‘Crush Your Head’

Jeremiah Gilbert is an award-winning photographer and travel writer based out of Southern California. His travels have taken him to over a hundred countries spread across six continents. His photography has been published internationally and exhibited worldwide. He is the author of three travel books, including Can’t Get Here from There: Fifty Tales of Travel and From Tibet to Egypt: Early Travels After a Late Start. His most recent, On to Plan C, documents his return to travel in a post-pandemic world and is the first to include his photography. He can be found on Instagram @jg_travels

Crush Your Head

Blake was about to switch off the television when a rerun of the first episode of the old Kids in the Hall show came on. He guffawed as he saw nerdy, be-speckled Tyzik, holding his thumb and pointer finger an inch apart, and squinting one eye to sharpen his focus on some nemesis. “Crush your head! I crush your little head,” Mark McKinney squeaked, as he brought his fingers together in a pinch. Ah, Blake thought, if only.

The scritch-scratch at the door finally drew his attention and he punched off the remote.

“Hold your damned horses!” he shouted into the yard, unbolting the back door. Scabby bounded in, bringing with him his stinky breath, the stinging late spring air, and a rush of snow that flew from his fur. With the TV off and the dog in for the night, Blake stretched out on his cot with the old olive army blanket pulled tight around himself. He dreamed of the old days -- getting stoned with his buddies, drinking beer, and eating M&Ms.

Waking late the next morning, Blake rushed out of the house and headed for the Tim Hortons drive-through for his usual pre-work double-double. It was still cold and dark, a typical Canadian March morning. Ten cars were ahead of him and the queue was moving way too damned slow. What the hell was that guy up there ordering? Probably one of those French vanilla double espresso extra-hot latte things. If only he could make the cars in front of him disappear with a snap of his fingers and some fancy-schmancy words. Bam! he’d be the first car in line.

It had been years since Blake thought about having a superpower. It must have been the “Crush Your Head” episode he watched last night dredging up those memories. The first person he ever met who had a special power was Mikey McFaherty, the dark-haired freckled kid who lived up the road when he was a boy. There were three brothers and three sisters in that crowded ramshackle house: Mary Anne, Michaela, Mikey, Mitchell, Michelle, and Marky. The boys all had freckles, and the three girls were skinny and knock-kneed. How the parents ever kept them all straight was a mystery. He and Mikey were in the same grade at Our Holy Mother School.

Mikey was twelve when he discovered he possessed the power to change water into wine. Even though the vino was pretty crappy, his popularity surged and he was the only kid in class invited to all the garage and basement make-out parties. He got a girlfriend way before Blake and the others. When the priests learned of Mikey’s superpower, they told Mr. and Mrs. McFaherty that Mikey had a calling and should enter the seminary. So, when he was fourteen, Mikey was dragged kicking, screaming, and shouting “you bastard, you whore!” to go live at the Rectory with Rev. Father Malachi Aloysius Theophilus (they called him the MAT-man for short). But when round pink Colleen Brody turned up pregnant (though who could tell?) a couple of months later and fingered Mikey, that was the end of his ecclesiastical career and the beginning of his teenage father career. Last Blake had heard, Mikey was working at the brewery and still paying child support to chubby Colleen.

The drive-through wench brushed her shaggy lavender bangs out of her eyes and handed Blake his coffee and chocolate dipped. His first sip burned his lip and tongue so bad he spat it out—now that was a great start to the day. His truck blew a loud backfire as he accelerated onto the interstate and Blake realized he still hadn’t remembered to check the engine timing. If only he had a photographic memory like Missy Orbutt did, he wouldn’t always forget the important things, like paying his rent and power bill so it didn’t go dark. Or maybe remembering to send his mother a birthday card (he’d paid sorely for forgetting that last year). Missy Orbutt wasn’t the smartest kid in school, despite her remarkable memory, but lots of people thought she was because she could parrot absolutely anything she read and heard. Every Sunday after Mass, she entertained the gang by reciting entire skits from Saturday Night Live. That was the best part of Sunday. It didn’t hurt that her go-to-Mass blouse was unbuttoned low enough to show her precocious titties. You’d have thought that with those talents Missy would have been running for some provincial office by now. But she had done lousy on her college entrance exam, after paying good money to obtain the answers from the previous year. Unfortunately, the kid she got them from failed to mention that he’d done abysmally on the exam. As noted, Missy wasn’t all that smart. Blake’s buddy told him he had seen her bartending at Hooter’s. At least she was making good use of one of her superpowers.

