They Had Goat Heads

HOUSEGUEST





I was tossing a boy in the air when the houseguest broke in. The boy fell through my arms and landed on his head. He stopped giggling. He turned pale and went limp.

Somebody down the hallway screamed like a plane crash.

I ran upstairs and armed myself with two survival knives I kept in a shoebox beneath my bed for these occasions, then went back downstairs, tentative, vigilant . . . I spotted the houseguest. Tall and lean, he stood in the foyer and held a survival knife in each hand. He wore a weathered veteran’s jacket and had slicked-back gray hair.

I threw a knife. It sailed end over end and struck the houseguest in the neck. His head snapped back and froze for a moment. He dropped his knives. He waved his arms as if trying to maintain balance on a tightrope.

Slowly he turned and paced out the front door.

The boy crawled into the foyer and told me he was going to turn me in to the police for child abuse.

I said, “You have that right. Good boy.”

I left.

The houseguest moved down the sidewalk. Occasionally he tripped over his feet and fell into a parked car, then pushed himself up and slogged on. The knife remained in his neck, plugging a terminal jugular.

I said, “Stop.”

He stopped.

Without turning, he raised a trembling hand and made his fingers into a hang-loose sign.

All of the neighbors were cutting their yards. They turned off their lawnmowers and stared at us as if we were a car crash happening in slow motion.

I threw the other survival knife at the houseguest. This time I missed.

The lawnmowers growled back to life.

The houseguest removed the knife. Blood fell from the wound like streamers of unraveling crepe paper. He held the knife in his hand for a moment, caressing the worn leather handle with a thumb. Then it slipped out and clanked against the cement.

I went back inside.

The boy was gone. He left a note on the floor. “Dear Parent. I’m running away. I took some soup and crackers from the pantry. I will send you a check for these items when I get a job and make enough money. Auf Wiedersehen,” said the note.

Upstairs somebody turned on the shower and flushed the toilet at the same time. The lights flickered. The house hiccupped, shook.

I opened the guestbook and ran a finger down the guest list. There was only one name.

The name had been crossed out.

The doorbell rang. I opened it.

It was the houseguest. He looked different. His hair had come undone, and there was something about his face. He stood there, pale and limp, clutching his neck. I invited him in. I ushered him into the kitchen. He collapsed onto the dinette table and his hand fell from his neck, exposing a gash that whistled like a deflating tire.

Snapping on a pair of dishwashing gloves, I carefully dressed the wound.

THE TRAUMATIC EVENT

OR

THE WALRI HOLOCAUST

OR

THE HAIRY DEED

OR

THE MAN WHO DISAPPEARED





The Latin term for walrus is Odobenus rosmarus. Translation: “Tooth-walking sea horse.” I read this in an encyclopedia. It was a traumatic event.

I captured a walrus and put it in my freezer. It froze.

I shot a walrus and put it in my basement. It bled out.

I put a sleeper hold on a walrus, skinned it, and put on the skin.

Another walrus tried to seduce me. I took off the skin and beat it to death with a crowbar.

Another walrus figured out what was going on and tried to run away. I pursued it in a Volkswagen Rabbit and ran it over.

I took a sip of bottled water.

Ten thousand walri drowned and melted in a deluge of boiling oil. I stood at the top of a cliff, hands dirty, manga eyes flickering . . .

A friend suggested I buy a pet walrus. I kept it for a week. I fed it. I groomed its hide and mustache. I took it for walks. I polished its tusks. I bragged about it to the neighbors, read it bedtime stories . . . The walrus barked and spanked its fins at the conclusion of my puppet show. I removed the puppets from my hands, bowed, cocked my head, frowned, frowned . . . and cut the walrus in half with a two-handed executioner’s sword. I dumped the halves in my friend’s driveway with a note taped over the walrus’s face. It read: “Friendship is an excuse for hairy deeds.”

In the aftermath of traumatic events, victims often demonstrate “extreme” behavior. The events revise selfhood, desire, personality . . .

. . . walri stampeding through the jungle. I launched missiles at them from a military helicopter ripping across an orange sky . . .

“Tell me about that dream,” said my therapist.

I nodded. “Which dream was that again?”

“You know. The one about the walrus.”

“Oh. Of course. It’s better if I show you, though.” I stood and opened the closet. A walrus shuffled into the office. Rolls of fat formed on its neck as it angled up its head and looked back and forth at the doctor and I.

“Apropos,” I said, raising a finger . . .

Things got out of hand and I accidentally slaughtered the doctor, too.

They arrested me.

I refused to post bail—perfect waste of a trust fund—and spent three weeks in prison eating ginger nuts and lifting weights and making friends. I wore a suit to my trial and hired Sam Waterson as my lawyer. He wore jeans and a tattered Harley Davidson T-shirt, but he made a convincing argument on my behalf. The jury acquitted me with unanimous applause and delirious grins.

I hugged Mr. Waterson.

On the bleached white steps of the courthouse, I noticed a herd of walri chasing a double-decker bus down the street. I tailed the herd for six blocks until the bus tipped over and the walri invaded it. I killed them before they could do anything to the passengers, then saved the passengers, escorting them from the wreckage one by one. Moments later the mayor handed me the keys to the city. Flashbulbs popped. “Thank you, Mr. Soandso,” intoned the mayor. “Thank you for that hairy deed. You are truly a good-intentioned and thoughtful soandso. I hereby . . . ”

I hugged the mayor.

