Doughboy

TIGHT LITTLE WADS OF FLESH

TIGHT LITTLE WADS OF FLESHWestin sat in the lawn chair, a gin and tonic clutched in his right hand as he watched a weasel burrowing into the ground a few yards away. He could feel his flesh flowing in between the woven spaces of the plastic chair, melting like great gobs of cooling bacon grease that puckered out and then dripped onto the wooden deck to form a gluey puddle around him. As he looked down for further confirmation, he could see tight little wads of pinched flesh that made square patterns on his thighs and buttocks. He was apparently sinking through the chair. The criss-cross pattern on his thighs reminded him of the time he had attempted to draw orange crayon squares on his wife's buttocks in an effort to play tic-tac-toe on a pliable surface. But ultimately she had repulsed his advances, leaving him frustrated and restless. He remembered later wandering around the perimeter of the fenced-in back yard like a dog looking for a proper place to urinate.

Now, as he slowly dripped onto the bleached wood of his backyard deck, he wondered if Frosty, his wife's toy poodle, would find any globules of melted flesh on the ground underneath the deck. She was small enough to crawl around down there on her belly, of that he was certain. He imagined spiders and ants feeding on his flesh, each one taking turns – a heavenly feast for everyone.

Except for Westin.

He looked down again and realized with a complacent shrug of his shoulders that both legs were now gone. A hairy soup soaked the deck, running sluggishly between two wooden planks, while his shoes appeared to be filled to the brim with numerous curly black hairs and thick yellowish goo. He realized he would have to crawl to safety before more of him melted away.

There was a sudden, disorienting wave of nausea and he felt his world tilt and swim crazily like a spinning dervish as he rolled upon the deck, somehow in the process striking his nose against an exposed nail, which caused a flicker of pain to race through his head. He heard breaking glass and falling ice cubes as his drink scattered around him. After a moment, when the world stopped spinning, he tried to gather his wits about him. A shard of glass lying next to his face reflected the situation: He was now just a head lolling upon the deck, one cheek pressed against the roughened wood and the other cheek exposed to a cool breeze. His head appeared to be stuck midway between the deck and the closed screen door that led into the living room. A slight breeze rustled his hair.

He could imagine Loren's reaction when she found him, the shocked wonderment on her face. There would be endless questions, each one circling around the same tangent like a fly circling around a chocolate fudge sundae: Where was the rest of his body? Would she put him in Frosty's abandoned doghouse, next to the laundry room, to lie on the ground like a discarded sock? Or would she kick Frosty out of her bed and welcome Westin back in? In the morning, would she place him on the kitchen table while she cooked breakfast? When she got cross with him, would she roll him across the floor and into the fireplace, like a bowling ball? Since he no longer had arms, legs or body, who would shave him in the morning? Or brush his teeth? Who would put him in his favorite reading chair and flip the pages of his book? Wearing a tie would no longer be an option. Closet space, always at a premium, would no longer apply, he reasoned, since most of his clothes could be tossed out or given to charity. In fact, the only thing he needed was a hat. His underwear and socks could go the way of his suits, ties, dress shirts, slacks, jeans, T-shirts, gloves, and coats. His wife, constantly complaining about closet space, would be thrilled to have the closet all to herself. Certain conjugal duties would have to be curtailed, although he did have a tongue, he reminded himself. True, so true…they were having marital difficulties, but who wasn't in this day and age? But still, this just might tip the balance toward divorce, he realized.

He heard the front door open and close, and then the familiar tread of her steps as she made her way from the foyer and through the hall and finally into the living room. There was a pause as she stopped, perhaps in order to ascertain his whereabouts. A moment later, he heard the screen door rattle as she started to slide it open…

He steeled himself for the inevitable.

[For Jenny]