Okay, so, note: I said I was going to do this thing over a year ago. It was the most outrageously stupid idea for a short story imaginable.......if you knew me back then you'll remember the quote: "I'm going to write a story about a guy who legally changes his name to Howard the Duck. And I'm going to make it good. And I'm going to get it published."
And I did, too. Here ya go.
Howard the Duck stumbles through
the intersection of North Street and Mission Boulevard. He coughs.
The light changes halfway through his crossing, because the light,
the confounded crossing sign, is never up long enough for anyone
trying to cross the street. He coughs again, almost trips, and cars
begin honking. He finally makes it across and the stream of traffic
headed up Mission Boulevard continues on its way. A van full of kids
in baseball caps is one of the vehicles that rolls past him. As it
goes by, the door slides open and one of the kids leans out bodily.
The kid yells, “hey, buddy! Fuck you!!!!”
It sounds, probably due to
the wind, the general street ambiance and what have you, as though
the kid yelled “puck you.” or maybe “buck you,” but Howard
the Duck gets the point.
He doubles over and lets loose
a loud, hacking cough and then he tries to flip the kid the bird. The
door has closed back up and the van is now safely in the distance,
well past his revenge.
Most of the suffering in the
world is created by kids wearing baseball caps, Howard the Duck
thinks. He looks down at the base of his hand and notices a wad of
blood. Goddammit, He thinks, and tries to wipe it off on his jacket.
He keeps walking.
Howard the Duck has problems.
First and foremost, he has Tuberculosis. He is dying. He's also a
pedestrian, which only belabors the point.
There are other problems,
though, that only create greater impact in his life.
A. Howard the Duck has a
price on his head. He is almost sure of it.
B. He is a walking
copyright infringement. And he must allow that this is not an
accident of birth but a choice he made, a moral stand that has had
ramifications in his life.
Nobody understands him----not
his girlfriend, or the guys at work....not even his best friend.
All of which brings him back to his
primary goal. He's walking to McDonald's. He's going to meet his
friend Spider-Man, to tell him he disapproves of his lifestyle
choices.
Howard the Duck shakes his
head. Skippy, he corrects himself, not Spider-Man. I refuse to call
him Spider-Man.
Skippy does not understand the
weight and the stress of being a walking copyright infringement.
Skippy is young, of course, and only sees the glitz and glamour of
naming yourself after your favorite character. Howard the Duck
realizes all of this and hopes to make Skippy aware of some of the
pitfalls he has to live with.
He hears a shout back toward
the intersection. He half-turns. He's always looking over his
shoulder these days, because he knows Marvel Comics are following him
and he is sure that they mean to kill him.
Nothing. This time.
Besides, he thinks, changing
your name legally to “Spider-Man” is stupid. Spider-Man is a
popular character consumed by the masses for no good reason and to no
good end. There is nothing special, risky or meaningful about such a
move.
Changing one's name legally to
“Howard the Duck” is a bold and deeply personal move that invites
hardship and misunderstanding.
A. Few if any people hear
“Howard the Duck” and think of Steve Gerber's brilliant,
existential satirical comic. They usually think of the horrid '80s
movie if they think of anything.
B. There is nothing fun or
glamorous about filling out paperwork and signing it as “Howard the
Duck”. Try renting an apartment that way. Buying a car. Shit, try
VOTING.
And again, the afformentioned
understanding that you are a marked man, your days are numbered
and Marvel Comics are trying to kill you. And in the case of
Howard the Duck, it's just an arrogant grab for intellectual
property. There's not even a goddamned profit motive.
He will set Skippy straight on
this and more, if it's the last thing he does. And it might be.
His real last given name is
“Vlierboom”. He hates it. The guys at the factory simply call him
“Boom”, which he's fine with. They can't pronounce “Vlierboom”.
Past the bosses who hand him his paycheck and the personnel
department who he had to clear the change with he has no desire to
share this with his co-workers for all the obvious reasons. He
doesn't need any of the wise guys pointing out that he is not
actually a duck. He knows that.
