Sikes
Herbert: Triangle Player
by Chris Duncan
Entry number one:
August 11, 1983. I am what one might call a musical
genius. Jesus gave me perfect pitch. Thank you, Jesus.
In addition to my angelic singing voice, I am a virtuoso
triangleist or, if you prefer, triangle player. My
wit ain't bad either, let me tell ya. After a hearty
meal I can arouse hysterical, pee-in-the-pants laughter
by farting with uncanny precision any of several requested
ditties. I'm grounded and earthy, a real people person,
small in stature, delicately fingered, lithe, and
attracted to hairy obese men that will treat me like
the imp that I am- really put me in my place. Smack
me around. Humiliate me. What really gets my juices
flowing is the right kind of fat-assed bastard who
can eat a greasy hamburger with one hand and spank
me and auto manipulate me with the other.
But I digress.
Let's see. What else? I knew I'd ramble. My hair is
wispy and unruly, yet transcendent, kind of like kelp
at the ocean's bottom, flowing this way and that,
gorgeous, an ingredient in ice cream. I paint my nails-nothing
ostentatious, mind you. My name is Sikes. Sikes Hebert.
Not HEE-BERT. It's French. A-BARE. I've just turned
thirty, but I could easily pass for fifteen or, maybe,
at least twenty-three.
I am speaking into a tape recorder because my shrink
Mr. Lipchitz (whom I call "licks dicks")
says that I am not in touch with the feelings of my
inner child, and that I should record my thoughts.
This led to a debate on the differences between thoughts
and feelings. After two hours, he finally told me
to shut the fuck up and keep a fucking diary because
he was the fucking doctor and he fucking says so.
Can one's very own doctor tell one to the shut the
fuck up? I'm like, Who's paying the bill here, buster?
A little respect would be nice. But, admittedly, people
are often intimidated by my intellectual capabilities-particularly
doctors. So I try to ignore their trite put-downs
and occasional outbursts. I told him I'd keep a tape-recorded
diary until my hands healed from their carpal tunnel
surgeries (too much triangle practice and auto manipulation
during my mid to late adolescence). He shook his head
and stared at me saying nothing, obviously amazed
by the genius incarnate sitting in front of him.
So after a week of procrastination, I sit here atop
my Betty Boop comforter in my bedroom of my parent's
trailer where I still live, rent free, recording my
very first diary entry. I feel warm in my trailer
bedroom, kind of cuddly, like a puppy that's just
eaten his warm milk and Puppy Chow and is looking
for a nice spot on the carpet to take a shit. My parents,
though definitely unlearned and simpletons, recognize
talent when they see it, so they take care of me,
fostering my abilities all they can with what little
they have. We all get along pretty well, me, Mommy,
Daddy, and Jism, our albino cat, named, of course,
by yours truly. I told Mommy and Daddy that Jism was
one of the stars in Orion's belt. They just nodded
their heads and said, "Oh, really." They
haven't a clue where Orion's belt is! But all is not
a Leave it to Beaver congeniality at the Hebert household.
Just this morning, Daddy told me to quote, "Keep
my perverted shit out of the bathroom!"
He can be so funny. "Daddy," I said, wrapping
my arms and legs around his right leg. "It's
just a butt plug." He shook me with hostile belligerence
and kicked me off, flinging me into the refrigerator;
I could hear him mumbling none too quietly as he stormed
out our trailer's front door, "Goddamned weirdo
little freak bastard sum'bitch queer-ass pansy fucker."
Daddy can say what he wants, but he keeps me in triangles.
* * *
Entry number two: August 15, 1983. Fuck.
First of all, I am disgruntled to the nth fucking
degree. Daddy has ordered me to quote, "Put my
lazy weirdo ass in gear," and help my Uncle Gene
on his bull-insemination farm, which conceptually,
granted, does sound inviting and exciting and provocatively
stimulating, but in reality is grueling work. And
totally thankless. These bulls don't give a flying
fuck about anyone else. As long as they get theirs,
they could give a fuck less about anybody else's needs-bastards.
