Qanzaspeak

The first time I saw him, twenty years ago, Brandon and I were walking past Sheldon Art Gallery and his black combat boots were stomping straight toward us. Bowl haircut, shaved underneath, purple. Round, Lennonish shades that were still cool. Long trench trimmed with one million safety pins. Tall. Black eyebrows, black stubble. Scowl planted firmly.

The gay male brick shithouse circa 1989, like a little prayer. I went home, savored Madge’s patchouli scented liner notes, and and ached for him. What do you mean it’s not in the computer?

Brandon and I realized our shared orientation when we simultaneously craned our necks to watch him pass. Horny whiplash.

Living in my folks’ right-wing Christian household while negotiating my same-sex romance with a college boy when I was still in high school taught me more deviance than a library of REsearch oversized paperbacks. How can something so wrong…well, fuck. Exactly.

The romance was brief, and we only ever kissed. Maybe that’s why we’re still friends, and why I’ll always love him.

9 out of 10, your best bet is…

Hi. I’m done. Done. Done. Done. I turn in final papers tomorrow. This is my final for non-fiction writing. I think the Portland contingent may enjoy this, especially when they ask…Why here?

Little Beirut

Gay life in Kansas sucks. In 1990, I moved from Lincoln, Nebraska to Lawrence, Kansas, excited to live in a city that, though considerably smaller, describes itself as a bastion of liberalism. Commonly heralded The Athens on the Kaw River, The City of the Arts, and The Berkeley of the Midwest, Lawrence seemed the next best thing to pulling up stakes and making a major move to a coast. Upon arrival, I was delighted at the multitude of tie-dyed shirts, Doc Marten’s boots, and Democrats. Further, having escaped a high school existence on the fringe, surrounded by children driving brand new Porsches received for Sweet Sixteens from wealthy Republican parents made rich off shady Reagan-era stock portfolios, I felt I’d come home at last. In Lawrence, the reubens were tempeh, the cars were VWs, and the t-shirts were black. I arrived and hit the town prepared to let my freak flag fly, to get proactive with activism, and hopefully to get some dick. Oh yeah, The University of Kansas is often nicknamed Gay U. Fucking bonus, no?

Actually, no. Even before I relocated to Kansas eighteen years ago, Reverend Fred Phelps began picketing the funerals of AIDS victims while shrieking that God hates fags. Popular thought insisted Phelps’ campaign defeated its purpose, and that Kansas conservatives previously prone to an anti-gay opinion were so horrified by Phelps’ insensitivity toward the dead that they found a new tolerance and empathy for gays. The thought, though optimistic, proved simply the means for armchair activists to give themselves a case of the warm fuzzies while maintaining a safe sameness with their surroundings. For all the hype, Lawrence remains a small town in Kansas. If there’s any truth to the stereotype that gay men want frat-boy cock, then there also must be a little truth to the stereotype that Kansans are racist, homophobic, sexist, back-woods, redneck, assholes…and are stupid. Of course, I’ve never been one to put much stock into stereotypes. I base my opinions on experience.

Within my first year in The Berkeley of the Midwest, my life was threatened, my dorm room vandalized, and my tires slashed, all because I’m gay. Gay U, it seems, is not a term of endearment. Instead, I came to realize, it was a warning to clean-cut, All-American farm boys considering the move to Lawrence to attend the University.

“If any of these Gay U faggots so much as look at my zipper, I’m gonna’ pound his fucking face to a bloody pulp,” I overheard a frat-boy say to his buddies over Bud Lites on my first night out on the town. With my bobbed hair dyed jet black, silver-dollar sized hoop earrings, and tuxedo shirt firmly in place, I sipped my cool and manly gin based Tom Collins and wondered if he could possibly be talking about me? I also made a mental note; do not look at his zipper. I hadn’t even thought of his zipper until he mentioned it, but found myself wondering if it was diamond encrusted, Bedazzled, or covering a particularly noteworthy bulge. Still, I heard my warning. I didn’t look.

Rule Number One: Even though it’s The Athens on the Kaw, a male looking at another male’s pants zipper is punishable by a pounding about the (fucking) face until said face is rendered a bloody pulp. Make no bones about it. No pun intended.