It's a point that Jessie, his
girlfriend, makes frequently. “I'd be happy to meet you in the
middle and call you 'Howard the Man',” she tells him. “I mean,
you are a man, you know.”
“That's not the point,” he
retorts, “I'm trapped in a world I never made. I literally am that
character.”
“You're making a world you
never made by calling yourself a duck,” she says. She always falls
back on that one and he thinks it's all beside the point but then
they smoke up another big fatty, he hacks up a lung and she starts
talking to him about how he needs to see a doctor. So nothing is
really ever solved in this circular exchange.
It might be a problem of the
therapist in question. Jessie says she's a playwrite, although she's
never written a play in the whole time he's known her.
Howard the Duck busts his hump for
a couple of miles before finally reaching the big intersection and
heading to McDonald's on the other side of the street. He winds
himself getting across the intersection but makes it in good time. He
crumples up by the light post. “Uh-hriiiii-hriiiii-hriiiiii-hriiii,”
he coughs.
To get to McDonald's from the
corner he has to hike up a steep hill and cross a couple of different
parking lots. He thinks that motorists don't know the painstaking
difficulty required in going everywhere on foot----needing to walk
miles for a futile meeting at McDonalds because your best friend has
made a stupid life decision. Of course, the whole process only
exacerbates the coughing. He
tries to apply some thought to this.
Spider-Man. Why Spider-Man? And for the love of God, how the hell did
Skippy slip that one past Judge Dunn?
Judge Dunn hates legal name
changes. Jessie had actually told him this back when he first decided
to change his name to Howard the Duck. She had a friend, she said,
named April Morgan, who decided, for religious reasons, that she
wanted to change her name to Purple Vanguard Trixie Diatribe 6. Yes,
the number six, that was her last name. Judge Dunn grudgingly gave it
to her but not before forcing her to give a long, detailed
explanation as to why she wanted the name change and what it meant.
“Later on, like a year
later,” Jessie told him, “she thought maybe her choice went a
little far and she was having trouble getting jobs...she went back
and got it shortened to just 'Trixie Diatribe', and the Judge yelled
at her about how much of a burden she was putting on taxpayers. She
gave her the name change but told her she didn't ever want to see her
in her court again.”
Howard the Duck encountered
similar wrath. He explained to the judge that he wanted the name
change because he was trapped in a world he'd never made. She told
him that such frivolous petitions like his were putting state
taxpayers into a world they'd never made, but she grudgingly granted
him the name change.
He does not know Trixie Diatribe.
After a herculean hike (and
another good, hard cough), Howard the Duck finally makes McDonald's.
Skippy is sitting in the booth closest to the exit. He's sipping on a
shake. “Took ya long enough,” says Skippy.
“You know how far I had to
walk,” rasps Howard the Duck, and this causes him to lurch into
another coughing fit.
“You oughtta take a
Riccola,” Skippy adds. Howard the Duck stops and regards Skippy's
hairy moonface, peering at him guilelessly from underneath a mop of
greasy, brown hair. He stops short of ripping him a new one.
“You eating, smart guy?”
Skippy looks down at his
shake and then looks back up. “Nah, I'm good. Been waiting for you.
For a while.” He holds up his wristwatch for emphasis.
“Alright, well, I've had
a long walk, so I'm getting something.” Skippy nods agreeably and
Howard the Duck gets in line.
His McDonald's order looks
like this:
A. Quarter Pounder, no
cheese.
B. 10-piece McNuggets.
Sweet-and-Sour Sauce.
D. Hot Mustard Sauce
E. Large Fries.
F. Medium Diet Coke.
Howard the Duck does not
drink Diet Coke because he believes it will make him thin. He drinks
Diet Coke because regular coke drinks are too sugary for him.
Upon receiving his order he
sits down with Skippy at the booth by the exit.
“Skippy,” he says, and
then, seeing Skippy frown, he corrects himself.
“Sorry....'Spider-Man'.” Skippy's face softens slightly---apology
expected.
