Jan Hassmann
The sign shook the Ventriloquist out of the highway hypnosis that so adequately described his existence. In an uncharacteristic display of abandon, he pulled off the highway and slowly rolled into the parking lot of the shabby diner where Dad had always stopped for hot dogs. The Onion Truck, 24/7 Service, All-Day-Breakfast.
"Are you a clown?" asked a voice.
"Yes," thought the Ventriloquist immediately and put down the tattered menu.
A little girl was eyeing his comically large bow tie and checkered jacket.
"No, I'm a ventriloquist," the Ventriloquist answered with a tired smile.
"What's a ventwillogist?" the girl asked, wide-eyed.
"It's another word for belly speaker."
"Your belly can talk?"
"It's because I eat little girls," said the Ventriloquist, without moving his lips, and thought it was funny.
The girl turned and ran, like most girls in his life.
The first bite of the hot dog washed even more memories over him than the sign on the highway. Although the decades had worn down the aqua decor beyond recognition, the hotdog still had the same sawdust texture, motor oil sheen, and freezer-burn aftertaste. Dad used to love them.
Licking the nostalgia off his fingers, the Ventriloquist went to the bathroom to wash his hands and looked into the scuzzy mirror.
“I'm different,” he thought.
As he walked back to his car he felt a sudden, stabbing pang in his stomach, adding to the harrowing memories swirling through his head. He paused, took a heavy breath, and continued on his way home.
Later that night, as the Ventriloquist sat down on his greasy, crimson couch with the worn spots like scrapes, just like the ones he got falling off that tree in the little park right next to the house where Mom used to live and nobody was there to laugh, he noticed a low rumble coming from his belly.
It soon turned into stretched sighs and howling gurgles, whooshing gloops and wheezing squelches, loofing weeshes and slooshing croods, and the Ventriloquist thought:
"Thanks Dad."
It sounded like somebody drowning.
And as the Ventriloquist tilted his head and listened to the blorps and squeeges and the galumps and the shloops, he began to hear, or thought that he heard, a voice coming from his belly.
"I'll never leave you," the voice squooshed softly.
"You won't have to worry anymore," it gwelshed.
"We'll be together forever."
And the Ventriloquist had many strange dreams that night.
The next day the Ventriloquist went to pay his electricity bill and it was very high. And as the Ventriloquist looked into his wallet with a sigh, the voice squelched:
“You should charge Eddie more. The crowd loves you, and you've never asked for a raise.”
And the Ventriloquist thought that it was reasonable to ask for a bit more.
"I'm doing a good job, and the crowd loves me, and I've never asked for a raise." And he decided that he would go and talk to Eddie on Monday.
Then the Ventriloquist went to the hardware store because he needed a new charger. And as the Ventriloquist reached for the cheapest charger, because it's just a charger, the voice gnarled:
“Don't buy this charger. The expensive charger will have a sturdy cable that doesn't curl up weirdly all the time and the plug will fit without wiggling.”
"I hate it when the cable curls up weirdly and the plug doesn't fit properly," thought the Ventriloquist. And he bought the expensive charger and it was only 6 bucks more than the cheap charger.
On his way home the Ventriloquist remembered that he needed to buy batteries, and he went into the shop and bought the most expensive batteries and they were only 2 bucks more than the cheap batteries. And the voice sweeled:
“These are good batteries.”
Then the Ventriloquist went into the little corner store where Barbra always smiled so nicely and he reached for the most expensive bread and the voice gloomped:
“Wait.”
And the Ventriloquist hesitated only for a second and he didn't buy any bread and he went down the aisle and reached for the most expensive water and the voice wheeled:
“I'll never leave you.”
And the Ventriloquist hesitated only for a second and he didn't buy any water and went down the aisle and reached for the most expensive cigarettes, and the voice gwirled:
“These are good cigarettes.”
And Barbra smiled and the voice glooshed:
“You should ask her if she wants to go for a walk tonight. It's Saturday, and it's so nice by the river this time of year.”
And Barbra smiled as the Ventriloquist asked her out for a walk.
"It's Saturday, and it's so nice by the river this time of year," he said, and they agreed that they would meet there at eight o'clock.
"I should have done that a lot sooner," thought the Ventriloquist, and the voice sheeshed:
“Yes, yes you should have.”
And Barbra and the Ventriloquist had a wonderful time. And the voice gwooled:
“Ask her to come in. It doesn't have to be perfect.”
And it was not perfect and Barbra and the Ventriloquist had a wonderful time. And he made breakfast for Barbra but he himself was not hungry. And Barbra said "Thanks for the breakfast," and "See you soon," and smiled and kissed him on the cheek. And the Ventriloquist smoked another expensive cigarette and
inhaled
and
exhaled,
and many things left his body and his mind.
And the voice swooped:
“Call Mum. You haven't talked in so long. She misses you.”
And the Ventriloquist called his Mum.
"We haven't talked in so long. I miss you." And they talked for a very long time. And he smoked many cigarettes while they talked, and his mouth felt very dry.
And when it was time to go to bed, the Ventriloquist thought, "I'll call Barbra," but the voice rooled:
“Barbra is busy now. Go to sleep.”
