Inappropriate Behavior: Stories by Murray Farish Page B

resources, he instead spends his time going through my possessions. He knows about the second thing because one time I was on the phone talking to the man who claims to be my father—whose corpse is lately on my mind—and Clive heard me tell him that Allison is my girlfriend. He knows about the first thing because one time I was on the phone, pretending to talk to Allison, and Clive sneaked up on me and snatched the phone away and heard the dial tone. And then he sent me to the liquorstore, because he is a bully of the intellectual and spiritual type, and he inspireth not.

    Clive says my brother called three times and where the hell have I been? He needs skim milk and a carton of Marlboros.
    I have been to the following places:
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  1.     English class, had the following experience after English class:
    Teacher: It’s John, right?
    Me: It’s John.
    Teacher: Where have you been?
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  2.     The Golden Galleon, where I ate one-half of one-half of a Raiderburger with cheese. Left when I began imagining the hot globules of deep-fried fat pocking the pink skin of an infant.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  3.     The filling station.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  4.     The grounds outside Knapp Hall, where Allison lives.
    Call your brother, says Clive.
    This is the fourth day in a row that I have been unable to have a bowel movement.

    Clive says—Your brother called again today. Clive rarely leaves the apartment and never watches television, but today when I come home Clive is watching President Carter on television, talking about the economic crisis. Usually, when I want to watch television, Clive groans. Clive subscribes to at least fourteen different magazines, nine of which I pay for. I own a Gibson guitar.

    Song for Jodie #143 (a ballad)
    I wouldn’t have you on the streets, my little one———
    I wouldn’t have you out there on the streets
    The nights I’d have you in between the sheets, my little one———
    And rub the temples on your lovely head

    Today in English class the teacher taught a poem called “The Passionate Shepherd to His Love,” by Christopher Marlowe. He also said that Christopher Marlowe was a spy who was killed in a tavern brawl. He also returned a test I did not take. I think Allison did well—she seemed pleased, and smiled a half smile, the bottom corner of one top tooth showing. Fetching is a word I’d like to use to describe it.

    Today I’m at home when my brother calls. Clive says—You get it, dammit. My brother says—How’s school going have you talked to Mom and Dad lately how’s Allison?
    Look, I’ve got some work for you, my brother says.
    I’ve got something I need you to do and you need something to do, he says.
    A job would be good for you right now, I think, in a lot of ways, he says.
    I’m running this guy’s campaign for the House of Representatives, and I want you to come work for us, he says.
    I just want to work long hours, I tell him.
    No problem, he says.

    Clive distinctly remembers giving me a check for his half of the rent. Today I spent twenty minutes in the bathroom. I had the need to move my bowels, I felt the pressure, but when I sat down, nothing occurred. I strained. I stopped straining and rubbed my lower back, in the kidney regions, for quite some time, which is a technique. I tried straining while standing up to produce something, a beginning, some breach, some peeking of a head. After twenty minutes I managed to produce one small rock of feces, brown and cracked and cakey.
    More than two hundred thousand Americans, mostly men, die on toilets every year.

    I want a job where I have to work long hours. I can’t sleep nights. Allison was out tonight, with that little slut roommate of hers. They were out until nearly