“Been missing you at
Munchkin, dude,” Skippy says, glazing over the faux pas. “Where
ya been?”
“Sick,” says Howard the
Duck, coughing again.
“Yeah, no shit,” remarks
Skippy. “You oughtta take something for that.”
“I have TB,” Howard the
Duck grunts.
Skippy takes another sip off his
shake. “Sucks,” he says.
“Yeah,” Howard the Duck
says. He tears into the burger and begins coughing again. This time
it seems like the ketchup is setting it off, but everything sets it
off. The cold air. The car exhaust. The food. You name it.
“Damn, dude,” Skippy says
again.
“I'm dying,” says Howard
the Duck.
“I guess,” Skippy muses.
“You're a goddamned
idiot,” says Howard the Duck.
“What do you mean?”
“First and foremost, you
don't listen to anything anyone tells you. That's just for starters.”
“Huh?! Dude, I have
absolutely no idea what you mean!”
“I bet you don't, but
that's just for starters!”
“What the hell, pal????
We haven't seen you for weeks at Munchkin.....months, maybe----and
then you're all yellin' and attackin' and callin' names?”
Howard the Duck regards
Skippy with a hard look and several vignettes go through his head:
A. Impalement
B. Castration
Waterboarding, however hot, hip
and trendy that may come off.
All of the above scenarios are
accompanied by happy whistling music. There are a multitude of
grievances at work in his head right now, but he puts them all aside
in favor of one, which in his mind represents everything.
“Spider-Man,” he sighs.
Skippy smiles. “That's my
name, don't wear it out!”
“Are you on crack, you
fuckin' moron?! Seriously, are you sure your parents weren't related?
Answer that for me, will ya?”
“Dude!”
“Don't 'Dude' me again,
okay, ya mongoloid? Just what the fuck is wrong with you???”
“What do you mean???
Dude, what's up your ass????”
“Okay, so first off, I
have to know, how hard did Judge Dunn jump down your throat when you
told her you wanted to change your name to Spider-Man?!”
“Not at all! Man, she
was a stand-up Judge!”
“Yeah, I'll bet she
was.”
“Listen, just because
she was a cooze to you doesn't mean she didn't learn something and
lighten the hell up, man.....”
“Yeah? Yeah? What,
exactly, do you figure she learned, huh?”
Skippy stammers for a few
seconds and licks his lips. “Ah, maybe she got more tolerant of
other peoples' individuality? And maybe you could re-learn some of
that?”
“Oh, really? And whose
individuality did she get more tolerant of? Explain that to me, will
ya?”
“People like US, dude!!!!
People who have their own ideas! People who don't march to everyone
else's drummer, you know?”
“People like us,” crabs
Howard the Duck, half under his breath. “Explain to me, exactly,
how calling yourself 'Spider Man' helps you assert your
individuality.”
“Well,” says Spider-Man,
look a little nonplussed, “you know!” He gestures frantically to
Howard, as if that should speak for itself.
“No,” Howard the Duck
smiles. “I don't. How about you explain it to me?”
Spider-Man now has a look of
concern and frustration on his moonface. It reads a mix of “you
should understand this already, dude,” coupled with a dash of “I
thought you were my friend”.
“You know....being the Hero.
Being your OWN hero! What you always tried to tell me!”
Howard the Duck is not placated.
“I don't remember ever telling you that.”
“Well, not in so many
words....”
“It's my moral obligation to
call you on your shit, genius,” Howard the Duck sneers. “I'm
dying, do you understand that? I'm DYING. And on top of that my life
is shit. Marvel Comics are coming to kill me. And if they're coming
to kill me, you'd better believe they're coming to kill you! Do you
have any clue as to the can of worms you've popped upon yourself?”
Skippy cocks his head, not
unlike one of those pug dogs who doesn't understand what it's being
told by its owners. “No one's going to kill you, my friend! How
could you think something like that?!”
