Rion Scott - Insurrections

Before either Walter or Laura could respond, Rashid turned and exited the room. That’s when Walter noticed the state of the place. The half-hung decorations. The stuffed animals, colorful plastic toys, and newspapers strewn about the living room.

Ricca apologized for Rashid. It’s okay, baby, Laura replied. When they got down to their apartment, Walter settled into his couch and turned on an episode of Good Times . Laura gathered her things to head to work. Just before Laura walked out the door, she asked, Isn’t their party supposed to start in an hour?

Yep.

Good Lord.

It promised to be a nice afternoon for Walter. Three straight episodes of Good Times and a fourth about to begin. He went to the kitchen for a glass of water, but that throbbing on his tongue and in his throat— Yes. His body was crying out for a beer. A beer and another episode of Good Times , that’s how to make a nice afternoon divine. He had only ever driven by the corner store, never giving it a second thought in all the years he lived in the neighborhood. But if he left now, he could be back just before JJ could shout his first dyn-o-mite! Besides, how many times had he seen this episode since it first aired in the 1970s? The 1970s. It was in those days he had learned that drink had the power to make all that bothered him fade into a soft and fuzzy haze. When he drank, it didn’t matter that the vague image he had of himself as a bigshot never came into focus. He was a nobody like everyone else he knew. A nobody out in the world but a bigshot in his house, at least in the eyes of Laura and his daughter, Anna. A beer, he found, helped him accept their admiration. Allowed him to accept the world’s ambivalence. Just a guy behind the counter at a store. One of thousands any given person encounters in a lifetime. That type of human being is designed to be forgotten. A beer. A beer or two upon walking in the door after work. A glass of expensive whiskey over dinner. Cheaper whisky before bed, maybe a glass of wine. Too many of those nights were now a bubbly haze. One day he realized he had no memories, not really, just a continuous blur. At the same time Laura asked him to put up the drink for good. No yelling or badgering. Stop so your daughter can see who you are, she said. And Walter stopped. But then he drank with Rashid and the only consequence was a night of youthful lovemaking. Walter put a beat-up brown hat on his head and was almost at the door when he heard a loud knocking. First he thought it was the neighbor’s door, but then it got louder, vibrating even the floor beneath his feet. Walter peered through the peephole and all he could see was a fuzzy blue.

Walter, Rashid’s voice called from outside. Walter, let me in. I got to talk. Walter!

When Walter opened the door, a smell like twenty pounds of garbage struck his nose and crept down his throat. And what a sight. Rashid, the Cookie Monster, pushed his way in, stepping awkwardly. He wore a fuzzy blue costume, though his head remained bare. He held the googly-eyed Cookie Monster headpiece in his hand and promptly tossed it to the floor.

Damn everything, Walter, he said. Fuck every little thing.

Rashid — Walter stammered. Just what — I mean, what is — what is it this time?

Why is every little thing always so fucked up?

Because that’s how it — I can’t even talk to you looking like that. And Rashid, that smell…

Close your mouth, Walter, this isn’t the strangest entrance I’ve made into your apartment.

And that’s the worst part of all this.

So after I tried to kill myself, that very night, I figured I needed a project to keep my mind off all the fucked-up-ness. Off Ricca and all the money I didn’t have. I was like, I know: I can make my son’s birthday party the best thing ever. The greatest of all time. Whose idea was it for a Cookie Monster party? Me. Who spent hours on the Internet downloading Sesame Street songs to play? And can you believe Ricca has the nerve to be angry with me, talking about I’m not participating? That she’s the only one putting up decorations and she has to bake the cookies. Un—

Rashid, I’m not following any of this.

Right, so I’m thinking what would be the coup de grâce? A visit from the cookie man himself. I go onto the Internet and start looking at prices and shit. These people want an arm and three legs. Like five hundred bucks for a professional to show up. And renting wasn’t any better at all. It seemed wasteful to rent a Cookie Monster costume for a hundred dollars an hour or three hundred for the entire day, especially since I barely had fifty in the bank and my bills were all overdue and shit. Ricca told me not to worry about it. Said we didn’t need no damn Cookie Monster visit. That’s what she said. She said damn . Said Luce would be happy without it. I wasn’t buying that, of course. Just her saying that shit annoyed me, but I pretended like I agreed because I was tired of hearing her voice and I didn’t want another fucking argument. Anyway, it was clear renting the thing wasn’t the move. Besides, who would want to rent something like that? Why not own? Hang it there in the closet and break it out on any old day. Take the boy to the park dressed as the Cookie Monster. Drop him off at daycare all furry and blue. I’d be the most popular father who ever existed, showing up shaggy and blue with a tin full of snickerdoodles. That was the dream.

You have strange dreams, Walter said, returning to the couch. He let out a sigh as he removed his hat and settled himself into his seat. I’m not sure I want to hear the rest of this. Is this better than an episode of Good Times? Because I’m missing Good Times and you’re missing your son’s birthday party.

My brain was all cloudy and black before this, Rashid said, gesturing about with his furry, blue hands. I was all filled with goddamn anxiety, man. This gave me purpose. Now it’s turned to shit.

I can smell that.

Are you just going to make jokes?

I’m sorry. It feels like the moment calls for some humor. You’re ranting and dressed like Elmo.

The Cookie Monster.

Whatever, Rashid.

I spent every free hour rooting through the Internet, trying to find a deal on a Cookie Monster outfit. Got fat on sugar cookies and chocolate chips and on the creme-filled ones, clicking from site to site, chasing one dead end to another. Sometimes I’d be fucking red-eyed late at night at that computer, then I’d wake and do it all over again. This was all during my summer break when no one was paying me shit and I had to be home with Luce playing babysitter most days. Luce is running about and screaming and smelling like warm piss and shit and I’m searching, not even noticing my son is stinking until the mess starts growing stale. I figured if Luce doesn’t care, why should I? Luce at some point would try to climb onto my lap. And I’d have to say, Kid, you stink. But he’d be crying and screaming and pushing his way up there to sit, like my lap’s a throne and he’s king, and I’d search until I couldn’t take it anymore and then I’d go change him and search some more.

So… Luce shitted in your costume? Walter asked.

What? No. No, no. I found this one late, late at night just before school started in August. Did I tell you that I’m broke? I put off getting this costume so many times waiting for some money. Waiting for when I got a little left over, but it’s mostly check to check for me, bruh. This one was on some auction site. An out-the-way one most people know nothing about. Bids started at five dollars and went up to fifteen and I bid thirty to get it going. But thirty dollars from where? Ricca had to cover the entire rent that month. If Ricca knew I was bidding on this costume… Fuck. You know, I had to shake my parents down for just enough to cover the cable and Internet. Cable’s important. I watched Sesame Street three, four times a day on the kiddie channels to study Cookie’s mannerisms and voice. No use being some generic monster; if you’re going to do something, do it right. That’s what my father used to say. He’s probably upstairs now trying to figure what the hell is wrong with me. Trying to figure out why I’m not doing things the right way like he told me. Fuck, you think he’ll recognize that I tried?