Tim Curtis
Turning Forty
Tulips. Vernon Pike was driving to work when he noticed the tulips were just beginning to poke their fingers through the ground, thousands of moist green tentacles tickling the earth, testing the direction of the wind. A horn’s honk spanked his eardrums. He’d drifted into the left lane and nearly bumped into a red minivan carrying six or seven nuns. Vernon had to cut a car off in the right lane to make his exit. On the off ramp, he glanced over and smiled at the nuns. Penguins driving a car, he thought, like characters in a child’s book. The nun in the passenger seat flipped him off.
Vernon was preoccupied: a meeting with his boss, a report due by the end of the day and the woman he met two nights ago at happy hour. Alice? Yeah, that was her name. She was bubbly, smelled like fresh mowed grass, radiated a cool, hot vibe and laughed at his jokes. Vernon tapped his thumbs on the steering wheel as he began to croon Alice, Alice bo-balice. Banana-fana fo-falice. Fee-fi-mo-malice. Alice! No wonder he had that feeling again, the one that makes a puppy’s tail wiggle its chubby body. Like the tulips, Vernon yearned to burst out, let the wind rush through his hair the way it did the first time he peddled his bike without training wheels.
That evening, Vernon had already had a couple of beers and the grill going by the time the doorbell rang. Alice, younger and hypnotically dressed in tight jeans and a T-shirt looked like a peach, a firm ripe peach. After dinner they made love on the living room rug. Alice was generous. Alice tasted like a Key Lime Pie.
Vernon dreamed he was on a playground, clinging to the merry-go-round’s whirling steel platform. As the other kids pushed harder and the decrepit contraption spun faster, Vernon’s exhilaration turned to fright as his grip began to fail.
****
Mosquitoes. The brochure hadn’t mentioned mosquitoes. Vernon stood on the cabana’s little porch scratching at his bites. He breathed in the salty air and listened to the waves crash along the shoreline. He took another sip of his lukewarm coffee and found himself gawking at two ships on the horizon, silently closing the distance between them. As Vernon turned to step back inside one seemed to swallow the other.
Alice was still asleep under the netting. Vernon stood next to the bed and gazed down through the thin veil at her breasts. They were as firm and perfect as little green apples, floating on each wave of breath. Vernon felt like he’d swallowed a helium balloon and wondered if he spoke would he sound like Donald Duck.
It seemed funny to him now. They’d explored the island the first day and had dinner and drinks poolside before scampering back to the cabana to make love. Once inside, Alice left a trail of clothing in her wake, dove under the netting and laughed while Vernon folded his shorts and placed his Hawaiian shirt on the wicker chair before snuggling up next to her. A moment later they both shrieked. The netting was full of mosquitoes. They’d forgotten to close it earlier. After a few panicky moments, Vernon stood on the bed and flipped the curtain inside out and the evening was saved.
Alice stretched, blinked and smiled up at Vernon. Vernon parted the net and kissed her on the forehead. She smelled like Jujubes. He crawled back inside and they made love. Alice was like the island’s flora, foreign and untamed, alluring yet threatening, bearing sweet-sticky fruits Vernon had never before sampled. Afterwards, he told her about his dream, how he’d clung to a kite’s tail in the moonlight and giggled as the cool ocean swells lapped at his toes.
“Wow. Vernon, that’s so cool,” Alice said. Her voice was low and melodic.
Vernon was surprised she didn’t hear the soft low murmuring in his chest.
That evening they sat with their feet in the sand, drinking rum cocktails brimming with pineapple chunks and little umbrellas that caught on their noses. Vernon was contemplating how nice it would be to nestle inside Alice and get drunk on her intoxicating sap when the sun plunged into the Pacific, steamlessly.
****
Leaves. Vernon felt like he’d been raking leaves into the wind all his life. He was staring out the kitchen window with his last cold beer in his hand watching those insolent little buggers summersault across the lawn thumbing their noses at him under a gloomy sky. It seemed like he’d just raked the yard last weekend or was it the weekend before, he wasn’t certain.
By summer’s end, the trees looked exhausted and the lawns were fried. Flannel pajamas had replaced summer nighties and rote copulation had supplanted leisurely sleepovers. Then, just a few weeks ago, Vernon noticed the tulips were preparing to sacrifice their hands to save their souls, field mice had begun moving indoors and Alice said she needed some space. Vernon stepped out back, picked up the rake and headed for the front yard prepared for defeat. Corralling a million leaves was like herding cats; each one had a mind of its own. His only solace would be burning them. He loved the smell. It reminded him of his grandmother. She let him roast marshmallows over the burning leaves.
Later that afternoon, exhausted, Vernon fell asleep on the couch and dreamed he was being chased. Running and out of breath, he glanced over his shoulder and fell. He tried to scream but nothing came out. He could see the man’s face. The man looked just like Vernon.
****
Ice. The weatherman had forecast ice. The morning’s murky light and Vernon’s mood made the house feel as bleak and cold as the weather. He was lying under the covers of his king-size bed feeling like one of the unlucky eggs, the ones placed in the corners of the carton, the ones most likely to experience harm. Vernon watched his stale breath cloud the frigid air and wondered if the heater had gone out. He remembered when his mother dragged him to the grocery store. How he’d stick his head down among the frozen meats and inhale the frosty air through his nostrils. His nose hairs felt the same now as they did then, like brittle winter branches.
After much debate, Vernon slipped out of bed, flung his bathrobe around him, slid his icy feet into his slippers and scurried downstairs to check the thermostat and grab a new box of Kleenex. In the kitchen he heard a squeak. The mouse that had eluded him for weeks was stuck on the sticky trap Alice had bought on her final visit and he’d reluctantly put out the night before.
Vernon went to the junk drawer and got a pair of pliers. He approached the nasty little thing with apprehension. He pinched a corner of the tacky paper, raised it at arms length and stepped over to the trashcan, lifted the lid and released his grip. Nothing happened. The pliers must have gotten stuck. Vernon forced himself to look. Vomit rose in his throat. Vernon could see six baby mice stuck in the gooey substance. The vile creature had given birth and instinct dictated that they wiggle their tiny toes in vain. Vernon shuddered and dropped the whole disgusting mess, pliers and all into the trash and slammed the lid shut. The squeaking didn’t subside. Uncertain what to do, Vernon opened the backdoor and placed the trashcan on the porch. At twenty-eight degrees, it wouldn’t be long before the miserable creatures quieted down.
Later that afternoon, back in bed nursing a cold, Vernon fell into a fevered slumber. He saw his mother’s emaciated body dumped in a battered trashcan behind Mercy Hospital. Her lifeless arms and legs dangled over the jagged edge like a rag doll. He woke up sweaty and shaken and mystified by his erection.