Blankets: a Four Person Story

Chris Shaw

7:15 p.m.

Jake tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. It was The Who again, and this time, “Baba O’Riley,” the greatest rock song in the history of music. He turned the knob clockwise, the direction of sound, and sang along with Roger Daltrey, to the climax of the song. “Teenage wasteland... Oh, yeah... It’s only teenage wasteland... THEY’RE ALL WASTED!”

And that was all. There was just him, the song, the radio, the car, the road, and the whole state of Nevada. Jake and the desert. His last ten minutes of freedom before he got home. Soon again, there would be repressive noises: the television being played too loudly, the pots and pans of supper banging too slowly, the phone ringing, the wife asking too many questions about work, and the boy. The boy whining all day long, the boy needing attention all night long: he wet his bed, he had a bad dream, he saw a monster, he was hungry, he ate too much, he felt sick, or he just couldn’t sleep. And then of course, Carol would let him sleep between them, of course it wouldn’t bother them at all. He needed to learn how to grow up, but Carol wouldn’t hear of it. They’d had the conversation a thousand times before. If he’d known marriage and kids would be a second career, he wouldn’t have decided so quickly to take his vows.

He took back that thought as soon as it appeared in his head. He loved his wife... sort of. Recently, they had been fighting too much. “7:30 is too late for you to come home from work,” she had said. “You have a family now.” She didn’t understand. He had to come home later to be able to support her. Vengeful, ungrateful bitch. She didn’t have a job anymore; she took off from work too much for the kid and got fired. But now she thought he was cheating on her. Cheating? He almost wished he was. He hadn’t had sex in six months, with Carol or anybody.

But he didn’t need to think about it. Now Roger Daltrey still screamed louder than the boy could whine, louder than the wife could complain, louder than his thoughts could scream. The windows opened, almost by themselves, to let in the icy breeze that roughed up his hair, abraded his ears, and tore at his nose. It was a fine line between pleasure and pain, a middle ground where the wind stung, but massaged just enough. Jake sang louder.

After the long violin solo at the end, his mix tape flipped over, and it was “Goin’ Mobile,” the only driving song. He blasted it. Pete Townshend blared away on his distorted guitar in the background while Roger Daltrey screamed again, this time about going home. “I’m goin’ home! And when I wanna go home, I’m goin’ mobile. Keep me movin’!”

But when he started singing, Jake realized the irony of it all. He didn’t want to go home.

He pulled to a stop at the red light, at the intersection with Rocky Road, the last turnoff before his house. Ideas started to fly around inside his head like bright colors seen for the first time. On the right were the mountains; to the left was Las Vegas. There was a backpack still in his trunk; money in his pocket. He could turn either way and never come back, never call again. But Jake stared ahead and saw his house. He could see it from the stoplight, larger than his dreams, larger than himself. And the light turned green. He rested his hand on the turn signal for a second, tried to push it down, pull it up. Either way would be freedom, up or down. But which way to move it... a car honked behind him, forcing his foot into the gas and straight through the light.

And the driveway was there now, right in front of him. The lights were on; he could see Carol from the road, her hair still tied up in a cruelly-tight bun. She sat on a chair, staring at the TV with a book in her hand. And he was there, back again.

He turned the volume down and stopped singing. She turned around to face the lights coming from the road, and he closed his eyes and did it, the inevitable. He pulled into the driveway.

9:05 p.m.

“Honey . . . ? Honey . . . ? Honey . . . ?” Carol put her reading down on the arm of the chair to look over at her sleeping husband. “Jake, will you just go to bed if you’re that tired? You snore.”

Jake snorted himself awake at his name and half opened his eyes. “What? I don’t snore.”

“Yes you do. And I’m sick of hearing it while I’m trying to watch the X-Files. Go to bed.”

“What?”

“I said if you’re tired, go to bed. I’m trying to watch TV.”

“What do you mean, go to bed? If you want to read, turn the TV off.”

“Jake, go to bed. You’re tired, and I don’t like being around you when you’re tired.”

“Carol, would you stop complaining? Don’t you tell me I’m tired. I don’t have the time like you do to take naps during the day. You can go watch X-Files in the goddamn bedroom if you want to see it that badly.”

