Boz sat the kitchen table, eating toast with peanut butter and reading Boy’s Life magazine. He was reading an article about how to tie a Sheep Shank knot, a skill he had longed to master since he was a boy. It was before work and he was clothed accordingly in a white collared shirt and Three Stooges tie which reached down his torso to his crotch. On his face sagged soft jowls, scrolling along his jawline like sheathes of fat.
He thought about all the knots he’d wanted to tie when he was younger and how he’d never learned any of them. His fingers had always been fat and clumsy, and he’d always been inept at just about everything. His father tried to show him once, but got quickly frustrated at his chubby fingers and grounded him for a week when he couldn’t tie a square knot.
Boz couldn’t remember what had happened to his parents. One day they were there, raising him, and the next day they weren’t. He hadn’t heard anything from them in at least twenty years, come to think of it. He’d thought about calling the police, but they never did anything except make fun of him.
Julia entered the kitchen, smoking a cigarette, in her bathrobe. Curlers clung to the top of her head and small bags of sleepiness were nestled below her eyes. Boz greeted her: “Good morning.”
“Morning.”
He considered saying something to her about the previous evening. It’s probably best to ignore it, he thought, best not to dwell. He smiled and offered his wife some coffee. She poured herself a cup and sat down next to him.
“What’re you reading, Boz?” she asked him, blowing smoke through her nose and sipping coffee.
“Oh, I’m learning how to tie a Sheep Shank knot.”
Julia looked at the cover of the magazine and frowned. “What, are you a pedophile now?”
“What?” Boz asked, confused. He chuckled. “No. It’s not just for boys, there’s a lot of useful information in here. Sure, it’s marketed to a younger audience, but you can learn some great stuff in here!”
“I bet,” Julia smiled. “That knot tying will come in handy, I bet. It’s probably easier to molest children when they’re all they can’t get away, huh?”
Boz frowned. “There’s nothing like that in this magazine. And I wouldn’t know anything about that.”
His wife shook her head and chortled, saying nothing. Boz didn’t understand her sometimes, why she’d say horrid things and then laugh about them. He ignored it.
After several minutes, he rose heavily from the table, wiping the crumbs from his novelty tie. “Well, I gotta go to work now.”
“Alright, baby,” said Julia. “Have a good day.”
“You too,” he kissed her on the cheek. “I might be home a bit late tonight. There’s a company meeting later this afternoon.”
In the car, Boz popped in his Sly and the Family Stone CD and harnessed himself securely with the seatbelt. The town passed around him like floating dust particles as he made his way to the highway, humming occasionally and munching on a pack of Twix he’d left in there yesterday. He thought about his boyhood and playing outside in the trees, swinging from branch to branch like a hairless monkey and trying to talk to the birds, who would just peck at his bald head. He wished he could still play outside and climb trees, but the neighbors would surely make fun of him or call the police.
As he made his way along the interstate, a beat-up Volvo swung brusquely in front of him without using its turn signal. Boz shouted “shit!” and collided with the car, driving the back bumper up into the trunk. They both pulled immediately over to the side of the road.
As he stepped from the car, Boz was hyperventilating. His eyes struggled out of their fleshy sockets, blue and red veins pulsing with anger. He made his way along toward the other car, where a young man was stepping out.
“Dammit, man!” said the other driver, grabbing his neck. “I think you gave me whiplash.” He looked at the back of his vehicle. “Fuck! What the fuck! Shit man! Look what you did!”
Boz attempted to speak, but couldn’t form words. His mouth hung open like some rabid gorilla, tongue swinging loosely over his lower lip and dripping with saliva. Instead of language, only wet, furious grunts sounded from the back of his throat. The driver was staring at him.
Cars passed dimly alongside them on the highway. Nothing happened for several seconds. Suddenly, Boz swung a meaty fist toward the driver, colliding with his stomach and knocking him to the ground, windless. He shouted worldessly and then descended upon him, smashing his face into the paved highway below. Bits of teeth and blood flew outward from his pummeling fists. He grabbed the driver around the neck and drove his head repeatedly into the ground, grunting furiously. After 30 seconds, he stopped…
The driver was wheezing softly under the mess of his mangled face. Boz stood up, staring down at him. He remembered what he had been driving to work, but not what had happened in the past several seconds. It was blank in his mind.
“Are you okay?” he asked the driver tentatively.
There was no answer except a soft wheezing noise. Boz sat down on the ground and saw that his hands were caked in blood. I really need to control my temper, he thought. He saw there were bits of blood and broken teeth on his Three Stooges tie.
“Shit,” he sighed. “Now I’m gonna have to do laundry when I get home.”