Still, it wasn’t the violent, boozy, testosterone laced frat-boys who caused the real problems. The previously mentioned threat on my life came from none other than the president of the campus recycling organization while wearing a tie dyed shirt. Tie dye for chrissakes, the ultimate symbol of pacifism, non-violent civil disobedience, and peace, man. The dorm room vandal wore Doc Martens and the tire slasher loved Bob Marley. All three were Democrats. One was a member of Amnesty International. One had a bumper sticker that read, “Visualize World Peace.”

Slowly, I realized that fashion takes many forms. To some it’s the culmination of months of hysterical designers’ labor, sketching, making patterns, cutting fabric, and sewing gowns until a glamorous twig snakes down a runway in Milan wearing haut couture with an empty brain, yet a sneering superiority. To others, it’s the adoption of the appearance of an ideology to gain the admiration of others.

Chicks dig recycling.

I dig chicks.

Ergo, I dig t-shirts that advocate recycling.

Maybe the attempted murderer figured the campus recycling club presidency would look good on his law school applications. Maybe the vandal wore Doc Martens to gain the trust of the wayward homosexual before luring him into a Christian de-programming shanghai. Perhaps the tire slasher visualized world peace through the annihilation of a gay man’s Ford Tempo. Whatever the case, I was learning. Lawrence obtained its reputation because of the way people looked, and the things they said. Their actions and beliefs were radically different from this appearance, and radically similar to the rest of the state.

Rule Number Two: Even though it’s The Berkeley of the Midwest, the guy in the recycling t-shirt may still be prone to burning a cross or two. This is perfectly acceptable. After all, Berkeley reference or not, this is Kansas, faggot.

I’d been tricked. I planned escape.

* * *

Nothing can douse unhappiness like falling in love. My first date with Larry was in 1997. We’ve been together ever since. After two years we moved in together and have since built a home and life in Kansas. I buried my malcontent under a joyful home life and limited public exposure. Learning very quickly that going out together on Valentine’s Day, accompanying each other to social functions, and being two men alone together in general creates such a public spectacle we decide more often than not to stay in.

“Look at them eating, just like little people,” we imagine the amused straight couples saying when they become way too interested in our restaurant experience rather than their own anniversary celebrations. “Do you think they drive little cars and have little jobs, too? That’s so cute. Such a shame they’re going to burn in Hell. Pass the salsa?”

Still, any outsider can find their niche. We found like-minded friends, the few gay-friendly establishments around town, and settled into a comfy, if somewhat sequestered, existence. Time has a way of numbing one to their surroundings, and seeming improvements in attitude provided glimmers of hope. Clinton had eight years, Larry’s employer began to recognize same-sex domestic partnerships in their benefits packages, and our neighbors complimented us on our lawn. Begrudgingly, I started to accept my Kansan-ness, and to think maybe it wasn’t all that bad. Then, the world went bat-shit crazy.

* * *

In the year 2000 the Kansas Board of Education voted to “de-emphasize” the teaching of Darwin’s theory of evolution in public school curriculums, along with the allowance of a religious theory, Creationism, to share equal time. One year later, George W. Bush was elected President of the United states. After a brief war in Afghanistan as retaliation for the terrorist attacks on The World Trade Center, the war moved to unrelated Iraq. Even after the exposure of the lies told by the Bush administration to justify the war, Bush was re-elected for a second term in 2004, and bumpers stickers reading simply “W” plastered SUV’s across the state. The day John Kerry acquiesced Bush’s victory, I stood watching a television with fifteen co-workers. My boss, whose office door was covered with placards purporting environmentalism, racial harmony, and “openness,” crossed herself (you know, Catholic-style), did a little curtsy, and uttered, “Thank God,” at the news of Bush’s victory. The same year, Kansas voters outlawed the possibility of gay marriage, but kept inviting their gay relatives to their heterosexual wedding ceremonies. My blood began to boil, and hasn’t stopped since. Tricked a second time, escape became an obsession.

* * *

In his book Fugitives and Refugees: A Walk in Portland Oregon,

Chuck Palahniuk writes of a conversation with fellow Portland author Katherine Dunn.

