Walt and Slim were brothers. Walt hated poetry. Slim liked poetry but couldn't sing a note. They lived together in a Dutch Colonial home left to them by their parents, Howard and Virginia. The house was where the brothers had grown up, been raised, or where they occupied the roles given them in their average suburban nuclear family. Howard and Virginia were both dead. They passed away within the same year, both of natural causes. Slim liked to think that some anonymous organ in each parent had spontaneously combusted; detonated like a biological warhead. This notion amused Slim because it contained elements of science, nature, and war and these were all very concrete things and since he rarely spent time engaging concepts which dealt directly with the practical universe he found this a unique way to embrace reality, as abstract as the entire philosophy was.
Walt didn't spend much time thinking about things. If food was good then it was good food and that's that. If people live then their going to die and that's that. If the sky was yellow and the clouds were green then the world would be a crazy place and that's that. His parents were dead and they left him a house he had to share with his brother and that's that. These were the rules and that was that.
Walt was a large man, roughly twice the weight of his brother Slim, who wasn't slim at all. The name Slim had been attached to him as an infant by Howard and Virginia, who had an interesting sense of humor. The endearment didn't bother any of his two hundred and seven pounds. This amused Walt. He felt that if Slim had been called Shithead all of his life then being known as Shithead probably wouldn't bother a single hair on his pudgy round head. Sometimes Walt would shout, ``Hey, Shithead!'' and then roar with laughter in his loud, gravely voice at his private little joke. Slim thought it best not to respond to his brother's harassment. He remembered too much of the past. Slim remembered when he was six and Walt, two years his senior, had eaten the goldfish he had won at the fair. He remembered when he was thirteen and Walt had done ``experiments'' with Gabriel the gerbil. At seventeen, Slim remembered, Walt had told Ellen Meyers, Slim's date on the night of the prom, that Slim had gotten the clap from a downtown hooker. That night Slim came home early. Slim was thirty-eight and his parents were dead when he and his brother argued over who ate the last peanut cluster in the Whitman Sampler.
On the morning of what came to be known as ``The Great Cluster Massacre'' neither brother would admit to consuming the vanished candy. They both enjoyed the vast assortment and quality provided by the Whitman Sampler. The enormous affection for this particular brand of chocolate covered nuts and nougat was not simply gastronomical; secretly, it was pride that kept the Sampler an eternal fixture in the Whitman home. The box bore the glorification of the name they shared and so it was felt that if the candy belonged anywhere it belonged with the Whitman chairs and the Whitman tables, the Whitman doors and Whitman windows and, of course, with the Whitman brothers.
The mystery of the vanished confection was never solved, but in the heat of battle Slim had passionately called his brother a ``worthless turd.'' This expression was the extent of Slim's ability to be foul. Walt was sufficiently angered by the remark but rather than smother his brother with a blanket of profanity he allowed Slim a moment of victory.
Walt wordlessly left the house that day and went downtown to open his business as usual. As sole proprietor he took great pride in this establishment. The store boasted the finest in adult leather goods, rubber goods, plastic goods, and metal goods. It supplied an enormous selection of creams, jellies, lubricants, potions, lotions, notions, and other assorted eccentric paraphernalia. The magazine rack ran the entire length of the store from front to back. In the front window the sign read ``HEAVEN ON EARTH -- A WORLD OF POSSIBILITIES !!'' Walt liked money, he liked women too, but not like the ones in the magazines. He wanted a nice girl but being in the business he was in, no nice girl would have much to do with him. Walt understood this and he also understood that money buys an awful lot, so he didn't care about women as much as he cared about money. He had ``HEAVEN ON EARTH'' and a clear conscience. ``People buy this stuff, so I'll be rich, and that's that,'' he thought.
On the evening of the massacre Walt knew that Slim's boyfriend would be staying the night at the house. Walt didn't care that his brother was a homosexual. He didn't like it but it wasn't something that directly affected him so he just didn't care. Walt locked up the store late that night. From the glass case behind the cash register he took a pair of brand new, chrome-plated, official police-certified handcuffs.