My forearms are getting so hard and gross; these purplish
big veins keep popping up like I'm a heroin addict
or something. I'm even growing black hair on my knuckles
and big toes, due to my constant physical exertions
with the bull peckers. I've Naired them, of course,
but Jesus, talk about depressing. Do you have any
idea how hard it is to jack off a bull? It ain't easy.
They grunt and snort and whine and moan and crap and
are just awful. Uncle Gene doesn't give a big shit.
He's just like Daddy. They think it's funny when I
am forced to perform manual labor, even though my
heart beats like a humming bird's, and I'm on beta
blockers. Uncle Gene just says, "You're slacking,
Sikes. Keep jacking, boy." He sits on a wooden
bench out in the barn while I'm on my hands andknees,
struggling to hold this big hollowed out vagina thingy
that I pull back and forth over the bulls' monstrous
dongs, and good Lord, do they groan and carry on.
Jesus, one of the bastards took FORever to get off.
I mean, good grief, my back is aching, my feet hurt,
my neck feels like it's going to fall the fuck off,
and all Uncle Gene can say while he's trimming his
damned dirty nails is "Keep stroking, Sikes.
I believe he's getting' close, boy. I can see him
tensing up his ass muscles."
Christ! Daddy's got me by the balls. If I don't help
Uncle Gene, whose wife broke a hip trying to jack
off Buddy, a real mean assed prick who considers his
cock his and his alone (I know the type), Daddy won't
pay for me to attend triangle camp at Julliard next
fall. Daddy's mean and spiteful. Just because I haven't
landed an orchestral position doesn't mean I don't
have talent, but you can't tell him anything. I've
attended triangle camp every year for twenty-three
years, and I'm not going to miss out on the instruction
I need just because Daddy's a motherfucker. Mommy
cries when I talk to her and tell her about my unsightly
forearms and how I've got a scrotal rash because of
all the sweating I've been doing. Mommy told me yesterday
that Daddy "got hot as a firecracker," because
he opened what he thought was his New American Farmer's
Magazine and instead discovered my new issue of Men
on Wheels: Truck Driving Beefcake. "He's never
going to pay for your triangle schooling now,"
said Mommy, whimpering, sniffling, close to a genuine
sob.
I told her, "Mommy," I said. "He'll
pay." And you can bet your sweet ass he MOST
CERTAINLY WILL PAY. I'm busting my hump here at No
Bull (the name of Uncle Gene's farm; I could definitely
have come up with something better. What about Sweet
Bullabies? Or, perhaps, Shooting Bull-its?). My fingers
are so sore and calloused and cracked open. Neosporin
doesn't touch the pain. Mommy and I cried together
tonight over the phone. We cried and I said, "I'm
holding you in my heart, Mommy," and Mommy said,
"I'm holding you in my heart, too, Sikes."
* * *
Entry number three: August 17, 1983.
Not good. Not good. Not good. Did you get that? Not
motherfucking good. "What's not good?" you
ask. Well, let me tell you. I've got hemorrhoids that
actually jingle jangle between my legs. When you've
got a hemorrhoid that hangs lower than your nuts,
you know you've got problems. They are bigger than
big. They have a fucking life of their own. One of
them actually has its own heartbeat. I've seen it
pulsating. I told Uncle Gene, and he rolled his eyes.
"Sikes," he said. "You've got bigger
problems. We've got to get a load out of Buddy today.
It's imperative."
Imperative is a big word Uncle Gene is proud that
he knows, so he uses it a lot. Last week it was indubitably.
Everything was indubitably. With sweat running down
my back and into my ass-crack, I say to Uncle Gene
while I'm jacking off Duke, who keeps smacking his
lips together in a very disgusting manner: "It's
hotter than hell out here!" "Indubitably,"
he says.
Indubitably this, fucker.
I can barely walk. My cracked and calloused fingers
are throbbing. My tummy is upset. I've already commented
on my anal problems. I called Mommy, and she told
me she's running a warm salt-water bath for me in
her heart. I said, "Shit, Mother, I need a bath
in your heart like I need a hole in the head. I need
you to get me the holy hell out of No Bull. Triangle
camp starts next week, and I need to start practicing.
