Contributor: Robert E. Petras
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You would think a man with a hollow leg could hold his liquor. But not Stumpy. The more he drank, the worse he staggered. Of course, you would expect such a result from a guy with one real leg.
He didn’t have a prosthetic or anything like that, just a hollow leg that looked hairy and normal, even muscular with veins popping out like a bicyclist’s leg.
I guess when he was sober you couldn’t tell Stumpy had a hollow leg by watching him walk. A trained eye for such things might be able to detect the slightest limp to Stumpy’s stride as though one leg were a quarter-inch shorter than the other. After he drank three beers or so, he staggered a bit, and the more he drunk the worse he staggered, but he never lost his balance as though that hollow leg of his—the left one--was filled with helium or something.
I guess I would spend most of my day drunk if I knew the stuff Stumpy did. The only things I knew about him was the little that T-towners had told me the night before my 40th class reunion when I arrived in the city. They said Stumpy had strayed into the Mile 58 Restaurant and Marina from the Ohio River one day as though he were a piece of driftwood come to life. He soon made a home there, the owner not minding a bit because Stumpy attracted business from all over the Tri-State area. I guess nothing people like to do more than touch something rare, like a hollow leg.
I had heard as many as 50 alumni from my class would be attending our reunion. At dusk, most were already milling upon the artificial flagstone patio outside the restaurant. A string of red and green lights representing the mile markers of the Ohio River twisted overhead exactly in the shape of the big river from Pittsburgh to Cairo, Illinois—981 lights in all. One former classmate whom I did not expect to attend sat upon a stool along the outside bar—Juke, our star football player, who continued his career at State and the pros. He passed away the previous year from lung cancer. His wife Slinky, also a former classmate, brought the urn containing his ashes, one resembling Juke’s face with his square jaw and creased forehead and a red ball cap with two white T’s canted upon his crown, just like the good, old days. An unlit Marlboro dangled from his ceramic lips, like the old days, too.
After plenty of handshaking and kissing, we as a group riveted our gazes upon Stumpy. He wore royal blue and white Bermuda shorts, exposing both his good leg and the hollow one and a sky blue Mile 58 T-shirt, and he was sitting on a wooden lounge chair directly beneath the red lights designating mile 58 on the Ohio River, the only ones displayed with numerals. I never did learn whether T-towners called him Stumpy because of his build or they just couldn’t think of a better name for a guy with one good leg. He appeared to be anywhere from 35 to 50 years of age, depending where he stood under the red and green lights although he wasn’t standing much in the condition he was in. He had hair the color of slate, perfect for his head, which somewhat resembled the crown of Frankenstein’s monster. If it weren’t for the attraction of his hollow leg, people would probably want to see how much stuff they could stack upon his head.
My classmates had called me the Prez ever since they elected me senior class president, my margin of winning one vote over Juke. These same classmates further honored me in the senior yearbook with the distinction of being the most likely to recede. It was a prediction come true. As reigning class president, I had the honor of touching the hollow leg first.
Stumpy remained seated upon the chair, flanked between artificial palm trees, kind of like a Santa Claus in July, except there were no Santa’s helpers unless when you considered the servers, wearing tropical-patterned shirts, all walking with slight limps, I suppose, aping Stumpy. I noticed most of the drinks they served came in plastic glasses resembling the hollow leg.
Stumpy and I exchanged courtesies, and then I stooped and patted his knee, initially like someone touching a snake for the first time, until finally I patted his calf. It felt solid although it also felt like a gutted fish. I pinged my forefinger on the calf; immediately a sound resonated similar to a plastic baseball bat connecting with a pebble. Suddenly I wanted to rub that hollow leg as though it belonged to a genie who granted three wishes. But after I stood, I only wished I hadn’t touched that hollow leg at all, leaving me with a feeling as though I used X-ray glasses to spy on the best looking girl in the class, my penis shrinking permanently for the effort. Some things a person just can’t help doing, no matter the cost.
In our class the best looking girl had always been Chalice, who had promised to keep her virginity until she met the perfect guy. Well, our homecoming queen was standing toward the back of the line of those wanting to touch the hollow leg, still waiting to find the perfect man.
Normally, I would tip a fellow such as Stumpy five dollars; instead, I gave him a one and a promise to buy him a Yuengling Beer later. Then I peeled a five from my wallet, strided across the other side of the flagstone patio, onto the lawn where sat Half Note on a picnic table under the lights defining the headwaters of the Ohio. I held out the five-dollar bill.
“What’s this for?” he asked.
“That’s the five dollars I had promised you to vote for me,” I replied.
