Blaze of Glory

CHAPTER 19

Buckley was the last inside. Sissy and Gert held the boards to the window, while MacHenry hammered them back in place. Little Rashad held a plate full of nails which MacHenry dipped into. Already Samuel was struggling out of his cellophane armor, looking like a piece of sausage pushing free of its casing. Buckley pulled off his mask, and couldn’t help but grin from ear to ear.

“What’s so funny?” Gert asked.

Buckley told her and got a giggle in return.

Then she added, “I was thinking more like it was something Richard Simmons would make you wear to lose weight. You know, those neoprene sweat suits?”

Buckley shook his head. “Richard Simmons is evil.”

“Don’t you mean Gene Simmons?” Samuel asked.

Little Rashad turned to Buckley. “Who’s that?”

“Who’s that?” Buckley began ripping the cellophane from around his chest. “Gene Simmons is a member of the band Kiss. You know, Detroit Rock City? Beth?”

Both Little Rashad and Samuel shook their heads, blank stares clear evidence that they had no idea what Buckley was talking about.

“If it ain’t Snoop Dog or Dr. Dre then he don’t listen to it.” MacHenry finished hammering the board in place, and took one of the bags from the floor. He peered inside, looked back at Buckley, then shook his head. “I’m not even going to ask what you got these for. Anyway, Kiss ain’t his type of music. He only listens to-”

“Don’t make this into a black-white thing,” Samuel warned.

“I’m not. It’s a rock and roll versus rap thing.”

Sissy spoke up. “Ever listen to Kid Rock? He does this Southern Rock-Rap fusion that’s pretty cool.”

“Isn’t he from Detroit too?” Gert asked.

“Kiss isn’t from Detroit, they just sing about it,” Buckley pointed out.

“Eminem is from Detroit and he’s a white rapper,” Sissy added.

“What does that have to do with anything? Are we taking a survey of musical birthplaces?” MacHenry snatched up as many bags he could carry and headed to the hallway. “What the hell were we talking about?” he mumbled as he left the room.

Gert rolled her eyes. She and Sissy had begun to apply the cook’s mortar to the edges of the boards. They worked with military efficiency. “Richard Simmons. We were talking about Richard Simmons.”

“Yeah. Richard Simmons.” MacHenry re-entered and grabbed the bags of salt. “You know,” he said looking pointedly at Samuel, “the gay guy.”

Samuel mouthed the words the gay guy and rolled his eyes.

“Hey!” MacHenry shrugged, trying to keep his cool. “I didn’t make him gay, he just is. Stepping to the oldies with the fat chicks is about as gay as they come.”

Samuel raised his eyebrows. “So Richard Simmons is gay, but Gene Simmons isn’t gay. This band Kiss isn’t gay?”

The question stopped MacHenry in his tracks. “Hell no! I mean yes! I mean-”

“So they just dress up in platform shoes and wear make-up, but that’s not gay?” Samuel asked not letting up.

Buckley wondered how Samuel knew about what they wore when he’d pretended he didn’t even know who they were. The kid was pulling MacHenry’ chain. Bigtime.

“Hell no!” MacHenry turned to Samuel. By the way he held the bags of salt, he could just as easily throw them as carry them. “What are you trying to do? Start a fight?”

Samuel grinned broadly. “Nope. No fight. I’m just fucking with you.”

“Just fucking with…” MacHenry glowered and stomped towards the kitchen.

When he left the room, everyone’s attention switched to Samuel.

“What?” he shrugged. “It was a slow pitch across the plate. I had to hit it out of the park.” He pulled the rest of the cellophane off and began wiping the sweat from his skin with a towel. “Some people just beg to be fucked with.”

Buckley finished stripping as well. “And you’ve been put on the planet to do it.”

“Why not?” Samuel asked, passing the older man a towel. “There’s no television. No radio. Not even any Kiss, Eminem, Snoop Dog or Kid Rock. We’re back to caveman times.”

“So you think the cavemen fucked with each other as much as we do?”

“Hell yes! After a long day of trying to invent the wheel and chasing pterodactyls, what else would they do?”

Buckley stared at Samuel and had nothing more to say. It was the pterodactyl comment that did it. Or was it the gay Kiss comment? Whatever it was, he was happy to dwell on the evilness of Richard Simmons or the homosexuality inherent in choosing to wear makeup as a rock star rather than dwelling on the grayish-red sludge that now covered his body. If he thought on it, he’d remember that he was infected and would most surely die. If he thought about it, he’d realize that the gray sludge was none other than the result of maggies coming into contact with the layer of salt that had surrounded him beneath the cellophane armor. If he thought on it, he’d recognize that the red tinge was from his own blood, seeping from exit wounds as the maggies escaped his body. So with studied persistence, he decided not to think on it, instead remembering the energy and vitality of Richard Simmons who’d once been the King of Infomercials and the salvation of fat chicks worldwide.

Back when there’d been infomercials.

Back when there’d been fat chicks.