Sample Chapters

Rain of A Southern Son

by Thomas McAuley

Sample Chapter: Clark

Mr. Salley, a successful businessman in New York City, receives a curious call from Bill, the man who protected and mentored him during his difficult youth in rural Tennessee. Bill is dying and he has an unusual request. Once back "home," Mr. Salley, who hasn't gone by Branton in two decades, contemplates and confronts the traumas and rewards of the life he left behind. Rain of a Southern Son is told in a straight-forward fashion in places and as flashbacks in others. Below is a sample chapter that illustrates the unhealthy dynamic of finding connection in an environment of secrecy and prejudice.

     Early on in Branton’s junior year there had been a football game between Harville High and Germantown, the latter being the visiting team from an affluent suburb of Chattanooga. He accompanied his faux girlfriend, a sweet, husky sophomore, to the restrooms. He sat on a short concrete wall that lined the parking lot and waited for her to be sick. She had sneaked vodka from her parents in what Branton suspected was an attempt to make herself easy prey for him. Thus far in their relationship he had been a gentleman, “just behaving as a proper Christian boy should,” he would say. But now, he could feel that it was just a matter of time before his excuses wouldn’t suffice to keep the pushy girl at bay. And it was a shame. For the first time that he could remember, the other boys treated him as if he was suddenly one of them, that he had never been always been conspicuously different. He would have to break up with her soon if she kept up the pressure to take things to the next level. Doing so would bring to an end a short-lived golden age.

     In the midst of contemplating his growing dilemma, Branton’s eyes followed a clean-looking boy with feathered hair and a brown scarf that pushed out the top of his white jacket like chocolate from a pastry. The boy noticed Branton back, did a double-take and started walking closer.

     Branton looked in front of him and he stopped breathing.

     “Football is so queer,” the boy said in a low voice, his shoes crunching into the gravel.

     Branton looked through him, shuffling his options as to what to say.

     “I said football is pretty queer, isn’t it?”

     Branton acted as if he’d just noticed him. He sat up straighter and met his eyes.

     Some event in the game caused an uproar to erupt from the stands. Branton looked toward the commotion and grinned his coolest grin.

     “Someone likes it,” he said.

     “I guess.” The boy ran his eyes up and down Branton. “You go to Harville?”

     “Yeah. I’m a junior.”

     “I’m a senior.” He looked around. “Me and my girls rode up together in that shitty pep bus.” He pointed to a red and white bus parked along the side of the access road leading to the field. A number of the windows had been decorated with colored shoe polish: slogans, players’ names, typical rah-rah stuff.

     “That’s groovy,” Branton said.

     “Clark.”

     “Branton.”

     Clark’s head tipped back as he shook Branton’s hand. He had little red bumps on his neck like his father got from shaving. What a difference a year made.

     “So why you sitting on a wall, Humpty?” Clark asked as he joined Branton, scooting himself closer than boys usually sit together.

     “I’m waiting for my girlfriend,” Branton said.

     “Ah.” Clark smiled with his lips protruding. “Your girlfriend.”

     “You ought to meet her,” Branton said. “She’s hilarious. We’ve been going out for a few weeks. ‘Course she’s been…” He pantomimed covert drinking, looking around for witnesses. ”So she might not be at her best.”

     “Read me a book, already,” Clark said.

     He fell silent at the blunt insult.

     Clark’s head turned in slow dramatic fashion. He held his seething, alluring glare until Branton’s eyes returned.

     “I don’t want to meet your girlfriend, Branton,” he said, continuing the fearless eye contact.

     Branton found Clark only moderately attractive, but his directness was exciting. Branton’s one sexual encounter had followed a tiresome spider-like courtship rife with threats and oaths. With his unwavering stare, Clark had bypassed all of that. He screamed out who he was and what he wanted. The effect was stunning but came as an enlightening relief. His refusal to engage in paranoid games and tedious ritual made him much more desirable than he would have been otherwise.

     Branton had to snap himself out of Clark’s spell. He spoke quietly.

     “Ain’t Germantown three hours away?”

     Clark’s eyes remained steady as he answered.

     “You could be worth the drive.”

