‘Wicked’

Shelbey Leco is a mixed media artist. Her style was heavily influenced by her grandmother growing up. As a child, when spending time with her grandmother, Leco enjoyed coloring in giant coloring books. Her grandmother soon realized that Shelbey went through art supplies rather quickly. So, her grandmother taught her the art of zentangle, by creating various patterns and shapes within negative spaces. Through time, Leco’s work developed more into mixed media, however repetition and pattern work is present in her work today.

Wicked

Does God laugh at our screw-ups?

My childhood drifted under the shadow of Confession Lutheran Church, Morris, Illinois, a spiritual hothouse fertilized by relentless shovelings of guilt, thoroughly blended with intolerance. Lutheranism demanded total surrender, something I faked from kindergarten on. My disinterest in belief and disbelief was pragmatic … pondering either path thwarted pleasure.

Some thought me rebellious; however, rebellion requires something I lacked: bravery. I was simply a screw-up … no mission nor plan … just outwardly an unassertive Lutheran boy.

Suspecting my fickle nature, Pastor Lindblad conspired with my parents, Bud and Oda, in sentencing me to St. Thorfinn College, a sternly orthodox bastion in Minnesota. There I majored in aimlessness. Thankfully, Mathias Swenson, my blessed car-owning roommate, matched me in aimless beer drinking.

The following spring, a formidable carnal itch befell me. Like a randy monk pining during abbey prayers, I wallowed in relentless sexual fantasies. My erotic hunger was, of course, temporarily appeased in the manner adopted by young men throughout history; however, Mathias’ 1958 Chevy opened other avenues of coping.

Mathias and I explored the Minnesota prairie the following spring, blasting the countryside with 1960s rock radio. Guzzling ill-begotten cans of Schlitz Malt Liquor, we accelerated along roads of depravity, seeking the ever reclusive farmgirl.

Remaining virgins for months, we met our fate in the form of a solitary Holstein cow wandering toward our already out-of-control car. We were screwed. Miraculously, Mathias evaded the cow but propelled the Chevy on a leftward roll and into a nearby alder grove, thrusting Mathias beneath the steering wheel. I catapulted into the windshield.

With the passenger side pointed skyward, I abandoned Mathias, not knowing that both he and the cow would survive handily. Wandering away aimlessly, I discarded my shoes and t-shirt and pranced miles down the road. Shortly, a 1965 Ford Fairlane convertible pulled alongside.

“Hey handsome, what ya’ doin’ struttin’ with that hot bod bared to the world?” inquired an engaging bottle-blond driver. “And what’s happened to your boots?  You tryin’ to wreck your feet?

Eyeing her, I envisioned little beyond raw sex. With soaring testosterone, a surging blood-alcohol level, and likely brain trauma, I succumbed to a raucous need for virginity loss under her tutelage. My intentions were not lost on her.

“Wanna get inside, big boy?” her spicy voice offered. I quickly slithered onto slick vinyl surfaces that gripped my sweaty back. Driving away, I turned and viewed a 30s-some woman of slight build, someone I concluded possessed the carnal experience I lacked. Her prowess meant my bliss.

“I’m Carol. Say, you’re from St. Thorfinn’s, aren’t you?”

I nodded. 

“I always wanted to lay one of you!” she announced, gently tracing her fingers along my thigh.

I moaned.

“Wait ‘til the girls at the truck stop hear ‘bout me gettin’ a hunk a beef like you…...”

Before she finished, I advanced, rapidly racing from introductory kissing into full tongue action, something I had imagined, but not practiced.

“You waste no time, do you?’ she responded, fully obliging.

“Let’s drive to some private place, and I’ll show you what I’m up to, sweetheart.” I proposed. I was astounded by braggart words flowing from my drunken mouth, all pitch and no substance.

She smiled slyly, regained momentum, and turned at the next intersection, directing the Fairlane to a secluded spot she had, apparently, frequented. As the dust swirled about us, I removed my belt, unlatched my jeans, and removed my pants, exposing my tidy whitey jockey briefs with her approval.

“Well cowboy, you strip down nicely … looks good.” 

She reached over and cupped my manhood greedily.

“Glad t’see that you packed those shorts of yours with some good man meat.”

Then, with a look of concern, she released me from her grip. 

“Say, what’s your name?  I don’t do anonymousness. Besides, you’re too eager for a fella’ looking like he’s just out of high school.”

“Just call me Hank!”

“Thorfinn ain’t got any Hanks, but I guess that’s okay for a romp. Say, that’s a pretty big lump on your head. Are you … I mean … are you sure everything’s okay right now? I’m just not used to a young guy as trigger-happy, and I’ve been around the dance floor a few times, honey. Sure don’t want you bonkers just as we’re both ready to blow our whistles, if ya’ know what I mean.” 

“Haven’t felt better in my life.”  

With powerful hormonal surges at my heels, a restraining order was not likely.

“I’m ready if you are, honey”.

