He turned one year old two days ago, so that means the trucks will come to pick him up in a few hours, being it Wednesday, and Wednesday being shipment day. I poke him in the belly with the chewed butt of my pencil. His eyes squint and his lips peel back to flash me a near toothless grin. He makes that wet sloppy baby noise that infants do when they’re laughing, and little spits of bubble foam at the corner and surface of his lips. His nose crinkles. I poke it with my pencil. He makes the baby noise.



In the living room I hear the sitcoms running as Susie munches away on buttered popcorn and fried toes. I yell at her to turn that shit down, and she yells at me to shut the fuck up. I yell that if she swears again I’m going to tell mom and she’ll be grounded, and she yells she’ll beat my fucking ass if I do. Considering Little Susie has a moustache nearly grown in and looks like an Olga more than anything, I concede to her view on the matter and go back to the baby. He’s bawling now, roused by the noise. I poke him in the stomach until he shuts up.



He gropes for the pencil, his pudgy hand opening and closing. I give it to him, slip out a fresh number two, sharpen it, and gnaw on its pink end and return to my homework. Soon the low rumble of a large engine approaches from outside the window. Susie says over her show that they’re here. I pick up the baby, whose eyes are cross eyed and transfixed on the pencil it is trying to digest, and walk with him to the door.



I open the door before the man gets to it, and he looks up, wooden pad in hand. Behind him is a brown truck with the large yellow logo of Jonathan Swift, his head cocked, eye winked, thumb shot to the sky, and a smile of a thousand promises flashed as a boiling pot of water with legs and hands sticking out of it sits behind him. I have a shirt with the same picture on it.



“Anderson residence?” he asks.



“Yep,” I say, and give the baby a good shake to say he’s at the right place. The baby giggles, still enamored with the yellow rod of wonders and it’s magic pink tip. “Here’s the guy."



“Alright, good, yeah. Your parents home?"



“Nope. Mom’s at work, Dad on a business trip. I can sign."



“Yeah,” he says.



We trade amenities, he getting the blue-eyed wonder, I the yellow paper with all the jargon on top and the blank space for a name at the bottom. I scribble my signature and hand him back the pad.



“Thanks,” he says.



“Yep.”



He walks off, and I shut the door. I tell Susie to turn down the damn volume, and she tells me to go suck it. I say that’s a girl’s job. Without turning her head from the screen, Susie gives me the finger.

Two days later, eight o clock, Mom, Susie and I on the couch, watching soaps. I hate soaps, but the Playstation’s broken and my reading lamp is out of batteries so I’m stuck here, between two girls who are leaking fountains because of some dumb blond bitch on the TV saying John, it’s Your Baby. John is a shitty actor. I reach over and dig my hands through the snack bag in Susie’s lap. I pull it out, and get some fingers, some toes, some cheetoes, and some chips. I crunch them down with one toss.



The doorbell rings. Both women tell me to get it, their voices still drowned in sorrow. I sludge my way to the door, open it, and see the brown shirted man and the brown coated truck. In his hand he has a box not unlike the ones we get at KFC.



“Anderson residence?”



“Yep.”



“This you?” He flashes the paper I signed Wednesday.



“Yep.”



He hands me the box. I take it, say thanks. He says welcome and strides off. The truck grumbles away, Jonathan Swift’s big old smile the last thing I see as it turns the corner. I shut the door, put the bucket onto the kitchen table, and look to the two women. Neither of them notice.



“Food’s here,” I say.



They both manage to stand after a few good swipe of the eyes. As they enter the light of the kitchen area, I see red smears like mascara under their brows and above their cheeks. They open up the lid while I fetch myself some soda.



When I sit back down, Susie is already gnawing on the baby’s forearm.



“Hey,” I said. “I wanted that piece.”



“First come first serve, sweetie, you know that,” Mom says. I guffaw and saw I was the one who got it. Mom says to play nice.



Mom gets up to retrieve from the refrigerator a healthy swish of cranberry juice, and Susie sneaks me the middle finger. I grumble and reach in the bucket, pull out an ear, and munch on that while I search for a calf or thigh, maybe both.



I grab onto something small, pull it out, and there, dangling between my thumb and forefinger, is the baby’s fried penis. I stare at it for a moment, one too long, because Susie sees me and my raised eyebrow and starts to laugh.



“Go ahead, eat it,” she says.



“Shut up.”



“Both of you be good now.” Mom hums to herself as she pours just the right amount of cranberry juice.



Susie continues to taunt me. I grow irate. I fling the penis at her face, and it makes a wet smack. Odd, considering it’s fried.



Susie snarls and swipes it away, then throws her half chewed forearm across the table, spinning it like a Frisbee, and cackles in triumph as it nails me in the eye. I fly backwards out of my chair. Mom turns then.



“Both of you! Behave!” She stomps her foot. Flustered and in need of nourishment, she gulps down her cranberry juice in one shot, relishing memories of younger days. She pours herself another glass, and eyes the cranberry juice longingly, seeing something that isn’t there.



Susie mutters something, grabs the penis off the floor, throws it away, and returns to her meal, which, consequently, becomes mine. She grabs the calf I had been groping for, places it on her plate, considers God knows what, and then proceeds to munch and crunch. I watch in awe as baby flesh hangs from the few small hair on her upper lip.



“Nice moustache.”



Before I can react, a calf spins through the air, and I go down.


The End