     Branton sat alone on the wall. Only when he saw his girlfriend emerge from the restroom did his thoughts turn away from his recent encounter with Clark. She looked like a top who’d lost most of its spin. Even from this distance he saw a green cast to her skin. Her hair, done up with obvious care when he’d picked her up two hours before, had fallen victim to her present sickness.

     Branton’s face felt hot against the cold wind of the night. He popped off of the wall to stabilize the girl. She stunk of her restroom convulsions. He liked her though and hated seeing her suffer.

     “You okay, sweetie?”

     “Take me home.”

     Branton did as she asked. Afterwards, he drove his father’s truck to a quiet spot along a nearby creek. The full moon cast sharp shadows onto the rocks and plants. He sat in the cab with the windows cracked, listening to the wind, the creek and his pulse. Over and over he looked down at the phone number he’d written on his left palm. Clark had done the same.

     That night by the creek, he felt comfortable with who he was for the first time in his life. He looked up at the moon and promised he would never pretend to have a girlfriend again.

     * * *

     During Christmas break two weeks later, Branton hadn’t yet heard from Clark. Neither had he attempted to make contact himself. He had all but forgotten about Clark when the phone rang. His father rustled on the couch but remained asleep. The aluminum can in his hand crinkled. Branton, who had somehow gotten sucked into a Bewitched repeat from its black and white days. He stood in time to catch the call on the third ring.

     “Salley residence. This is Branton.”

     He was met with laughter from the person on the phone.

     “Aren’t you the Proper Pete.”

     “One sec,” Branton said. He held the pea green phone to his chest and slid quietly as far as the cord would allow him out the sliding glass door.

     “Clark,” Branton said. Hearing Clark’s voice caused his mind to jump around like water on a skillet. He hurried to regain his composure as Clark spoke.

     “I’ll be up on Saturday. Let’s get together.”

     “What?”

     “You heard me, lover. Saturday afternoon.”

     Branton smiled. His nerves caused his chin to tremble. He told himself he could blame it on the cold if he was called out.

     “I don’t think I can see you. My folks are taking me to Nashville.” It was a lie.

     “Your folks.”

     “Yeah. We’re goin’ up to Opryland Hotel to see the Christmas lights.”

     There was a moment of silence on the phone. “C’mon, mister. I’ll be up there this weekend. You can show me around. I can show you a little something too.”

     “I don’t know—-”

     Clark’s mocking laugh sounded distant, like he’d removed the phone from his ear to give the action room to run.

     “How long you gonna let your folks set your schedule, man?”

     Branton didn’t have a response, so Clark filled the silence, speaking as if to a child.

     “Here’s the deal. I’m up there on Saturday. You meet me. I’ll make it worth your while.”

     Another silence stretched out before Branton finally forced himself to answer.

     “Okay.” His eyes were closed as he spoke. He bumped his fist against his forehead. “I’ll talk to them.”

     “Ata boy. The high school then?”

     “Okay.”

     “Our wall?”

     Branton’s said nothing. Their wall?

     He heard a car pulling into the drive. With her unpredictable work schedule, his mother could be expected back from work any time of day or night, so her appearance was both surprising and typical.

     “I have to go,” he snapped.

     “Two in the afternoon?” Clark asked.

     Groping behind him for the door handle on the sliding glass door, he answered.

     “Fine. Two. I have to go.”

     He pulled the door closed the moment his mother’s car appeared around the side of the house.

     He hung up the phone and took two light steps back toward the TV.

     “Who was that?” his father asked.

     Branton’s body jerked in surprise and he let out a high pitched sound.

     His father hadn’t changed his position on the couch but he was awake now and looking at Branton with eyes red from beer and midday napping.

     “That was Aunt Tracie.” His father made the same face he made when his indigestion acted up.

     “Callin’ to gab,” Branton added. His father wouldn’t ask for specific details and was almost certain to keep the information from Branton’s mother as she tended to talk endlessly once she and her sister got started. He didn’t like their “cackling” or the fact that Branton’s mother couldn’t serve him if she was on the phone.

     “Why were you talkin’ outside?”

     “I didn’t want to wake you.”

     That was good enough for the man, it seemed.

     His mother entered through the glass door and sat at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee that had to have been sitting in the coffee maker for hours. Branton settled back in front of the TV. His father sat up with his elbows on his knees and remained there for some minutes before relocating out to the kitchen table.

     * * *

     Bill pointed at a low shelf lined with metal cans of oil.

