The Carpenters or Don Ho.
It’s going over this time, going over for sure, that was his plan all along—
But the Port-O-San steadied instead of tumbling over. All the same it was close to
going, very close. Curtis stood on tiptoe with his hands braced against the wall and his midsection arched over the bench seat, becoming aware now of how badly the hot
little cubicle smelled, even with the seat closed. There was the odor of disinfectant—it would be the blue stuff, of course—mingling with the stench of decaying human
waste, and that made it somehow even worse.
When Grunwald spoke again, his voice came from beyond the rear wall. He had
stepped over the ditch and circled around to the back of the Port-O-San. Curtis was so surprised he almost recoiled, but managed not to. Still, he couldn’t suppress a jerk.
His splayed hands momentarily left the wall. The Port-O-San tottered. He brought his
hands back to the wall again, leaning forward as far as he could, and it steadied.
“How you doing, neighbor?”
“Scared to death,” Curtis said. His hair had fallen onto his forehead, it was sticking in the sweat there, but he was afraid to flick it back. Even that much extra movement
might send the Port-O-San tumbling. “Let me out. You’ve had your fun.”
“If you think I’m having fun, you’re very much mistaken,” The Motherfucker said in
a pedantic voice. “I’ve thought about this a long time, neighbor, and finally decided it was necessary—the only course of action. And it had to be now, because if I waited
much longer, I’d no longer be able to trust my body to do what I needed it to do.”
“Grunwald, we can settle this like men. I swear we can.”
“Swear all you like, I would never take the word of a man like you,” he said in that
same pedantic voice. “Any man who takes the word of a faggot deserves what he
gets.” And then, yelling so loud his voice broke into splinters: “YOU GUYS THINK
YOU’RE SO SMART! HOW SMART DO YOU FEEL NOW?”
Curtis said nothing. Each time he thought he was getting a handle on The
Motherfucker’s madness, new vistas opened before him.
At last, in a calmer tone, Grunwald went on.
“You want an explanation. You think you deserve one. Possibly you do.”
Somewhere a crow cawed. To Curtis, in his hot little box, it sounded like laughter.
“Did you think I was joking when I called you a gay witch? I was not. Does that mean
you know you’re a, well, a malevolent supernatural force sent to try me and test me? I don’t know. I don’t. I’ve spent many a sleepless night since my wife took her jewelry
and left thinking about this question—among others—and I still don’t. You probably
don’t.”
“Grunwald, I assure you I’m not—”
“Shut up. I’m talking here. And of course, that’s what you’d say, isn’t it? Regardless of whether you knew or not, it’s what you’d say. Look at the testimonies of various witches in Salem. Go on, look. I have. It’s all on the Internet. They swore they
weren’t witches, and when they thought it would get them out of death’s receiving
room they swore they were, but very few of them actually knew for sure themselves!
That becomes clear when you look at it with your enlightened…you know,
enlightened…your enlightened whatever. Mind or whatever. Hey neighbor, how is it
when I do this?”
Suddenly The Motherfucker—sick but apparently still quite strong—began to rock the
Port-O-San. Curtis was almost thrown against the door, which would have resulted in
disaster for sure.
“Stop it! ” he roared. “Stop doing that! ”
Grunwald laughed indulgently. The Port-O-San stopped rocking. But Curtis thought
the angle of the floor was steeper than it had been. “What a baby you are. It’s as solid as the stock market, I tell you!”
A pause.
“Of course…there is this: all faggots are liars, but not all liars are faggots. It’s not a balancing equation, if you see what I mean. I’m as straight as an arrow, always have
been, I’d fuck the Virgin Mary and then go to a barn dance, but I lied to get you out