by Jessica Weslhead
he fl ies were buzzing a little concerto in the swea ty diner. June was hun ched over a plate of limp toas t and mini -s izzlers, contem plating havoc. The remain s of her sausages resem bled burnt, slubby eels, and her appe tite was thwarted further when she noticed someone's lacq uered finger ll<lil paring on her dish - a tin y, pink moon . She was reminded of an impass ioned speech at the re cent family reunion by Eddie Pigeo n, a pinched-look ing man vaguely related to one of her third cousins. Eddie, his mouth painted lipstick red with pistachio shell dye, telling anyone within earshot: "And you can bet your kidneys ['II stand by th e Pigeon M ea t Plant un til whores grow tails. Since my great gra nddaddy Pi geon slaughtered his first hog in hi s diapers, our family's been making the best processed pork money can buy - none of thi s low-fat, cholesterol-free turkey franks crap , nosireebob." " Whore s growing tails" and "nosireebob" were two of Eddie's favorite expressions. Eddie had never been more than a rung above slug on the evolutionary ladder. June poked al her breakfast, not feeling hun gry any more. She checked her watch. Late. Nearby, a wasp was wading dizzily in some spilled syrup on the counter. The bored-looking, pimply wait ress waved the wasp away and asked a severely coiffed man in a white jumpsuit and alligator shoes how he'd like his eggs. He winked at her and drawled: ''I'd like 'em looking at me, but not cryin'." He flashed her an II-dollar grin and made a shooti ng gun with one hand, mouthing " pow" and then blowing on the index finger. The wait re ss yawned. June fidgeted. Her own gun was digging into her side. Farther down the counter, a pig of a man with his gut spi! ling over hi s shiny belt and hi s chin smeared with Salisbury steak gravy grunted for hi s cheque. He mopped swea t off his doughy face with a wad of paper napkin s and butted his cigarette out in his sunny-side up yolk. June squinted impatiently at the door. The only liv ing thin gs outside th e greasy spoon were a few June bugs that clung to the flimsy screen . She ordered an oth er oily coffee and watched her toa st get colder. The hea t was making her queasy. She traced her finger over th e chicken-scratch graffiti carved into the countertop. Next to her plate was a
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crude heart with "Sergeant Squirrel is good in bed" sc rawl ed in side. Sergeant Squirrel and His Small Mammal Friends had been her favorite show when she was a kid. She'd si t in front of the tube watching squeaking brown pup pets acting alit morality play s while her nervous mother put out the ant traps . The woman hated all insec ts. She reserved a spec ial loathing, though , for June bugs. Her mother had always had a morbid fear of the things. When June was little, her mother told her over and over that an old neighbor man used to chase her with handfu ls of June bugs, with June bugs clinging to hi s arm hairs and hi s bushy white beard - like dung beetles on Santa Claus. June had been named "June" as a sort of ca tharsi s, her mother once explained. A weird sort of home ther apy. June had never lived down the stigma. " Ju st be thankful she didn ' t call you 'Earwig,' " friends had often teased. "Nobody like s earwigs." It was 100 hot in the diner. The ceiling fan refused to make a breeze. The lumpy smoker had paid for his food and was starting to ease hi s ample buttocks off the cracked or ange stool. No. He had to stay. If he left, he 'd ru in all the fun. "Stop," she commanded suddenly, standing up. The man's li zard-l idded eyes widened at the large automatic June was pointing at him. "Sit down." He started to obey, but at that sa me moment , a wasp landed on his meaty arm and jammed its stinger home. The fat man yelped and instinctively reached his other hand over to slap the pest away. The droning of the yel low j acket was sile nced by th e firecracke r " pop" of June's gun . . The fat man clutched at his chest and crumpled like an overstu ffed rag doll. The wasp buzzed merrily away. "Oh, geez l " exha led the teenage waitress. The gum she'd been chewing like cud fell out of her open mouth and stuck to the fro nt of her starched uniform. The griddle hissed, and th e fat man's wheezes com peted with the flies' serenade. June's mouth was dry. She took a hand ful of mints from the candy dish on the counter and stuffed them into her cheeks. She wondered what Sergea nt Squirrel would have to say abou t all this. Not much, probably. Guelph Alumnus