The Fight
Jason Mouzon
           Bobby Vee was a man who walked in a room like a thundercloud fighting a lightning bolt. He always walked in like that. A mission was constantly on his mind, some objective suddenly became within reach and he was going to achieve said objective come hell or high water. People moved when Bobby Vee walked their way.
           What occurred on this particular day was that Bobby Vee was changing from his bathing suit to his party attire, which consisted of a white Hawaiian shirt with blue flowers and khaki hiking shorts with white boat shoes. He then discovered at the bottom of his underwear drawer, a thong that he had no recollection of seeing on his wife, Velma. The reason he couldn’t remember seeing Velma in this skimpy piece of negligee was that Velma did not like to wear skimpy negligee. The one night he had suggested it, cajoled is really more of an accurate word, she went into a frenzy that resulted in Bobby sleeping on the couch with bags of frozen peas spread out across his body.
           Anyway, the objective for Bobby Vee at the moment was to confront his wife, Velma, about that red, crumpled thong he found in his underwear drawer. Hell-bent on this knowledge, he brushed past his friend of fifteen years swiftly, knocking the glass of lemonade out of Mike Temple’s hand. “What in the hell, twenty-three?”, Mike bellowed. Bobby, however, did not seem to hear him as he was making his way through the gaggle of people in his backyard.
           He looked constipated. He had red places that began at his elbows and pressed down his forearms. He seemed to have very sharp knees. It wouldn’t be hard to imagine that wild-haired boy figuring out the solution to all of life’s problems while taking a dump, and becoming so fired up about it that he gets crammed full of energy and can’t bear to sit still any longer. Looking back, it was like watching him on the football field all over again. State Championship Game, fourth quarter. Third and three. Bobby already had over a hundred yards rushing that game, and Poinsettia Central had been keeping eight men in the box the whole time. Again, it seemed like Bobby was on a mission. The ball was snapped, then thrust into his chest by Mike Temple. Bobby grabbed hold of the ball with his right hand and then proceeded to project himself through the entire opposing team, like he was some sort of end zone-seeking missile. Twenty yards and fifteen years later, we still celebrate that victory after the homecoming game. And watching him make his own way through small circles of people spread out over this fenced-in backyard, one could see that he could still plow over anything in his way if he desired.
           The guests didn’t notice it at first: a grown man with a red face that matched the color of the thong in his right hand. It was like the Holy Ghost was Bobby’s lead blocker, turning people’s heads right before he got close, then immediately pushing them out of the way. At first, it didn’t seem so out of place to see Bobby walking so determinedly; after all, it was one of his most defining characteristics. But make no mistake, everyone began to realize that this was the time of day when shit, it seemed, was going to hit something in their immediate area. And the lesson that is ingrained into anyone who attends barbecues is to crowd around and watch, which is exactly what happened.
           Velma was standing around the big table with the big punch bowl full of ambrosia, along with the rest of the neighborhood housewives. Bobby stormed himself over, flinging that red thong right down into the punch bowl. Fruit juice leapt up like a first-time offender during his first night at prison. Flies scattered away, but quickly found themselves back in the same general area, vying for position along with the rest of the neighborhood. “Bobby Vee, what in the world has gotten into you”, Velma exclaimed, “you know Sally brought that ambrosia here just for you..”
           “Fuck that there fruit,” Bobby stated, “what we got here is bigger than cherries and marshmallows...what in the goddamn hell is that?” He pointed to the fly covered thong in the punch bowl, never taking his eyes off his old high school sweetheart. Those eyes roamed quickly up and about her face, searching for some clue or tic that would erase all doubt, either way. Velma straightened up her sunglasses, crying “Well, I never!” to no one in particular and started for the house.
           He watched her walking up those steps, calf muscles working overtime, what with those heels and stairs and all. They poked out of a knee-length white dress covered in red flowers with orange streaks in them. The sinews in her back looked soft, delicate under just the right amount of skin and fat. Blondish-brown hair bounced up and down the back of her neck like a teaser curtain. She walked with an air of dismissal, just like always, but at least this time she had something to dismiss: the now red-faced husband striding up behind her on those wooden steps.
           By then, everyone’s attention had been piqued just enough that they had trouble going back to what they had been doing before. All feet seemed to shuffle and hands searched for something to fiddle with. The constant, slightly muffled shouts that came from the inside of the house ruined any attempt for conversation by any of the partygoers. Once silence had returned, it was known that another interruption was inevitable. Mainly it was Velma’s cries and insults that could be readily distinguished: “Oh Bobby, I have never heard anything so ridiculous...It’s my house too, I’ll talk how I...You fuck like a sick dog!”
           Only one person was not struck with disbelief over the words being thrown around inside the house, and that person was Sally Temple. She was wearing a blue housedress with white lace around the shoulders. She always wore that dress to these sorts of affairs. Her face looked like it had sucked on a dry persimmon. She had walked over to the punch bowl as Bobby and Velma stormed into the house. Now nobody would touch the ambrosia she had brought over. The thong began to turn dark red, seeing as how it was soaking in fruit juice. Sally just stood there for a while, staring at the new addition to her dish. The fingers on her left hand kept themselves busy straightening out the wrinkles on the white tablecloth. Meanwhile her right hand kept itself steady, barely over her breastbone. It seemed like she was trying to figure out a way to salvage her addition to the barbeque, the way she was just staring at the inside of that punch-bowl. People’s heads were starting to turn back and forth between the punch bowl and the back door of the house. Mike went over to Sally and brought her back towards the grill.
           The only saving grace was the barbecue itself. Once the cook was done, which was signaled by the line of children suddenly forming at his back, everyone else seemed to develop a sense of purpose. Even the flies started buzzing around again, making their way from dish to dish. Everyone started lining up; grabbing plates, forks, napkins, more beer or lemonade. It only hid the stark reality that at the end of this outdoor buffet lay a punch bowl full of fruit, lumpy sugar, and one red thong.
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