[S. Michael Simms]

The Neighbor Lady's Trailer
By S. Michael Simms
Copyright, 2005


To Mikey, the brown, shag carpeting looked like worms, felt funny under his skin (which was bare save the Spiderman Underoos covering his pee pee)—sticky, gritty, dry, wet, all of the above—didn't help that it hadn't been vacuumed since first it was lain, nor that four small children had regularly deposited everything from syrup to urine on it for over a year.

Not the most pleasant place for a wee kid to be, but the promise of something warm and tasty filled his nostrils and gave his chapped mouth something salivary to get around. So, nasty as his spot on the ugly, brown worm blanket was, he was happy.

However, the aforementioned four small kids were less-than happy about his presence in their lovely trailer home. This wasn't the first time Mommy had sent him to the Neighbor Lady's house to beg for food. Mommy kept giving the Neighbor Lady baggies, and the Neighbor Lady kept doing stuff for Mommy...kinda.

And each time he came over they always made it a point to roll out the completely unwelcome mat and, if possible before he ran back home screaming, hurt him physically as well. A couple of weeks prior, he'd earned his first kick in the nuts by looking at the eldest for too long.

"Who you wookin' at, boogaw-boy?"

"I'm sorry. . ."

"Yeah. Yeah, you aw." *Kick.*

They say you never forget your first time, and that is certainly true. He'd been wearing the same blue Spiderman Underoos that day and had been embarrassed when the dark spot of piss that spread across the front of them like a blasphemous inkblot had broadcast itself to the neighbor kids (two of them girls).

"Spidawman would nevaw pee hisself!"

"Wookit! He's a baby!"

"Naw, he's a baby giwul!"

The girls had giggled maddeningly, the boys had stared in genuine curiosity down at the pathetic mess the eldest had made of him; but the sensation that took over his body—bringing him to his knees, stealing his breath, welling up a scream in his throat which would never be heard—that had soon made all his worries about defacing his prize tightie-blueys all but nonexistent.

Oh, the pain had been exquisite... there is no other sensation quite as unforgettable and all-encompassing and really, sort of indescribable, except maybe your first orgasm, and if asked years later, he'd probably say it even approaches that one, if not surpassing it in sheer profundity.

Now, here on this nasty-assed carpet again, every slight movement by the oldest boy (Raymond, or 'Waymond' as his mother and the other kids pronounced it due to some sort of Fudd-esque family speech impediment) made him want to run, screaming (again) back to his house; but the pain in his tummy (which also served as a reminder of his virgin nut-kick) coupled with the smell rising from the kitchen was too great for him to resist.

The Neighbor Lady finally came into the living room. She had what seemed to him to be a titanic pot of oatmeal, which she ladled out into plastic bowls for her own kids before sitting it on the floor in front of him. She stood there, grinning down at him with contempt.

"Whassamattaw boy? Ain't you gonna eat?"

Eat what? The kettle was practically empty; there was barely enough stuck to the bottom to feed a small rat. The giggles came. This time, the boys joined in the chorus, which was somehow worse than having the girls laugh at his busted nut-cherry before. The boys seemed to realize this and started making loud yummy sounds.

"Mmm!!! This is GOOD oatmeaw!"

"YUM UM UM UM UM! Mine is tastiest of all!"

Oatmeal dripped down the face of the youngest boy, whose name Mikey did not know, and onto the carpet- he took note, thinking that perhaps he might retrieve it later when the kids went down for their naps. He began to weep bitterly.

Looking up at the Neighbor Lady, he thought This is what it means to be mean—I am NEVER going to be mean, EVER—it's the worst thing in the whole world...

The oatmeal dripper decided to add insult to injury by running into the kitchen and ostentatiously feeding his own oatmeal to the family dog, Petey. Petey was a mangy, flea-bitten mutt whose shit-caked ass had added much flavor to the worm-carpet Mikey now looked forward to scanning for misplaced oats. Petey ate greedily as the oatmeal dripper looked on with glee.

Normally such a stunt as this would have earned the youngster a nasty wallop from his mother, but today she was apparently proud of having passed such cruelty on to her offspring; she simply laughed. Then she paused a second to think of what to say next, and a monstrous grin split her lower face in half with hideous epiphany.

"Maybe you kin share wif Petey, boogaw boy; you know how to share, don't ya?"

The kids all seemed to think this was the funniest thing they'd ever heard and laughed accordingly. Now they all skipped to the kitchen to offer their remaining oatmeal to Petey (this had turned out to be the best day of Petey's miserable life thus far). And of course Mikey burst into tears which turned into loud, robotic, dry-throated sobs.

"Shut up, you wittle ******!" the Neighbor Lady scowled, "You wanna eat, you gotta share wif Petey!"

Now the kids all danced in a circle around Petey, singing 'Boogaw boy's a ******', while their mother kept time with the oatmeal ladle on the side of the pot, which she had kindly snatched out from in front of him.

Meanwhile, San Diego howled and cussed outside the happy little trailer, blowing a few tumbleweeds Mikey's way as it prepared to defecate him and his family out of its dry, poverty-stricken bowels into the next chapter of their lives, but first he had to undergo this initiation. Even at that age Mikey knew the most important thing in the world was to be good, so he promised himself he'd keep being good in spite of the meanness. What is it they say about promises?

If they cracked open Mikey's adult head and poured out his memories one at a time, this one would plop onto the carpet first—the brown, yucky, shag worm carpet.

[S. Michael Simms]

I haven't looked at this one in years, but I found several errors (mostly mechanics) and gave it a bit of a polish after letting it sit here for a couple of days.

Not really horror, but a bit of "documented reality." I've thought of it as possible character development like Chris's murderer. You know, a rare but effective method of writing novels is to write a short piece on each of the story's major characters before inserting them into whatever world it is you create for them. I know King and Updike have both talked about doing that, often using characters from older works, changing the names and a few minor characteristics and "dropping them into the Matrix", so to speak to see how they fare.

I'm really enjoying everyone's work here. I hope more drop in.