Free Inappropriate Behavior: Stories by Murray Farish Page A

thinking about what to do to me. All I want is to get my literature and stand on the corner with my sign. The other man is still staring at me also.
    Nope, the candidate says, finally, decisively. Weird John it is.
    He stands up, and he and the other man move past me toward the door. Don’t fuck up again, the other man says, his back to me. Then they are gone. My brother, who still hasn’t said a word, sits in his chair, staring into his desk lamp.

    Give me one of those bumper stickers right now, young man, the Dry Lady says. Her scarf is a swirly red and purple paisley. She points at the bumper stickers in the milk crate on the ground near my left shoe. I move between the Dry Lady and the crate, nudge the crate backward with my heel. I still have not said a word.
    What are you, some kind of idiot? the Dry Lady says. Are you nuts? Are you retarded? I’ll have you know I am an extraordinarily influential Lubbock voter. And I’d say you just lost my vote. And I’m calling the campaign. I’ll talk to the candidate himself about you. I can’t believe that the nice young man I saw speaking the other night would have anything to do with you. I believe if he saw this he’d throw you in jail. That’s where you belong. You fat jerk.
    I still have not said a word. I have a gun at home, and from now on I’m bringing it to work. From now on, I’m bringing it everywhere. Lubbock is lubricious. Clive does not know about the gun.
    Here is a man who stood up.
    A small crowd begins to gather at the corner of Broadway and Tenth. Five or six people. Some of them I’ve seen before, walking around. We don’t want to give bumper stickers to just anyone off the street. But today I give each member of the gathering crowd a bumper sticker—the couple of students who have wandered by, wondering what all the yelling is about, the guy who runs the sandwich shop across the street, the taxi driver, the old professor who shuffles by every weekday at this time, his briefcase scuffed and worn. I have to actually move out of the crowd to hand him a bumper sticker, and he looks confused at first and backs away, putting up his briefcase in front of his chest, and when I move toward him, the Dry Lady goes for my milk crate.
    Here is a man who stood up.
    I dive back into the small crowd and lunge for the milk crate. The Dry Lady’s hand is nearly inside the crate, she nearly hasher hand on a bumper sticker when I land on the crate, and her, and we’re rolling out into Broadway. The Dry Lady is slapping at my head and my hands, and I’m trying to cover the crate and push her away and stand up all at once, and instead we both roll over again, farther into the street, and horns are honking, and the milk crate upends, spilling fliers and bumper stickers into the street, where all the people who have gathered, many more, most of them students, have now run into the street to grab the literature.
    The Dry Lady is screaming and scratching at me. She scratches my face terribly, from just below my right eye all the way across my mouth and down onto my neck. Other people are grabbing at us now, hands on me, pulling, grabbing, kicking, several people.
    When they finally pull us to our feet, the sleeve of the Dry Lady’s shimmery shirt has been torn from her shoulder, her scarf is gone, and she’s bleeding heavily from her mouth. My milk crate is still in my hand, but it’s empty, and people are running everywhere with fliers and bumper stickers. There are two men yelling at me, and a man and woman are leaning in to talk to the Dry Lady, who is touching her hair with her hands and breathing quickly. My face hurts very badly and there’s something wet in my shoes. But the Dry Lady does not have a bumper sticker, because here is a man who stood up.
    You stay here with him, one of the men holding me says to the other one. I’m going to go get a cop. The other man holding me is very small,