Katherine’s theory is that everyone looking to make a new life migrates west, across America to the Pacific Ocean. Once there, the cheapest city where they can live is Portland. This gives us the most cracked of the crackpots. The misfits among misfits.

“We just accumulate more and more strange people,” she says. “All we are are the fugitives and refugees,” (Palahniuk, 14).

Reading Palahniuk’s unconventional tourist guide, I begin to salivate. The most cracked? The ultimate misfits? The fugitives and refugees of American culture? That’s me. Excitedly I tear through Palahniuk’s book, and fall in love with a city I’ve yet to visit. Palahniuk writes of a city committed to saving its multitude of historic architecture, improving already vast public transportation, bursting with art and theatre, a Mecca for writers, fiercely environmental, and liberal without apology. In Palahniuk’s Portland, there is no gay ghetto. Gays and straights live fluidly together throughout the city. Portland has long recognized domestic partnerships in employment benefits, and has even recently legalized civil unions. Most importantly, Palahniuk describes a radically left-wing city.

Ronald Reagan and George Bush (the elder) dreaded coming here so much they called Portland “Little Beirut.” A presidential whistle-stop meant anarchists would gather along SW Broadway, outside the president’s suite in the Hilton Hotel. They’d eat mashed potatoes, regular white ones, or potatoes dyed red or blue with food coloring. Then, when the motorcade arrived, they drank Syrup of Ipecac and puked big Red, White, and Blue barf puddles all over the hotel.

Okay, okay, what nobody knew is stomach acid makes blue food coloring turn green. So it looked like a protest against Italy…It’s the thought that counts (17).

The thought, indeed. Larry and I packed our bags, and eagerly made arrangements for an exploratory mission. Little Beirut or bust.

* * *

We left Kansas City in the humid, ninety-degree weather typical of July. I was barely able to contain my excitement. From time to time I find myself saying something without being aware I’m even speaking. At takeoff I heard myself whisper, I’m flying. I was certain the thought was a real-life metaphor, a secret message sent to my lips from a higher power, The Mothman, perhaps. I noticed the majority of mullet-headed men sporting t-shirts proclaiming sentiments akin to God Bless America exited the plane at the Denver stop. The Birkenstocks, platform heels, and rock band shirts remained on the plane. I felt this a good sign. Though convinced it’d be met with cheers, toasts, and possibly confetti, I refrained from shouting “Revolution NOW,” at take off. Instead, I grinned while staring at the quickly vanishing land out the window, knowing the next I’d see would be that of the promise land, the Pacific Northwest…Portland.

* * *

Heading downtown from the Portland airport, Larry drives the rental car while I gaze out the window, transfixed by the surrounding fir-covered hills and mountains. I unfocus my eyes and allow the trees to become blur of green, green, more green whizzing by my…what the, what’s that? I focus my eyes and crane my head to make out the large disturbance in the green blur. Over my shoulder, out the back window, I see three huge, white crosses coming out of the side of a hill, the surrounding fir trees chopped down to stumps to make room. Uneasiness descends, my stomach turns slightly, and a quick chill runs through my veins. Of course there are Christians here, too, I think. They’re everywhere, and they love to plant their crosses. This means nothing. This is Portland. I’m sure the residents laugh at those things and the foolish, misguided people who erected them. Still, I can’t help but fear they are a bad omen.

* * *

Once at the hotel, Larry and I throw our bags in our room and head for the hotel bar with tourist guides and local papers under arm, to get something to eat, and to decide what to do first. The bar is set up with clusters of small, antique, marble tables surrounded by high backed, stuffed chairs, and the place is full. Every cluster is occupied by at least two patrons, and people are having a good time. Smiles, libations, and laughter fill the room with an amicable tone, and we settle into two chairs adjacent to a couple of older men and open our bar menus.

“Beautiful day, don’t you think?”

I look up at one of the two men seated opposite Larry and me. Bald, pink, and smiling, he wears a three button, short sleeved shirt in horizontal stripes of pastel yellow and blue. He cradles a small dog with teased white fur in his lap while his companion clucks over the bar menu.