Arriving home that evening, Blake was greeted by loud barking from the backyard. Opening the gate from the breezeway, he saw Scabby tangled in his chain. Dumb dog, thought Blake as he unclipped the chain from the post, and then the other end from Scabby’s collar. The sun hadn’t quite set yet and the long grass was swaying in the yard in the golden light. A bit of the day’s warmth still hung in the air. It seemed like a good time to pick up dog poop since he hadn’t done it for weeks. Blake grabbed a bucket and shovel from the breezeway and set about the task, with Scabby close at his heels supervising.

He found the first dead squirrel in the long grass and the second and third were at the base of a tree just inside the fence. There seemed to be no teeth or talon marks on them, though upon close inspection there was a dent on either side of each squirrel’s head, and their heads were flattened. Since Scabby could not have reached them with his tether on, Blake briefly wondered how they had died. Scabby nuzzled each one as it was scooped into the bucket and looked up at Blake expectantly.

As they headed into the house, Blake stopped at his truck and grabbed the bag of Carl’s Jr burgers he had picked up on the way home. Scabby was bouncing like a jack-in-the-box trying to get to the bag. “No way!” said Blake, “These are mine.” Wiping his hands on his overalls, he dumped a load of kibble into Scabby’s bowl and sat on the couch in the TV room to eat. The news was showing a video of the Prime Minister jabbering about the economy. I am so sick of that guy, thought Blake. Every girl he meets in the bar says he’s “such a doll” or “what a dreamboat!” when his picture comes on the TV. Blake took a bite of his burger then closed one eye and focused the other on the PM. With his thumb and forefinger, he crushed the PM’s head.

“I crush your head! I crush your little head!” he said. Nothing happened. Blake tried to crush Scabby’s head, but Scabby just lay there licking his balls. Oh, well, he hadn’t developed that particular superpower. And he couldn’t turn water into wine last he’d tried, and he forgot everything he read. And the damn dog had bounced up again and was trying to steal a burger from the bag.

At the end of his shift on Thursday, Blake headed over as usual to The Beer Mug with a couple of guys from work. They always started the weekend a day early so Friday would feel like it went by faster. Downing Labatt Blues, they talked about the Canadian Hockey League players who had been selected in the NHL draft and which team would come out on top. Their boss took some hits from the guys for calling out Blake this week for being minutes late back from lunch.

“He’s such an f-ing keener,” and they toasted to the boss’s demise. When the international news came on the television, the group all turned to watch the newest drama unfolding to the south. Now there’s a guy who has a real superpower, Blake thought, as a portly old guy with bad hair and a red ball cap pointed and waved to the crowd from a podium. This guy could tell people absolutely anything. He made crazy statements and tweeted pure trash, and they bought it hook, line, and sinker. The crowd chanted his name and waved their own red hats in the air. Some of the women took off their shirts and threw them toward the stage. The guy had a large following that was immune to his lies. Maybe it was genetic. Maybe it was something in their diet, like orange Kool-Aid. It was a powerful superpower to control people with words and

Blake was very jealous of it. If he could lie that way and be believed, he could talk himself into a great situation at work, and probably become at least a shift supervisor. He’d have all the girls he wanted and all the beer he could drink.

The barman switched the channel to the hockey game. When Blake left at the end of the third period, he threw a gold-colored one-dollar loonie on the table, and silently told the coin it was a two-dollar toonie. The loon on the coin didn’t change into a polar bear, and the coin’s color remained the same. Well, shit, then. He tossed a second loonie on the table, pulled his hat down over his ears, and walked out into the darkness.

Blake pulled his truck into the driveway and shut off the ignition. It bucked hard twice before shutting off. When he opened his car door, he could already hear Scabby scratching and whining from inside the house. Damn, Blake thought. He had forgotten to put him out before he left for work. The dog bolted through the door and into the dark yard and Blake made for the john to relieve himself of all the Labatt. Later, as he dozed on the couch with the TV on, he heard the once again forgotten dog scratching and whining. Blake let him in and Scabby raced to the kitchen and sat by his food bowl waiting. Blake threw a handful of kibble in the dish and went to bed.

