Scott Lays Out a Checkered Cloth

"Scott, this anger is a bastard.  I hate feeling it.  It's like poison."

Scott lays out a checkered cloth and tucks a napkin into his collar.  He gives a whistle.  A stout fellow appears wearing black slacks, a short sleeved white, collared shirt, a berberry scarf and red, Nike tennis shoes.  The man looks as if he just tasted something unpleasant.  He has a ruddy complexion and a deep line runs vertical between his eyebrows. 

"Welcome Sir, what will it be?" Scott asks the guest in a genial tone.

I whisper to him, "Scott, this is Anger.  You know that, right?  Are you sure you want him here?  He's kind of an asshole."

"Sure?  I'm positive!  Welcome, my friend!  A sausage you say?  And to drink?  Yes, yes, of course we have beer.  Come closer, here is a napkin."

"Stuff it Dogturd.  Why would I need a napkin?  What are you suggesting?  I'm messy?  You gonna charge me for it afterward?  Fuck you and your elitist manners.  You know, the last douche bag who offered me a napkin was trying to sell me something.  Everyone is trying to sell something!  What the fuck do you want me to buy?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing.  I'm sorry to have offended.  Please sit down."

We sit with him and listen to his righteous laughter.  I squirm with the stentorian demonstrations.  On several occasions I move to leave the rendezvous, tired of his volume.  Scott looks over as I begin to shuffle and winks.  His blue eyes flash a Father Christmas twinkle and I settle back down with a weary exhale.

Not particularly easy to be around.  No, this Anger is a challenging one.  His red face swells as he yells a story about waiting in the cold for a friend who never fucking showed - inconsiderate bitch - do you know how shitty it is to stand in the city at night, freezing your ass off after a long day?   He badmouths brothers and fathers and teachers and mothers and society and the weather, chortling maniacally about the state of the world and everything wrong with it. 

After a while I ease into his relentless carping.  I must say, I am impressed with his energy.  When he eventually pauses to takes a healthy swallow of beer, I find myself strangely engaged.  Despite the subject matter, there is an interesting mirth to his negative opinions.  Could it be that he enjoys himself?  As the sun's light turns to gold in the wizened afternoon, I warm to his gestures. 

There is another peculiar aspect to his manner.  He is a conscientious diner, smelling his food and chewing every mouthful carefully.  The behavior surprises me, having assumed a sloppier manner from so brazen a character.  Then a curious thing happens. 

While I hearken to his anecdotes, my ears ring less and my breath slows.  As he becomes louder, I listen more intently and my body begins to feel very calm. 

Scott is beside himself with Anger's expressions, thoroughly entertained.  He slaps a knee and exclaims with a boyish grin, "No way!  Kat, did you hear that?  Woooweee!  Oh please, tell us more.  But first, another beer my friend?  Some dessert?"

"Ha!  Don't mind if I fuckin' do!"

Scott passes him a slice of dark chocolate mousse cake.  Anger slaps him on the back, receiving the plate and singing a verse from "God Save the Queen" by the Sex Pistols. 

"The fascist regime
They made you a moron
Potential H-bomb!"

He ends the verse, pokes me in the ribs, smells the cake and roars, "Fuuuuck!" to the darkening sky.  He makes a delicate bite with the fork.   The trees lean in to watch him savor the morsel.  Space around us seems bigger, quieter as he attends to the confection.  The twittering of sunset birds and periodic rustle of leaves whisper softly in comparison to the (now quiet) loud guest.  His eyes are closed.  Scott and I watch him closely.  A dimple forms in his right cheek. 

Suddenly, the flavor of deep chocolate spreads across my palate.  I feel the creamy mousse pressed between two layers of dense sponge.  I'm chewing (as is Anger), feeling the pleasure of his precious cake squish between my teeth.  I look over at Scott, a hopeful witness to this miracle of taste transference.  Scott is smacking his lips and grinning.  He shoots me a thumbs up and points to his mouth, spontaneously masticating in the same fashion.  I rub my belly with the comforting sweetness.  Anger takes another bite and I close my eyes to savor the deliciousness. 

Without warning, a thunderous note pierces the muted scene.  The screeching howl, reverberates off now shivering trunks and branches.  I jump with the shock of it, spilling a glass of beer and sending a sausage into the dirt.  The powerful sound continues, filling the picnic air with passion.  Heat rises in my body, electrical currents crash up my spine and explode with firework intensity through my heart.  I look to Anger, sure he must have begun another howling session with the newly risen moon.  He gazes at me placidly, lifting his mug in a gesture of good health.  In a moment I realize the sound is coming from me.  I am yelling to the sky, on my toes somehow, ascending higher now, so that I hover a foot above the ground.  The call seems to have lassoed itself to a cloud.  I am traveling with it, great hot medicine singing through me. 

The otherworldly sound ends and I collapse onto the checkered picnic cloth.  My left foot lands in the cake, catapulting a chunk of it onto Anger's forehead.  I'm expecting him to throw his arms into the air and yell at me.  Instead he dips his finger into the mess on his face and enjoys another bite.  Scott continues to chew happily, nodding his head at me and patting his belly.

When he is finished, Anger stands, takes a deep bow and walks toward the forest.  He sings a song as he goes, a softer tune now...

"My funny Valentine…"

I'm still pulsing with the excitement of my howl flight.  "Scott, did you see that?  Oh wow, how amazing!  I feel full, energized.  Am I stronger?  I think so!"

"Yep," Scott muses, staring peacefully at the smooshed dessert, "That Anger… he certainly has some good stories." 

"Who shall we invite next time?"