Pushing my hand away, he said, “Keep it. I didn’t vote for you.”
“What? You promised.”
“Well, I thought anybody who had to buy votes would sell out to the administration.”
We called him Half Note because of his size and nerdy looks and his musical ability. He was by far the best musician in the T-town High marching band, a guy who could play any instrument.
A few minutes later, Half Note was tapping the hollow leg with all his fingers, playing the Notre Dame fight song, which was ours, too. Half Note sashayed back over to me. “I won’t tell anybody about your trying to bribe me.”
The next thing I knew, Half Note stood in front of Trinket, who was about three times his size, and then he dropped to one knee on the flagstones. “Marry me, Trinket,” he cried. “Make me the happiest man ever to graduate from T-town High.”
Trinket dumped a full leg of pino colada on Half Note’s head, spun on her heels and marched inside the dining room, her nose high in the air.
Meanwhile, Warsh and his wife Flower were standing by themselves in a corner of the patio, their voices still as loud and resonant since they both had starred in the T-town High production of Oklahoma. Warsh had a ruddy complexion, probably from all that construction work he did outside, all that Jack Daniels not helping much, either. Flower, who had also been a majorette and on the homecoming court, still looked attractive, her hair still natural blonde and her body firm, probably from having to do all the chores around the house and yard because Warsh was never around.
Uncharacteristically, Warsh was sipping a Diet Coke and said, “I told you I would quit drinking someday, Baby Shakes.”
“We’ve been through this before,” Flower replied.
“This time I mean it. You know what else? I’m going to give you that big diamond ring I always said I would.”
Warsh dropped to a knee. “Would you marry me again, my darling?”
I knew Flower was still married to Warsh because she was wearing the same thin wedding band she wore since they wedded just after graduating from high school.
“No, never,” Flower cried. “I told myself if I had to do it all over again, I would never marry you if you were the last man on earth.”
The next time I saw Warsh, he was sitting in a corner of the dining room by himself, under a mermaid with the face of the Mona Lisa, pounding down shots of Diet Coke. Suddenly he jumped up and headed toward the patio when he espied his wife across the room, chatting with an alum we called Pixel, not so much because he was the artist of our class, rather because of all his freckles. Warsh yelled, “I am going to build you that spare room I always said I would.”
“You do that!” Flower called back, “and I’ll give you that blow job I promised!”
They had some kind of strange marriage, I thought, having experienced three strange ones myself.
Surrounding me—all kinds of weird events were unfolding. A few more fellows were proposing marriage to Trinket, including the Donkey Dick, the class lothario.
I handed Stumpy the Yuengling I had promised him as Father Pious approached. Ever since I had known him clear back in first grade at St. Francis School, Pious had dreamed about becoming Pope some day. He always played priest, pretending to give us communion and blessing us. He pretended to hear our confessions, too. I always liked the look on his red face after I confessed I played with myself while I fantasized spanking Chalice’s bare butt. Pious would always give me a stiff penance like ten Our Fathers and five Hail Marys, and then I would tell him to go fuck himself.
I didn’t hang around because I knew he was going to nag me about attending mass and to hear my confession. After all these years, I still hadn’t promised him anything. I knew, too, no matter how pure and disciplined by his faith and ambitions to become Pope, Father Pious could not resist touching that hollow leg as though it were the relic shinbone of Saint Teresa.
Stumpy stood in respect for Father Pious. He kept his balance, all right, but his eyes were staggering and then I sauntered across the patio.
Moments later, Father Pious was jostling in line with Half Note, and Donkey Dick, trying to propose to Trinket. I guess they all at one time or another vowed to marry Trinket some day if she would screw them. Personally, from what I can tell you, you didn’t have to go to such extremes with Trinket. All you had to do was ask her whether she wanted to fuck. There’s no such thing as a stupid question, I learned long ago.
All kind of chaos had erupted. People were shelling out money and checks and recipes. Men and women were sitting with their ex-girlfriends and ex-boyfriends, going to T-town, while fistfights were breaking out on the lawns surrounding Mile 58. “I told you I would kick your ass someday!” Spud, a former classmate screamed.
Suddenly emerging from the darkness onto the patio was Warsh, running while holding aloft a huge diamond ring, sirens wailing in the distance.
Back when we were 15, Warsh smashed the window of a corner grocery with a brick and then vaulted inside and returned moments later cradling two cases of Iron City Beer. I kept my promise to never tell a soul. As the sirens blared closer, I visualized Warsh repeating the crime at a jewelry store.
