Fiction Short Story

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Fiction Short Story

by Charles Trent Alling

Surfing Under Water

Saturday came and went like a lion; at least Howard felt as if he had been mauled and eaten by a lion after his ex-wife, Myra Lyons, slammed the front door in his face, nearly smashing his nose. He stood rooted to the floor of the hallway, his gaze roamed in a lazy circle on the cheap wood surface of the apartment door. Like Superman he expected to penetrate the door with his X-ray vision and stare into her eyes until she fell to her knees and wailed for mercy. Of course he couldn't perform this fiction and felt insulted, his guts ripped apart, his mind bent and broken into minute fragments.

Slowly piecing it all back together he realized the door would never open again -- no matter how many wishes he cast upon its frail paneling.

Confused, he stumbled down the two flights of stairs. Outside near the noisy street he mused that at this hour married couples were busy with their lives elsewhere. Arguing, most likely, or flagging a taxi to run to a mistress, or, what do they call a man chased by a married woman, a manstress?

Inside his car he started the engine and drove blindly toward some unknown destination. Blinking awake minutes later, he remembered nothing about his trip. He recognized the entrance gate to the zoo and parked the car, vaguely aware that the engine stopped.

Jumbled scenes of Myra Lyons energized his mind until he shut them off. Life at this point had no meaning, no fortunes to pursue, no goal to hang onto forever. Finally, some unknown spark prompted him to open the door and exit the car with a wild notion to be with animals. He heard the harsh call of a macaw, its echo dividing the warm night air. Without thinking, he approached the locked gate and peered through the bars. Locked in and locked out. He felt sympathy for the animals, yet nothing for himself.

With eyes wide he rounded the tall iron fence, absently dragging four fingers across the bars, until he discovered an opening big enough for his thin frame to squirm through.

Howard felt suddenly exhilarated being inside an illegal area. Lights shining from ten-foot poles guided him to an asphalt path. Shoes scraping on the asphalt awakened an animal. He recognized the grunt of a lion and saw its tail flip to and fro. Howard did not stop here, nor did he stop anywhere until he reached the hippopotamus compound.

The compound, dark, expansive, peaceful, contained a large lake; lights flashed on its mirror-like surface. He became fascinated by how deep the water must be to cover the water-loving hippopotamus. He had read somewhere in a magazine about this huge animal. It lived under water for several minutes, surfacing only to breathe in new air; then it swam back down to the bottom to loll. When provoked, the hippopotamus has been seen to cleave a ten-foot crocodile into two parts with its powerful jaws and large teeth.

Howard could not take his eyes off the lake and pressed his nose through the lukewarm links. In a trance he searched along the fence for entry. Without remembering how he had penetrated the fencing, he now stood on the edge of the lake, looking down into the dark, flashing liquid. Because his mind suffered unspeakable loneliness, he wondered what it would be like to drown.

How far down would he go? Would he feel anything during the last few seconds?

He had already reasoned nothing wanted him alive outside the compound, his only love in the world having shut him out forever. The water of the lake beckoned him with unrelenting power, alluring him to plunge into its depths and suffer a silent death. He mused no other end, no other recourse.

He stepped into the lake and hesitated. Why go dressed? Go as he came into the world. He quickly removed his jacket, shoes and socks, shirt, pants, and underwear, setting them all on the ground in one neat pile, shoes and socks on top. Then he waded into the water until it lapped at his stomach. He sucked in a volume of air and dived headfirst, eyes closed to erase the depth.

How far down would he go?

He felt a strange sensation, as if he were dropping slowly into an abyss. Should he let the air out of his lungs? No, not yet. Let it happen on the bottom. Suddenly, he hit the floor; but the surface was soft and yielding, not rough cement as he had expected. Then, without warning, this island of softness began to move, lifting him through the water. He opened his eyes and promptly surmised in horror that he had landed on a gigantic hippopotamus. But before he rolled off the creature's back they broke through the surface, and his fears of being chewed into separate parts destroyed his earlier resolve to die.

The large hippopotamus, grunting in alarm and expanding his mouth to its widest opening, turned on Howard. In total panic Howard thrashed his arms through the water faster than Johnny Weissmuller had ever done. He clawed frantically out of the lake, picked up his pile of clothes, and ran to the fence where he had struggled through.

On the other side of the fence, while breathing fiercely, Howard watched the hippopotamus wobble its head from side to side; it grunted and woofed. Then the beast, apparently having grumbled enough about his nap being rudely disturbed, turned on his short legs and reentered the lake.

Howard quickly donned his clothes, socks and shoes. Dressed, he did not move until the water became silent and reflected the lights once more. He felt safe for the first time in his life, yet his body refused to stop trembling. The thought of suicide was no longer an issue. Life, he mused, offered myriads of opportunities he had never before thought possible. And now that rekindled life ebbed and flowed through his veins again, he became intensely hungry.

Hurrying to his car, he found the gas gauge reading empty. Undaunted, he thought of an Italian restaurant nearby that stayed open until two A.M. By the time he entered the restaurant his hunger knew no bounds.

At his table he ordered the largest pizza and told the waiter to garnish the dough with cheese, pepperoni, black olives, mushrooms, green peppers, and sausage. When his order arrived, hot and steaming, the aroma of the pizza caused him to rub his hands together.

Then with mouth watering, he picked up a slice and devoured with gusto all of the pizza's variety.

© Copyright 2003 Charles Trent Alling

About the Author:

Charles Trent Alling lives in Tampa, Florida with his wife, Jeannette, and writes novels. Several of his book reviews have been published in The Tampa Tribune. He is currently writing a thriller, which takes place in 1947 Puerto Rico.