     Branton’s hand hovered over one after the other and he looked each time to Bill for his approval.

     “No. The one with the orange label,” he said. He shook his head. “Down a shelf. The small one.”

     “That’s not orange.”

     Bill walked away without a comment or gesture. Trivia. That was the oil he needed.

     Branton caught up and placed the can into the cart.

     “Clark, eh?” Bill asked, his eyes fixed forward. He had been excruciatingly slow to give Branton the advice he’d been asking for. That had been the purpose of his accompanying Bill to the hardware store in the first place. He hated the place with its testosterone, swearing and ball scratching.

     “Yeah.” Branton lit up.

     “Congratulations.”

     Branton screwed up his face. He tried to figure out how “Congratulations” could be considered advice.

     Bill smirked and, without looking at Branton, added, “Anonymous gay sex.” He had spoken more loudly than Branton thought wise in such a small store.

     “C’mon, Bill!” he said in a loud whisper.

     Branton frowned and craned his neck around, looking for unwanted listeners. Thank goodness few other customers were either far enough away or engaged in conversations.

     “Ain’t nothing to be ashamed of. It’s a time-honored tradition amongst queers,” Bill added with a solid pat on Branton’s back.

     “Should be perfectly safe,” he said.

     “I didn’t say nothing about sex. I’m just gonna meet him. Show him around is all I said.”

     “Sounds like he’ll be wantin’ to show you a little something too.”

     Branton stopped and stared, blank-faced. Clark had said nearly the same thing, nearly word-for-word. He shuffled to catch up.

     “Where you meetin’ him?” Bill asked.

     “The High School. The john by the football field.”

     Bill shot him a quick frown.

     “The john?”

     Branton would have missed Bill shaking his head if he hadn’t been looking straight at him.

     “It’s somewhere we both know.” Branton said. “It’s just where we met.”

     Bill raised his eyebrows and shook his head in that same dismissive way that got Branton’s blood boiling.

     Branton stepped in front of him.

     “What? Please talk to me.”

     “Nothing,” Bill said. “Ah, there it is.” He picked up a metal something or other that, by the look of it alone, its purpose could not be guessed.

     Branton’s shoulders sank

     Bill had more to say, but he stood there examining the two similar things he’d picked up. Finally he chose one over the other and tossed it into the cart with a careless flip of his wrist. He looked back as he walked away and spoke as if Branton were a child.

     “I woulda hoped you had the good sense to meet him somewhere public.” He waited for Branton to bring the cart to his side. “Tell me you ain’t meetin’ him at night.”

     “No. Two in the afternoon.”

     “Thank the Lord for small miracles.”

     He patted Branton on the head.

     Branton clenched his teeth when he realized one of the men on the opposite side of the store had witnessed Bill’s insulting gesture. He stood silent at the register and pushed his hair back into place, his face hot.

     Branton got into Bill’s truck without a word.

     All Bill said was, “Seat belt.”

     Branton sat in silence for most of the trip back to Bill’s cabin. When he arrived, he nodded his good-bye to Bill and returned home.

     * * *

     On Saturday, because he had arrived ten minutes early, Branton parked his truck on the opposite side of the parking lot from the restrooms. His thinking was he didn’t want to appear overeager.

     His chest moved with each heart beat. One moment, he wanted Clark to show; the next, he wished he hadn’t gotten himself into his present situation. Each second that ticked away on Branton’s watch felt like a tap on his shoulder, a reminder of his upcoming meeting. Now that the reality had solidified for him, he felt more like he was acting on a dare rather than following his own will. Branton gripped the steering wheel with both hands and bellowed his frustration, his nervousness or whatever was causing Clark’s face to appear again and again in his mind.

     Fresh air is what he needed. To get out of the echoing cab. Branton pocketed his keys, adjusted the zipper on his coat and pulled at the bottoms of his gloves before stepping out into the cold.

     A thin cloud of gray dust appeared over the ridge where the high school sat overlooking the football field. Though he couldn’t see over the ridge, he figured it must be either Clark arriving or a someone keeping an eye on the school. Branton’s body tensed. He placed his hand on the cold door handle. Soon, he could hear the unseen vehicle turn and drive away again.