Deserting the road, she entered a nearly invisible dirt lane. As the car slowed, I ambled onto the back seat. Laughing, Carol opened the door, pushed the bucket seat forward, and seductively meandered over me. She pulled off her t-shirt and uncoupled her bra and. grinding wildly above me, fueled my desire and reinforced my intentions for her. I imagined mastery in the art of loving and, though eager to advance, I suddenly faced a great urgency.

“We can’t do it now!” I belted out like a calf near castration.

“What the hell … what do you mean, we can’t do it now? What’s wrong? Shit, the juices were flowin’ nicely, kid.”.

“We need some protection … I mean, we can’t do it without a rubber!”  

“Why now?  Couldn’t you remember that before you get me hot to trot? I’m ready to rocket, so why don’t you just pull out before you shoot … it don’t matter where your buckshot goes as long as the shotgun fires, right?”  

“Nope, we need Trojans!”

“You’re plum crazy. If I didn’t want to wrap my legs around that tight butt of yours, I’d shove you out now. Damn, I can’t believe this.”

Yet without pants, I scurried over the front seat and ordered my bewildered lady to the nearest drug store, Olsen Pharmacy in St. Throrfinn. A staunch Lutheran pillar of the community, Lars Olsen, the owner, also sat on the college board. Oblivious to my academic future,  I entered the pharmacy clothed solely in not-so-tidy-whitey briefs. Dressed like what we used to call a bimbo, Carol accompanied me as I strutted nearly naked to Lars Olsen’s pharmacy counter. 

“You seem to have lost a few items of clothing on your way, son. Since we don’t sell clothing at our store, how can I help?”, Lars asked in an authoritative voice as he hawk-eyed me. 

“Well sir, I’m in a hurry and need some rubbers.”

“Rubbers? I think I’ve heard it all now. And you couldn’t remember a shirt and pair of pants? This is a decent Lutheran town here, and you wander in here nearly naked, asking me to equip you for what manner of wickedness? I’m not sure what to do with you, young man.”

When his phone rang, Mr. Olsen answered. Looking particularly grim toward Carol, he ended his call, gawked at me, and sighed deeply.

“Is that disreputable woman the cause for your rushing about in this fashion? If so, you’d certainly better use what you came in for … she probably carries every disease known to ruin young men. Now what brand do you want?”

“Rubbers, sir. Just rubbers.” I yelled.

“They are called condoms, and I did not request a public broadcast. Again, what brand do you want?” Mr. Olsen asked with growing irritation. “Do you want the nipple-ends?”

“Nipples? Hell, they’re not for her. Say, I’m in a hurry and I don’t have time for jokes. Can you just get me the rubbers?”

Glowering, Mr. Olsen carefully shoved a small box into my hands. “Son, before I’m tempted to call Chief Rickertsen, take these and leave my store immediately. I expect to be paid when you’re fully clothed and sober.” 

As I lurched toward the front door, Mr. Olsen posed a fateful question: “Are you from St. Thorfinn’s? Come back … I’ve a mind to giving Dean Goetz a call about you........”

In my frenzy to consummate an intended entanglement, I ran out with Carol, dived into her filthy convertible, and wandered ominously into the Northern Minnesota grasslands.

************

Whether Carol and I got it on or not, I can’t recall … she disappeared, and I returned with a head injury and a notably high blood-alcohol level. The subsequent St. Thorfinn report documented my walking buck naked, nine miles from campus, and without identification or full consciousness. My days at St. Thorfinn’s swiftly ended.

************

Returning home a disgraced screw-up, I foresaw the specter of Vietnam looming over me hungrily. Luckily, I weaseled into a four-year Army medical assistant stint. with a looming departure for Germany. Unequipped to demonstrate repentance to my bereaved parents, I opted for distance. My screw-ups with St, Thorfinn, Carol, and Schlitz should have set my sails for a better course and in more reliable winds; however, the adventure continues.

************

Rudy, my revered big brother, sponsored a sendoff party on the eve of my departure…. Rudy assumed my rehabilitation and settled on a farewell drinking fest.

Most guests fled the party when I drunkenly began stripping and screaming that I was going to die in a fiery crash. Rudy, recognizing his error, not-so-quietly escorted me home, hoping that I would quietly collapse without alerting my parents. He left me, believing he was successful. He wasn’t.

************

Preparing for my flight the next morning, my father awakened me early. I was still soused. I had slept au naturel, and in this state, my drunkenness again reigned … my poor mother watched me waltz naked into our kitchen.

“Oh my god!” she shrieked. “Get dressed … what are you trying to do? Bud, get your butt down here before your son does something stupid again! I never thought I’d witness my grown son naked as a jaybird. Bud … the boy’s lost his senses again … it’ll happen again … catch him … or anything!”

Fueled by the fire of alcohol, I sprinted for an escape through the front door.

My dad and brother, both familiar with my history of drunken nakedness, managed to head off my getaway. Rudy, guessing that I was ready to dash into the neighborhood, rolled his eyes conceding his earlier error.

“Eric, … calm down … you’ll be gone soon … don’t screw-up again, please?”

“I’m leaving here now! Where’s Carol? We’ll get out together, “ I announced as I bolted for the back door. Belatedly Dad leaped toward me and tackled my naked waist.