“Fuck you!” Howard the
Duck says though gritted teeth. The dumpy employee cleaning tables
across the way stares their way and it's over. Howard the Duck knows
he's been made. “Calling yourself 'Spider-Man'-----what kinds of
sacrifices does that really require you to make? How much harder has
it made your life? Do you have any idea of the cliff you're headed
for???”
Again, the quizzical
expression. “What are you talking about? You're starting to worry
me, bro!”
“Why 'Spider-Man'?!” Howard
the Duck is trying his damndest not to scream in Skippy's face right
there in the restaurant now. “Justify that to me, will you please?
Why the hell was it such a big deal for you to call yourself
'Spider-Man'? What made you think that was such a good idea?”
Skippy stammers, “it's
just my own personal choice!” He waits expectantly, as if that
should be a satisfactory response.
“I get that part. What the
hell is so great about Spider-Man to where you're going to change
your name to that?”
Skippy looks agog as if to
say, how can you even ask that? “Dude! What's so great about
Spider-Man? What's so great about Howard the Duck? So, see how easy
that is?”
“You're avoiding the
question! What the fuck does goddamn Spider-Man say about you?”
Skippy looks contemplative
for the first time ever and he chews into his answer with some level
of deliberation. “Well,” he says, as if thinking about it for the
first time ever, “Spider-Man is cool.”
Howard the Duck fights back
a scream. “Please continue.”
Skippy searches for the
words. “Spider-Man is a badass. And by taking the name I become a
badass!” He smiles hopefully.
“Kill me,” groans Howard
the Duck. He lets loose a frail, spluttering cough.
Now Skippy goes on the
offensive. “Listen, where do you get off? I made a personal choice
that's very important to me. Spider-Man is cool, everyone knows that!
What the hell's so great about calling yourself Howard the Duck?! I
saw that movie when I was a kid----it sucked ass!”
Howard the Duck affixes a dead
stare on Skippy.
“Yeah, you heard me,”
Skippy says, more emboldened. “I saw that movie. Howard the Duck
sucks ass. So don't go trying to judge me!”
Howard the Duck gets up out of his
seat. He suffers an explosive coughing fit.
“That's right, buddy,” grins
Skippy. “So how do you like it?” Howard the Duck hobbles out the
door, hacking uncontrollably.
With great difficulty, he makes
it across the parking lot and into the woods out in back of the
shopping plaza. He finds a treestump in a clearing and rolls himself
a cigarette. He smokes and coughs and smokes and coughs and then he
just sits there for several hours, thinking and yet trying not to
think because thinking hurts too much.
It's getting dark. He's wasted
his entire day on this worthless errand. He hobbles at least a mile
to the Gas Mart. There's at least one good reason to stop
there---they've got one of the few still-functioning
payphones----hell, maybe the very last----in town.
He sees that it's fifty
cents per call and he wistfully remembers back when a dime was
required.
He stops for a second and remembers
when there were payphones.
Howard the Duck doesn't have a
cell phone. He dislikes and distrusts them. He had a little flip
phone at one point---he got rid of it because it was problematic and
everyone was looking at him as if they thought he was a drug dealer.
He dials up Jessie. “I
need to see you,” he wheezes
“That's cool,” she says, her
aloof, baked tones coming across the phone line. “Dude, this is
amazing---I have to show you!”
“What?” Howard the Duck is
irritated. His head's still back in McDonald's with Skippy, who
legally changed his name because he thought it would be cool.
Spider-Man, he corrects
himself.
Jessie disrupts his personal
hell. “I'm back! I'm done! I wrote a musical! A whole musical! It's
finished!”
Howard the Duck is not in the
headspace for this. “What?”
“I wrote a musical-----big,
broadway, all the bells and whistles-----I wrote a musical based on
WATERSHIP DOWN!”
It's as if someone hit him in
the face with a brick. “WATERSHIP DOWN???”
“Omigod, babe, it's so
amazing....I feel like it came out of me through some other
force----this is going to change everything!”
“Hold on, back it up a
sec. WATERSHIP DOWN, that's a book about rabbits, isn't it?”
“No! It's an
allegory----it's an epic and an exodus about people who leave their
homeland and fight to make a new existence.....”
