Leach McBugnuts is Dead

William Racicot

This is the dawning of the Age of Aquarius...

Last year around Thanksgiving, I ran into my friend Leach at the airport. We hadn't seen each other in a while, since we went to colleges on opposite coasts, (I was at Boston College, Leach at U. Oregon) and we hadn't even had a proper phone call all term, so we split a cab fare downtown, and went for doughnuts at a homey little diner on Carson St. We'd found the place a few years back, when I bought my first car -- a '76 Plymouth Fury wagon: What a beast! We christened her "Gert the Rap Car" for the way the oil light flicked on and off to the rhythm of the stereo I'd bribed my older brother into installing for me. Anyway, we liked the atmosphere of the place: Gerri, the owner, was a little old woman with a pipe who told dirty jokes to the ever-present policemen, and always greeted us when we came in ("Hey! It's Greg and Leach! What can I get my boys today?"); there was a television in the corner which somehow managed constantly to show "All in the Family" re-runs; and the doughnuts were home-made ("All natural ingredients!") so that you could feel the cholesterol congealing there in your stomach for three days after eating one. But the taste -- the taste made it all worthwhile.

I guess Gerri was sick the day Leach and I flew into town, because there was a younger woman waiting on the cops in the diner. She looked familiar; I thought she might be Gerri's granddaughter -- about five feet seven, a little overweight, she had Gerri's strong shoulders. We might have gone to high school together, but I wasn't sure. I've been avoiding my high school class for a while, and don't always recognize them.

Leach and I had been sitting in the diner for a while, and were still waiting patiently for service. Well -- I was waiting patiently: Leach was whistling show-tunes in an attempt to get the waitress' attention. She was busily smoking Gerri's pipe with a red-haired police officer at a table across the diner from Leach and me. Since we were accustomed to quick and cheerful service from Gerri, we were kind of annoyed, not to mention hungry -- the airline food hadn't been much use (how many peanuts can one person eat?). And I couldn't figure out why we hadn't been served yet -- it's tough to think straight to the tune of "I Get No Kick From Champagne."

"So Leach," I said, hoping that he might start talking, and, therefore, have to stop whistling, "How long do you suppose we've been in here?" I immediately regretted asking.

"Oh," he responded, loudly and in the waitress' direction, "Can't have been more than an hour or two, yet. I expect SUSAN, OUR WAITRESS, will be along in a couple days. What are you going to get, since you've had SO LONG to decide? I'm going to go with a chocolate glazed and a cup of black coffee, I think." Then he started to sing lyrics from `Pajama Game'.

                    When you're racing with the clock,
                    When you're racing with the clock  *1*

I don't know where Leach picked up his interest in musical theatre; his parents owned a few dozen chickens, and sold eggs to the local grocery store, and they didn't care for "THAT sort of social function." As far as I know, he'd never auditioned for a show, let alone been in one. He was never involved with the drama kids in high school, anyway, and he didn't strike me as the type who went in for acting. It looked like it might be time I re-evaluated my opinion of his dramatic ability and interest.

I think our waitress (Susan, apparently, although her nametag said "Hello My Name is Gerri.") was in a couple high school musicals, now that I think of it. I've always thought it would be fun to be in a show, but all the best parts are for women, and our school was too prim to let me act in drag. I haven't had time, since, what with classes all year.

I looked across the diner at Susan, and saw her busily smoking Gerri's pipe, just as she'd been doing for some twenty minutes, then looked back to Leach. I decided that there was no point in asking him to be patient: we'd had that discussion more than once in the past, and he was strong in his belief that, if a chicken can reliably produce an egg, then so should a diner. We'd abandoned more than one otherwise acceptable restaurant because their food or service was less than Leach was willing to accept. "If I have to pay for it, then I should get what I want when I want it," he'd always say; so I just pretended he hadn't been shouting across the room. I tried not to notice that the waitress was carefully ignoring us.

I listened to Leach whistling for a few minutes, then he began humming instead, and finally just stopped. He looked over at Susan, and back. "Hmm," he said, tentatively, "Say Greg, there's something I wanted to talk to you about."

"Oh?" This sounded promising: at least he wasn't whistling.

"How do you feel about eggs?"

"Huh? Actually, eggs sound pretty good. I haven't had breakfast yet, and I wasn't really in the mood for doughnuts anyhow. I think I'll have a couple fried eggs, and maybe a slice of hot apple pie."