     Branton’s relief was short-lived, for as he watched the dust cloud over the ridge dissipate, the sound of an approaching car grew behind him. A beige VW Beetle sped in, kicking up more dust. It drifted to a stop at a careless angle near the restrooms. After the dust settled, Clark, in his white winter, coat stepped out and waved Branton over.

     Branton waved back. Like a soldier facing his enemy, he knocked twice on the hood of the car. He told himself, “You can do this,” and forced one foot in front of the other. He had as long as was necessary to cross the parking lot to put on a calm face. Presently, he couldn’t speak.

     “Clark is just another person. Just another person,” he said under his breath.

     “Well surprise, surprise. Little sister showed up after all.”

     Branton admitted the jab by looking away and smiling. He wasn’t sure if he should shake hands or hug. He didn’t know what, if anything, should be said, so he kept quiet with his hands in his pockets.

     Clark walked up, again with the steady stare. He spoke softly.

     “Relax.” He squeezed Branton’s upper arm. “This is your first time, isn’t it?”

     “No!” He pulled his head back and made a face as if to say, are you kidding? “I mean, like this, yeah. But it’s not my first time.”

     “Okay. Calm down.” Clark grabbed the zipper on Branton’s jacket and pulled him close. Like the night of the football game, Branton could smell alcohol on Clark’s breath.

     “Sorry,” Branton said.

     Clark leaned in again and touched his forehead to Branton’s.

     “Don’t worry about it.” He released Branton’s coat and, walking backwards toward the men’s restroom, said, “You ready?”

     Branton frowned.

     “Wait.”

     Clark stopped and shrugged.

     “C’mon, guy,” Branton said and mocked Clark’s shrug.

     Branton wondered if Clark’s confused expression was genuine or if he was playing coy. He continued.

     “‘You ready?’ Just like that?”

     Clark’s shoulders fell and he looked at the ground. A breath later, he walked up to Branton like a cop walking up to a car before issuing a ticket.

     “You’re kidding me, right?”

     Branton stood firm, silent.

     “Don’t be a baby,” Clark said. “I drove more than three hours to get here and now you’re gonna pull this innocent shit?” He moved his face inches from Branton’s. He exhaled booze and whatever convenience store snack food he’d been eating on the way up from Chattanooga.

     Branton flinched a the smell and took a step back.

     “I just figured we’d get to know each other before…” and he waved an aggitated hand in the direction of the restroom.

     Clark rolled his eyes.

     “What for?” Clark said, giving equally perturbed emphasis to each word.

     Branton was positive now he didn’t want to be here alone. Clark was clearly nothing more than the stranger he should have seen him for. He turned without a comment toward his truck.

     He fast-walked less than a car length when Clark gripped his forearm from behind and turned him around hard.

     “Where the fuck do you think you’re going, country boy?”

     Branton yanked his arm, but he couldn’t free himself. Clark’s grip held him like a clamp.

     “Let go!”

     Clark wrapped his other arm around Branton’s torso and hauled him toward the restrooms. This boy was strong. Branton’s feet skimmed the gravel as they moved. He wouldn’t have a chance of breaking his hold, but he struggled with all his will.

     A shot rang out from the direction of the high school.

     Clark let go and stepped back. Branton fell to his knees and wrapped his fingers around his upper arm. Clark’s face turned red, his eyes were emotionless as he scanned the ridge above.

     Another shot. This one exploded the side rear window of the Beetle.

     Clark hunkered down and ran to his car.

     Seeing Clark turn and run sent blood to Branton’s head. He clenched his teeth and grabbed up a handful of gravel. Yelling out, he threw. Most of the rocks fell short. One stone hit Clark on his calf; another hit the Beetle’s bumper. He replayed Clark’s voice: “Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” He stood up with another handful of rocks and launched them with a scream. Again, a couple glanced off the car with no effect. The beetle started up and scraped into gear. The bumps on Clark’s neck flashed in Branton’s memory. He screamed and threw again. The car spun out, tossing gravel up at Branton’s legs. One last time, Branton threw gravel but all the stone fell back to the ground.

     Surrounded by the gray dust from Clark’s escape, Branton crumpled down onto his knees and cried. He clapped and wrung his hands together, trying to clean the dust off. If he could just get off all the dust.

     A hand reached under his right shoulder. Branton jerked initially then went limp when he smelled a familiar scent: wood fire, gun powder, safety.

