com
His most recent book of prose poems is While the Undertaker Sleeps: Collected and New Prose Poems
His most recent book of fiction is Shot: A Novel in Stories