They Had Goat Heads

THEY HAD GOAT HEADS



They had goat heads . . .

I could see down the hallway from the bed. It stretched two miles into the forest. My mother served me a bowl of vegetable soup. The door was open. I wanted to close it.

The TV turned on. A goat walked back and forth across the screen. A tall, thin man entered the picture and slaughtered the goat with an axe. The camera zoomed into the man’s face. He gazed down at the carcass, eyes wide with terror, mouth creaking open into a chemical scream . . .

The TV turned off.

A brick crashed through the window. There was a note tied to it. I picked it up and read the note.

“They have goat heads,” it read . . . I looked out the window. An astronaut in a bubble helmet and orange spacesuit waved at me, then boarded his shuttle. Liftoff. The motel shook. The shuttle rose like a flag, gaining speed and altitude until it disappeared into the clouds.

Thunder. The clouds flashed, flickered . . .

The shuttle fell out of the sky, smoldering . . . It crashed onto its launch pad and burst into flames. The motel shook . . .

A door creaked open and the astronaut climbed out. He staggered into a tree and bounced backwards. He looked at the wreckage. He looked at me and took off his bubble helmet. He had a goat head.

I drew the curtain.

Somebody in the ceiling had attached marionette strings to my mother’s joints. They had also stapled her lips onto her cheeks. Her teeth were two rows of golf tees. She made desperate sucking noises as the puppeteer compelled her to dust the room and vacuum the carpet.

I heard bleating in the hallway. I told my mother I would be right back.

I shut the door behind me.

For two miles, all of the doors were closed, and I didn’t see anyone except a meter maid who tried to take my pulse with a lightning rod. Then I saw an open door. Room 3,401D. I heard cheering inside.

I went inside.

They wanted to play basketball in the boxing ring. Hoops loomed over the ring’s turnbuckles. The coaches screamed at each other. The referees ran back and forth and bounced off the ropes, testing their resilience. The players held hands and prayed. They all had goat heads.

I noticed my father in the audience. He pretended not to see me . . . I walked up two flights of bleachers and sat by myself.

A referee blew a whistle. Tipoff . . .

My mother lumbered into 3,401D. The puppeteer maneuvered her into the boxing ring, scaring away the dramatis personae. A microphone descended from the ceiling on a thin length of cord and she gurgled into it.

They played the bagpipes . . . I stood and walked downstairs and left 3,401D. The crowd broke into hysterics as I shut the door . . . and went back to my room.

I got lost.

I found the lobby. A motel clerk asked to see my room key. I didn’t have it. He tried to arrest me. I ran away.

I got lost . . .

. . . timelapse of bellhops and concierges and janitors racing up and down the hallways . . . silhouette of the motel set against a blazing horizon . . .

I crawled the rest of the way . . .

My mother was sleeping in my bed. She looked like a dead seal . . . No sign of the puppeteer, and the marionette strings were gone. Open wounds covered her body where the strings had been ripped free. And her lips had been cut off . . . I shook her awake and asked her to leave. She made a deflating sound.

Through the window I saw them, thousands of them, tying notes to bricks . . .