“Even in July, you never know when you’ll get caught in a downpour here in the City of Roses,” he continues. “I’m John, and this is my partner, Roger.”

Roger, who looks entirely similar to John other than his shirt bears pastel green and yellow stripes, looks up from the menu.

“I just can’t decide whether to order the crab cakes or the fruit. Lord knows I don’t need another bit of fried food, but…”

John whines, “Honey, I love crab. You know I love crab.”

Under normal circumstances I would find John’s cadence maddening, the way he emphasizes every other word. Today, though, I’m thrilled to have my first exchange with gay Portland natives. Buckle up, I think. Here comes some radical, liberal, left-wing, over-the-top, hippie, homosexual small talk. Act natural. This kind of freedom is just par-the-course over here on the west coast. Don’t freak out, just be yourself. Ideologically, you’re one of them. Let it shine.

Normally, John’s combination of whine and pastel would send Larry running, but I sense a similar enthusiasm when he chuckles at John’s pleading for the cakes. Larry’s feeling it. I’m feeling it. It’s the Left Coast, dig? We can all love each other, even if they’re wearing tasseled loafers and pink socks.

Roger, allowing himself to cave on his diet, responds to the now pouting John.

“Yes, you do love your crabbies, don’t you? Hell with it, let’s get ‘em.”

The two brush lips with an audible peck, a quick sound, like a snap of the fingers. Roger and John have obviously been together a long time, and have detected a younger couple, new to Portland. I brush Larry’s hand with mine and he takes it. Finally, we can relax.

“So isn’t it just such a shame how the train from the airport goes straight through the black part of town? I mean, first thing! I know they have to live somewhere, but you’d think they’d want visitors to see something else right off the bat.”

You know those scenes in movies where the whole world slows down to a complete halt and time stands still?

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

I hear the faucet behind the bar dripping. Everyone is frozen in time.

WHAM.

My jaw hits the marble table. Everything goes black.

* * *

When I come to, John and Roger are gone. Larry, one hand on mine, the other feeding himself crab cakes tells me, “Don’t worry about it, David. They weren’t from Portland. They were from Seattle.”

Fucking fags, I think. They’re all so damn prejudiced.

Works Cited

Palahniuk, Chuck. Fugitives and Refugees: A Walk in Portland, Oregon. New York: Crown Journeys, 2003.

You know when something happens that would make a great story, character, or just an anecdote, but nobody would ever believe it? Today’s Wiccan plumber giving me $50 off because I complimented him on his pentagram is one of those things.

I mistyped “profit” for “prophet.” Is my subconscious suggesting a new career path?

Before the days of caller ID and star sixty-nine, the telephone guaranteed anonymity. Those of us born in the seventies or earlier have fond memories of searching the phone book for listings with such unfortunate surnames as Dick, Cumming, or any combination of letters involving the word “butt.” Any citizen given the unfortunate combination Harry Dick by either cruel or clueless parents anticipated at least one prank call a week, their only retaliation to hang up amidst a torrential gale of juvenile laughter screeching through the receiver. The Harry Dicks of 1970s and 1980s Lincoln, Nebraska were tormented mercilessly by my friends and me during many late night slumber parties. As far as we were concerned, a Harry Dick who dared answer the phone after ten o’clock at night was asking for it. A Harry Dick in the phone book was the ultimate payload.

The party’s over. Caller ID removes the anonymity necessary to torment the unfortunate Dicks, Cummings, and Buttmans. Still, instead of improving, phone etiquette has deteriorated. Perhaps this is due to our multi-tasking society, too busy to be bothered with pleasantries.

* * *

1978

“Hello?”

“Hello! This is Jack Schneider. I’m a friend of Lucinda’s from her chemistry class. Is she available?

“I’m sorry. Lucinda’s sitting at the table with her family for dinner. May I have her return your call when she’s finished?”

“Certainly, thank you. I’m sorry to have interrupted. Have a good night.”

“No bother at all. I’ll tell Lucinda you called. Good night.”

* * *

2008

“Hello?”

“Mark?”

“No.”

Click.

