The Wooden Sea

Old Floon said nothing but watched his younger self intently, as if trying to figure out what the other was getting at. He kept the gun tight against his side, still pointed at me. I saw it was a Walther PPK. Nasty gun. Nasty man.

“I’m not your father.”

Ignoring what the other had just said, Young Floon stepped forward and spat out, “You promised to leave me alone for two years. Two years later, Father. That was our deal and you agreed to it. But it’s not even been six months. Why have you come here?” His voice was blistering now. If he’d thrown it on someone it would have burned their skin off. It was in complete contrast to the look on his face which was empty, indifferent and said nothing.

“I am not your father! How can you not see the difference?”

“I see an agreement we made which you are now breaking, in typical fashion. You are a contemptible man. Do you know that, Father? Both you and Mother are contemptible people. Please get away from my car.” He looked the old man up and down like a guy does to a girl he’s sizing up. His eyes stopped when he saw the pistol. “Where did you get that gun?”

Old Floon looked first at his hand and then back at the other man. “Where did I get it? Under the car seat. You know that.”

“I thought so. You went into my car and took it without asking. My car, my gun—it’s so typical of you. That’s what I’m talking about. Because it’s not your gun to take, Father. I bought it. I bought it with my money, not yours. Nothing I own anymore came from you, nothing on this earth. Nothing ever will again.”

“I know that! I remember doing it. One of the great days of my life!” Old Floon said.

Then it became so quiet you could have heard a body drop, which I more than expected to happen at any moment although I didn’t know whose body it would be. The whole situation had turned so fucking weird that it chewed up logic and fact like they were Juicy Fruit gum. Anything could have happened at that moment. I wouldn’t have been surprised if anything had. Floon shoots me. Floon shoots Floon. Floon surrenders to Floon. Floon... You get the point.

“Look at my hands, for God’s sake! Look how fat they are.

Don’t you remember his hands?” Pistol dangling from an index finger, Old Floon put up both hands like he was surrendering to us. “Those long fingers? The ones he used to stab into my ear whenever I did something wrong. You don’t remember?”

The younger man appeared unimpressed. Arms crossed over his chest and eyes closed, he shook his head. “You have the same hands I do, Father. Why are you lying about it? What is your problem?”

Old Floon exploded. “My problem? My problem is I am not your father! He had thin hands! And when I did anything wrong he used them on me! Oh yes, oh yes. Stabbing those terrible fingers of his into my ear. Saying ‘My son will not do things like this. Not-my-son.’ ‘We are living in Amer-i-ca now! So you will talk like an Amer-i-can.’ Once a week, more, sometimes five times a week he would find a new reason for torturing me with those goddamned hands, those fingers like pencils.” Voice crazed, Old Floon’s eyes stayed in his head but at the same time they were somewhere else very far away. “Look at my hands, you fool. They are like catcher’s mitts. Do these really look like his?” When there was still no response, the old man got even angrier. Grabbing little Fra

The next time he spoke his voice sounded completely different—it had a thick guttural accent and his words slowed so they had more weight and flavor when you heard them. He sounded like Henry Kissinger talking. “A hero eats lions for breakfast.” He stuck his index finger so hard into the kid’s ear that the poor boy’s face collapsed in on itself while he let out a screeching catlike yelp.

“Do you want to be a hero, or do you want to deliver mail? Or iron another man’s shirts? That would be a good job for my son—iron another man’s shirts.” Another ringer stab into the ear, another startled scream.

George, Floon Junior, and I watched the lunatic vent his festered fifty-year-old gripe on a little boy. It was so bizarre and crackbrained that for too many moments we did nothing because all three of us were simply hypnotized by the force and ugliness of it. What’s more interesting than a car wreck when you first see it? Why do you think traffic always backs up for miles? All those eyes want to see what’s left. A car wreck or another’s bad news, a person losing control in public... Because they are all different kinds of death in action, folks. Step right up and see life bite—someone else.

“Lemme go!” The boy struggled wildly, twisting every which way but he could not escape. No way.

Leaning against the house a few feet away was a long and quite heavy metal pole. On the porch was a black plastic dishlike thing with several color-coded wires hanging off it. This contraption was meant to be bolted onto the pole. If done correctly and with proper adjustments, the completed outfit became an outdoor TV ante

I had seen the pole earlier but what with all the action taking place it didn’t much register on me. Old Floon watched with interest as the boy flipped and jumped frantically around in his hand. While his attention was distracted, Young Floon stepped over to the house, took up the pole, and without a second’s hesitation swung it full force at the old man’s head.

The sound of metal on skull came out a mix of clong and thunk. It was a deep, dull noise, not loud but oh-so-vivid. You remembered a sound like that even if you didn’t know what caused it. After the hit, the pole shook so violently in his hands that it looked alive. My eyes followed that jittering pole up all the way to Young Floon’s eyes. They were still blank/empty of anything but just being alive. That’s all—that’s the only thing they showed. As far as he knew, this man had just crushed his father’s skull with a five-foot-long metal pike but the only emotion that showed on his face was nothing.

Old Floon fell to the left. Little Fra

I looked at the others and then eventually bent down to feel for a pulse. Nothing. Anyway Floon’s head told the tale before I even touched his throat—one look and anyone would have known. Because what had once been the man’s temple was now fresh bread dough and red oatmeal.

I glanced at his killer. “Home run, bud. You knocked this guy out of the park.”

Raising his eyebrows only a little, Young Floon dropped the metal pole on the ground. It landed with a clang and rolled away from him. I think all of us spent a moment watching it roll till it stopped. Lying there, it suddenly had a whole new personality: It had gone from being an ante