DUDE! RT @Vasugi http://bit.ly/ah2i45 “I don’t read other writers… Can you help me get published?” This is AMAZING. 🙂 — http://twitter.com/sarabandebooks
“How can I not share these. They are so wonderful. Major applause to whomever made and wrote them. Plus I wanted to have them all in one place.” — http://thelinebreak.wordpress.com/2010/11/02/can-you-help-me-get-published/
I had dinner last night with a guy who told me a hilarious story about his daughter and one fateful Easter Sunday morning. I woke this morning with that story rumbling around in my head, here’s what came out.
Mike could barely contain his joy while he strategically placed chocolate coins and rabbits wrapped in shiny blue, pink and yellow foil in a line leading from Marysol’s bedroom to the huge Easter basket stashed away behind the couch. He never would have dreamed seven years ago when his daughter was born and he began making up these little traditions that they would become, in themselves, religious ritual. Toby padded along next to Mike, sniffing each chocolate and then backing away, obediently, each time his master gently said “No, Toby. Those aren’t for you.”
When he’d finished, Mike stepped back to inspect his work. It looked good. Marysol would be able to find the Easter basket, but not too easily. Toby took one longing look at the chocolates on the floor and then moved to the back door where he’d found something of greater interest. He gave his butt a little wiggle and let out a whine to let Mike know that he wanted to go outside. By the time his master made it to the door, Toby’s excitement was thundering. Without waiting for the door to swing wide, Toby jammed his body into the opening and went racing through the yard.
“Jesus, Toby!” Mike said a little louder than he’d wanted. He didn’t want to wake up Marysol before he was ready. He closed the door against the frigid morning and turned to watch his wife, Isa, enter the room. Isa hated Easter Sunday. She headed straight for the coffee pot and then stopped to look around, listening suspiciously.
“Where’s Toby?” she asked, her thick Puerto Rican accent making everything sound like an accusation.
“I hope you made a loud noise first.”
Mike looked at her. Isa was always making statements filled with riddle and foreboding. “Why on earth would I make a loud noise?” Mike asked, a bit grumpy that Isa was upsetting his Easter morning planning.
“Because of the animals outside!” Isa said.
Mike opened his mouth to make some sarcastic remark about how, oh yeah, everyone in this little subdivision on Long Island knew about “the animals” lurking out there in the dark, waiting to pounce on Mike’s hundred and ten pound pitbull. Right. But before he could formulate just the right jabs, Marysol’s high pitched scream broke his concentration.
“Help me! HELP!!” The child was screaming blue bloody murder. Mike was out of his seat and up the stairs in seconds, scattering and smashing shiny pink footballs under his feet. For a second, just a split second, Mike stopped outside his daughter’s door, preparing himself for what he was about to see. He opened the door and within moments gave his daughter’s body a full inspection. No blood. No limbs trapped in some contorted position. The child looked perfectly fine.
She was standing on her bed, her back facing her bedroom door and her father’s flushed and frantic look. Marysol’s tiny hands were flattened, pressed hard, against the glass of her bedroom window. She turned her head when her father entered the room, tears flowing freely down her young face, “Toby’s killing the Easter Bunny, papa! You have to SAVE him!!”
Mike ran to the window. Sure enough, Toby had a furry mass in his jaws. He watched, horrified, as Toby snapped his head up and tossed it, twitching and flailing, into the air. Marysol began screaming again.
Mike was halfway into the back yard before he realized he was only wearing a pair of jockey shorts. Screw it, he thought. No way this dog kills the freaking Easter bunny while my little girl watches. Not today, Toby! Mike stomped over to the dog who was now lying on the ground, his meaty paws encircling the furry lump. “Hand him over,” Mike said and then took a startled, stumbling step backward. The dog turned his head at the sound of Mike’s approach. His teeth were bared, a low, menacing growl was rising from deep in the dog’s throat. Mike noticed a single drop of blood fall from the dog’s jowls, staining the snow.
“Shit!” Mike turned and looked up, hoping Isa had grabbed the girl and prevented her from witnessing the crime below. She hadn’t. Marysol stood where Mike had left her, palms pressed against the glass, her little body rigid with fear, her eyes wide and aging. “Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!” Mike cursed under his breath. He turned his back on the dog and raced back inside the house.
Isa was still sitting at the kitchen table, a cup of coffee in one hand, a cigarette in the other. “I told you, you should have made a loud noise,” she said. Mike brushed past her and headed straight for the refrigerator. Meat, he thought. I need meat. He rummaged around for a moment finally putting his hand on two pounds of all beef hot dogs. Mike gripped the packages and moved toward the door. “What are you going to do with those hot dogs?” Isa demanded. Mike brushed past her again, silent, grabbing the shovel before disappearing back into the snow.
Mike moved slowly toward the dog who was eyeing him suspiciously, the low rumble in his throat a steady warning. He tore open the first package of hot dogs and started tossing them, one by one, into a pile two or three inches from the dog’s nose. C’mon, you little bastard, he thought. Don’t make me use this shovel. The dog bared its teeth and made a slight lunging motion in Mike’s direction. Suddenly, a thousand years of instinct flooded Mike’s body. His muscles tensed, he crouched slightly down, not noticing the burning sensation in his feet and ankles from the icy snow on his bare skin. Mike’s knuckles grew white around the shovel handle. From the second story window, Marysol screamed.