     “C’mon, pal,” Bill said.

     Branton walked like a marionette back to his truck. He handed Bill the keys. Bill slid his gun behind the seats. He laid a heavy hand on Branton’s shoulder and gave it one squeeze.

     “Seat belt.”

Hilmer Gibb and His Honkin' Huge Bib

by Thomas McAuley

Hilmer Gibb loves his spaghetti and meatballs but he's a messy eater. He's ruined shirt after shirt, so with a visit to HonkinHugeBibs.com he purchases the Honkin' Huge bib. What is delivered to his house is more bib and more trouble than he bargained for. Hilmer Gibb and His Honkin' Huge Bib leads Hilmer and his bouncy dog, Poundcake, around the town of Spoonton and into the clutches of some strange, dark characters.

     The details of the kitchen blurred as Hilmer Gibb watched a fat, juicy meatball slide off his fork. The meatball laughed as it fell in slow motion onto Hilmer’s pristine white dress shirt. When it hit, it splashed a star shape of bright red spaghetti sauce. It rolled down Hilmer’s belly like a round paint-roller. Finally, the meatball let out a loud Yippee! as it sprung off his belt buckle and landed with a steamy Ploop! onto Hilmer’s checker-print floor.

     Poundcake, Hilmer’s bouncy brown and black miniature poodle scooted to a stop over the goopy mess at Hilmer’s feet. He looked up at his master guiltily as he devoured the meatball with snippy bites.

     Hilmer exhaled and looked down at his shirt.

     “Ruined,” he said to Poundcake.

     Poundcake burped and slunk out of the kitchen with his tail low, his nails clicking on the tiles as he went.

     “Fourth shirt this month.”

     Hilmer stood and walked to a full-length mirror in hall. He smiled when he saw himself.

     “Poundcake!” he said. He untucked his shirt and held out the bottom corners until the fabric looked like a canvas. Poundcake clicked up next to him.

     “The stain,” he said. “It looks like a flower!”

     Poundcake smiled and rubbed against Hilmer’s leg.

     * * *

     Hilmer loved to eat spaghetti and meatballs. But not just any spaghetti and meatballs would do. Right here in the town of Spoonton, a small restaurant called Paccini’s served the best spaghetti and meatballs he had ever eaten.

     Most of the time, Hilmer dined in at Paccini’s. Hilmer would often walk there three times in a week. He owned a car but he preferred to walk. Doing so gave him and Poundcake exercise and, besides, it was the green thing to do. At other times, he called to have his spaghetti and meatballs delivered in fancy serving tins the restaurant normally reserved for catering. Mr. Paccini knew that Hilmer would return in a day or two and, when he did, he would bring the tins back, clean and shiny, to the restaurant.

     * * *

     On the next blue-skied spaghetti and meatballs day, Hilmer and Poundcake walked to Paccini’s. As soon as the manager saw Hilmer and Poundcake walking up the street, Mr. Paccini snapped his fingers three times and burst through the kitchen doors.

     “Everyone!” he said. “Mr. Gibb and his Poundcake! They come up the street. Boil the pasta! Stir the sauce! On your toes! On your toes!”

     Inside, Hilmer sat down at his usual table. Poundcake laid on his belly on the floor in a patch of sun. Benny, Paccini’s daytime server and delivery boy, walked up.

     “Hello, Mr. Gibb,” he said. “Beautiful day we’re having.”

     “That it is, Benny. We had an enjoyable walk.”

     Benny told Hilmer the plate of spaghetti and meatballs would be out shortly.

     As he waited, Hilmer saw a man two tables over, shoveling forks full of spaghetti and meatballs from a plate the size of a trashcan lid. He imagined the other man’s joy and his mouth watered as he watched him eat. It was then that Hilmer noticed, laying across the other man’s chest, a very large bib. It was the size of a generous pillow case, easily twice the size of any bib he had ever seen.

     Hilmer imagined how high the stack of shirts he’d ruined might reach. He imagined too a meatball perched on top, his hands on his meatball hips, laughing. Hilmer shook his head. He decided, being a man of action, he’d introduce himself and ask about the man’s large, attractive bib. He stood and walked to his table.

     “Excuse me, sir.” He waited for the other man to finish his bite and prop his fork on the edge of his plate.