Walt arrived home at about ten o'clock. He got a can of beer out of the refrigerator and searched out the instant camera. He sat in his reclining chair with the camera in his lap, opened the beer and waited until he was sure that the lovers had completed their disgusting, illegal acts and were sound asleep. By midnight, with a six-pack agreeably stored in his round belly, Walt, the handcuffs, and the camera made their way to the quiet of Slim's room where the pair were blissfully sleeping. With admirable dexterity Walt gently snapped a cuff around each man's wrist. Slim's lover stirred slightly but didn't wake. Walt got in position at the foot of the bed, aimed the camera, and with one swift motion tore away the bedclothes and began shooting. The blankets parachuted to the floor and the men, shocked and flash-blinded, instinctively made for opposite sides of the bed. They jerked and pulled, dance and pranced, in natural glory with things bouncing and swaying as Walt flashed almost an entire roll of film. The naked lovers finally huddled together in the corner like concentration camp survivors. Slim demanded to be released and Walt, satisfied with his revenge, tossed the keys on the bed and made his exit.
Slim Dragged his tearful trembling lover to the bed and unlocked them both. The man gathered as much composure as was possible, dressed hurriedly and still shaking, permanently left the Whitman household, never to be heard from again. Slim knew his love was lost and wept long into the night as his brother sat downstairs drinking beer and waiting for his pictures to develop.
Slim had been deeply in love and as time passed he became more engrossed in his work at the pet store. He didn't own the pet store, he just tended the animals and the cash register. He liked kittens the best. They seemed to have a whimsical intelligence that he respected. They weren't as all out goofy as puppies and were certainly on a much deeper intellectual level than fish or birds.
Slim gave up men as a tribute to his lost love, but didn't take to women. He called himself a non-practicing homosexual. This meant that if he was going to have sex with anyone, which he wasn't, it was going to be with a man. Slim got this idea from the pet store owner, Mary. She liked the idea of being Catholic, but she hated going to church. She called herself a non-practicing Catholic. Walt found the concept ludicrous. His feeling was that either you are something or you're not. If you're Catholic and don't go to church then you can't really call yourself a Catholic because to be Catholic you have to go to church. If a guy has sex with a guy he's a homosexual, and if he has sex with a girl he's a heterosexual, but if he doesn't have sex at all then he's just another void. Those are the rules and that's that.
Slim became attached to one of the kittens. It was, of course, male and black as lush jewelry store velvet. Slim was fascinated by the animal's uncommon affection toward humans. Slim wanted to name the kitten Blacky or Midnight or Spook, but being in a minority himself he decided to steer away from anything that might be misconstrued as racial in tone. Mary was quick to see the chemistry between Slim and the young cat and consented to let Slim adopt the animal. Mary thought that it would've been taboo to allow a homosexual to adopt anything more than a pet, a greater allowance would violate the rules of the church she never attended.
Slim took the nameless kitten to the home he shared with Walt, who arrived early that evening, pleased that he had sold the handcuffs which played so large a role in the cluster/photo episode. Slim surprised Walt at the front door holding the creature out in front of him like a shield and gleefully exclaimed, ``What'll we name him!?'' Walt was caught off guard. He took a step back and howled ``JESUS CHRIST!!''
Jesus Christ was now a member of the Whitman menagerie.
The idea of having Jesus Christ appealed to Slim, but the name did appear blasphemous. Walt pointed out that it might be possible to forgive a well intended blasphemy upon one's arrival at the pearly gates but let's face it, a homosexual, practicing or otherwise, gets a one way ride downstairs. It was a rule and that was that. Slim thought about the name a few days and decided that it fit the animal's pacific nature and was therefore appropriate as a tribute rather than an insult. Walt found the concept quite amusing and used the name as often as possible.
``Jesus Christ, you stink!'' he would say. Sometimes he would toss the cat into the air and then shout, ``Hey Shithead look, Jesus Christ always lands on his feet.'' Slim didn't like the abuse Jesus Christ was forced to endure but the kitten didn't seem to bear any malice toward Walt so Slim didn't either. It appeared that Jesus Christ bore genuine affection for both brothers, but then Jesus Christ liked everyone.
Soon the kitten became a cat. Slim would rush home from the pet store to feed Jesus Christ or water Jesus Christ or just listen to Jesus Christ purr; and every few days Walt would change the litter in the cat box. Slim forgot.