"Fried eggs?" he said. He looked upset. "You're going to eat fried eggs? In front of me? So soon after the accident? Oh Greg," here he paused dramatically, and hung his head, "You disappoint me. I should think that after all these years you'd respect my feelings enough not to eat eggs like that, right in front of me -- I mean, out in the open like that. Are you trying deliberately to upset me? After what's happened to my parents--"

"What's happened to your parents?" I had no idea what he was talking about at that point; even now, I find it difficult to accept.

"What do you mean, `What's happened?'" he said, his face beginning to flush, "You know what's happened to my parents."

Nothing had happened to his parents as far as I knew, and considering their lifestyle, I couldn't imagine what could. His father claimed to be a virgin, and his mom's most dangerous activity was getting the mail at the end of her driveway. "What about your parents? I really have no idea what you're talking about. I phoned your mom yesterday to find out when you're flight was getting into town, and she was fine. She said your dad was okay, too, when I asked how things were going. Did something happen to them last night?" I have to admit, I was really concerned now. I'd known his parents for something like twelve years -- as long as I'd known Leach -- and they were the nicest people I ever met, even if they were a little strange. Sure, they named their son "Leach," but he was named after his great-uncle, the war hero....

"The incu -- the --" Leach choked up a bit, but finally managed to say, "The incubator blew up on them, and they were -- Oh Greg, they were killed by the shrapnel -- I thought you knew...."

"Are you KIDDING?" This was a pretty disgusting joke, if he was. He looked at me, shaking from tense shock that I might doubt him, especially on something like this. But before he could answer, our prodigal waitress, whose friend on the force had finally gone off to disturb some copulating teenagers in station wagons, decided that Leach and I had come to a sufficiently awkward point in our discussion that interrupting us would be worthwhile. "Hello!" she chirped around Gerri's pipe, just as though we'd only that moment arrived, "What can I get you gentlemen?"

I just wanted her to go away, so, before Leach could begin telling her the tragic story of his parents and their demon incubator, or how dare they serve eggs on a day like today, I said, "Hot apple pie, please, and do you have fresh cider today?"

It was no good, though. Before Susan could write down my order on her little green pad, Leach said cheerfully, "Well, gosh! I think I'd like to start with the two hours I've wasted waiting for service, and then, how about a glass of milk? I assume you aren't serving milk today?"

"Leach," I said, trying to calm Leach so we could order and get on with the discussion, "It's only been about half an hour."

No use. Susan just turned around and went back to where she'd been sitting. At least, I thought, she was gone. I turned my attention to my friend, about to ask what the hell he was talking about. He was furious, judging by his expression, and he stood and went to her table.

"Hello!" he chirped. It was a pretty good impression of her. Then he grabbed her pipe. Gerri's pipe.

"Uh, Leach --" I was going to point out exactly whose pipe it was, but he interrupted me.

"What can I get you today, you lazy cow?" he said, and stuck the pipe bowl-first into her coffee cup, which steamed obligingly. He gestured for me to join him as he stormed out of the diner.

Outside, Leach was pounding on the building, and chips and fragments of the decaying brick-face were skittering around the sidewalk. I thought I'd better distract him before he did any more serious damage -- say, to the building itself. "What was that about your parents? The incubator blew up?" I knew how tactless I sounded, but I just couldn't take him seriously. It was too weird. "They were fine when I called yesterday."

Leach spun to face me, then deflated. He nodded, all his anger gone with his energy. "I thought you knew. It was all over the papers last week."

That was when I got really skeptical. "If it happened this morning," I said carefully, "How could it have been in the paper last week?"

"It was in their horoscope."

"What? Leach --" I couldn't believe he was telling me this. What was he trying to pull, anyhow?

"It was in their horoscope," he repeated. "See?"

Aries: The gentleman in the red convertible wants you.

Taurus: You will score 278 and spare the last frame.

Cancer: Duck!

Scorpio: Watch out for incubators today. Yours is going to blow up.

"They were born on the same day, you know." He sniffed. "It was supposed to mean -- it was supposed to mean they'd be LUCKY together." he choked on lucky.

I had known about his parents' birthday, but it hadn't seemed relevant to the discussion. They'd been at a CYO meeting, or one of those weird Moose Lodge political rallies, or something -- it changed with every telling -- and the speaker said, "Hey everyone, we have two birthdays today!" in that embarrassing forward way that only masters of ceremonies and lounge singers are taught. "June Roths and Troy McBugnuts are both twenty-five today!" It was all very embarrassing to them both, so they say. But judging by the frequency with which they tell the story, I doubt they were too devastated by the incident.