He rushed inside Mile 58, only to see his wife giving Pixel a massage while Pixel sketched a drawing of her in a corner under a painting of daVinci’s Last Supper, except the Apostles were all smoking joints. I guess she fulfilled a promise from clear back in seventh grade because she had dated Warsh exclusively since eighth grade.
Around the dining room, classmates and their spouses and consorts were swapping vows of love, calling one another on their cell phones—even though they were sitting at the same table or across the room—writing letters, fulfilling rematches of arm wrestling, Donkey Dick giving the shirt off his back to Father Pious. Chalice sat in a corner beneath a painting of Medusa’s ass by herself, knitting a sweater. Old Warsh was tapping on his wife’s shoulder, but she kept kneading away as though freckles were going out of style.
I went outside to witness pretty much the same kind of action occurring, except Stumpy was standing and wobbling. Slinky, heaving and sobbing, was on both knees below him, rubbing the urn containing her late husband’s ashes all over the hollow leg. “You promised you would never leave me. You promised. You promised.”
The man with the hollow leg pushed Slinky away by the shoulders and then turned toward the river and marched straight down the hill, echoing the sound of one leg walking until he reached the water thirty feet below us.
Slinky sunk to the ground, prostrate, still heaving and sobbing. I lay beside Slinky and hugged her. When she finally regained her composure, I helped her stand and continued hugging her.
I guess some promises you just can’t keep.
A minute or so later, the police and the wailing sirens arrived. People lumbered outside red-faced, pinching and slapping themselves as though they had just snapped out of a spell or a living dream. I stretched my neck to search for the man with the hollow leg. All I could see was a large log floating downstream, encircled within a halo of moonlight.
As a large cop prepared to stuff the handcuffed Warsh inside a patrol car, Warsh yelled to his wife, “Don’t forget to bring my flask, honey!”
Everybody remaining at the class reunion felt bad for Slinky and decided to revote for senior class president because Half Note squealed I had tried to bribe him with five dollars.
We revoted. I won only two votes.
As a victory cigar smoldered from Juke’s ceramic lips, I danced all night with Chalice. I might not have been the perfect guy, but I could always settle for second best.
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Robert E. Petras is a resident of Toronto, Ohio and a graduate of West Liberty University. His work has appeared in more than 120 publications, including two previous short stories in Razor Dildo.
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You would think a man with a hollow leg could hold his liquor. But not Stumpy. The more he drank, the worse he staggered. Of course, you would expect such a result from a guy with one real leg.
He didn’t have a prosthetic or anything like that, just a hollow leg that looked hairy and normal, even muscular with veins popping out like a bicyclist’s leg.
I guess when he was sober you couldn’t tell Stumpy had a hollow leg by watching him walk. A trained eye for such things might be able to detect the slightest limp to Stumpy’s stride as though one leg were a quarter-inch shorter than the other. After he drank three beers or so, he staggered a bit, and the more he drunk the worse he staggered, but he never lost his balance as though that hollow leg of his—the left one--was filled with helium or something.
I guess I would spend most of my day drunk if I knew the stuff Stumpy did. The only things I knew about him was the little that T-towners had told me the night before my 40th class reunion when I arrived in the city. They said Stumpy had strayed into the Mile 58 Restaurant and Marina from the Ohio River one day as though he were a piece of driftwood come to life. He soon made a home there, the owner not minding a bit because Stumpy attracted business from all over the Tri-State area. I guess nothing people like to do more than touch something rare, like a hollow leg.
I had heard as many as 50 alumni from my class would be attending our reunion. At dusk, most were already milling upon the artificial flagstone patio outside the restaurant. A string of red and green lights representing the mile markers of the Ohio River twisted overhead exactly in the shape of the big river from Pittsburgh to Cairo, Illinois—981 lights in all. One former classmate whom I did not expect to attend sat upon a stool along the outside bar—Juke, our star football player, who continued his career at State and the pros. He passed away the previous year from lung cancer. His wife Slinky, also a former classmate, brought the urn containing his ashes, one resembling Juke’s face with his square jaw and creased forehead and a red ball cap with two white T’s canted upon his crown, just like the good, old days. An unlit Marlboro dangled from his ceramic lips, like the old days, too.
