Talk Vomit

By Diana Wagman

The knuckles on Teddy’s right hand were scraped and painful. He had only punched the man’s shoulder—maybe his neck—so why was his hand bleeding? Was the man wearing epaulets with metal stars or buttons? A necklace? No. Then why? He had never punched someone before. Not even in high school. Or his two years of college, sober or drunk. He didn’t think of himself as a violent man. But he felt surprisingly good doing it. Really good. He was just so damn angry. About that man, about the global shit show going on, about his job, his wife, the kids never leaving the goddamn house. 

But look. Look at this. He could still provide for his family. The shelves in the grocery store were empty; the pantry at home empty too. It was the store’s last roll of paper towels and he punched a guy for them. The guy backed away, let him have the roll, threw up his hands and said, “Take ‘em.” He did. He paid for them, along with an out-of-date carton of milk, two packages of cookies for the kids, some black beans and tired vegetables. A fucking hero. That’s what he felt like. That’s who he was.

That was four years ago. Now paper towels were easy to come by. In fact, his wife had stopped using them—she said they were bad for the environment. Back then they had seemed so important. The kids were back in school. She was back to the office. He had found something part time, from home. He had learned the computer shit he needed to know. His new boss, a young woman in another city clear across the country, said she liked him. “I like you, Teddy. You’re a good guy.” He did his best. He always had. 

No one knew he was still so damn angry. His wife had no idea of the rage that kept him awake at night, lumbering around the house, into the backyard, pushing the plastic sliding board out of his way. He had thought when it was over, when he could see his friends, take the family out to dinner, leave his house without a goddamn mask, he’d be fine again. He’d be back to his old sweet self, but the anger was a hot knot in his chest, a painful hemorrhoid burn in his ass. He had to shake his head and open his mouth wide countless times a day to keep from erupting.

It wasn’t over—not the fear for his family, the damn uncertainty of it all—like a collar around his neck. Yes, he could leave the cage, but only to perform the most mundane acts and who knew for how long. He was not in control. 

Grocery shopping had become his job. He went to the same grocery store. This time he heard a “hey” and a “you in line?” and his hand curled and his shoulder twitched and tightened. “What’s it to you?” he wanted to say. Actually, “Fuck you,” was his first thought. His cart was full. A gallon of milk, two loaves of healthy bread, a side of beef wrapped in paper, piles of produce, all of it organic and fresh. A twelve pack of toilet paper. At least his wife hadn’t given that up. He’d gotten very good at watching the sales and planning their meals. Not a skill he thought he’d ever need.

He looked at the guy behind him. In a suit. In a hurry. He’d come right from the barber; Teddy could smell it on him, that blue solution where the barber kept his combs. See the fresh marks from the razor and the scissors. He pushed his long hair back. He’d let it go long ago. Now he pulled it back for the weekly online meetings. No one could tell. No one cared. It wasn’t that kind of a job. 

“Sorry, Man. I’ve only got this sandwich. I gotta get back to work.” The guy smiled. “You know.”

He knew. He knew the guy had spent the hour getting spruced up for a big date tonight instead of eating lunch with his coworkers. He knew the guy had only himself to think about. He was weak and soft and Teddy knew his knuckles wouldn’t bleed when he made contact with that fancy dark gray suit. Or that chin. The guy had a funny square chin. In fact, with the new haircut Teddy could see he had a funny square head. A blockhead. Knock your block off. Wasn’t that a board game his children played? 

He let the guy go ahead of him. Of course the guy wore dress shoes, work shoes, the kind that slip and slide in water, blood, or spilled soda pop. Of course the guy paid with his phone, never even took his wallet out of his pocket. He skittered away through the sliding doors to the parking lot, a slight man, a spindly-legged deer, a young buck with antlers only half grown.

Teddy pushed his cart to one side and abandoned it there. He shuffled out the door past a mother entering with a small child holding her hand. He stumbled over the doorsill and his shoe came off leaving his foot bare. The child stared at Teddy’s hairy toes, the tresses that fell from under his pants leg and grew across the top of his foot. He was hairier than he’d been before. Curls on his chest and back, down his arms, even on his hands and fingers. Maybe because he didn’t shower as often. Maybe because he was eating more meat. Teddy slid his shoe back on. Not a dress shoe or sneaker, but a flat and fuzzy slipper that in the before-time he never would have worn out of the house. Comfortable. His feet had widened in his four mostly shoeless years. 

The guy was in his car, a clean, late-model sedan, and he’d turned it on, but he was just sitting there with his windows open, looking at his phone with one hand while he ate his sandwich with the other. 

Teddy could smell the sandwich, turkey and cheese. He huffed and grunted. He stretched up on his hind legs and lifted his face to the sky and waved his hands in the air. He snarled.

The guy looked up. “Hey, hey,” he said. His voice was thin and breathy, like the wind through the reeds by the river. “Hey. What the fuck?”

Teddy growled. He reached through the open window and grabbed the man’s sandwich. He roared as it came apart in his hand, the French roll disintegrating, lettuce and tomato spilling onto the blacktop. He stuffed the lunchmeat into his mouth, insubstantial slices, salty and heavily processed, as far from a real turkey as possible—his wife would never touch the stuff—and so delicious. He grumbled, licked his lips, almost smiled at the guy in the car. 

Then he turned toward the empty lot beside the store and the suburbs beyond that. He fell onto all fours and loped away. The forest had to exist. Somewhere.