Grapejelly fizz - short story

The cruel and menacing man made his way down the aisle. He was swarthy, made of meat. His hair was flaxen like wheat, combed over to cover his balding spot in the middle of his large head. It was a shiny thing, like a bronze coin. His eyes were the perfect hue of rotted, stinking old wife’s oatmeal.

He grabbed the milk carton from the ice chest fridge in the middle of the aisle, sweat pouring into his collared shirt. He was overwhelmed by child support bills, nagging ex-wives, and a very impolite Chihuahua at home. Top that with spoiled milk and a late salary, and this day was going to the pigs.

“Just ring me up, kid.” The man said, his voice nasally as an old AC that been stopped working properly. He rubbed the front of his face with the hairy underside of his left forearm, moving the oily sweat around even further. His cheeks began to redden, even though the air conditioner was a crisp 72.

“You’re paying for milk with a twenty?” The Gothic teen said, flapping around the orange dollar bill.

“Is there a problem?” The man squinted at the boy’s name tag for a moment. “Michael?”

“No, sir.” Michael sighed, ringing up the cash register. He didn’t get paid enough for blind old man with their sick ex-wives and their evil little Chihuahuas.

“Is this all for you, sir?” Michael inquired, looking quite exasperated, with his cool eyebrow piercing,

“Yes.” The man spoke like a stuck-pig, squealing for bacon. Michael nodded.

“You want a bag for this?”

“Yes.” The man spoke in few syllables, like a broken gramophone. Michael blinked isolatedly, frog-like.

Slowly, he bagged up the milk.

*

“Hunny, I’m home- Aw, man. Did the baby pee himself again?” The man asked, sighing comedically.

A fat older lady came into view, swaddling a mean looking baby.

“Charles, I asked for the milk two hours ago. Are you cheating on me, again?” The woman shrilled.

Charles took a deep breath, to steel himself. His face erupted into the color of prudicent.

“First off, we’re no longer married. Second, what the what.” Charles blustered.

“I waited two hours.” The ex-wive said, wagging her free finger in his face. Charles looked ready to parachute out of a Navy plane.

“I know. You already said.” Charles said rather calmly now.

“Two hours.” She repeated. He took another deep breath.

“I’m aware.”

The baby started crying again, an annoyingly aggravating sound, like nails on chalkboard. In 1913 Germany.

“Make that thing shut up!” Charles yelled, bolstering his courage and smacking the bag of milk out of his own hand.

“Stop yelling at me!” The woman yelled back. The baby wailed louder.

“I’m going… I’m going to throw that little stinker into a vat of folic acid.” Charles shook his head maniacally, hands on both sides of his balding face.

“Charles, please…” The woman pleaded.

“Ragatha, shh. Maybe if you stop complaining, he’ll shut up.”

Two minutes. No such luck. “AGH! PUT HIM IN THE OVEN!”

“Charles!” Ragatha shrieked, alarmed and horrified at her grimey pig-like ex-husband’s horrendously terrifying but oddly specific suggestion.

“At this point, put the damn baby in the crib.” Charles finally suggested.

“Good idea, sweetums.” Ragatha looked painfully bland. Fat, short, and like an old German woman in the 1200s. Famine time. War and fire. All the good stuff.

Charles sat down, and lit up a cigar in the beige leather reclining chair. He put his feet up like he just walked a marathon, but he only just talked to a teenager at the convenience store.

“Did you get paid, Charles?” Ragatha asked, fixing her scrubby little housewife hairnet over her receding bland brown hairline. “Like you said you would?”

Her voice was shrill like a cockatoo getting strangled by an electrical cord. In mid-July.

“Why did we get married again?” Charles asked. Ragatha paused in moving the pot pie to the oven, licking her lips. She was hunched over, making her about three feet shorter than her already puggy stature.

“I don’t know. 1950s Brazil?” She said, pouting and fixing up her makeup with a pencil sharpener.

“The hell is Brazil?” Charles spluttered.

“More like a who, dear.” She fanned herself off with a grimey old magazine from the attic. That stuffy old attic with more dust mites than real air. “And don’t even worry your fat little head about it.” She nodded solemnly. He followed suit.

“Hey… I got you pregnant for a reason.”

“Yeah, so you wouldn’t have to pay for a wife.” Again, Ragatha nodded solemnly.

“The casserole’s burning. You big buffon.” Charles mumbled.

“It’s not casserole, it’s a pot pie, you lumbering oaf.”