Carol dropped her book on the floor and stood up and seethed at Jake, who lay inert on the couch. “I’ve had enough of you holding this over my head. I am looking for a job. And don’t you dare... ever mention that when Thomas is awake again.” Her cheeks flustered, she sat back down on her chair and continued. “If I have to go back to the bedroom to watch TV, you are not sleeping in there tonight. You’ll stay on the couch.”

“Christ, Carol. This isn’t some TV sitcom. I own the goddamn house. I’ll sleep wherever the hell I want to sleep.”

“And would you fix your language around Thomas? He looks up to you, you know. You’re his father.”

“Don’t change the subject, goddammit. Watch your television; you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. Besides, where is Thomas? He can’t hear us.”

“He’s somewhere around here. But that’s not the point. I don’t like swearing either. Calm it down.” Carol took off her reading glasses and strained to turn toward the kitchen without getting up. “Thomas? Thomas! Come in here for a minute!”

“Yeah, Mommy?” came faintly through the kitchen door from the other side of the house. “What?”

“I want you to come in here for a minute!”

“Why?”

Jake sat up on the couch to yell louder than both of them. “Because your mother said so! Now get in here!”

Thomas appeared at the doorway. “What? I was playing with my Legos.”

Carol pointed at the floor. “Sit.”

“Why?”

“Because your father needs to have you here.”

“Why?”

“So he’s on his best behavior.”

“But Mom, I was almost done with the castle! I have to finish it tonight for when Joey comes over tomorrow!”

Jake looked at him darkly. “Don’t you talk back to your mother, or you’ll never play with your Legos or see Joey ever again.”

“But Dad, I—”

“And don’t,” Jake’s eyes narrowed, his fists hardened, and his voice grew harshly low. “And don’t you ever talk back to me.”

“Okay, Dad—”

“Do you understand me?” Thomas closed his eyes and sat down. “Is that clear?”

“Yes, Dad.”

“Goddammit Thomas, I swear to Christ, one of these days, I’m not gonna take it out of you anymore.”

Carol sat up and looked at her husband. “Jake, I give up. You should go to bed now. Let’s just forget this ever happened.”

He raised his eyes to look at Carol, and their stares locked. His neck shook and a vein started to throb in his forehead as the staring contest went on for a whole thirty seconds. But he lost. Carol’s steady gaze proved stronger than Jake’s rash anger. And Jake looked down. He turned to Thomas, defeated.

“Come on, Thomas. We’re going to bed now.”

Carol watched Thomas follow his dad into the room. She surprised herself, though, by letting her eyes wander all the way down his back, down the backs of his legs, and to his bare feet. She shook her head of thoughts of Jake’s attractive body, and watched him take Thomas to bed. He didn’t put his arm around him like most nights. They didn’t bother to go to the bathroom beforehand. And Jake left the room immediately without telling Thomas a story and shut the door behind him. “Good night, Carol,” he said through the closing door.

She sat there, waiting for something to happen. But nothing did. No grand realization that her marriage was severely disturbed. She didn’t feel any of the cathartic stirring in her breast that she would usually feel after another evening like this. The night was still dark. Her mystery book was still interesting. And the trees were still green. Another fight was over. It was done. And nothing was different.

She heard Thomas call out from his room for his dad, but she kept reading. After all, her marriage would be fine, her son would be fine, so what was there to worry about? She hugged her blanket close to the legs that were getting colder by the minute, and read for another ten minutes until she finished the chapter. Maybe everything really would be fine. She got up and turned off all the lights, and went into her bedroom to go to sleep.

9:15 p.m.

The lights went out. And little Thomas clutched the blanket, held it until his fingers turned a different color. He couldn’t see what color, but he knew they were changing.

At this point, he was sure of only two things. First, his fingers were now a different color. And that there was a monster under the bed. A monster! A big bluish purple, giant, scary monster. He knew that there were no such things as monsters, but there was definitely a monster under the bed right now. He knew, because he saw it. He saw the blasted thing crawl under his bed, glowing, as soon as his dad left the room. It was glowing! He smelled the sour fishy smell; he heard the scales clicking together when the monster’s body rotated. Of course it was a monster! And he screamed and told his dad to come back, but he didn’t come back. He didn’t come back!

