Bush Baby
The man, fresh from the shower, is castigating the bush baby for ingesting yet again a large portion of the foot cream.
He is upset not only because the ointment tube is now almost empty, but also because the bush baby has been screwing the cap back on incorrectly.
He kneels before the animal and quotes loudly from the instructions printed on the tube, raising his voice further at “for external use only.”
The bush baby seems to listen, its supersized gaze trained at the man’s lips. It begins to part its jaws, exposing first its main tongue, then its second tongue.
~
Like most mornings, the bush baby has settled itself on the glossy cover of Tender Buttons.
“How many times have I told you,” the man tells the animal, “not to sit on the book?”
All the blinds are up to provide the room with maximum brightness necessary to promote circadian rhythms.
The man opens a slim volume featuring the frown of Baudelaire.
In the opposite corner, the bush baby embarks on its Monday custom of grooming its cheekbones, all the while keeping the man in its sights.
They both glance towards the ceiling every time they hear gunshots from the dental office on the second floor.
~
The motivational speaker who owns the building bends over the hallway floor to study a small cluster of oval-shaped bowel movements.
He raises his head from the discovery just as our man exits unit 1B.
The timing is perfect. The man sports a freshly cleaned powder-blue tux, the bush baby securely concealed in his faux-leather attaché.
He nods a hello, moving at a leisurely pace—plenty of time to catch the 8:21 to the city.
The veins on the owner’s brow are visible.
“Off to interview for a new position at the bank,” the man says.
~
The man unbuckles his briefcase and takes out the bush baby.
“The world’s best continuous jumper.”
A cocktail appears before him, then another.
“Look at the second toe of the hind foot,” he says. “A grooming claw.”
Now there are three or four bodies at his barstool. Leaning, caressing, fluffing the fur.
The man adjusts his eyeglasses: “The legs and muscles are optimized for jumping.”
“I bet it can leap all the way to the dartboard,” a voice breathes in his ear.
“Maybe,” the man says, lowering the bushbaby back into the briefcase.
~
When the shades are down at night, the darkness in the apartment is absolute.
The occasional paramours the man brings home in the small hours tend to collide with furniture on their way to the bathroom.
Although often asked, the man does not disclose the circumstances surrounding his acquisition of the bush baby.
“It can see in complete darkness,” he says.
From its post on top of the bookcase, the animal tosses tiny flakes of paint it has harvested around the upper reaches of the wall.
There are instances when it spits on unsuspecting guests, but not tonight. Tonight, it is fond of the visitor’s reddish hair.
~
As Is
I walk with the painter Ed Ruscha’s voice in my earbuds. There is no sign of life on this side of the strip, the storefronts of dentists, chiropractors, and physical therapists unpopulated. The street is dead-quiet, the ARCO gas station and the on-ramp to Interstate 5 quivering with heat. With my afternoon stroll almost done, I circle a rickety utility trailer holding a long chunk of a tree trunk. The rig is hitched to a dented SUV parked at the curb. It looks like someone started hollowing out the side of the log to fashion it into a dugout canoe. I study the tree-rings, the bark, the fresh scars of the axe. It is the early stage of the work that appeals to me. I walk along the SUV and peek in through the grimy windows. The back bench and the passenger seat are gone, replaced with bags of soil, rusty golf clubs, barbed wire, a scythe, and a pile of cardboard. Wedged behind the wheel sits a large middle-aged man who is sleeping with his head thrown back over the top of the seat. His mouth is wide open, hands flat on his belly, the face parallel with the roof. Ed Ruscha is talking about switching his media from oil to gun powder, axle grease, and caviar. Close to 90 years old, but still sounding like a forty-something, he is describing his painting ‘Hurting the Word Radio #2,’ which had been sold in the early 1970s for 500 dollars, from which the gallery kept a half, leaving him with 250 before taxes. The same painting, he says, was resold a couple of years ago at Christie’s for 52.5 million dollars, from which he will not see a cent. I am wondering if I should wake the fellow in the SUV and ask about his log project. I want to tell him not to work on it anymore. I would buy it as is. He looks fierce with that unhinged jaw and the eyes staring at the ceiling. I finally knock on the window, but he does not move. I knock some more, then bang on the roof, but still no movement. It is strange, the black hole of the mouth, the eyes frozen like that. I am strange too. It takes me a while sometimes to realize what I am looking at.
~
Courthouse, Room 107
“You’re not quite yourself,” the father of the groom reads from prepared notes. “The right earlobe is missing; the blood has ruined your scarf. The wolves are still chewing what’s left of your love and the sunlight is weak.”
The justice of the peace tips his head in the posture of interest. Through the years, he has learned to maintain a sunny countenance, picturing the bride and groom in various stages of congress.
“No wind, the pines hushed, as if expecting further mayhem,” the father of the groom continues. “You stagger to a ditch, its rainwater your only mirror. You see the damage, can barely breathe. And though your face is torn and wan, before losing consciousness, you notice catastrophe makes you ruggedly handsome.”
A masked nurse approaches from behind and grasps the handles of the wheelchair. The father reads on, but the words begin to fade as the nurse rolls him out of the room.
~
Peter Krumbach lives in Del Mar, California. For publication history and more, visit peterkrumbach.com