Hang is already going to completely embarrass me-little
bitch." Hang is this eleven-year-old Korean bitch
who was born with a silver spoon shoved in her mouth-or
perhaps I should say silver chopsticks. She mocks
me with her triangle virtuosity-little bitch. Of course,
some people can practice twenty-four seven instead
of stroking bull cock all day long.
"Daddy ain't gone pay," Mommy says, crying.
"Not with you getting those perverted magazines
in the mail."
"Tell Daddy it was sent to me by mistake!"
I respond desperately.
"But it weren't no mistake, baby, and you know
it. I know it. Daddy knows it. Even Jism knows it.
And honey?" Mommy says.
"What?" I say.
"Daddy found one of those dirty men flicks underneath
your mattress. Baby, it's filthy. It's filthy as filthy
can be. Why, my heart felt like it'd been wading through
a soggy cow pasture after I'd watched two minutes
of that-that-that shit, Sikes. I felt like I was caked
with cow-shit, baby."
"Which one?" I ask her. "Which one
did Daddy find? Was it Forest Hump? The Ass Menagerie?
Huh? They're all pretty vanilla, Mommy. No fisting
or golden showers. Jesus, Mommy, I didn't mean for
Pops to--"
Mommy cuts me off saying, "You never mean to
do anything, Sikes," and she starts sobbing on
me and hangs up. She doesn't answer when I try to
call her back. Great. Terrific. Then Uncle Gene screams
at me: "Get off the phone, Sikes. We gotta drain
Buddy's main vein. It's imperative. Hurry it up. God,
boy, if somebody don't get you off your mama's tits."
So I limp out to the barn, feeling like I've got burning
charcoal stuffed up my ass, and all I can think is:
Fuck, I should be practicing my triangle. I AM AN
artist! Uncle Gene reclines on his stool and starts
trimming his nails. "Don't spill any, Sikes."
Before he can finish I say, "It's imperative,
right?"
He shoots me a dirty look. "Yeah, that's right,"
he says. "It IS imperative. We're talking white
gold coming out that pecker, Sikes. White gold."
He starts coughing and spits a glob of phlegm to the
ground that would disgust a maggot. Uncle Gene breaks
the string of phlegm with a finger and says, "What
you waiting on, an invitation? Get to it."
Every muscle in Buddy's gigantic body is quivering
like he's in the middle of the DT's or something as
I lower myself to my knees and momentarily stare at
the fake vagina thingy in my hands. "You might
need to play with him for a minute or two, Sikes,"
says Uncle Gene between hacks. ""He's kind
of slow to pop a boner."
My life is a living hell. I repeat: my life is a living
hell.
Uncle Gene yells at me, "Tug on his nut sack,
Sikes. Not too hard. That'll get a rise out of him-pun
intended. Ha ha ha."
I'm sitting underneath Buddy, pondering why Jesus
has deemed it necessary that I endure this humiliation.
I know He's my friend and He knows better than I what
I need. I smile. I really do. I smile, because I'm
a suffering artist-a triangle player who will certainly
be better than Hang. I will overcome. I will! I will!
"OK, Uncle Gene," I say. "You're probably
right. I WILL tug on Buddy's nut sack." I'm happy
and friendly and see the world in acid-trip colors.
I love everyone and everything, even my motherfucker
of an uncle who winks at me. "Now that's a boy,"
he says.
Life is great.
I even love Buddy. I'm going to get that white gold
right now.
"Buddy," I say, grabbing a huge tube of
K-Y. "Get ready for a trip to Ecstacyville!"
Uncle Gene cackles at my antics and enthusiasm. "That's
a boy," he says. My world is sunny as I wrap
my wounded hands around the most enormous set of bull
nuts you can imagine. Buddy whines angrily and snorts
and shuffles his feet like he's a drunken eighty-year-old
man at a Ralph Stanley concert. "Easy!"
screams Uncle Gene. "Massage, damn it! Don't
jerk."