     “Hello. I am Hilmer Gibb.”

     The other man beamed at Hilmer’s aggressively friendly smile.

     “I’m pleased to meet you.” The man extended his hand to Hilmer. “Gordon Summerton.”

     When the two men shook hands, their large bellies shook too.

     “I’m sorry to have interrupted your dinner,” Hilmer said. His eyes lingered on the steaming plate of spaghetti and meatballs and he almost lost his train of thought.

     “It’s perfectly fine, Hilmer,” the man said. “How may I assist you?”

     “Oh, yes,” Hilmer said. “May I ask where you found such a fine, large bib? I see that you and I share a taste for spaghetti and meatballs. And I also see that neither of us likes stains on our shirts.”

     Mr. Summerton smiled. He held out his bib by its corners. It was a large bib indeed.

     Hilmer noticed a bold embroidered “S” on the corner. A very nice touch. Wouldn’t his own bib look splendid with a bold embroidered “G” for “Gibb.” He snapped out of his daydream when Mr. Summerton spoke again.

     “I bought it online,” Mr. Summerton said. “On HonkinHugeBibs.com.” As he laughed at the strange website name, Mr. Summerton accidentally dropped his fist onto the edge of his spaghetti plate. His fork launched into the air. Sauce sprayed across the oversized bib. The fork landed prongs-down inside a meatball which had been smiling until that moment. Not a drop had stained Mr. Summerton’s clothes. Both men stared at one another then erupted into laughter.

     Hilmer shook Mr. Summerton’s hand and thanked him for his valuable information.

     Benny swept in from the kitchen with a steaming plate of spaghetti and meatballs.

     “I’ll need that order—-” Hilmer pointed at the ceiling. “—-to go!”

     * * *

     Hilmer’s first chance to sit down to his computer came after nightfall.

     “C’mon. C’mon” He drummed his fingers as the browser window took its time to open. He typed honkinhugebibs.com, clicked and there it was.

     The page opened up with friendly colors and even a rhyming song about bibs:

     From red sauce to red wine

     To handling ribs

     You’ll find our prices and quality fine.

     Tell your mother, your father,

     You’ve got dibs on the bibs

     That make your deener much cleaner.

     Try Honkin’ Huge Bibs!

     “Deener.” He chuckled. “Cleaner.” And he pressed the big white button that looked like a meatball to “Enter the Site.” A page came up that offered four sizes of bib: Small, Medium, Large and Honkin’ Huge. That was the one. There was even a spinning icon next to the Honkin’ Huge one that said, “Best Value,” so he felt even better about his purchase. When he clicked to buy the bib, a joyful bell sounded on the website and the words “Thank You” ran across the screen. In his excitement, Hilmer clapped his hands.

     Poundcake had been sleeping, balled up on the back of the couch behind Hilmer. He had been dreaming about chasing a burglar with a clock for a head. Poundcake had heard the website’s order confirmation bells as the burglar’s alarm. The burglar’s body had shaken violently as hammers pounded away, shaking doggie snacks from his pockets like grass from a riding lawn mower. Hilmer’s hand clap had startled Poundcake awake. With his eyes half closed, he darted off his high resting place, hovered for a moment and fell between the couch and the wall.

     “Oh, my,” Hilmer said.

     Poundcake reappeared looking a little mixed up. He trotted, gripping a rubber hot dog in his mouth, next to Hilmer.

     “I’m sorry, buddy.” He petted the wobbly dog.

     Poundcake’s body swung back and forth as he wagged his tail. The little jingle bell in the hot dog vibrated. Hilmer patted his knees and Poundcake leapt up like a jumping bean.

     “Did you see that, Poundcake? My bib will arrive in two days.”

     Poundcake licked Hilmer on the cheek.

     * * *

     In the two days leading up to the bib’s delivery, Hilmer decided that he would not eat spaghetti and meatballs. Two days was a long time for Hilmer to go without spaghetti and meatballs, but he reminded himself that he was strong-willed when he needed to be.

     On the morning of the second day, he thanked goodness that his neighborhood was serviced by a very reliable Quicky Shipper man. Hilmer could hear the Quicky Shipper truck roll down the street at the exact same time every day. He tried and failed to read a book as he waited, Poundcake curled in his lap. Not wanting to risk missing his package, Hilmer had asked Paccini to deliver a plate of spaghetti and meatballs.