After plenty of handshaking and kissing, we as a group riveted our gazes upon Stumpy. He wore royal blue and white Bermuda shorts, exposing both his good leg and the hollow one and a sky blue Mile 58 T-shirt, and he was sitting on a wooden lounge chair directly beneath the red lights designating mile 58 on the Ohio River, the only ones displayed with numerals. I never did learn whether T-towners called him Stumpy because of his build or they just couldn’t think of a better name for a guy with one good leg. He appeared to be anywhere from 35 to 50 years of age, depending where he stood under the red and green lights although he wasn’t standing much in the condition he was in. He had hair the color of slate, perfect for his head, which somewhat resembled the crown of Frankenstein’s monster. If it weren’t for the attraction of his hollow leg, people would probably want to see how much stuff they could stack upon his head.
My classmates had called me the Prez ever since they elected me senior class president, my margin of winning one vote over Juke. These same classmates further honored me in the senior yearbook with the distinction of being the most likely to recede. It was a prediction come true. As reigning class president, I had the honor of touching the hollow leg first.
Stumpy remained seated upon the chair, flanked between artificial palm trees, kind of like a Santa Claus in July, except there were no Santa’s helpers unless when you considered the servers, wearing tropical-patterned shirts, all walking with slight limps, I suppose, aping Stumpy. I noticed most of the drinks they served came in plastic glasses resembling the hollow leg.
Stumpy and I exchanged courtesies, and then I stooped and patted his knee, initially like someone touching a snake for the first time, until finally I patted his calf. It felt solid although it also felt like a gutted fish. I pinged my forefinger on the calf; immediately a sound resonated similar to a plastic baseball bat connecting with a pebble. Suddenly I wanted to rub that hollow leg as though it belonged to a genie who granted three wishes. But after I stood, I only wished I hadn’t touched that hollow leg at all, leaving me with a feeling as though I used X-ray glasses to spy on the best looking girl in the class, my penis shrinking permanently for the effort. Some things a person just can’t help doing, no matter the cost.
In our class the best looking girl had always been Chalice, who had promised to keep her virginity until she met the perfect guy. Well, our homecoming queen was standing toward the back of the line of those wanting to touch the hollow leg, still waiting to find the perfect man.
Normally, I would tip a fellow such as Stumpy five dollars; instead, I gave him a one and a promise to buy him a Yuengling Beer later. Then I peeled a five from my wallet, strided across the other side of the flagstone patio, onto the lawn where sat Half Note on a picnic table under the lights defining the headwaters of the Ohio. I held out the five-dollar bill.
“What’s this for?” he asked.
“That’s the five dollars I had promised you to vote for me,” I replied.
Pushing my hand away, he said, “Keep it. I didn’t vote for you.”
“What? You promised.”
“Well, I thought anybody who had to buy votes would sell out to the administration.”
We called him Half Note because of his size and nerdy looks and his musical ability. He was by far the best musician in the T-town High marching band, a guy who could play any instrument.
A few minutes later, Half Note was tapping the hollow leg with all his fingers, playing the Notre Dame fight song, which was ours, too. Half Note sashayed back over to me. “I won’t tell anybody about your trying to bribe me.”
The next thing I knew, Half Note stood in front of Trinket, who was about three times his size, and then he dropped to one knee on the flagstones. “Marry me, Trinket,” he cried. “Make me the happiest man ever to graduate from T-town High.”
Trinket dumped a full leg of pino colada on Half Note’s head, spun on her heels and marched inside the dining room, her nose high in the air.
Meanwhile, Warsh and his wife Flower were standing by themselves in a corner of the patio, their voices still as loud and resonant since they both had starred in the T-town High production of Oklahoma. Warsh had a ruddy complexion, probably from all that construction work he did outside, all that Jack Daniels not helping much, either. Flower, who had also been a majorette and on the homecoming court, still looked attractive, her hair still natural blonde and her body firm, probably from having to do all the chores around the house and yard because Warsh was never around.
Uncharacteristically, Warsh was sipping a Diet Coke and said, “I told you I would quit drinking someday, Baby Shakes.”
“We’ve been through this before,” Flower replied.
“This time I mean it. You know what else? I’m going to give you that big diamond ring I always said I would.”
Warsh dropped to a knee. “Would you marry me again, my darling?”
I knew Flower was still married to Warsh because she was wearing the same thin wedding band she wore since they wedded just after graduating from high school.
“No, never,” Flower cried. “I told myself if I had to do it all over again, I would never marry you if you were the last man on earth.”
The next time I saw Warsh, he was sitting in a corner of the dining room by himself, under a mermaid with the face of the Mona Lisa, pounding down shots of Diet Coke. Suddenly he jumped up and headed toward the patio when he espied his wife across the room, chatting with an alum we called Pixel, not so much because he was the artist of our class, rather because of all his freckles. Warsh yelled, “I am going to build you that spare room I always said I would.”
“You do that!” Flower called back, “and I’ll give you that blow job I promised!”