Considering that one’s name and phone number most likely appear on, and are recorded by the receiving phone, it’s surprising we’re all not a little nicer to each other.

* * *

In my office we’re a happy bunch. We celebrate birthdays. We cover for each other when we need time off. We’re pleasant, courteous, even eager to help the students calling Continuing Education to enroll in such non-credit classes as Cake Decorating, Container Gardening, and Beekeeping. Usually, students enrolling in our classes are functioning with a fairly low stress-level. One should not become hostile at the discovery that Holiday Cookie Icing is full, or that they’ve missed the enrollment date for the E-Bay tutorial. To overreact would be embarrassing. Still, we know who you are. We have caller ID.

You never know when a good day will turn. I stare at the caller ID screen in horror.

“Shit! It’s Carrie Meadows!”

My boss, at the next station, tells me exactly what she thinks.

“Don’t you fucking dare roll that shit to me. I had to deal with her yesterday.”

Elsewhere in the room my co-workers voice their discontent.

“I refuse to ever speak with her again.”

“I’m taking my lunch.”

“Carrie Meadows can fuck right off.”

Knowing there’s no way out, I answer with the intention of killing her with kindness. Surely, when met with my calm, polite, and helpful manner, even Carrie Meadows can be subdued.

“Good morning, Continuing Education. This is David. May I help you?”

Already shouting, Carrie starts in.

“David, you say?”

“Yes, that’s correct. How may I help you?”

“D-A-V-I-D, correct?”

“Yes, that’s correct. May I help you enroll in a class?”

“What’s your last name, David?”

“I’m sorry, we’re not allowed to release our last names. I’m the only David in this office, though. If you need to reach me…”

“Whatever. I want to enroll in the Effective Interpersonal Communication class that began three weeks ago.”

It’s laughable, the courses and seminars Ms. Meadows enrolls in: Effective Sales, Customer Service, Positive Thinking. I imagine her shrieking profanities at her instructors while throwing cups of coffee, pens, and handfuls of change in their faces. Still, I am going to kill her with kindness. I boldly continue.

“I’m sorry, but the instructor will not allow registrations three weeks into the course. Fortunately, there’s another one beginning next week. Would you like to enroll in that section?”

“That doesn’t make any sense, David.”

This is the Carrie Meadows tactic. She either argues the policies, or pretends not to understand. Usually she doles out a combination.

“Doesn’t make sense? Well, at this point you’ve missed six of the twelve classes, literally half of the course. The instructor does not want to slow down the rest of the class because of late enrollments. Rather, she’d like students in your situation to enroll in the next offering. Fortunately, as I mentioned, there’s another one starting next week. I’m more than happy to…”

“That doesn’t make any sense, David.”

“I’m sorry. I think we have a bit of miscommunication. The course you’d like to enroll in began three weeks ago…”

“I know. I want to enroll in it. Enroll me in it. Isn’t that your job? Why don’t you stop talking and just do your job. Isn’t that what you’re paid to do, to help me, David?”

“Yes, you’re absolutely right. I am here to help you. Fortunately, I’m able to offer you the exact same course beginning next week. That way, you won’t have missed half of the class. Unfortunately, I’m unable to enroll you in the course that’s already half over.”

“I want to enroll in the class that started three weeks ago, David.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t enroll you in that class. The instructor does not allow late enrollments. Instead, she prefers students who want to enroll late to enroll in the next section, like the one starting next week.”

“I don’t understand, David.”

“Well, the policy is…”

“Is there someone else I can talk to, David? It is David, right?”

At this point, every one of my co-workers has found reason to leave the office. I forward Carrie to my supervisor’s voicemail, as I’ve done time and time again. It makes no difference. I’ll talk to Carrie Meadows again within the hour. She’ll remember my name, and she knows my number.

Somewhere in Lincoln, Nebraska, Harry Dick laughs out loud, puts his feet up, and pushes another pin into a voodoo doll. I am certain of this. Harry Dick, my payload indeed.

First off, I’m sorry I’ve been absent. I do love you. I’m just trying to keep my head above water in school. December is coming.

Speaking of coming, I want to know which title is funnier.

Hairy Dick Goldmine

or…

Mining For Hairy Dicks

What do you think?