Jesus Christ loved Slim and Walt. Slim loved Jesus Christ. Walt loved the Whitman Sampler. Jesus Christ loved the Whitman Sampler. Jesus Christ had a wonderful time playing with the small brown papers which individually wrapped each piece of now consumed candy. Walt arrived home first that day to find Jesus Christ laying contentedly among the Sampler remnants. ``What goes around comes around,'' Walt said. ``Jesus Christ must be taken care of, and that's that.''
Slim got home too late. Upon his arrival he produced a bag of catnip. ``Here kitty kitty kitty,'' called Slim. There was no response. Slim began to search and immediately discovered the violated Whitman Sampler. Slim's chest tightened. Blood withdrew from his face. He bolted to the kitchen where his brother prepared dinner. Slim stood for a moment, his fists clenched and trembling at his sides. Walt was bent over the oven humming ``Amazing Grace.''
``What have you done with Jesus Christ?!!'' Slim demanded. Walt straightened, turned, and faced his brother. His grin was wide as the valley of death. He gestured toward the oven and said quietly, ``This is my body which was given for thee...'' Slim grew wide eyed and a small groan escaped his pale lips before he fainted.
The cooked animal flesh inside the oven was not that of Jesus Christ, but Slim got the message. Jesus Christ was as gone as the chocolates in the Whitman Sampler. Slim cried and hyperventilated for a few days. He couldn't go to work at the pet store because he couldn't stand the sight of all the kittens. He quit his job and stayed in bed wrapped in blankets as snug as individually wrapped candies. Walt settled back into his pre Jesus Christ patterns, but was slightly annoyed at his brother's depression and lethargy.
Slim ate once in a while and slept and thought and missed Jesus Christ. And the more he missed Jesus Christ the more he began to genuinely hate his brother. Walt however, under a constant barrage of sibling despair, began to soften. In a brief moment of unusual compassion he noticed guilt slipping in around the edges. He found himself saying things like, ``Why don't you find yourself a nice man,'' or ``I sure could use another pair of hands around the store.'' Slim never responded and Walt was glad, he didn't really mean those things. Slim cocooned in the blankets.
After two months Slim learned the value of hate. It came to him in a dream. He and Walt worked at the adult store. Slim straightened magazines. Walt tended cash from a long line of anxious customers. Jesus Christ was curled up in the front window under the sign. Suddenly Walt produced a large gun from behind the counter, took careful aim and fired, spraying the front window with bits of Jesus Christ, then casually returned to his customers. Slim appeared beside his brother at the register and as the drawer opened and Walt fingered a few dollar bills Slim slammed the drawer shut. Walt shrieked in agony and the customers applauded. Slim pushed the no sale button and Walt extracted his twisted, broken fingers. Walt fell off the stool writhing in pain on the floor. ``I'll get you for this,'' he muttered. Slim leaned over his brother, ``YOU'RE GOING TO DIE, FATBOY!!'' he howled, and broke into a fit of laughter, which was not confined to the dream.
Slim's laughter escaped the dream and traveled out of bed, through the hall, and down the stairs to Walt's ears, which were trying to hear the ball game on television. Walt, not being able to comprehend this odd sound, rose from his niche and followed it back to Slim's bedroom. He stood in the doorway still unable to fully grasp the situation. He found the light switch and turned it on. The room filled with artificial electric brilliance but before Walt's eyes could adjust Slim bolted upright. He snapped his head toward the doorway where Walt stood. Slim's eyes narrowed into slits, his lips pulled back into a snarl and then, as though still in the dream, hissed ``You're going to die, fatboy.'' Walt's jowls flapped like he was trying to say something and he backed out of the room, complexion bloodless and pasty. Slim dove back under his blankets. After minutes of careful contemplation, Walt snaked a hand back into the room and turned off the lights, then breathlessly made his way downstairs to his favorite reclining chair. He didn't sleep that night, instead he ate chocolates and tried to think. Something had to be done about Slim and that was that.
Walt was lost in thought for days until a plan was composed. The final solution was obvious; if you don't like your neighbors you can either pack up and move or you can eliminate them. Slim had every opportunity to clear out but had chosen to stay. What did he expect? This knowledge came one clear sunny afternoon at the store. Business was slow and with the answer so plain, he worked out the details. Walt had to dispose of his brother.
