The Golden Goose
Wilderstory 19
Eugene chomped on a large blob of taffy, pushing it from one side of his mouth to the other. A sharp morning wind coursed through the open windows, as the big animal control truck lumbered down the highway.
He grabbed another piece and tossed it to Bud, who was trying to talk past the massive clump he had in his own mouth. A paper bag full of the candy lay between them. Pastel pink, yellow, blue and white.
“I ever tell you about my golden days as a youth?” Bud asked, smiling sidelong at Eugene.
Eugene attempted to speak as he chewed, but instead just shook his head.
“I was the fastest kid on my block. Fastest in grade school,” Bud continued. “Most of middle school, too.”
Bud squeezed a taffy out of its wax paper wrapper with one hand while he drove. It popped out of his fingers and into his lap.
“Dammit,” he breathed, reaching between his legs to grab it. He popped it into his mouth.
“My daddy talked me into going out for track when I was ten,” he continued. “Turns out I was the fastest mother in the whole district that year. Coach called me his golden goose, on account of me bringin’ in more gold medals than he’d ever seen in one season.”
Eugene nodded, peering past Bud at the sprawling desert landscape, and the tiny little ranch homes that dotted it here and there.
“The Golden Goose,” Bud smiled. He waved his free hand in an arc as he spoke. “They even sewed it to the back of my letter jacket.”
The wind whistled through the cab. Eugene watched as Bud mouthed the words again to himself.
Golden Goose.
Eugene reached to grab another taffy out of the bag, but Bud pulled it tight against his hip.
“Hold up, champ,” he said, pushing Eugene’s hand away. “I got a job for you, and it don’t include taffy.”
Bud kept his eyes on the highway as he reached back behind his seat. His hand rustled through empty soda cans and fast food wrappers until he found the tool bag on the floor. He unzipped the top and pulled out a single shotgun shell.
He brought it forward, twirling it in his grasp. It was dark red, with a tarnished brass cap that glinted faintly in the sunlight.
“This is for ol’ lady Destiny,” Bud smiled, tapping the shell against the shotgun hanging in the window behind his head.
Eugene didn’t turn to look at the gun. He knew it was there. He knew how it hung in the homemade wooden rack. How it rattled every time the truck went over a bump in the road. How it actually did have the word Destiny carved into it.
And how Bud wouldn’t go anywhere without it.
It’s for big animals, Bud would say. Never know when you might have a run-in with a bear, or a rabid possum.
Then Bud would smile. Or a dumb redneck.
“Go on,” said Bud, holding the worn bullet toward Eugene. “I think you know what to do.”
Eugene took the shell. He turned it, reading the letters stamped in a circle around its metal end.
BUCKSHOT / 12GA
Bud pursed his lips into a circle as he drove, kissing at the air like a fish. It made a wet, smacking sound. He nodded knowingly toward Eugene.
Eugene squinted out the window, as the barren land sped past. They were well past Vegas. And the sky looked more white than blue.
It’s the dust that does that, Eugene thought.
He could feel it, pricking at his skin in the wind like tiny pins. He leaned his face against it, peering down at the shotgun shell in his lap. With slow precision, he lifted it toward his mouth — and past his lips.
It tasted old, like dirt and metal and grease.
“That’s it, Jeans,” Bud urged, peering out the windshield.
The truck pushed loudly down the road. It’s big knobby tires hummed against the pavement.
“You can walk it off later,” he smiled.
Eugene ran his tongue along the smooth casing inside his mouth. The metal cap clicked against his teeth.
“That’s what dear old dad used to say,” Bud continued. “He said it to me directly, that day he pulled me out from under his old Buick.”
Eugene looked at Bud, questioning. He could feel his cheek bulging from the hard cylinder inside. And there was a bubbling sensation, like what he felt when he sloshed a gulp of cola in his mouth.
“We we’re replacing the brakes on that old trap when the damn jack slipped off.” Bud remembered. “I was mostly out from under, ‘cept for this,” he exclaimed, slapping his thigh.