“Epic and an exodus,
Jessie----are the characters in the story or are they not rabbits?”
“I....they are but they're
not,” long silence. “Dude, you're really harshing my buzz, okay?
Come over----I'll play you the songs. They'll make you believe, just
like the world is going to believe!”
A harsh wheeze turns into
another coughing jag. He manages to eke out “I'm dying,” into the
phone.
“God, there you go being
negative again! Come to my place! I'm going to play you my songs
and....”
“I saw Skippy. He changed his
name to Spider-Man.”
“Wow. That's crazy.”
“He doesn't even know. He
doesn't even know.....”
“Howard, you need to stop,
okay? It's a little weird, just like changing your name to 'The Duck'
is a little weird, but it's fine! That's his choice!”
“No, but his reasoning,
Christ, it's so dumb! “
“Boy, there's the pot
calling the kettle black! Dude! Drop all your crazy no-hope and come
hear all the songs. And quit worrying!”
“ 'Kay,” he grumbles.
“I'll be over soon.”
“ 'Bout time! Love you!”
She coos.
“Yeah,” he grumps and hangs
up the phone. He ambles past the front window of the Gas Mart and
sees that there's a comic rack in there.....understocked and lonely,
but goddammit, it's an According-to-Hoyle comic book rack. A
twentyish, unkempt, long haired kid is loitering by it, thumbing
through a dog-eared Archie comic.
The kid looks up and stares
through the window at him, as does the fat clerk with the muttonchop
sideburns behind the counter.
Payphones. Comic book racks.
There's something not right about this place....these people. Time to
leave.
He worries that they might all
be agents of Marvel Comics, sent to watch him. Or apprehend.
He walks along the dark road and
hits the trailer park where Jessie lives by eight thirty in the
evening. Several things happen:
A. Jessie plugs in her Casio
synth and plays Howard the Duck all the songs from her WATERSHIP DOWN
musical, in sequence. She talks about how she wants all the actors to
wear hats with bunny ears and she shows him some of her choreography
ideas.
B. Howard the Duck goes out to
the tiny kitchenette, grabs a steak knife and stabs Jessie forty
times.
He lights a number of
glass-encased Catholic saint candles around the house and places
them all around the gas stove.
He opens up all the gas valves on
the stove and heads out.
E. He begins the arduous
hike back to his own place. He never gets there. He's found dead by
the side of the road the next morning. The eventual autopsy report
mentions exposure and exhaustion. And Tuberculosis.
News of the oddball
murder/death makes the rounds on all the local news affiliates,
everyone has a good laugh over the whole thing and it is quickly
forgotten. He is consistently referred to in the reports as “Howard
Vlierboom” instead of his legal name, but everyone takes a moment
out to laugh over his given name. No mention is ever made of his
obsession with an arcane cult comic book character.
Skippy is overcome with
grief because of the death of his friend.
A. He belly flops off the
overpass on Exit 76 one Saturday morning.
B. He goes straight through the
windshield of a Mini-Cooper, accidentally killing a family of four
who were visiting from Oregon.
Several state highway workers are
wounded in the wreck.
The entire region is shocked
and saddened by Skippy's death. Roadside tributes are erected in his
honor. His sister tearfully tells the local media that he had been
very despondent over the last several weeks. She describes him as “an
old soul” and says that he loved comic book heroes like Spider-Man.
Spider-Man ephemera pops up along with
the usual bouquets and crosses along the spot where Skippy ended his
life. Years go by but sad and haunting stories are handed down and
exchanged for decades to follow, regarding the tragic story of The
Spider-Man of Exit 76.
Copyright 2018 C.F. Roberts, published in UNLIKELY STORIES MARK V. Copyright 2019 Molotov Editions
THIS WEEK'S PLAYLIST:
ALICE DONUT-Pure Acid Park
WAYNE SHORTER-Juju
SWANS-The Seer
SWANS-To Be Kind
VIC BONDI/ARTICLES OF FAITH-Fortunate Son EP