I indulged a delusion of grandeur.

I used a key to open a manhole and disappeared forever.

GUNPLAY





I heard gunplay.

I opened the door of my room and looked down the hallway.

There was a man with a hole in his chest. The hole was on fire.

I closed the door. I opened it and looked out again.

There was a man in a ski mask cradling an elephant gun. He stroked the muzzle like a woman’s thigh. He removed his mask and stared at me. His jaw had been torn off. I saw the distended epiglottis in his neck cavity dangling beneath a row of horse teeth.

I closed the door and turned on the TV.

There was only one channel. In the featured sitcom, a man with a white beard purchased a red balloon from a balloon vendor. The helium leaked out immediately. Laff track. He explained what happened to the vendor. The vendor encouraged him to buy another balloon. He did, a blue one. It deflated like a Whoopee cushion. Laff track. The vendor said, “Sometimes it takes three times to get something right.” The man bought another balloon. Green. The vendor popped it with a syringe. Laff track . . .

I turned off the TV. Two men in gray leisure suits had entered the room. They stood in the corner and observed me for a long time. Slowly they turned and observed each other . . . One man began to stab the other man in the chest with a butcher’s knife. The victim didn’t scream or cry or struggle. He let his attacker kill him, politely, admitting only twice how much it hurt.

A woman with long blond hair in a skintight dinner dress and shoulder-length gloves rushed into the room and admonished the killer for not paying enough attention to her at the party. The killer ignored her, stabbing his victim with methodical precision until he slid to the floor, emitted a meek croak, and died . . . The killer grabbed the woman by the elbows. He shook her, screamed at her. He threw her onto the bed, tore off his clothes, yanked up her dress, and made love to her. I pretended not to see them. Occasionally I glanced in their direction.

Somebody knocked at the door. I opened it.

“Room service,” said a man holding a semi-automatic pistol. He wasn’t wearing a mask. His jaw was intact.

He stormed inside and shot holes in the ceiling until the killer and his mistress snatched up their clothes, opened the window, and threw themselves into the sky.

I closed the window and drew the shades.

Satisfied, the man pointed the pistol at me and fired. It was empty. He continued to pull the trigger. He put the barrel of the pistol to his temple and did likewise.

It fired. A tentacle of gore reached out of his skull and sloshed against the wall. Bewildered, he stood there dumbly . . . and collapsed. He fell to his knees, his head bounced from shoulder to shoulder, and he slumped onto the corpse of the killer’s victim.

I covered them with the bed sheet.

Somebody had turned the TV up too high next door. I pounded on the wall and urged them to turn it down.

I heard gunplay. I couldn’t tell if it happened on the TV.

There was a knock at the door. I opened it.

A diminutive bellhop asked if I wanted my bags taken downstairs. I said I wasn’t leaving. He asked for a tip. I gave him five dollars. He told me a long joke and clarified the moral: “In life, we must make fun of death ad infinitum. Because death will always have the last laugh.” He smiled and asked for another tip. I said I didn’t have any more money. He scowled.

There was a knock at the window.

“Excuse me.” I shut the door. I went to the window and opened the shades. It was the killer. I opened the window.

“Is he gone?” the killer panted, studying the room.

“Who?” I replied.

“The man in the hallway.”

I went to the door, opened it, and looked down the hallway.

There was a balloon vendor. The colorful bouquet of balloons floating above his shoulder appeared to be attacking him, diving down from the ceiling and thumping him on the head. A few balloons popped and dirtied his face with powder. He swatted them away like flies. Then he unfolded a pocket knife and—

I shut the door and told the killer that I didn’t see anyone. He climbed back into the room, complaining about relationships. “Never fall in love,” he intoned. I said I would make coffee. But I only had decaf.

There were dead ladybugs in the coffee bag.

“I don’t drink coffee anyway,” said the killer. He took a long shower. I waited for him to finish, inspecting my face in the mirror for imperfections.

He got out, toweled dry, and asked if I had deodorant. I retrieved a stick of Old Spice from my toilet kit.

“I prefer spray cans. I don’t want to roll this substance across my dark places.” He gave it back to me. He put on my suit.

I heard gunplay.

The killer made a gun with his finger and thumb and blustered into the hallway. “Lock the door!” he exclaimed, and shut the door.

I opened the door.

There was a police officer in an English Bobby hat. He had also made a gun with his finger and thumb. He and the killer pointed their fingers and fired silent blanks at one another, pausing to cock and recock the hammer of their thumbs.

Their fingers unexpectedly went off at the same time. Their heads exploded into hydras of sparkling brains.

I shut the door. There was a woman on the bed. Brunette. She had taken off her clothes and spread her legs. “Let’s pretend we love each other,” she said.

“But I do love you,” I said.

“But let’s just pretend,” she reiterated.

“I know how to do that.”

“You are capable. You are free.”

“I am what I want to be.”

“Nobody knows what they want to be. Ergo” She removed a sawed-off shotgun from underneath a pillow and aimed it at the TV.

I paused . . . “There is ointment in the bathroom.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

She opened her legs wider.

I went into the bathroom. As I searched for the ointment, I disavowed the corpses that somebody had crammed into the shower stall, and I evicted the sound of gunplay from my ears . . .