“Crushed the old kneecap good, I spose. Wouldn’t know, though — as I never saw a doctor for it. Dad said it would be fine in a few days.”
He shook his head at the memory.
“Well, it wasn’t. And my runnin’ days were done after that.” Bud’s voice trailed off. He shifted in the seat, gathering himself behind the wheel.
Eugene wiped his mouth, as saliva gathered along the corners of his lips. His insides felt alive, and his gut was churning. But the sensation was most intense where the shell pushed against the flesh of his gums.
Bud turned his gaze toward Eugene. He looked more serious than before.
“You know, I think that old rabbi slipped me more than a bad piece of meat yesterday,” he said.
“He gave me a vision of this thing we’re part of now. And I can see it. Clear as day.”
Bud motioned while he talked. Eugene enjoyed it — even though it was like watching the same TV commercial, over and over.
“It’s like a pyramid,” he said, bringing his hands together on top of the steering wheel to form the shape.
Eugene nodded, loosely.
“I think old rabbi Sugar’s in that pyramid, way up near the top. And I think he put me right there next to him.
“I’m tapped in, Jeans. A direct line to the source,” Bud continued. “It’s like I can see the plan laid out in front of me.”
Bud pulled at the steering wheel, nodding in the wind that whistled through the cab. “He gave me back my golden goose,” he pondered.
Eugene looked quizzically at Bud. He tried to speak around the shotgun shell in his mouth.
“You mean,” he struggled, “you can run again?”
Bud grimaced, closing his fingers tightly around the steering wheel.
“No, gawdammit,” he yelled, lunging over to slap the back of Eugene’s head. “Are you even listening to me?”
For a moment, Eugene thought he might swallow the shell. He gulped past it, as drool trickled down his chin.
“For chrissakes, Jeans,” he said, “I ain’t talkin’ about running. I’m talkin’ about real shit here.”
Bud opened his mouth and — turning toward Eugene — pointed down his throat.
“Just you take a look,” he said.
Eugene leaned in, trying to see inside. The truck jostled and shook. And Bud’s open mouth swayed to and fro.
Past his tongue, in the dark pit at the back, Eugene thought he saw something.
It wasn’t golden at all. It was bug-like. Black and rounded. Across its back were a pair of folded wings, held tight against its shape.
And it just sat there, stuck to the back of Bud’s throat. Warm and wet and silent.
Eugene thought he could see it move — slightly — but he couldn’t be sure. It made him feel sick inside. But it also drew him toward it.
Bud closed his mouth and turned is attention back to the road.
“That’s my golden goose,” he said. “That’s what old Sugar gave me.”
Eugene pressed his hand against his own neck, feeling around the top of his throat. He reached out his window to grab the side mirror.
Bud laughed. “No Jeansy,” he said, “you ain’t got one. Don’t bother lookin’.”
Eugene dropped his hand and gazed blankly out the front of the truck. It was nearly midday, and the sun was already baking the pavement. The tires clapped over uneven sections of highway as the truck sped forward.
Bud grabbed another taffy from the bag.
“Come on now,” Bud teased. “Don’t get all wistful on me. Besides, you got your own special talent.”
Bud nodded toward Eugene. “Let’s see what you made of that thing.” he said.
The old bullet inside Eugene’s mouth felt hot. But the bubbling in his stomach had stopped. He pushed his chin forward as he reached in with his fingers.
The shell was stuck to his gums. Eugene tugged, and a thin layer of skin came away with it. As it passed his lips, he felt a strange texture along its length. Like ridges, but bent and curling.
Eugene held it out in the light. It glistened with saliva, which dripped in lengths onto his pants.
The smooth texture from before was replaced by an intricate web of fibers, which bent and curled around every contour of the shell. The strands were rubbery and black, like what Eugene felt in his mouth the day before — when Bud had tossed his lunch in his face.
Eugene looked over at Bud, who was smiling and humming to himself behind the wheel. Bud turned to him, marveling at the frightful shape in his hand.
Then he laughed, with what sounded like two voices.
“Now that’s what I call crackerjack,” Bud said.
