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A Date with Edward Herbert

By J.R. Parks

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 Edward Herbert ate his thumb, a thumb he'd had within a pie. The pie was colder than his apartment, though not as cold as the weather, which could have been debated, depending. His thumb was bulbous, gourdish and tough: it looked rather like a turnip, though not quite unlike a truffle. It was salty sweet, as turnips go, though bitter as a daisy. He wasn't entirely sure of this however, though he'd eaten one of those in his youth.

 Edward's chins shook wildly, all dozen-teen or so. They were patched with graying stubble, some long some short, though all unkempt and soiled. If he had eagle's eyes he'd be able to see them tightly curled about the carpet, imbedded like the roots of tiny trees planted firmly in fields of shaggy Kentucky bluegrass. The record player skipped: Ain't got a worry down in Verny. Ain't got a worry down in Verny.

 The knocker knocked and Edward scuffled out of bed, the sheets like chains, the floor like ice. His shoeless feet were swollen and smelled of fish and garlic powder. They were two enormous bass, the toes waggling as they strode, floundering as though Mr. Herbert hadn't control over them in the least. His belly pressed against the door as a lonely beady eye peered through the peep hole. There was a woman, elder, trim, toothless, though sporting, what Edward always suspected to be, two of the falsest breasts to be implanted in a human being. They could have been carved from cedar and still maintain the effect. In her arms she held a child, round, pink, and wailing like a banshee.

 Knock. Knock. Edward tapped back. It was a jest of course, some modicum of humor; a pitiful attempt at flirtation with a woman, whose body had dwelled on the earth, undeniably, as long or longer than Imhotep. She was not amused in the least, rather, she was haunted, and her face twinged as she smiled emptily. The smile was ever so subtle, though still enough to crack the dried makeup on her face, as though large ravines and fissures had slid open by the work of some ungodly quake. She shifted in the doorway, her face distorted and corpulent as she peered into the miniature window hole; it was not unlike some trick mirror locked deep in the belly of some carnies' beat up ford.

 Edward unlatched the door and the hinges stiffly creaked open. The battered exterior of the door shone lavender against the dim light in the hall. The woman asked him to keep it down. She cursed him for waking the baby. And said some other things, and asked questions. The burble of her voice strung out in high and low tones, as his droopy sunken eyes, weighted by desire, fell upon her plastic chest. They were painted, he could see, like her face, but they were smooth and buoyant. He found himself beginning to tense as he closed the door on her- she was still chattering like an old crow.

 Eight digits left; and a pinkie. He counted and swallowed. He tossed away the can of soup and opened another. He'd long disliked the taste of hot soup, or perhaps he simply didn't care. The gas had not been on for nearly a month. The crumbs of crackers amassed like a sandy shore on his belly, several boxes worth. And as he slurped up the remainder of the second can, he sniffled and cleared his throat. He pressed the red button on his recorder and sat a moment. He thought. And he waited.

 He stood up and wobbled towards the windowsill. There was a plant there, long dead, a dried up shrub of some species he'd never know the name. He raised the recorder to his mouth, and peering out of the dusty blinds he said nothing. He looked down and examined the stagnant water in the watering can, then he sat back down, this time on the edge of his bed.

 There was a pile of unopened mail and a large parcel wrapped tight with a white cord. On it he read his name: Mr. Edward Herbert. He lifted it up and put it back down, then lifted it again. The weight of it was heavy, though not unwieldy, yet still he could not lift it for long. He shook it near his ear like some child probing beneath a Christmas tree for a set of building blocks, or a pop gun. He listened to the rattling parts for some time, until at last his massive arm began to tremble and wobble like a gelatinous tendril. He dropped it on the bed and it bounced and shook a moment. He then devoured two middles, two fores, and a ring.

 Lounging on his sofa, the constant cooing of pigeons kept the corpulent man sleepless. The little monsters never ceased to roost beneath the gutters that shaded his balcony. He despised the little things, as they fluttered and defecated, reproduced and again defecated. It was as though, that place, cluttered with old magazines and soggy card board boxes, had some otherworldly calling to them. Edward counted sheep for a while, but was unable to sleep.