"Uh, Leach"

"Yeah?" He looked up hopefully, as though the thought I might say 'everything is going to be fine.'

"When did you see this?"

"Last thursday. It was in the Tribune. Or do you mean the actual accident?" I nodded that this was, in fact, what I meant. "I haven't actually SEEN the accident yet, Greg. How could I? I haven't been home, and it only happened this morning. I've been with you as long as I've been in town. We met at the airport, remember?" he said it as though he were afraid for my sanity, but I wasn't about to be distracted.

"So you haven't actually seen this mess yet?"

"No! I just told you it happened this morning. I was on a plane from Oregon. Really, you're beginning to worry me Greg."

I ignored the last bit, and said, patiently, "Let's see what's in the Tribune this morning and then check out the incubator at your house, okay?"

He mumbled something about choosing less morbid friends in the next life, but I insisted. Wouldn't there be something in the paper if there were a local disaster? So we bought a paper from one of the glass dispenser things on the side of Carson St. and headed for the bus stop in front of the magic store. Rumor has it that the owner was possessed by the spirit of his dead grandfather, until he was exorcised by a benevolent ex-nun. Now he just channels for his late ancestor once a month. We'd almost asked him about it once, but decided it wouldn't be tactful and bought felt top-hats instead, so it would look like we'd meant to come in and buy something.

"Well," I said, once we were on the bus, "There's nothing on the front page. Do you think they'd put something that important inside without a leader to it on the front page?"

"I wouldn't think so, but you never know with the way the Tribune's been lately." He had his parents send him the week's issues every Saturday, so he'd know how things were at home, "Because no one who really loves you will tell you the dirt on your hometown during finals." I was just as willing to remain ignorant of local events myself. They took too much energy away from my classes, and I knew I'd hear everything once I got home. Besides, my attention span is short enough, without the added distraction of trying to keep track of a thousand people I wish I didn't know anyway.

I looked through the rest of the paper, and there was no mention of the accident, although there was a sale on high-intensity light bulbs at Sears, and Leach was listed in the obituaries as having died at four o'clock from a gunshot wound.

College Student Shot by Burglars

      Leach McBugnuts, the only son of our own Troy  and June McBugnuts
      of  76 Oklahoma  Dr.,  was shot by   burglars  yesterday  in  his
      mother's   kitchen.   He was  twenty  years old,   and would have
      graduated in a year and  a  half  from  The University of  Oregon
      where he was a major in Literary Theory  (No, we aren't sure what
      that is  either, but  maybe  Troy or  June could  tell us.  Troy?
      June?).  At any rate, the  whole town  feels this loss.  Although
      Leach was always an odd  child, we all loved  him like he was our
      neighbor's  only boy, which he was.   Strength June, and you  too
      Troy.}

      Services  will be held Saturday at  three pm.    And may the Lord
      bless Leach McBugnuts and his bereaved family.

`May the Lord bless Leach McBugnuts and his bereaved family.' Hmph.

I decided not to point it out to Leach, although it did seem relevant. How could his family be "bereaved" if they were dead? I doubted he'd be reassured. I pointed out, instead, a piece about burglars and the practice of finding out when a house would be empty from funeral announcements. I also told him there was no mention of any incubator accidents.

"Did you check the horoscope section? Let me see that."

I handed him the paper. He was making me really nervous, and his obituary didn't help much either, so the paper shook a bit as I passed it. He seemed not to notice, though, and I relaxed as well as I could. I normally wouldn't have worried about strange behavior from Leach -- he's been kind of strange as long as I've known him; not surprising when you consider he had to grow up with a name like his. If my name was Leach McBugnuts, I'd probably be pretty weird, too. But this was stranger than his usual Leach-ness.

I watched him pore over the horoscopes for a few seconds, and marvelled that he seemed to really BELIEVE the things he was saying. He looked up, eyebrows raised. "That's very odd," he said, "There's not even anything in the horoscopes. See what I mean about how things have gotten in the journalism world? The Tribune doesn't even cover my parents' incubator disaster, and they're the ones who predicted the damn thing!"