"What?" I ask, violently yanking you were
then Buddy's bulging balls toward the floor. Simultaneously,
I hear Uncle Gene scream, "Oh shit!" and
see a hoof flying at light speed toward the middle
of my eyes. Blackness. Jungle heat. I'm sliding down
my drain into a pit of angry monkeys, baboons with
shiny red asses, their teeth gnashing, and the air
humid and heavy.
* * *
Entry number four: The day after my last entry. All
is not well. Buddy nearly decapitated me. I'm not
exaggerating. Were in not for what the neurologist
called my "freakishly thick skull," Buddy's
blow to my head would certainly have killed me. Thank
God for thick heads. Anyway, Mommy ordered Daddy to
let me come home to recuperate. So here I am in bed,
my Betty Boop comforter wrapped tightly around my
waiflike body, my hair wispy as usual, my lips cherubic
and awe-inspiring, and I'm sporting a rather chic
patch over my left eye (Buddy's terrific kick to my
head caused my left eyeball to dislodge and dangle
from my head. What a funny sight I must have been.
I suppose I caused the EMT guys a good belly-laugh.
Too bad I was unconscious to experience the joy emanating
from my soul. I give and give, and I'll never stop
giving. People need people like me).
No Bull and my hideous Uncle Gene and all those huge
bull peckers seem like a distant nightmare now that
I am back in the safety of Betty Boop and my doting
Mommy's loving care. Mommy: what would I do without
her? She's been a real trooper: applying ice to my
dangling hemorrhoids, a thankless task, certainly,
but one which any mother would gladly do for her adult
artist son. Mommy is very good with doctoring hemorrhoids;
she's helped me out quite a bit in the past. After
a really raucous weekend my lily white, cute bubble
bum usually needs some soothing, and Mommy is right
there to do it. Daddy just grimaces at me and Mommy.
What an A number one asshole he can be! He wouldn't
apply ice to my hemorrhoids if I were suffering worst
that Job-you can bet your sweet ass on that one. At
least the sonofabitch is going to pay for me to go
to triangle camp. I'm so excited. Earlier today, while
Mommy was diligently applying ice to my ass, Daddy
pokes his-as usual-angry looking face through my door.
"Sikes," he said. "You still want to
go to faggot camp?"
Ignoring his playful repartee, I gleefully answer,
"Why, of course, Papa Bear. Baby Bear is so happy!
Mommy Bear, did you hear what Papa Bear said?"
Mommy, crying with delight, replies, "Yes! Yes!
Yes, Baby Bear, I heard."
Mommy and I are crying with joy, literally sobbing
with ecstasy, when Daddy guffaws and shakes his head
and mumbles barely coherently as he goes into the
kitchen to grab a snoot of liquor, "Anything
to get your freak ass out of my damned house, pansy-assed
sad excuse for a son dear God what did I do to deserve
this I should've pulled out why the hell didn't I
pull out talk about a wasted load God Almighty."
"Mommy Bear?" I say, lying on my side while
my mother plays armature proctologist. "Baby
Bear love you with all his heart." I growl like
a bear.
Mommy, kisses the top of my left buttock and says
with a jovial laugh, "Mommy Bear loves Baby Bear
beary, beary much." Then Mommy growls at me.
I love Mommy. Even Jism joins in the fun. He jumps
up on my bed and licks my nipples; dainty nipples
they are, a light pink, the color of fog filtered
suns. I scratch Jism's head and wish for only a split
second that Daddy had the ability to love like me,
Mommy, and my little pussy.
* * *
Entry number five: September 1st, 2002.
Yippee! I'm the happiest thirty-year-old triangle
player in the world. I'm at camp. I'm in a dorm room
and, thank God, my floor has a community bathroom
and there are absolutely no partitions in the shower
room. None. Zero. That deserves another yippee. Yippee!
I mean, er, how humiliating and embarrassing this
situation is going to be!.
Whatever.
