Free Inappropriate Behavior: Stories by Murray Farish

pant legs and I do fall, and when I fall the movement comes, hot and wet and smelling of metal, and it’s on my legs and I’m trying to kick myself free from it. I can hear other people in the parking lot now, coming from the rally. I can see the Dry Lady in the lead. I crawl underneath her car, then crawl again underneath several other cars, until I get to mine.
    I have a gun at home.
    Clive does not know about the gun.
    Clive does not know about the gun because I have concealed it very cleverly.
    At the door of my car, I finally pull up my soiled pants, and then I drive to the filling station, where I buy two gallons of gas.

    When I get home, Clive says—Your brother called three times why haven’t you paid the rent what’s that smell?

    We all want different lives. Clive, my father, my brother. The candidate wants a different life. Even Allison. Why can’t we have them? Why can’t I give them to us?
    I am more than I appear to be. I am waiting for the sun to shine. A long continuous chain, then suddenly, there is a change.

    Today on the corner the Dry Lady comes back again. She is wearing tan polyester pants of the same cut as before, and again the white shimmery ruffley shirt, and this time there is a red scarf around her hair.
    I’ve opened my mind some to your candidate, she says. He’s beginning to appeal to me. I saw him talk at the VFW hall the other night. He’s young and dynamic. He says what he means and he means what he says. I believe in him. He’s the kind of guy you’d like to have a beer with. I liked his answer about oil drilling, she says.
    I say nothing.
    I think your candidate has a bright future. I’d like one of those bumper stickers, please, she says.
    I begin sweating again. It’s late October and still eighty-five degrees in Lubbock. Lubricious is a word I’d like to use to describe it. Pistons churn. In Colorado, it’s snowing.
    I’ll have one of those bumper stickers, please, the Dry Lady says now.
    I’ve been standing here on this corner every day for eight, nine, ten, twelve hours a day for weeks. My studies are suffering. When people come by and ask me questions about the candidate, I give them fliers. Some people ask for bumper stickers and I give them to them. But the Dry Lady? No. I will not do it.
    Here is a man who stood up.

    On the day after the rally at the VFW hall, when I went to pick up more fliers and bumper stickers for my milk crate, my brother called me into his office.
    The candidate was in my brother’s office with another man I didn’t know.
    What was that all about? the candidate says to me. Your brother said you were reliable. He said, we can put him to work. I said, why not, help the guy out, get him a little spending money, college student and all. I trust your brother. Your brother says, John’s smart, he works hard. He just needs direction. I say to myself, that is one thing I’ve never had a problem with. Direction. I’ve always known where I’m going. But I know how to take advice, too. I know how to listen to the opinions of others, how to use those opinions to shape a consistence. Your brother says, Stick to taxes. Taxes, taxes, taxes. I trust him, but I like to give ’em a little Jesus, too. What do you think?
    He’s asking me.
    I’m sorry, I say. I messed up. I really am interested in your energy policy, too, I say. My roommate and I have been having an interesting debate on this exact topic. It was the perfect question for me to ask you. In twenty years we’re going to run out of carbon dioxide.
    Exactly, the candidate says. Your brother said you were smart. I think you’re weird. What do you think, Karl? he says to the other man, who stares at me without answering. Weird John, the candidate says. From now on that’s your name. Weird John. Or how ’bout, Johnny Weird?
    He stops for a moment, thinking. I can see him thinking. He’s