And the Ventriloquist went to sleep.
But when the Ventriloquist woke up the next morning, he felt very weak, and his skin, when he pinched it between his fingers, lingered stubbornly and was slow to return to its usual tautness, perched like a bird about to depart a sinking ship.
“I'm different,” he thought.
“Yes. Yes, you are,” shalouped the voice.
“You should finish that story about Dad. It's been in your head for such a long time, and the beginning is really good.”
And the Ventriloquist spent the whole day writing down the story that he had filled with so much detail in his head and it was vibrant and insightful and very good. And he thought, “I will submit this tomorrow, right after I talk to Eddie. Mum will be so proud, and I can read it to Barbra.”
But now it was late and the Ventriloquist felt very strange. His skin had turned the color of the stuff between the tiles and his vision was blurry and even the expensive cigarettes couldn't make him feel better.
“Sleep,” glorged the voice. "Tomorrow will be a good day."
But when the Ventriloquist went to bed, he saw the flowers on the wallpaper starting to move and his bed getting longer and longer, and he thought he could see someone standing in the corner.
“I can't get sick. I need to talk to Eddie tomorrow,” the Ventriloquist muttered.
“Just one more day,” squoolched the voice.
It was very loud now.
But the Ventriloquist staggered to the sink in the bathroom and turned on the tap.
“You won't have to worry anymore,” said the voice.
“I'll just have a little sip.”
“We'll be together forever.”
And the Ventriloquist looked into the mirror above the sink and thought:
“I'm different.”
“Yes. Yes, you are,” said the voice.
And the Ventriloquist lowered his head under the tap and just had a little sip. And although it was the cheapest water, it was also the best water.
And the Ventriloquist had another sip and it was the best water. And he drank and drank some more until his stomach was full and it was the best water.
And from his belly came stretched sighs and howling gurgles, whooshing gloops and wheezing squelches, loofing weeshes and slooshing croods.
It sounded like somebody drowning.
And the Ventriloquist went to bed and slept.
And when he woke up his skin was bouncy again, and he felt much better, but he was still weak and decided to stay in bed and talk to Eddie on Tuesday. And on Tuesday he felt much better, but he decided to rest one more day and talk to Eddie on Wednesday. And on Wednesday he went to the shops to buy bread, and he bought the cheapest bread, but not in Barbra's shop. And on Thursday he thought about Dad's dusky voice, and decided that he had to add that to the story. And he quit smoking because the cigarettes brought back too many memories.
"Are you a clown?" asked a voice.
"Yes," thought the Ventriloquist immediately and put down the tattered menu.
A little girl was eyeing his comically large bow tie and checkered jacket.
"No, I'm a ventriloquist," the Ventriloquist answered with a tired smile.
"What's a ventwillogist?" the girl asked, wide-eyed.
"It's another word for belly speaker."
"Your belly can talk?"
"It's because I eat little girls," said the Ventriloquist, without moving his lips, and thought it was funny.
The girl turned and ran, like most girls in his life.
The first bite of the hot dog washed even more memories over him than the sign on the highway. Although the decades had worn down the aqua decor beyond recognition, the hotdog still had the same sawdust texture, motor oil sheen, and freezer-burn aftertaste. Dad used to love them.
Licking the nostalgia off his fingers, the Ventriloquist went to the bathroom to wash his hands and looked into the scuzzy mirror.
“I'm different,” he thought.
As he walked back to his car he felt a sudden, stabbing pang in his stomach, adding to the harrowing memories swirling through his head. He paused, took a heavy breath, and continued on his way home.
Later that night, as the Ventriloquist sat down on his greasy, crimson couch with the worn spots like scrapes, just like the ones he got falling off that tree in the little park right next to the house where Mom used to live and nobody was there to laugh, he noticed a low rumble coming from his belly.
It soon turned into stretched sighs and howling gurgles, whooshing gloops and wheezing squelches, loofing weeshes and slooshing croods, and the Ventriloquist thought:
"Thanks Dad."
It sounded like somebody drowning.
And as the Ventriloquist tilted his head and listened to the blorps and squeeges and the galumps and the shloops, he began to hear, or thought that he heard, a voice coming from his belly.
"I'll never leave you," the voice squooshed softly.
"You won't have to worry anymore," it gwelshed.
"We'll be together forever."
And the Ventriloquist had many strange dreams that night.
The next day the Ventriloquist went to pay his electricity bill and it was very high. And as the Ventriloquist looked into his wallet with a sigh, the voice squelched:
“You should charge Eddie more. The crowd loves you, and you've never asked for a raise.”
And the Ventriloquist thought that it was reasonable to ask for a bit more.
"I'm doing a good job, and the crowd loves me, and I've never asked for a raise." And he decided that he would go and talk to Eddie on Monday.
Then the Ventriloquist went to the hardware store because he needed a new charger. And as the Ventriloquist reached for the cheapest charger, because it's just a charger, the voice gnarled:
“Don't buy this charger. The expensive charger will have a sturdy cable that doesn't curl up weirdly all the time and the plug will fit without wiggling.”
