Sourpuss

short story (2021)

Hey. I made an audio file for this one. Check out my rendition of Sourpuss below.

Baboon Island was an arrangement of concrete slabs, squishy rubber, abstract trees, and painted tires hung from chains. About thirty children, including Abigail’s 6-year-old son, Tor, were seated around a table there, heads bent over screens with colorful splotches they could push around with their fingers. A fresh-faced Team Member, dressed like a pink baboon, was leading this finger-painting session from a stage. 

“It’s so nice here,” Abigail said.

“If you like zoos and blinding light,” Harwick replied, shading his eyes with his hand.

“It’s not a zoo anymore. I told you, it’s a museum now.”

“A museum of zoos—”

“A place where the kids can learn about the historical cruelty of zoos.” 

 They stood a little bit away from the children along with the other mothers who all seemed transfixed by their phones. Abigail hadn’t seen Harwick in a very long time; ten years at least. When he’d showed up out of the blue that morning, she almost didn’t recognize him and now here they were, chatting in the sunshine, as if this were just a normal thing.

“It’s hard for me to believe you’ve got a kid,” he was saying.

“Why?”

“I dunno. All the stuff that’s going on. I don’t envy him.”

“You don’t think I make a good mom?”

“No! Not that. I just meant the state of things, the tenor of the times, you know—”

“It’s a great time to be a kid, Harwick. It’s the best time, maybe.”

“Plus, you’re a single parent.”

Her eyes were on the children. “I think they’re really enjoying themselves.”

“They seem awfully serious.”

“They’re learning to work together and cooperate.”

“Yes. They’ll soon become good, pliant citizens,” he said, and Abigail couldn’t help but notice how several moms looked up from their phones to steal a glance at him.

“Let’s take a walk,” she said as she slipped a hand under his arm. “Tor’s going to be busy for a while anyway, and I want you to see the way they redid the cages. They’ve got all these cute little restaurants now.”

“I wonder where they stuck the baboons?” Harwick mused as they crossed the bridge over the moat, its railings covered with digitized finger paintings on sheets of shiny vinyl.

“Someplace they can be free,” she said.

“The baboons are free but the kids are stuck on Devil’s Island.” Harwick’s bracelet buzzed but he didn’t bother to look at it.

Abigail laughed and leaned forward a little so she could make eye contact. “They’re learning to be inclusive and nice,” she said as her dangling necklace emitted a chime like an antique cash register. A Silver Halo flashed on its tiny screen.

“Come on, Harwick!” she said, and pulled him by the sleeve of his suede jacket the rest of the way across the bridge.

Dappled shadows played across the cobbled pathways where dozens of mothers and children and a smattering of adult males were taking in the sights. Logos and slogans were on everything: clothes, shoes, on baby wraps and strollers; even on people’s skin. Moms and their progeny stood lined up at the Happy Honey Bee, The Ecosystem Store, by the window at Yummy Tummy Candy, beside The Rare Earth Bazaar and a shop simply named, No Worries!

“No Worries?” Harwick said sourly. “I’ve got a few I could donate.”

“You don’t think No Worries is a cute name for a shop?”

“I admit all this corporate positivity is creeping me out a little.” Harwick’s bracelet buzzed again and he clasped his hands behind his back.

She nudged him with her elbow. “I think you’re down a Halo or two for that one.”

He sighed. “I’m in the red anyhow. CarmaKoin’s texting me every ten minutes with suggestions.”

“Suggestions?”

“Stuff like, ‘Find a cripple and help him cross the street.’” He buzzed again.

“Disabled person,” Abigail said quickly.

“God. You too!”

She halted. “Come on, Harwick! The nicest person on the planet’s going to be the richest. The meanest little shit’s going to be the poorest. What’s not to like?”

A parade of animatronic baby elephants, their trunks permanently fused to one another’s tails, were crossing on the path in front of them.

“For one thing, it’s a lie,” he said as he made a kicking motion at the last of the blue pachyderms.

“What do you mean, it’s a lie?”

“The rich have enclaves,” he whispered.

“Enclaves?”

“Places where they can live nice-optional.”

“Stop it, Harwick.”

“Did you hear about Agnes Chan?”

“Smile’s CEO? She’s kind of like my hero.”

“Well, your hero lives in a nice-optional enclave and she sends her people out to find little retards—” He paused to let the buzzing stop. “Imbeciles, I mean—so she can abuse them and get her jollies.” 

Abigail leaned into his ear and enunciated slowly. “Intellectually disabled.”

“But retard’s much more descriptive… And imbecile so poetic!” His wrist buzzed again and he thrust his hands in his jacket pockets. “I don’t mind the sound, but I hate the vibration,” he said.

“Well, stop being so negative then!”

“If I only had a Copper Cupid for every time I’ve heard that.”

They’d reached an enormous fountain where the plumes of water had somehow been tinted copper and silver and gold.