They both sighed longingly. The baby was silent as a mouse gagged with ducttape.

“Whatever it is, it smells like it’s roadkill.” Charles said after a moment. Ragatha audibly gasped.

“You try cooking six meals a week.”

“There’s seven days in the week, stupid!” Charles smacked himself in the head with air.

“We dont cook on Sundays. That’s the Lord’s relaxation day.”

“If I work in the bank on Sundays, you can cook a damn- Nevermind.” Charles flushed. His ex-wife looked ready to explode into a sparkly little Christian catastrophe. Religious matters being suggested by dumb men (see: Charles) was an argument ready to turn into the Noah’s Arc. Charles being drowned. Repeatedly.

“Is little Benny up?” Charles asked, smoking up another cigar.

“Who?” Pot pie was indeed burning. “Oh, you mean Berkley.”

“Who the hell is Berkley?” Charles spluttered. “By Christ, what did you name this kid?”

“Benjamin or Ben-Jesus.” Ragatha nodded. “Named after my father.”

“Was your father a circus ringmaster, perhaps?”

“No. He was a stripper for the Nazis.”

“Did you buy the onions?” Charles asked. Promptly, the little stinker started wailing. Again.

“What are… onions?” Ragatha enunicated the word slowly.

“Do you know how to read?” Charles muttered. Ragatha shook her head calm and slow. “It shows. Go feed Benkely, or whatever the hell his name is.”

Ragatha walked into the ratty old nursery that has seen too many naked babies running around puking on the floor and walls.

“Wake up, stinker. Oh, my, you smell worse than Grammy Igla’s cooking.” She picked up her son, promptly held him upside down, then changed his diaper, all without removing the actual diaper.

The baby was bald, like his father. Was Charles even the father at this point? The baby was skinny, Ben-Jesus or whatever. Water into wine or something like that. He had dark green eyes like snotty cow food. Grass, that’s what it’s called. His nose looked about ready to burst off his little munchkin face, and he had a glare like the Devil personally walked in to ruin your day.

“You’re an ugly little pesk. Like your lousy father. This man can’t even pay child support, and spends all his money on cigars and cheap houssies.” She shook Ben-Jesus like a maricuchi band in October.

“Such a despicable little- Oh look, a pimple.” She dropped the baby back into the crib, more absorbed with her own face than his.

“RAGATHA! DID THAT TINY CROOK SHUT UP?” Charles yelled from the living room.

“Yes, dear.”

“Now make me a sandwich, by the Lord!” Charles bellowed like a medieval peasant who just realized they were king and now making an utter fool of themselves. Ragatha crossed herself and walked back into the kitchen.

Black smoke billowed from the oven, and it smelled like one of Charles’ disgusting home-rolled mouth tampons - Cigars.

“Aw, man. I burned the casserole. I mean the pot pie.” Ragatha nodded, then threw the entire pan out the window. Literally. Shaggy purple fur curtains were on fire.

“I SMELL ROADKILL STILL!” Charles shouted. Ben-Jesus started crying again, and Ragatha stabbed a knife into the dusty old wooden counter top like a butcher fed up with her job.

She stormed into the living room.

“That’s it. I quit.”

“Quit what? You don’t have a job!” Charles screamed.

“By Christ, we’re getting a divorce!”“We’re already divorced.” Charles reminded her rightfully.

“Well, get the hell out of my house, you overton-ned hillybilly from Hell!”

“It smells like dogpiss- Oh hell. What happened to Maxxie?” Charles looked appalled.

“Who?”

“OUR DOG YOU UNLOVABLE FREAK OF NATURE!” Charles bellowed.

“Thought it was Mimsy.” Ragatha nodded solemnly.

“You idiotic excuse of a woman-”

“Papa.” A deep shrill male voice said.

“Where the hell did you find that baby?” A tall man asked.

“New Mexico.” The woman said. “He’s a little freak of nature.”

“He’s literally five days old and he speaks like a damn gym-jock.” The man said, taking the swaddled creature away from the woman. She was young, blonde, and ready to have no time for kids.

“Thank you again, Christian.” She said, nodding. Her suit was pressed like businessman’s, and her hair was businesswoman like.

“No problem, Lucile. Try not to get pregnant again any time soon.”

“I’ll just pee after. And eat lots of Greek parfait.” Christian sighed, but rocked the baby in his arms.

“I’m gonna be your new daddy. Time to meet my wife, little one.”