"I hate it when the cable curls up weirdly and the plug doesn't fit properly," thought the Ventriloquist. And he bought the expensive charger and it was only 6 bucks more than the cheap charger.
On his way home the Ventriloquist remembered that he needed to buy batteries, and he went into the shop and bought the most expensive batteries and they were only 2 bucks more than the cheap batteries. And the voice sweeled:
“These are good batteries.”
Then the Ventriloquist went into the little corner store where Barbra always smiled so nicely and he reached for the most expensive bread and the voice gloomped:
“Wait.”
And the Ventriloquist hesitated only for a second and he didn't buy any bread and he went down the aisle and reached for the most expensive water and the voice wheeled:
“I'll never leave you.”
And the Ventriloquist hesitated only for a second and he didn't buy any water and went down the aisle and reached for the most expensive cigarettes, and the voice gwirled:
“These are good cigarettes.”
And Barbra smiled and the voice glooshed:
“You should ask her if she wants to go for a walk tonight. It's Saturday, and it's so nice by the river this time of year.”
And Barbra smiled as the Ventriloquist asked her out for a walk.
"It's Saturday, and it's so nice by the river this time of year," he said, and they agreed that they would meet there at eight o'clock.
"I should have done that a lot sooner," thought the Ventriloquist, and the voice sheeshed:
“Yes, yes you should have.”
And Barbra and the Ventriloquist had a wonderful time. And the voice gwooled:
“Ask her to come in. It doesn't have to be perfect.”
And it was not perfect and Barbra and the Ventriloquist had a wonderful time. And he made breakfast for Barbra but he himself was not hungry. And Barbra said "Thanks for the breakfast," and "See you soon," and smiled and kissed him on the cheek. And the Ventriloquist smoked another expensive cigarette and
inhaled
and
exhaled,
and many things left his body and his mind.
And the voice swooped:
“Call Mum. You haven't talked in so long. She misses you.”
And the Ventriloquist called his Mum.
"We haven't talked in so long. I miss you." And they talked for a very long time. And he smoked many cigarettes while they talked, and his mouth felt very dry.
And when it was time to go to bed, the Ventriloquist thought, "I'll call Barbra," but the voice rooled:
“Barbra is busy now. Go to sleep.”
And the Ventriloquist went to sleep.
But when the Ventriloquist woke up the next morning, he felt very weak, and his skin, when he pinched it between his fingers, lingered stubbornly and was slow to return to its usual tautness, perched like a bird about to depart a sinking ship.
“I'm different,” he thought.
“Yes. Yes, you are,” shalouped the voice.
“You should finish that story about Dad. It's been in your head for such a long time, and the beginning is really good.”
And the Ventriloquist spent the whole day writing down the story that he had filled with so much detail in his head and it was vibrant and insightful and very good. And he thought, “I will submit this tomorrow, right after I talk to Eddie. Mum will be so proud, and I can read it to Barbra.”
But now it was late and the Ventriloquist felt very strange. His skin had turned the color of the stuff between the tiles and his vision was blurry and even the expensive cigarettes couldn't make him feel better.
“Sleep,” glorged the voice. "Tomorrow will be a good day."
But when the Ventriloquist went to bed, he saw the flowers on the wallpaper starting to move and his bed getting longer and longer, and he thought he could see someone standing in the corner.
“I can't get sick. I need to talk to Eddie tomorrow,” the Ventriloquist muttered.
“Just one more day,” squoolched the voice.
It was very loud now.
But the Ventriloquist staggered to the sink in the bathroom and turned on the tap.
“You won't have to worry anymore,” said the voice.
“I'll just have a little sip.”
“We'll be together forever.”
And the Ventriloquist looked into the mirror above the sink and thought:
“I'm different.”
“Yes. Yes, you are,” said the voice.
And the Ventriloquist lowered his head under the tap and just had a little sip. And although it was the cheapest water, it was also the best water.
And the Ventriloquist had another sip and it was the best water. And he drank and drank some more until his stomach was full and it was the best water.
And from his belly came stretched sighs and howling gurgles, whooshing gloops and wheezing squelches, loofing weeshes and slooshing croods.
It sounded like somebody drowning.
And the Ventriloquist went to bed and slept.
And when he woke up his skin was bouncy again, and he felt much better, but he was still weak and decided to stay in bed and talk to Eddie on Tuesday. And on Tuesday he felt much better, but he decided to rest one more day and talk to Eddie on Wednesday. And on Wednesday he went to the shops to buy bread, and he bought the cheapest bread, but not in Barbra's shop. And on Thursday he thought about Dad's dusky voice, and decided that he had to add that to the story. And he quit smoking because the cigarettes brought back too many memories.
Jan Hassmann once swallowed something that flew into his mouth and has been coughing up poetry ever since, which can be found on Stone Circle Review, Sparks of Calliope, Poem Alone, and others. This is totally his first short story, like, ever, but the good people at Dish Soap will help him get his hands clean soon after all this wormy business. He thinks you should dig into Summertime Decomposition from the Wireworm archives, while he holds the shovel.