Staring into the animal’s yellow eyes, I notice the wire fence between us separates from the ground as it shakes violently in the wind. Standing only four feet tall and comprised of thin wire pushed into the mud, the fence suggests a boundary without possessing any strength for enforcement. If this dog, that on all fours stands higher than my waist; this dog that is smiling, panting and whining; this dog that probes my eyes for any indication of fear; if this dog chooses, in one second she will be able to pull the fence from the ground with a single claw, and simultaneously reach my throat with her nine others. She remains in place, whining, grinning, and staring with her cyanide eyes.

“What a beautiful dog,” Amy says in a lilting and dreamy voice. “So beautiful. I think it might be a wolf. Really. Hi, doggie.”

The dog ignores Amy and remains locked on my eyes.

“You’re going to remember this for a long, long time.”

“What?” I ask Amy.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“No, you just said I’d remember this?”

“What? No, I didn’t say anything. Come on, let’s check this place out.”

“All the better to see you with.”

“What?” I say in a pitch revealing more fear than I want doggie to sense.

“I didn’t say anything. What’s wrong with you?” Amy replies, annoyed. “Come on, I’m ringing the bell.”

* * *

Too good to be true, the advertisement in the classified section of the Lawrence Journal World newspaper promises a two-story, three bedroom house with a fireplace, yard and basement for less rent than Amy and I pay for our decrepit two bedroom, hole-in-the-wall apartment. With only a phone number and no mention of the rental agency or landlord, Amy calls and schedules an appointment for the two of us to see the property the following day. She does not ask any further details, later explaining that we’ll get all of our questions answered “at the scene.” Instantly visualizing yellow and black police tape fencing off a crime scene, I ask her what impression she has from the phone call. Always negligent in providing the overly specific details I desire when trapped in the passive position of listener, she says only, “I don’t know. Nothing, really. I think I woke him up.” Knowing I’ll receive nothing satisfactory, I decide not to pester and let her leave it at that. After all, she’s right. Tomorrow all of my questions will be answered …at the scene.

* * *

The heavy, peeling, old oak door opens revealing a tall, lanky man. He wears an unbuttoned blue and green plaid flannel shirt and dirty blue jeans. A scraggly gray beard reaches from his chin to the middle of his gaunt, pale chest, while on top of his head he is bald. The sleeves on his shirt are rolled up to his elbows, exposing the multitude of rope-like blue veins on his forearms, seemingly held in place by a nearly transparent gauze of pale white skin. He extends his left hand first to Amy, then to me, because he holds a brown cigarillo in his right. The smoke is the color of his teeth.

“A-HA!” he bellows. “My two potential CUS! TA! MUHS!” He quickly retracts his left hand and covers his mouth, coughing violently. Cigarillo smoke billows from his nostrils and mouth. His head looks like an incense burner wearing a Santa Claus beard. I want to leave.

“Hello,” Amy says cautiously with a nervous smile and speaking too quickly. “I’m Amy and this is Qanzas. We’re really excited to see the rental house. We’ve been living in a crummy, tiny, little apartment, practically on top of each other! When we saw your ad we figured we’d be fools not to jump!” Amy laughs a high pitched, excited laugh for what feels like five minutes. Santa Satan stares at her with a smirk on his face, completely ignoring me. He motions for us to enter, standing aside as though daring us to pass through the front door.

“The spider to the fly,” he says as I walk past him into the house.

“What?” I stammer.

“Aren’t you even going to say hi?” he whispers.

I feel uneasy turning my back on him, but follow Amy through into the living room.

Small, crammed with seventies-era couches, love seats and stuffed chairs, every seat, sill and surface buckles under the weight of piles of computer and audio-video parts. A stack of computer keyboards circa 1982 reach from the top of a chest-high bookcase to the ceiling. They simultaneously appear to have been cemented in this position since they rolled off the assembly line, and as though they will topple over, crashing to the cracked, wood floor smashing into one thousand tiny shards of plastic and silicon at the slightest footstep. Gutted computer monitors decorate the fireplace mantle. Disemboweled television sets, eight-track players, microphones, turntables and VCRs cover almost every square inch, with narrow paths between to reach the fireplace, windows, front door, and doorway leading to the kitchen. The large picture window is covered with a faded, stained, sky blue flannel sheet with a pattern of fluffy white sheep and clouds. In front of the window stands a ficus tree planted in soil that appears as dry as my mouth. The tree holds on to four or five leaves, having relinquished the rest to scatter over the sea of technical manuals on the floor beneath it. I would kill for a drink of water.