As Walt gorged on his liverwurst on white, the seed took root and grew. Tomorrow he would call Slim's doctor. The doctor would come to the house, see Slim, and recommend an institution. Walt would balk at this idea, feigning horror at the very notion of separation from his dear sibling. The doctor would, of course, inquire as to the cause of Slim's great depression. Walt would tell him the truth. It all started with the sudden demise of Howard and Virginia. Slim was their favorite. The loss was a huge emotional strain. Then there was Slim's shattered love life and, oh yes, Slim's kitty ran away. Slim had blamed the feline disappearance on him, Walt would say. Walt licked mustard from the corner of his mouth as his mind saw the doctor woefully shake his head. The doctor had to be told about the laughter and the threat. Slim would lie there like a slug.
Walt would wait a week and go to the pet store, tell Mary the story, and buy Slim a new kitten. The next day he would return it, explaining that Slim had rejected the replacement and threatened him with a knife; this to enhance the original ``fatboy'' story. Walt would begin to tell anyone who would listen that he was beginning to fear for his life. He would go home, violently disrupt the living room, and call the police. He would tell the officers a fanciful tale of attempted murder, maniacal laughter, and perhaps even of speaking in tongues. The officers would go upstairs to find Slim wrapped in blankets visiting the secluded island of catatonia. Walt would refuse to press charges, after all this lump was his own flesh and blood. In the end Walt would buy a gun. It was for his own protection. Who knew what Slim was going to do next? Slim had to die.
Walt dropped a corner of crust onto the counter satisfied with both his meal and his plan. Slim walked in dressed in his finest suit. He unbuttoned his sport coat, the same one he wore to both Howard's and Virginia's funeral, and produced a large caliber handgun and two-handed, point blank, with Walt staring wide-eyed, fired. Bits of Walt sprayed the glass case behind where his hand had been, the case that had housed the handcuffs. Patrons dove for cover. Slim placed the revolver on the counter, leaned over, blew his brother a kiss, and made an exit.
Walt was dead and Slim was arrested by the two officers that would've been called to investigate a disturbance at the Whitman home if Walt's plan had been given a chance. The trial was speedy, even though Mary slowed things down by questioning the propriety of swearing on the Bible. Being a Catholic she thought it might be a sin, but being non-practicing she wasn't sure. Slim was nonetheless convicted of murder and sent to prison where he is now once again a practicing homosexual. Howard and Virginia probably rolled in their graves.
The Whitman home, after a short but respectful grace period, became the Hershey home. Michael and Elaine both had wonderful mainstream careers, but they didn't eat chocolate. Too many calories. Their daughter, Judith, loved chocolate but never got to eat any. Michael jogged. Elaine went to aerobics three times a week. Nine year old Judith played in the grassy backyard and one breezy autumn afternoon came across a thin, dirty, scraggly black cat that instantly took as liking to her. The cat soon became a fixture of the Hershey home. Mary would have agreed that it's not easy to get rid of Jesus Christ.
Christopher Ritter was born and raised in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, but has explored the continental United States and parts of Europe and Asia. He gets around. He believes that to be settled is to spontaneously combust and that beer should always be served at well below room temperature, even if it is dark. (The beer, not the room.) He is college educated, if there is such a thing, and majored in English literature, which means he cannot find a good job. He spends his time wandering around in a contemplative fog shaking his head in disbelief at the state of the world. A hopeless romantic, Chris forces himself to read and write and pursue a life in art rather than hunt the ever elusive dollar. He does have a job, however; even romantics need to eat.
Chris feels that listing credits, awards, qualifications or other self-aggrandizing information is worthless ego fulfillment, so he prefers to mention only his most recent publications. His short story, ``Indian Summer,'' appeared in the Fall '89 issue of The Independent Review. Chris thinks that to say more is to employ marketing strategies. ``This is admirable for M.B.A.'s, not for writers,'' he says. Chris' feeling is that every piece of writing should stand on it's own, so why complicate the issue by tossing around unrelated facts.
``The story had held us, round the fire, sufficiently breathless...''
--Henry James, The Turn Of The Screw
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