A Wax Nose by Kenneth Pobo
A half a mile from Bob’s and Mark’s house is a huge mall. Bob says, “It looks like grief with bright lights.” Mark says, “It looks like joy a la mode.”
Bob: “I’m an extremist when it comes to practicality. It’s my religion.”
Mark: “Oh don’t be dumb. We live now. Cherry pie. Sambas.”
Christmas. “No,” Bob says, “there’s no way that you’ll get me into that poisonous mall. So what if Sears has a leafblower that your dad wants. You’ll never take me alive. I won’t go! And you can’t make me!”
Mark brushes off Bob’s Baby Jane imitation, coaxes him into the Ford, and tells him how brave he is, how kind he is to, just this once, face the mall. He plays the Henson Cargill CD even though he himself hates it, but it relaxes Bob, especially “Six White Horses,” a song about a boy who played with toy soldiers, then grew up to be a soldier who got killed in a war.
Heading to Sears, as they trudge among shoppers Bob looks green, the way he looked when they took that cruise to Bermuda. While Bob puked, Mark ordered a Brandy Alexander. Bob ended up loving Bermuda—hot guys, cool shorts—despite “too much golf going on. A sign of boredom.”
Mark loves mall lights, even cheesy Santas and cheesier mall music.
Bob won’t hold hands in public. “We’ll be conspicuous.” Mark thinks conspicuous is a good-looking hat. Finally, Sears. Some old dude who’s been a salesman since customer Chaucer needed a new hatchet asks “Can I help you?”
“We need the leafblower advertised as on sale this week only.”
“Sold the last one this morning.”
Mark and Bob return to the car. Mark says, “Now what’ll I do? Dad was counting on that. I remember a hockey game I wanted in fourth grade. It didn’t appear under the tree. I moped till spring.”
Angered over a child bumping into him, Bob’s not listening, his face like steaming chemicals in a beaker. He relaxes when he sees their house come into view.
“Man, the stars are thick, like huge Hershey kisses,” Mark says. “I guess,” Bob says. “They’re really not interested in us.” Once indoors, they take their coats off and sit on the cat-torn sofa.
Mark clicks the TV on—I Love Lucy. When Lucy lights her wax nose on fire, they both howl. Behind the set, they don’t hear six white horses stamp and whinny. The wreathe drops. War runs a store in the mall. Salesmen fan out across the county, ring doorbells, stuff ads in mailboxes. Mark and Bob hear scrunching snow, chimes. They don’t answer—War stops by everyday. They turn Lucy up to drown War out.
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About the Author
Kenneth Pobo
Born: Elmhurst, Illinois
Now Resides: Middletown, PA
Bio: My most recent full-length book is Glass Garden (WordTech, 2008). I write because I love it. I like the struggles, the revising, the frustration, the whole engagement. I am very much drawn to flash fiction. As I am primarily a poet, I seek the focus that flash offers. I usually don’t have an outline (sometimes barely an idea) when I start. Things happen when I sit down and let them happen.
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image by Hengki24.
