The Transformation, part VIII

originally posted April 25, 2007

Nothing happened for some time. I became concerned that I'd accidentally killed the naked man, so checked on his status in the bathroom. He was not without company. Stationed around the room was a watchful guard of cockroaches keeping tabs on things. I'd anticipated this, and had replaced my fedora with a beekeeper's hat, constructed by my husband following a particularly devastating rejection letter to his only attempt at Orwell. He was in disbelief that a prominent literary journal would not want to publish the tale of a group of brass and wind instruments that rise up to massacre a high school marching band, led in their revolt by a rusty horn. There was only a single survivor in this massacre: the son of the man whose father owned the oldest piano store in town, a trombone player spared because the instruments all recalled how lovingly he'd always polished his own horn. The person who wrote the letter denying publication—who I imagine was surrounded by other persons doubled over in laughter—must have felt strongly in his or her decision to reject, because the wording strayed from the standard 'We're sorry, but this story does not meet our current needs' format, and included the word 'asinine'. My husband spent three days in the basement, at some point during which he watched a documentary on beekeeping. He emerged, proclaiming this to be his true calling, and had fashioned a beekeeper's hat out of an old football helmet, a crusty scrap of sweatshirt, and some brand new pairs of extra tall pantyhose he happened to have on hand. At the time I'd secretly questioned the utility of this, but was now glad to have it around.

The cockroaches in the bathroom did not charge at me when I entered, my Aqua Net and lighter poised for attack. They turned their attention to me, and no one said a word. I saw that the naked stranger was still breathing, and had begun to drool a bit. In preparation for my entry into the bathroom I'd also donned my husband's Walt Whitman beard under the beekeeper's hat, as I felt I needed the added protection around my mouth, as well as whatever extra confidence it might afford me. This was the beard my husband wore when penning his own song of himself, a work I made the decision to never read after he asked me what rhymed with 'scrotum'. Now I carefully placed this beard on the naked man's face, hooking it over his ears to insure it would stay in place to absorb his drool. Still without a plan of action, I chose to take advantage of whatever remained of his nap time and tip-toed out of the room, closing the door behind me. As I left, I thought I heard the faintest of hissing sounds. This time though, I could swear someone said "sssssssssssssslut."