     The doorbell rang. Hilmer jumped bare-footed from his reading chair. The book he was reading flew to the right and Poundcake flew to the left into a giant fern.

     Hilmer threw open the door so quickly, the delivery man took a startled step backwards and had to fumble to catch the clipboard he had tossed into the air. He recovered and adjusted his bill cap with a quickening back and forth motion which reminded Hilmer of a spring door stop when it’s plucked.

     “Mr. Gibb?” the delivery man asked.

     “Yes?” Hilmer smiled.

     “Mr. Hilmer Gibb?”

     “I am.” Hilmer clasped his hands in front of his chest.

     “I think you’re expecting—-” He consulted his clipboard and snapped his eyes to Hilmer. “—-a delivery?”

     Hilmer hopped up and down like it was his birthday.

     “I am!”

     The delivery man looked over his shoulder and back at Hilmer.

     “It’s big,” the Quicky Shipper man said.

     “I know,” said Hilmer. “They said it would be Honkin’ Huge.”

     “That it is.” The delivery man looked to the side as if speaking to himself.

     Poundcake, having extracted himself from the potted plant, sensed his master’s excitement. He bounced on straight legs in a tight circle. Tiny fern leaves and bits of soil sprinkled down like confetti around him.

     In one magician-like move the delivery man flipped the clipboard to face Hilmer. He offered him a pen attached to a string.

     Hilmer took the pen.

     With the speed and precision of a nail gun, the delivery man pointed to an X.

     “Sign here.”

     Hilmer signed.

     “And here.”

     Hilmer signed again, giving the delivery man a look of happy cooperation.

     “Initial here and here and here.”

     Hilmer initialed in each place.

     “And I’ll need a blood sample.”

     Hilmer’s arms contracted and his eyes grew wide.

     “Oh, my!” he said.

     Poundcake retreated and peered around Hilmer’s leg.

     The delivery man took the clipboard and pen from Hilmer and smiled.

     “Kidding. That’s a Quicky Shipper joke.”

     Hilmer flashed a half-hearted smile. Poundcake’s nerve returned and he sniffed the delivery man’s leg.

     The delivery man pinched the brim of his bill cap.

     “I think we’re done here, sir. You and your adorable pooch have a great day.”

     Hilmer regained his bubbling anticipation.

     “You do the same.”

     The delivery man walked around the corner of the house and out of view.

     “Very unusual indeed,” Hilmer said.

     Remembering his bare feet, he returned to his reading chair to fetch his slippers. On the way, his stomach grumbled. Hilmer’s belly knew that Benny would arrive soon with the tin of spaghetti and meatballs.

     He told his tummy to be patient as he opened his front door. As he walked from his entryway, the reason the delivery man had left the package at the street became immediately clear. Hilmer’s eyes grew wide as he saw what was waiting in the street for him.

     Next to the curb sat a tan cardboard box somewhere between the size of a train car and a two-story house. An enormous black arrow on its side pointed to a white spot at eye level. Hilmer walked into the box’s shadow as he took tentative steps toward it. The white spot turned out to be a pull tab with “PULL HERE” printed above it.

     “This is like Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland!” he said with a giggle. “Eat me! Drink me! Pull here!” Hilmer pulled the tab.

     At first, Hilmer did all the pulling but soon the box took over as if it knew what to do. A ripping sound similar to thunder ran along all the edges of the box. Hilmer covered his ears. Dust fell all around. A sudden silence followed. Neighborhood children, dogs birds. Nothing but Hilmer’s pulse.

     The sides of the box shuddered and bulged, reminding Hilmer of the breath leading up to a sneeze.

     Slowly at first then with increasing speed, the sides of the giant box opened up like an enormous flower. The four flaps slapped to the street and the sidewalk. A gust of air blew the grass flat and forced Hilmer to step back shielding his eyes. When he opened his eyes again, he was overtaken by a rush of white linen spilling out in all directions. Before Hilmer could react, he was covered up to his chest in folds of fabric. He lay on his back, flapping his arms and head.

     “Oh, my!” Hilmer said. “There has certainly been a mistake! There must be a…bazillion bibs in this pile!”

     He wiggled and rolled. He tried walking backwards with his shoulders but he got nowhere. He was pinned.