My raging 'roids are pretty much better. For precautionary
purposes,I apply large gobs (via my fingers) of Vaseline
up my poop-chute prior to my thrice daily BM's so
everything'll be nice a lubed. I wouldn't want to
exacerbate an already tenuous situation, if you catch
my drift. What else? Hang has apparently got the big
head now that she's turned twelve and already has
an orchestral position. It's all about who you know
and who you blow-little bitch! Oh well, at least at
the end of the day, I'll have my self-respect and
her best buddy'll be a jug of Listerine. That was
catty, wasn't it? Mee-aww! Scratch! Scratch!
Segue time: Daddy, the evil motherfucker, didn't even
bother telling me goodbye this morning. However, Mommy
and I had a good cry together. I know Mommy'll miss
me. And my cat, too. My little pussy loves me. Jism
looked so pitiful, I let him lick the peanut butter
residue from my PB&J sandwich from the backs of
my molars-he loves that, and I thought he deserved
a special treat since I'm abandoning him for a month.
Daddy saw Jism tonguing me, and he let loose with
a diatribe of hateful expletives directed right at
yours truly (he also through a couple of hateful remarks
at Jism to boot).
Mommy started sobbing, but I stood my ground. "Mommy,"
I said. "He's not worth it!"
Then I said: "Jism needs love too, Daddy! Go
ahead, Jism, lick all you want!" Daddy then tells
me to get my shit out and that he never wants to see
me again, and that I'm an embarrassment to him and
always have been-same old shit, S.O.S., you know.
I go up to him, my mean old sonofabitch Daddy, and
hug and nibble on his right earlobe-trying to irreverent
and whimsical, you know. I want to give Daddy love,
my love, but he won't take it. I whisper playfully,
"Papa Bear's a meanie weanie!"
Daddy takes a punch at me but I duck deftly. Daddy
is too drunk to make contact. He storms out of the
trailer, and Mommy drives me to the airport, during
which we both cry our gigantic hearts out. Did I mention
my Mommy is clinically obese? No? Well, she is. Mommy
told me that she'd like to get as fat as the universe,
because that's how much she loves me. But I digress.
Segue number two: Get this: The director of the camp
tells me this morning that "your name isn't on
the registration form anywhere," so I tell her,
"Honey," I say, "I've been coming to
this camp for over twenty years. Somebody needs to
get their shit straight and it's not me."
Mommy starts crying and I have to tell her to shut
the fuck up right there in front of God and everybody.
"HEE-BERT, HEE-BERT, HEE-BERT," the twit
keeps saying trying unsuccessfully to find my name
on her stupid registration forms. "My name is
A-BARE," I say. "A-BARE-it's French."
The twit keeps shaking her head. "Nope, not on
here. Nowhere."
People are starting to snicker. Why, I've been attending
this camp longer than most of these little fuckers
have been alive! "What instrument to you play?"
the twits asks me. Can you believe that! What instrument?
I'M A MOTHERFUCKING TRIANGLE PLAYER! EVERYBODY KNOWS
THAT!
My lard assed mother says, "Triangle. Sikes,
plays the triangle."
Then the twit's eyes light up. "Oh," she
says. "I've found you.
Somebody thought your first name was your last name.
That's what threw me for a loop." I'd like to
have thrown that stupid bitch for a loop. She had
a lisp, too. Did I mention that? Instead of Sikes
she'd say Siketh. Talk about annoying. I'm definitely
complaining to camp management about the treatment
I've received. You should have seen Hang pinching
off a
giggle. Hang, with her stupid triangle earrings, loves
it when I look stupid. Fuck her! She needs to go eat
some roasted dog or something and leave the triangle
playing to me.
Whew! I had to blow off some steam. I just need to
remember that I'm where I'm supposed to be and, Lord
willing, an orchestral position will come a'knocking
at my trailer's front door, and you can bet your sweet
ass I'll be ready to open it and say, "Howdy,
Mr. Director, c'mon in!"
But I digress. I've got to go practice.
First I've got to go take a shower. I hear the water
running.