“Would either of you like a glass of water?”

Dazed and lost in the wasteland of his living room, the sudden interruption of his voice startles me. I jump, then turn from the ficus to see him staring at me, amused, waiting for my response.

“NO!” Amy and I say in unison.

“No, thank you,” I manage. “So, you still live here? Are you moving? Why do you want to rent out your house?”

Disregarding the why, he says, “I figure I’ll shack up in my trailer out back, and let a couple of renters have the run of the house. Come see.” He walks through the archway into the kitchen. I sneak a glance at Amy, who still has her nervous smile stretched from ear to ear. If her smile got any bigger her head would split in two. In this house, the event would go unnoticed. We shuffle into the kitchen.

Santa stands at the far end of the kitchen, pointing out the window over the sink that overlooks his back yard. Amy and I approach, lean over the sink together and look through the window. A small, silver Airstream trailer sits in the middle of the back yard. The sun shines off of its surface and reflects into our eyes, temporarily blinding us. In the haze I see a dark blur flying back and forth in front of the trailer.

“Of course I’ll still require bathroom and kitchen privileges, and I may need to store some of my things in the house, but I’ll sleep in my trailer. She and I have had a lot of good times together.”

THUD!

Amy and I jump at the sound to our right. I turn to see the beast from the front yard staring through a sliding glass door with its yellow glare.

THUD!

The dog stands on its hind legs, towering up to an almost standing position and slams its front paws into the glass.

THUD! THUD!

“That’s quite a beautiful dog,” Amy tells Santa. “I’ve never seen one quite like it. What kind of dog is it?”

Santa glares at Amy and slowly responds, “Oh….a mix…I guess. All sorts of things.”

“It really looks like a wolf. Is it a wolf?”

THUD!

“It’s illegal to possess a wolf within the city limits of Lawrence,” Santa growls.

“Oh,” Amy responds. “So, is it a wolf?”

“Would I come into your house and ask you if you shoot up?” Santa snaps.

“Well, I’d really like to see it,” Amy offers. “Is she friendly?”

THUD!

“Oh, she’s friendly all right.” Santa is smiling now. “Are you sure you’d like to meet her?”

“I’d love to,” Amy answers. If she’s at all frightened, Amy shows no sign. She stares, transfixed, at the not-a-wolf through the glass.

Santa moves to the sliding glass door warning that Doggie is very energetic, and may jump up. He places his hand on the door latch and opens the door a crack, then turns and stares into my eyes, grinning.

“Oh, I almost forgot to mention,” he giggles, “she kisses with her teeth.”

With that, Santa flings the sliding glass door aside, and the monster storms in. It runs straight to Amy, jumps up on its hind legs wrapping its front paws around Amy’s shoulders, and places its huge jaws around Amy’s face. It does not bite down. It simply holds Amy’s head in its mouth while howling.

“Haaaarrrrrrrrooooooooooooooooooo! Har, har, har, haaaarrrrrroooooooooo!”

Saliva rolls out of the side of the beast’s mouth, dropping in large splashes on the floor. Amy is frozen, rigid, her hands in fists and arms clenched straight to her sides. She’s smiling the smile again, manically laughing through her clenched teeth.

“Oh yes. Oh yes, we love to sing, don’t we Dog?” Santa Satan exclaims, and then accompanies Dog in the singing.

“Haaaaaarrroooo! Haaaaaaarrrroooooo! Haaaaaarrrroooooooooooooooooooooo!”

* * *

I really don’t remember much after that, but I know Dog did not sever Amy’s skull from her spine, and that we left the house shortly after the group song.

Deciding our shitty little apartment is perfectly acceptable, we sign the lease for another year and take in a cat.