“I’m sure some misogynist made that up,” she said.

“A fountain designed by a misogynist?”

“Very funny. I mean the Agnes Chan thing.”

“The story came from a…mentally disabled person who used to work for her.”

“I still don’t believe it.”

“You don’t think she’s capable of being a bitch?” His bracelet buzzed twice and he glanced down involuntarily at the little devil with his pitchfork.

“No, I don’t. I love Agnes Chan!”

They made their way up a sloping path to what had once been the giraffe enclosure, reborn as a corporate spiritual retreat.

“I was sort-of onboard in the beginning, albeit skeptically,” Harwick said as they looked down at the empty amphitheater. “Not anymore.”

She sighed. “How can you not—?”

“I’m all for stamping out injustice. But I don’t get why they won’t let me say what I want to say.”

“It’s not censorship, if you’re one of those people who thinks like that,” she said. “People can express anything they want to as long as they do it positively. As long as they don’t say stuff that makes people feel insecure, or trigger bad emotions. I’m a mom now and I understand.”

“Mom power, eh?”

“It’s been a long time, Harwick. My wild life is all in the past, and frankly, it’s a little embarrassing to think about it now.”

“But everything’s so pious and preachy. It’s like the god of the Israelites got replaced by some corporate goody goody.” 

“Don’t get me started, Harwick. And please don’t get religious.”

“I remember when you used to talk about religion a lot. And the stuff you wrote always used to have this big spiritual aspect—”

“Religion’s obsolete. The new economy’s our religion.”

“A religion based on monetary rewards for good deeds?”

“A religion based on the immediacy of goodness,” she said.

“Avarice was a sin once, you know.”

“Only to artists.” 

That made him laugh. “But don’t you think it all feels like a bit of a sham, Abby?”

“I’m sorry Harwick, I’m not doing Abby anymore. I’m doing Abigail now.”

He halted.

“Don’t say that! You can’t not be Abby! And the diminutive is so much nicer!” His wrist buzzed again. “CarmaKoin thinks ‘diminutive’ is a dirty word,” he muttered.

“Ha!” she said. “You got dinged because you got all boring and started talking about morality and religion.”

“I’m not talking about religion. I’m talking about a techno-fascist’s wet dream!” He buzzed again.

“Honestly. Can we talk about something else?” she said.

They went on along a shady lane paved with animal mosaics. A big open-air, self-driving people mover was approaching. It rolled to a stop in front of a little white-haired man who was waiting with his walker. Immediately a tall skinny youth with a frozen beatific smile jumped down to assist the senior citizen. The old man’s thin hair wafted in the breeze as the youngster took hold of his elbow.

“Look, Harwick. It’s your chance!” Abigail said.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

She shoved him on the shoulder. “Go! Help him! I hate seeing you in debt like this!”

But before he was able to move, even if he’d wanted to, six or seven people rushed up from behind them.

So many had come at once to assist the old man that their view was obscured by his many helpers and, along with all the SmartBling’s chiming, they could hear a tiny alarmed voice: “Leave me alone!” it cried. “Let me go! I’m just old!” A small blue light on the roof of the tram had begun to flash and Abigail took hold of Harwick’s suede jacket again to maneuver him past the crowd.

She made a show of checking the time on her necklace then. “The kids will be having their cake soon and it’s quicker this way.” She pointed to where another walkway split off from the main one. “We’ll be able to avoid all these people.”

“Bunch of lunatics!” Harwick said. Then, with a puzzled look, he raised his bracelet to his ear. “I guess lunatic’s still acceptable!” he said brightly.

“Let’s go, Harwick!”

Happy animal logos adorned the various educational kiosks that had been placed along the path: The Virtual Treefrog, The Virtual Mandrill, The Virtual Albatross. There were vendors selling sodas and cupcakes under big umbrellas, but the shadows seemed deeper and tall iron fences on both sides kept people from wandering into the trees.

“So why are you here?” she asked suddenly.

“That’s what they asked me when I went to Mecca.”

She didn’t see the humor. “Okay. So what motivated you to visit me today?”

Several seconds went by before he spoke and, looking down, Abigail noticed how his boots were freshly shined.

“I came because…I’d been thinking about you,” he said. And then overcorrecting, a little too loud, he added, “If you want to know, I’ve missed you a lot.”

She snickered. “You missed a lot of things.”

Neither of them said anything for twenty or thirty steps. The Virtual Peacock…. The Virtual Skunk…. The Virtual Worm…. 

It was Abigail who finally spoke. “You were a really great writer, Harwick. I thought you were too good for all those crappy magazines you wrote for.”

“You were my favorite writer,” Harwick said.

She sighed. “It was a fun time. I don’t deny it. And we thought we were doing something really great.”

“Weren’t we?”

“I call it youthful indiscretion now,” she said.