Now the door was closed, and he would never come back. Thomas knew he would never see his daddy again, he just knew it. There was a monster in the room, for Christ’s sake! (Thomas took back that thought immediately: Mommy always yelled at Daddy when he took the Lord’s name in vain.) But of course his life was over! That’s why you never hear from kids who really see monsters: they all get eaten. Monsters will eat anything, anybody, anytime. Thomas looked at his fingers to see what color they had turned, but he couldn’t see. It was dark. Of course it was dark, everybody knows monsters only come out when it’s dark. And when it’s dark, you can’t see your fingers. You can’t see anything, not even the monster that’s going to eat you.

He made the Sign of the Cross and prayed. The Our Father, the Hail Mary, the Apostle’s Creed—but he couldn’t remember the whole thing—, the Act of Contrition, and he talked to God and asked Him please, please, please, don’t You let the monster get up here on the bed. And Thomas looked for the blanket after he was done praying, but it was gone. It was gone!

The monster had gotten the thing; he got the blanket!

Thomas knew it was time to either give up and let the monster get him, or to make a run for it. The door was completely closed so that he couldn’t even really tell where it was. But the floor was clean so he could probably make it the whole way without tripping over anything. He had practiced the move a thousand times before, just in case of an emergency. A jump on the floor and through the door. If it was all done right, he would only have to put his feet on the ground twice. Right, left. He could do that. Right, left. Two steps. He could do it.

Or he could wait. Maybe he could wait. The blanket was big; he could hide his whole body under it.

But wait! No! The blanket was gone! His only protection was gone. Thomas felt his fate close in on him like a giant blanket, only it wasn’t his own giant blanket. It was a big, scary blanket. A monstrous blanket. Thomas wanted his own safe blanket.

But there it was! The blanket! It was under his right leg! The monster must have given it back as a peace offering. But it was wet. Wet! Was it blood? Monster saliva? What could get his blanket wet? His own blood? He checked himself all over to see if there were any open cuts in his body that had been numbed by monster poison. But his skin was unbroken. Of course, though, he couldn’t use the blanket anymore for protection. It was violated. He resolved to go. He would do it. He would jump. The risk of death for the sake of freedom. A chance for freedom was better than a life of fear. He would go. Two steps. Two steps. Right, left. Two steps.

But where was the door? How could he jump without being able to find the door that he was trying to reach? It was dark. The only light in the room came from the glowing of the churning monster under the bed. If the only light came from under the bed, then was the door that he saw real, or was it a reflection on the wall that the light made? Could the monster distort the image he projected? This made Thomas realize that the monster was getting larger by the minute. It was gorging itself on his dirty socks and broken toys. Soon it would be hungry for something bigger. After finding the cat, the monster would come after him. Every second wasted not jumping was a second closer to death. Thomas decided to trust the location of the door as he saw it. He would jump. He could do it now. On the count of three. One two three. Two steps. Left, right.

ONE!

He pulled his knees up to his chest. He hugged them there so tight that he couldn’t breathe.

TWO!

He leaned forward and rolled, so that he balanced on his knees and feet. He pushed back onto the balls of his feet, into a sprinter’s starting block stance.

THREE!

Thomas jumped, feeling the cool air of freedom whip away at his face as he flew through the air onto his left foot. He pushed off again and landed this time on his right foot, reaching out for the door. He gripped the knob and turned it, not just clockwise but in the direction of safety.

It was twisted halfway before the monster had him. A slippery tentacle hooked into his shin for the first and only time, ripping off pieces of pale young flesh in its violent seizure of him. As his left leg was torn from underneath, Thomas felt his hamstrings snap and his pelvic bone crack. His hand was wrenched from the doorknob, hard enough to shatter the bones in the fingers. And while his head smashed against the floor, his vision flashed alternately bright white and blood red. Thomas had barely enough time to think that he should have stayed under the wet blanket before he saw the monster’s mouth swell open to meet him.

2:00 am

Yeah, I ate him. I fucking ate him. I ate him, and he tasted like shit. Goddamn kids. You always get the crispy ones just when you want the fat ones, the meaty ones when you want the skinny ones. How long have I been doing this, and I still haven’t figured out how to pick the right ones when I want one? Dammit! Now I gotta sit here picking my teeth with his metatarcel because I’m such a fucking idiot I didn’t even look at him before I swallowed, and now I got his skin caught in my teeth. Dammit.