The next morning, pulling on yesterday’s jeans, splashing cold water on his face, and only slightly hung-over from the Thursday evening pre-gaming, he calculated that only nine hours from now he would be off for two whole days. The sun was up and Blake let a whining Scabby out into the yard. Next he looked, the dog appeared to be hanging about a large dark object toward the back of the property. He wondered if the rotting old maple tree had finally dropped one of its huge branches. He stepped into his work boots and ventured into the yard, his breath hanging white in the chill mist. Lying on its back, legs in the air and protruding from the tall fescue was a four-point buck. Blake tugged on the antlers and hauled the buck toward the house through the weeds, Scabby at his heels, watching possessively. Blake examined the animal and was confused to see no obvious evidence of injury or illness, except for a depressed area on both sides of its head. The brown fur was smooth and the dead eyes were clear. There was no stink. It looked as if the animal just dropped wherever it had been standing. Well, whatever got him, this was venison for a year. He covered the buck with a tarp and hoped the chill would hold through the day when he could rush home from work, dress the animal, and carve out some steaks. Today was looking good. It was Friday and there was venison on the menu.

When Blake left for work, Scabby was sitting on the ground as close as his chain would let him get to the deer, a couple of meters away. A few minutes into his drive, Blake realized he hadn’t filled the dog’s bowl with kibble before leaving. Eh, he’ll hold, thought Blake and he continued to the shop.

Blake dashed out of work the minute the buzzer sounded and jumped into his truck. He planned to make a quick run to Carl’s Jr. to get some burgers since he knew he had a couple of hours of work ahead of him dressing that buck and wouldn’t want to wait that long for dinner.

He’d eat burgers again tonight, but tomorrow he’d feast on a venison steak. As he approached the house, he heard the dog barking furiously in the backyard. He put his burgers on the counter and went out back to check on the buck. It had been a cold and raw spring day, so he was pretty sure the meat was going to be fine. Scabby was exactly where he’d been when Blake left in the morning, still at the very end of his tether, and as close to the deer as he could get. Blake untied him just to shut him up, and the dog darted over. Blake shoved him away from the buck using his boot.

“That’s mine! Keep off!” he shouted.

As Blake started to haul the carcass toward the carport, where he had set up a tarp on the concrete floor to do the messy job of butchering, he noticed a dead squirrel lying in the grass not far from the deer. And then two crows, lying side by side nearby. Scabby nuzzled each of them in turn and picked up the squirrel in his mouth as he followed Blake to the carport. Blake briefly wondered if the crows had ingested some of the deer and died, but there were no marks on the deer suggesting it had been bitten or clawed at, and the crows seemed fat with shiny feathers, though quite dead and their heads a bit flat. The squirrel - well, seems like dead squirrels had been littering his yard lately.

Blake went into the house to get his tools. He stopped to grab a couple of burgers and pop open a beer as he headed back outside. Scabby met Blake at the door and dropped the squirrel at his feet, looking up eagerly at Blake. Blake pushed him away and kicked the squirrel back toward the yard, then knelt to start the bloody job of butchering. He began at the groin and made a long slit in the skin down one leg. Two hours later he was done and loaded the meat into the basement freezer.

Then, on second thought, he took out one small venison steak and brought it to the kitchen. He put a frying pan on the gas range. Scabby had begun to jump and bark near the stove.

While the meat sizzled in the pan, Blake tossed a handful of kibble in the dog’s bowl. Scabby ignored the bowl and continued to pester Blake. Once again Blake pushed him away. Scabby abruptly ceased his barking and stood still, looking intently at Blake whose attention remained focused on the frying pan. Scabby tilted his head to the side, closing one eye.

He balanced on his haunches and raised both paws in front of him in what resembled a supplicating gesture, but wasn’t. Blake flipped the meat in the frying pan, breathing deeply of its gamey aroma, and then dropped like a stone to the kitchen floor, his arm hitting the pan’s handle on his way down. The venison flew from the pan and landed on the floor. The famished dog grabbed the steak. Blake lay unbreathing on the floor. Other than two paw-sized dents on each side of his head and a slight flattening, there was not a mark on the man.

Sherri Bale is a retired medical geneticist and part-time personal trainer. She writes flash, short stories, creative non-fiction, and has completed the first draft of her YA/historical fiction novel set in Alaska in 1919. She lives in Maryland, USA with her husband and diabetic rescue pup, Petey.