I was about to say something about the reliability of the horoscopes anywhere, and especially in the Tribune, but was denied the opportunity, because (much to the relief of our fellow passengers, who had finally given up staring at us and begun diligently ignoring us) we arrived at our stop just then. We paid the driver, and said, no we wouldn't be needing a transfer slip, but thank you anyway, and got off the bus.

The ten minute walk to his house was tense, so I tried to make conversation.

"You were singing Pajama Game lyrics, huh?"

"Yeah."

"So...when d'you get into the theatre? New interest at school?"

He just shot me an irritated glance. The rest of the trip was pretty quiet. I pointed at a few of the places we used to haunt. There was the Superman phone booth we used to use to change our clothes after school -- we got arrested once. Boy was my mother mad! "Mrs. Beaulieu? Your son was found naked in a telephone booth about fifteen minutes ago. Could you come down to the station and pick him up?" I wish I could've seen the look on her face!

The livestock in his gravel driveway helped to reassure me that, no matter how strange the rest of the world got, some things would remain consistent: there were chickens everywhere. They waddled around the yard, in and out the hole in the wire fence around the chicken coop, jumped up and down the steps to the front door of the house itself, scratched the lawn up, ate Mrs. McB's tomato stalks, and generally wrecked havoc on the yard. Those chickens had more freedom than Leach did until we were old enough to drive. I asked, once, why his father didn't fix the coop, but Leach only shrugged and said, "That's how the old man likes to have the hens -- all over the place. That's how he knows they're alive. He gets nervous if the yard is too quiet, you know." Leach had smiled wisely at me, and nodded as his father passed through the room, as though this were the conventional wisdom, and wasn't I lucky to have heard it.

"See Leach?" I gestured around the yard, encompassing most of the chickens. "Just like always: hens everywhere." The windows to the farmhouse were all open -- at least all the ones I could see -- and the screen porch was in slightly better shape than the henhouse. Apparently Mr. McB didn't want the fowl in his living room. We went up the porch steps, but Leach hesitated before he opened up the door.

"Go on."

"Morbid son of a..."

He opened the door, and we went in. It was about one o'clock in the afternoon, by then, and I could hear noises from the kitchen and upstairs. I could smell egg salad, too, and I began to remember that I still hadn't eaten breakfast.

"There. Smell that? You're parents aren't dead -- your mom is in the kitchen making egg salad, and your father is upstairs. Do you feel better now?" I tried not to sound condescending or sarcastic, but he was being so weird that day that I wasn't sure what to make of it.

He looked at me with his brow crinkled, and said, "Well -- I guess so. I'd like to see the incubator, though, just to make sure."

Sigh. "Leach? Do you trust me?"

He nodded. "You've never led me wrong before, at least not without letting me in on the joke a few minutes later. And you've never been a joker about anything that was really important."

HE was accusing ME of joking about something important? I couldn't believe this. But I controlled myself: I said, "Go into the kitchen and say hello to your mom. I'll check the incubator shed and let you know what I find. If there are any bodies in there, we'll call the police, okay?"

"I guess so.... Meet me in the living room in about fifteen minutes?"

I nodded, and went back outside.

The smell got stronger as I approached the incubator shed, which was strange since the kitchen was on the other side of the house. By the time I got to the door, the smell was so strong that I could hardly breathe. It was obviously not the smell of egg salad, I decided. Too strong. This was the stink of rotten eggs. I heard a gunshot from the house, and looked back. I heard Leach scream, and a shadow in the window dropped out of view . I turned to run, but stopped, because I had just got a good look into the shed. The hand-- I threw up and ran into the woods.

Sometimes, when I'm sitting alone, I remember playing with Leach, there in the shed; we used to bring trucks in there and push them around on the dirt floor, through bridges we made from old bricks. That was before his parents bought the incubator.

My brother told me, once, that the Tribune ran an article about Leach that Thanksgiving. He even sent me a copy, but I never read it. It's still in the envelope in my desk drawer, probably yellow by now.

I don't read the Tribune anymore.

      We, the editorial staff of the Tribune,  would like to extend our
      deepest  regrets for  the  early  release  of the Leach McBugnuts
      obituary.  We  wish  to apologize   for  any inconvenience   this
      incident may have caused.

Endnotes:

Bill Racicot is one of five surviving humanists at Carnegie Mellon University. He graduates in May.

wr0o@andrew.cmu.edu

Quanta is Copyright(c)1994 Daniel K. Appelquist.
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