 Sheep counting was an interesting notion. He'd never once given it thought until that moment, when instead of sheep he decided to count pigeons. What was the purpose of sheep? He didn't know. He only knew that in the animal kingdom, on a scale of which he was unsure, sheep were very stupid. Pigeons were stupid too. He pondered and scratched under his belly, probing at an age-old scab that never healed. One, two, three, four…until at long last, he fell suddenly asleep. He dreamed of many odd and curious things: of kingdoms, and candy, and soup. He was in a perfect state then. He could bend the dream to his will, and he could choose to devour what he wished: and that's a rare thing. He could dream himself strolling in pastures and fields; he could dream himself making love to whomever. He could dream himself flying, though falling was much easier, and he could dream in the dream until he'd died. Pigeons, he recalled, could damage the roofs of houses if not kept in check. And behold there stood a gargantuan bird, with a mane of white pluff vibrating at high speeds in the wind. Edward gasped and looked into the demoniac as it spoke in something not unlike Spanish or Portuguese. He chuckled, though petrified, he stood, a stone, steadfast but not in courage, more incapacitated. It pecked and probed and shat upon huge magazines with T.V. faces and breasts; and it nested in monolithic soggy boxes, where once bicycle parts or a swing set had been. Mr. Herbert heard his name, Mr. Edward Phillip Herbert. He replied but from that reply there came no reply. The telephone needed picking up.

 He rose from the sofa and near the nightstand, next to an old can of soup, there rang an older telephone. He looked at it and lifted it to his ear. He could hear the shrill voice of a man on the other end. The man seemed as distant as though he were speaking from a dream. Edward didn't respond to his questions. He just listened, listened to see what the man may say. Trusting strangers can be stranger than trusting dreams, unless of course it's a stranger’s dream, and that's a strange idea. The man raised his voice and rambled for a time, and Edward hung up.

 The chimes of the cathedral droned on and on for a minute or so, and coupled with the skipping record, Edward Herbert found himself out of character. He was annoyed. He removed the record and placed his hands over his ears. They were moist and oily, and they slid back and forth, in strife he plucked them off and devoured them. They were delicious he noticed, seemingly brimming with the essence of thyme, but the greatest, the most breathtaking part was the silence. Edward could see the shaking front door, he could feel the vibrations of the knocker, thwacking, and clacking. He probed the door with his remaining fingers and peered out to see the putrid face. He couldn't hear himself tapping back, and after a few moments past before he left the door and crept into his bed.

 The graying wrappers of ancient candy filled the sheets like the feathery down stuffing in a pillow, and as Edward Herbert slid his body in, innumerable wrinkled wax papers fell onto the floor. He glanced down, seeing the mounds and then laid his head back upon his pillow. On the ceiling water spots and cracks danced across the surface as he tugged the lamp light off. The shadowy figures made faces at him and he felt frightened briefly. His stomach rumbled as it did, and he passed wind. It made him chuckle, but he couldn't hear it.

 He opened a jar of Spanish olives and put them on his fingers, clumsily. He sucked each one off, finger and all, and swallowed them whole. The salty vinaigrette taste lingered metallic, and he belched. The scent was hideous and he felt ill so he ate his nose and shut his eyes tightly as he lay silent and distant. Springs coiled so tightly that, on occasion they would crook and buckle under his weight. It happened more frequently in the last few days and it seemed funny, if not a trifle sad. Edward looked at the ceiling, trying to listen to the springs, and he probed with uncanny effort beneath his enormous body to feel the springs but could not. He shifted, and shifted again, his movements playing tricks on the mind. Shadowy pigeons fluttered above him, feathers seaming to float all about him. He ate his eyes, not unlike the olives and he felt at peace again, in the darkness. 

 Salty sweet, vinegar pungent, metal mouth and brandy, finger licking New England grade, quail's eyes or monkey? He couldn't quite make out the rolling tongue within his chattering teeth, its tiny follicles-or something else-were questioning his mind. He thought on it, for a few minutes, wondering what breast milk was like, and tried to remember, though there was no answer for that. It may be worms or something earthy, something vile sick or foul: this was an interesting feeling. Like licking blood from paper cuts, or tin can lids, or from a shirt or wrist band, these were all possibilities. It was more interesting than music, he decided; he was contented. Edward Phillip Herbert shivered and pulled phantom sheets filled with waxy butterflies, up to his portly neck. He tried to clean his teeth with his extraordinarily strong tongue, but it was little use. He managed to dislodge particles of something, plaque or crud or something, and he swallowed it down. He swallowed spittle over and again, but soon the spittle ran dry. So, Edward Herbert swallowed his tongue.

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