An Affair to Dismember Read Free

jolting it forward a few feet before it slowed to normal. “Whoa, Nelly,” I said, patting the dashboard. “No more car farts. I need you a while longer.” I called them car farts. My mechaniccalled them a cataclysmic end to the catalytic converter. He had grumbled something to me about being one car fart away from total destruction and probable death, but I couldn’t afford to fix it. Besides, it ran fine as far as I was concerned. It was a 1995 silver Cutlass Supreme, and I had gotten it for free when I worked at a used car lot for one month. I loved it, even though it had more rust than silver paint, and the interior was ripped, with foam poking out in tufts.
    I rolled into the parking lot past a group of skateboarders hanging out in front, their skateboards leaning up against their legs as they packed away burgers, fries, and shakes. I followed the drive-through sign, winding through the parking lot toward the talking Burger Boy. I opened my window, and the smell of french fries hit me like nectar to the gods. Really, happiness was truly easy to acquire if you’re honest with yourself. Maybe I could start eating right tomorrow.
    Burger Boy’s mouth was open in a big smile, and I yelled in its direction. “I would like two Burger Boy Big Burgers. No pickles. Extra cheese, please. Two large fries, and a Diet Coke.”
    There was a long silence, so I tried again. “I would like two Burger Boy Big Burgers, please!”
    “Dude!” a voice shouted back at me.
    “Yes, I would like two Burger Boy—”
    “Dude! It doesn’t work!”
    I leaned out the car window and tried to look into Burger Boy’s mouth. The voice sounded much clearer than usual, but I still didn’t understand what it was saying.
    “Hey, dude. Like, the drive-through doesn’t work, man.” A skateboarder rolled up to my car, a shake still in one hand.
    “Didn’t you hear me? I’ve been yelling at you for, like, forever.”
    His shorts hung down well past his knees, and he wore a T-shirt that announced the price of beer bongs. “Dude, I just thought of something,” he went on. “If I didn’t say anything, you would still be talking to the Burger Boy. So trippin’.” He thought this was riotously funny and got so caught up in his own giggles that he didn’t hear me when I said thank you and backed out of the drive-through lane.
    I was disappointed about the drive-through, but I still had to get lunch. I was careful to lock up my car before I walked to the front door, passing the four skateboarders deep in conversation. Their attention was drawn to the sky.
    “Dude, like, I think it’s an eagle, man.”
    “No way, dude. It’s an owl.”
    “I don’t know, man. It’s pretty big.”
    “Dude, it’s been up there, like, you know, forever.”
    “Oh, man. It’s been up there since last week at least. Maybe it thinks it’s a tree or something.”
    “Cool.”
    I looked up. Sure enough, an owl was perched on top of a telephone pole. I don’t normally notice wildlife, don’t know much about it, but two years before, I had had a job typing up a doctoral thesis on the endangered Madagascar red owl, and now I was staring up at one on a telephone pole at Burger Boy.
    “Check it out. An eagle is up there,” one of the skateboarders said, pointing it out to me.
    “Actually, it’s an owl,” I explained.
    “Oh, dude. She so burned you. I told you it was an owl.” This came from the beer bong skateboarder, who I figured had held on to a few more brain cells than his friends.
    “It’s an owl from Madagascar,” I informed them.
    “Cool.”
    “It’s not supposed to be here,” I said. “It’s highly endangered,and it’s nocturnal. I don’t understand what it’s doing here.”
    They looked at me with empty stares. I had the strongest urge to knock on their foreheads to see if anyone was home.
    Two things were certain: the four great geniuses were not about to help the endangered owl, and if I didn’t help it, I would be responsible