They had some kind of strange marriage, I thought, having experienced three strange ones myself.
Surrounding me—all kinds of weird events were unfolding. A few more fellows were proposing marriage to Trinket, including the Donkey Dick, the class lothario.
I handed Stumpy the Yuengling I had promised him as Father Pious approached. Ever since I had known him clear back in first grade at St. Francis School, Pious had dreamed about becoming Pope some day. He always played priest, pretending to give us communion and blessing us. He pretended to hear our confessions, too. I always liked the look on his red face after I confessed I played with myself while I fantasized spanking Chalice’s bare butt. Pious would always give me a stiff penance like ten Our Fathers and five Hail Marys, and then I would tell him to go fuck himself.
I didn’t hang around because I knew he was going to nag me about attending mass and to hear my confession. After all these years, I still hadn’t promised him anything. I knew, too, no matter how pure and disciplined by his faith and ambitions to become Pope, Father Pious could not resist touching that hollow leg as though it were the relic shinbone of Saint Teresa.
Stumpy stood in respect for Father Pious. He kept his balance, all right, but his eyes were staggering and then I sauntered across the patio.
Moments later, Father Pious was jostling in line with Half Note, and Donkey Dick, trying to propose to Trinket. I guess they all at one time or another vowed to marry Trinket some day if she would screw them. Personally, from what I can tell you, you didn’t have to go to such extremes with Trinket. All you had to do was ask her whether she wanted to fuck. There’s no such thing as a stupid question, I learned long ago.
All kind of chaos had erupted. People were shelling out money and checks and recipes. Men and women were sitting with their ex-girlfriends and ex-boyfriends, going to T-town, while fistfights were breaking out on the lawns surrounding Mile 58. “I told you I would kick your ass someday!” Spud, a former classmate screamed.
Suddenly emerging from the darkness onto the patio was Warsh, running while holding aloft a huge diamond ring, sirens wailing in the distance.
Back when we were 15, Warsh smashed the window of a corner grocery with a brick and then vaulted inside and returned moments later cradling two cases of Iron City Beer. I kept my promise to never tell a soul. As the sirens blared closer, I visualized Warsh repeating the crime at a jewelry store.
He rushed inside Mile 58, only to see his wife giving Pixel a massage while Pixel sketched a drawing of her in a corner under a painting of daVinci’s Last Supper, except the Apostles were all smoking joints. I guess she fulfilled a promise from clear back in seventh grade because she had dated Warsh exclusively since eighth grade.
Around the dining room, classmates and their spouses and consorts were swapping vows of love, calling one another on their cell phones—even though they were sitting at the same table or across the room—writing letters, fulfilling rematches of arm wrestling, Donkey Dick giving the shirt off his back to Father Pious. Chalice sat in a corner beneath a painting of Medusa’s ass by herself, knitting a sweater. Old Warsh was tapping on his wife’s shoulder, but she kept kneading away as though freckles were going out of style.
I went outside to witness pretty much the same kind of action occurring, except Stumpy was standing and wobbling. Slinky, heaving and sobbing, was on both knees below him, rubbing the urn containing her late husband’s ashes all over the hollow leg. “You promised you would never leave me. You promised. You promised.”
The man with the hollow leg pushed Slinky away by the shoulders and then turned toward the river and marched straight down the hill, echoing the sound of one leg walking until he reached the water thirty feet below us.
Slinky sunk to the ground, prostrate, still heaving and sobbing. I lay beside Slinky and hugged her. When she finally regained her composure, I helped her stand and continued hugging her.
I guess some promises you just can’t keep.
A minute or so later, the police and the wailing sirens arrived. People lumbered outside red-faced, pinching and slapping themselves as though they had just snapped out of a spell or a living dream. I stretched my neck to search for the man with the hollow leg. All I could see was a large log floating downstream, encircled within a halo of moonlight.
As a large cop prepared to stuff the handcuffed Warsh inside a patrol car, Warsh yelled to his wife, “Don’t forget to bring my flask, honey!”
Everybody remaining at the class reunion felt bad for Slinky and decided to revote for senior class president because Half Note squealed I had tried to bribe him with five dollars.
We revoted. I won only two votes.
As a victory cigar smoldered from Juke’s ceramic lips, I danced all night with Chalice. I might not have been the perfect guy, but I could always settle for second best.
- - -
Robert E. Petras is a resident of Toronto, Ohio and a graduate of West Liberty University. His work has appeared in more than 120 publications, including two previous short stories in Razor Dildo.
Author:
Robert E. Petras
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