He sniffed. “We were at the height of our powers. Too bad the world got too schoolmistressy to deal with us.”

“We made zero money, Harwick.”

“That’s what made it daring.”

“That’s what proves the world doesn’t care about daring.”

“That’s true too.”

“You’re not still writing stuff are you?”

“Nothing legitimate,” he said.

“What does that mean?”

“No one’s interested in the lost world of whoring and drinking,” he said as he began to buzz. “And my latest shit; it’s completely unprintable now—”

“Sex worker,” she corrected him.

“No one dares to take my stuff. But, compulsive that I am, I’m still writing with pen and paper.”

“Paper?”

“So it doesn’t buzz.”

“Oh, I get it,” she said.

Something—a little red foam ball—came skittering across the cobblestones in front of them. A bird swooped down, picked it up in its beak, flew on a little ways and dropped it.

“Did you see that?” Harwick asked.

She didn’t seem to hear him.

“That blackbird thought a clown nose was a strawberry!”

“If you can’t sell your writing and you don’t do any good deeds, how do you survive?” she asked.

“A few—um—collectors are kind enough to assist me. And, thus far, AltruBank is allowing nonspecific remunerations.”

“I see.…” she said. “You’re not still recovering, are you?”

“I’m still a lush, if that’s what you’re asking.” His wrist buzzed.

“God, Harwick. I don’t get why you have to act like this!”

“It’s not as bad as you seem to think.”

“And you don’t need to write anymore. Just get over it! All you have to do is be nice. Don’t you understand?”

“But I like being a lush, Abby…gail.”

She stepped in front of him so she could face him. “I do still care about you, Harwick. You have to stop all your recovering and do something with your life!” Directly behind her an enormous sign read: Text YES to 0493 to Save the Gorillas.

Harwick groaned. “You see what’s happening? You can’t bring yourself to call me a drunk. You can’t use common language to express yourself but you’ve gotten damned good at being patronizing.” 

“Okay, be a goddamned drunk then, since you prefer the term!” Her necklace buzzed.

Harwick straightened and pulled his hands from his jacket. “And it pisses me off when people tell me I’m not fucking doing anything.” He had to raise his voice above the ever-louder buzzing. “Sometimes I feel like I’m the only person who’s still doing something!”

“And what’s that?”

“Getting drunk and writing ferocious-sounding bullshit.”

She pursed her lips and squinched her brows and ejected a great long stream of air through her nose.

“You look so pretty right now,” he said.

She started to walk away, but quickly turned around to face him.

“You know,” she said in an acid whisper. “You’re just a fucking dipshit. I’m willing to lose a little money to tell you the truth at long last. You’ve always been a dipshit. Even before the New Economy started you were a dipshit. You’re a totally selfish, drink-addled, philandering, total fucking douchebag!” Her necklace was buzzing madly.

He grinned.

“Look,” Abigail said, “All I know is I’m saving up to get my kid into a good college and I don’t need you coming around to cost me money!”

“Poor little kid.”

“Tor’s doing great. And I don’t need to hear about him from you. He’s doing great in the new system. He actually likes knowing when he’s good and when he’s being mean. And when he slips, when he’s done something hurtful—he’s learned about remorse. Which is just exactly what you’ve never learned anything about!”

“You teach him remorse?”

 “Yes! And I don’t ever want to go back to the senseless, luckless, stupid, immoral way it was for you and me!”

Abigail was several paces ahead of Harwick when they recrossed the Baboon Island bridge.

The finger painting tablets had been cleared away but the children were still at the table, surrounded by their mothers.

Abigail had paused on the path, trying to locate Tor among them, when Harwick caught up to her.

She turned. “I’m trying to have a nice day out with my son,” she said through her teeth. “Please go away.”

“So you’re kicking me off Monkey Island?”

“Baboon!”

“Isn’t the word baboon slightly hurtful?”

She didn’t respond, but before she made her way to where the children were, she grabbed him by the collar and pulled him close and whispered something that made her necklace vibrate for a good three seconds.

Beautiful vegan cakes and pies with the fluffiest meringue, fruit compote, sugar-free sodas in every color of the rainbow were coming off the refreshment cart and several Team Members dressed like puppies, monkeys and, Harwick thought, one very attractive kitten, were busy distributing these colorful snacks to the ever-patient children.

Harwick took the big heart-shaped cream pie right out of the kitten’s hands, jumped up to the stage, bared his teeth and began to growl theatrically. “I don’t want to be good!” he bellowed at the children as their eyes turned big and round. His entire bracelet was rattling. “I want to pull that monkey’s tail! I want to kick that doggie’s ass! I want to suck the lips right off that kitty-cat!”

He leered at the little ones with his mouth agape. Then slammed the cream side of the enormous heart-shaped pie into his own face where it was temporarily glued…and slid…down the front of…his new…suede jacket and…all the children leapt in the air and cheered and laughed uproariously.