It was supposed to be so easy this time. I get a bite to eat, and then I go into hibernation. Eat, sleep. The only two things I have to accomplish today, and I end up fucking both of them up. Dammit. So easy, and I fuck it up. First of all, I didn’t fit under the kid’s bed. I thought it was all clean under there, especially ‘cause this kid was so neat all the other times I saw him. Nope, he had the whole fucking Lego Trademark collection sitting under his bed. The whole damn thing. Pirates, Marines, Space Explorers, Forest Explorers, everything. And they all got stuck up in my ass when I shoved myself under the bed. Dammit, I’ll be shitting Lego people for weeks now. I know; it’s happened before.

So I’m sitting there crying about the Legos up my ass, whining, and the fucking kid decides to go to bed early. It’s nine o’clock, and the kid comes in the room an hour early. A whole fucking hour! So I shut up and try to hide my fat ass under his tiny bed space, and I think I’m all hidden, but no! He sees me. The little snot-nose bastard sees me, as soon as his dad leaves the damn room. And he yells at his dad to come back, so of course I’m all worried about what to do. I’m being as quiet as I can, because these kids are so stupid they’ll do anything, to make themselves believe you’re not really there. Some of them think you can’t get them under a blanket. He finally shut up though. I thought it was all fine and good. I was home free; I could just wait until he went to sleep, and then I could sneak up there and kill him fast and neat, then drag his dead body to my condo in Hell, across 110^th Street. Just like every time. Never fails. But no, I can hear the little rat-bastard breathing up there, and then I feel him start to move on the bed. Like this kid has any fucking idea what he’s getting into! What fucking nerve! So I’m thinking this thing is gonna last all night, and I start chewing on his nasty-ass dirty laundry under there ‘cause I’m so fucking hungry, and I know I’m gonna get hungrier waiting for this damn kid to fall the asleep.

But then the little fuck starts moving all slow and deliberate, like he’s gonna make a move for it. I was all worried for a second. I thought maybe he could make it to the door before I would get him. So, I decide, it’s gonna have to be messy if I want to get this little runny-nosed bastard at all. I reach up there and try to get him, but all I come up with is his fucking blanket! Those things taste like shit, too. I was trying to get him all in one bite, because it’s less noisy that way, but instead I half swallow his fucking blanket. When I say they taste like shit, I mean it. These kids don’t know how to do fucking laundry. Those stupid pointless security blankets all smell like rotten piss and dried saliva. Little pieces of shit don’t even realize some of us have heightened senses. Maybe we don’t want to smell that goddamn stench from under the fucking bed! Inconsiderate little fuckers. Not even worth the trouble to eat them, if you ask me. But I guess there’s nothing else to fucking eat.

So anyway, I spit this fucking blanket out, which makes matters worse, because it lands on the bed, and now the kid’s all fucking nervous and getting ready to leave. Too bad for him it was dark as all Hell in there. I could hardly see the way out; no one expects some little kid to be able to. So I sit there waiting. And what does the little fucking asshole piece of shit bastard do? He jumps. What an idiot. The little runt tries to jump. The lucky shit he got to the fucking door, too; he had the handle half turned.

But no, I got him. Was there ever any doubt? I knew I’d get him. I threw out one of my tentacles and pulled his leg so hard I felt his hip break. Man, did his head crack the floor. Damn, I think he must have woken up the dead kids in my stomach by the noise he made. Of course, after all that effort, I was so hungry I had to have some of him right there. I tore out his brain with my teeth, while his eyes were still open. Little bastard deserved to have me tear out his beating heart and show it to him. As far as I’m concerned, biting a hole in his still living-skull was merciful. But I showed him what the fuck is up. I ate his brain, then I dragged his body over to my lair. I was still hungry, so I didn’t even wait to eat him for breakfast the next day. I ate him right there, all for dinner. I would have gone for the whole fucking family to get this little shit back for making me work for him, but I went into the parents’ room. They were fucking! It stank like sex in there; I couldn’t eat them, that’s so fucking disgusting. Dammit. Another day without breakfast. And the worst part of the day was that I couldn’t even sleep because I was feeling the Lego wounds in my fucking ass.

Now here I am. I’m a mess. I’m fucking tired as shit, my ass hurts, I haven’t slept in weeks and I haven’t really eaten in days. I’m fucking hungry. Dammit, I’m going for twins next time.