Babababa. Baaabaaabaaa. Corey squished his eyes shut tightly. It was there, somewhere. Not here, but elsewhere. He knew it. Bababa. Baaaaa. It was Dvorak. Symphony No.1 in C minor. The Bells of Zionice. He had a girlfriend once who wrote a song entitled, Diarrhea No. 1 in C minor. Diarrhea, diarrhea, it’s smelly, brown, wet, and drips down your leg. Babababa. The thing with The Bells of Zionice was that Dvorak never heard it played and never revised it. Weird. Corey had spent twenty-two years revising a classical piece called ‘Southern Sea’. He was still revising it. The work was never done. Always tweaking, never completing. Bababa. Wait. No. It’s not Dvorak. And then, like a slap upside the head it hit him. I Am the Walrus. I am he as you are he as you are me. And we are all together… I am the eggman. They are the eggmen. I am the walrus. Goo goo g’ joob. Holy shit. He wondered how he could get Dvorak confused with the Beatles.
“Dad,” Corey pulled on his father’s gray-toned Hawaiian shirt.
“I just think this is inappropriate.” Paul was standing in front of a Lucian Freud nude. Sagging balls, scraggly pubic hair, and the peaks and falls of fatty flesh. On display. For all to see. Paul raised his eyebrows. He wouldn’t say it. He was embarrassed.
“I am the toast, they are the toast. I am the giraffe.”
Paul eyed Corey. “Sounds good, son.”
“No, listen. I am the soupguy. They are the soupguy. I am the sloth.”
Brawny joined his father and brother. He held up his iPhone and took at least ten pictures in succession of the nude. “I just love looking at nude males. I should start painting them. Nude men. That’s so Sunny.”
Corey’s eyes enlarged. “I am the tacoguy. They are the tacoguy. I am the rhino.”
Brawny looked at his brother. Well, not so much looked at but looked past. “Dad, I’m hungry. Let’s get a sandwich.”
“I want to leave this Getty place,” said Paul. “Too many nudes.”
“I don’t want to leave. I want to get pictures of the sunset.” Brawny was whining. “I’m hungry.”
“Well, let’s get a snack.”
Corey tugged on his father’s shirt again. “I am the flautaman. They are the flautaman. I am the sloth.”
Brawny waddled out the Exhibit Hall door. His flip-flops made large slapping sounds. Brawny heard Corey’s statements but, like God in this scene, he was largely indifferent to the pips and squeaks of his baby brother. Paul followed Brawny and Corey walked in a small circle five times before he exited. He caught up with his father and brother at a snack cart in the courtyard of the museum.
“Okay, we should get the corned beef sandwich and slice it three ways. Also, I want ice tea.”
“Sounds fine.” Paul placed the order. Corey wanted his own sandwich but said nothing. That was Corey. A minor bump on a blank wall. No voice. Little notice.
Paul, Brawny, and Corey sat at a metal table. Corey carefully cut the sandwich into even threes with a plastic knife. Father and sons chewed and swallowed. Then chewed and swallowed. Then sipped from little cups where Paul had evenly divided the contents of one Arizona Ice Tea can. Paul was in deep denial over Brawny. Brawny was in deep denial over Brawny. Corey was in deep denial over everything except Adam and Eve as aliens, Hitler making his way to Argentina at the end of the war, and, hell, just about every conspiracy theory out there. It was a temperate day in Los Angeles, on top of a posh Brentwood hill, overlooking the ocean, at a world-class museum with three people in active denial. It would have been a good day. If not for people floating, an underage stripper, and the Walrus thunder waddling up to the metal table with a ravenous look on his face.
Brawny saw people floating. Everyone in the courtyard. Mulling masses. Smiling Asians snapping rapid-fire pictures. Kids flying around and touching the tops of windows on the second floor of the buildings. Man and woman holding hands. Woman and woman holding hands. Just flying up there. Looking around and peering down. Everyone was flying but father and sons. Brawny rubbed his eyes. No, they were still there. They weren’t at the Getty. They were at Hogwarts.
“Dad, people are floating.”
Paul had his gaze fixed across the courtyard where a girl, no more than thirteen, was down to a G string and was bumping and popping all around. Her small pert breasts barely moved and the nipples were hardened so that it seemed to make the nipple color disappear. Her face, oddly, looked a little like his ninety-year-old girlfriend when she was fourteen. There was a picture of Lettie in one of her photo books. A young girl on a Gulf beach with a one piece. Tiny waist. Thin thighs. Laughing like only a young girl can as she had no idea that one day she would have a ruined body and face, a trailer park home, and a meandering mind. Kids have that power. The power to completely ignore the future. Paul quite liked that photo of his girlfriend and one time stroked his cock as he stared at the picture and Lettie stared at the TV with big eyes and an uncomprehending stare.
Desire halted. “There are too many nudes in this place.”
“Dad, the walrus wants to eat us.” Corey was frozen. The blubbery walrus was holding a napkin and fork and breathing his seaweed breath on Corey’s exposed neck. Corey thought about things he knew of walruses. They can eat 6,000 clams in a single meal. Then they lie around on sea rocks and burp and fart as the clams digest. Then there is Lewis Carroll. Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum tell a receptive Alice about a deceiving walrus who eats sweet, trusting oysters all decked out in neat, little shoes. How queer, Alice thought, since oysters have no feet. The walrus ate more oysters than the carpenter. He hid the snacking behind a napkin to deceive the carpenter. But the carpenter ate as many as he could. There was no true sorrow for the oysters. Who was worse? Was it the walrus? Corey needed to know as he now had a fat one before him ready to chew. Deceptive or greedy. Oh, there was something better about just taking what you can get. The walrus didn’t want to fairly share. Gobble, gobble. Corey started crying but Brawny was staring at the floating people in the sky and Paul was transfixed by tight young flesh.
Corey heaved and trembled. “I’m a poor oyster. No one cares about me. I am not the walrus. Goo goo g’ joob.” Bababa. Babababa. Diarrhea in C minor. Father and sons shuffled off to the bathroom and sat in neighboring stalls. As they vacated their poisoned guts they each thought about reality but neither could think too deeply as their intestines twisted and gas rumbled.
THE END
More Stories by the Author:
The Monster Enjoys Elderberry Jam
The Lovely Savage
When a Child Disappears
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