“You’re not going anywhere like this, Lady Godiva.”

With wiggly spasms, I wrested out of his hold, releasing a series of loud and incredibly foul beer farts. Avoiding the stench, my father instinctively let go and, as he did, I ran through the back door, fully unfettered and unclothed into a chilled October pre-dawn morning.

“Oh, my god!” Oda screamed. “He’s out there without a stitch of clothes … neither of you nincompoops stopped my deranged son. Rudy, I hold you fully responsible for the debauchery of last night … you think I didn’t know? Now get out there and retrieve that drunken fool before the police get involved!”

However, a hysterical Beverly Slinker, our geriatric next-door neighbor, was pounding our door.

“Help, there’s a naked rapist in our house … he just broke in and went upstairs where my husband is. He’s got a knife or a gun I’m sure, and poor Roy will get killed … or molested. I called the police, but it’s probably too late … Roy’s probably dead. Oh God help us, he’ll probably be here next.”

My brother gagged imagining a rapist attacking Roy who, in his mid-eighties, was cursed with chronic bowl ailments; however, both he and Dad raced over to the Slinker’s to confront the law. But nearing the Slinker’s front porch my brother spotted Roy addressing a young patrolman.

“No, officer, I haven’t seen an intruder”, Roy answered the first of many questions. “I’ve been all over the house checking … the windows and doors were locked, so I know there’s not a rapist, officer. Did someone here call the police? Beverly Slinker …oh dear! Well, forgive my Beverly, officer, she’s getting up in age, and … well you know … she’s getting kind of senile … she imagines things, although she’s not harmful. Actually, she’s not taken her meds yet, officer … that could cause her to see things not really there.”

“Can you look? Well, of course officer, come on in and look wherever you want.”

As the patrolman entered, Rudy and Bud gave each other a look of befuddlement. But Roy quickly turned around and, out of sight, placed an index finger over his lips in warning.

They followed the officer through the first floor, and then up to the bedrooms where he found a human form under blankets on a small bed.

 “A guest, sir?”

“Oh, my grandson, officer. The kid celebrated his 21st birthday last night and really put one on, I’m afraid to say. You won’t rouse him, I’m betting.”

As the officer began leaving, a screeching Beverly Slinker barreled through the front door.

“Roy are you still alive … can you hear me?” she inquired as though speaking to the dead. Reaching upstairs, she looked at the small bed, screaming, “That’s the rapist, officer … shoot him before he mollests us all! Shoot him now!”

“Now Beverly, you didn’t take your meds … come downstairs, love, and let our grandson sleep, okay?” 

Roy spoke softly to Beverly while firmly grabbing her arm.

“But we don’t have a grandson, Roy. What are you talking about?”

“Well, who in blazes do you think that is in our guest bed, darlin’, Richard Nixon?”

Beverly adopted a puzzled but compliant look and, shaking her head, joined everyone downstairs.

“I’m confused, Roy; really confused”, Beverly blurted. “When did we get a grandson? What happened to the rapist, Roy? Oh dear, I’m really mixed-up now.”

“Come on dear, I’ll explain after you’ve had your meds and eat breakfast. Like a cup of coffee, officer?” Roy asked.

“No sir. Everything seems to be okay, so I’ll leave. If things get any worse”, the patrolman added, nodding toward Beverly, “you might consider getting help … someone to keep an eye on her. We don’t need imaginary rapists, know what I mean?”

“I understand. Everything is fine now, but thanks anyhow. Have a good day, sir.”

As the officer departed, Roy turned abruptly toward my father and brother and roared.

“I haven’t the foggiest friggin’ notion of what just took place with that deviant son of yours walking through our unlocked back door, and up into our spare bedroom, buck-ass naked! Right now, I don’t even want to know, even though my curiosity will get me. For now, just get that bare-assed lush out of here and I’ll try to forget what just happened. Once I get Beverly settled down and convince her she not losing her marbles, you folks can clue me in. Hell, I might even have a good laugh. But crap, get that boy out of here pronto … right NOW! Is that asking too much?”

My mortified family managed to quietly escort my naked bulk, sheathed from public view in a borrowed blanket, back home where they humbly showered and dressed me for departure. My parents heartily hugged me, yet inebriated, at the airport, taking great comfort knowing I would shortly be out of their sight and under alternate authority. 

************

Thoughts of my youthful screw-up haunted me endlessly thereafter, so I broached the subject years after.

“Remember the morning I left for Germany after having shamed you, Mom and Dad? I am sorry for that night as well as getting kicked out of St. Thorfinn’s. Please forgive me.”

My parents looked at each other, communicating in that silent mode that seasoned couples often do, and gazed toward me like another brain screw had fallen from my head.

“What are you talking about, Eric?” my mother began. “I remember nothing of the sort. You wanted to leave college and serve your country. I remember the day you left for Germany: you were loving and tender.”

I was baffled, fearful that both had developed Alzheimer’s.

“Remember retrieving me from the Slinker’s … you know, my being naked?”

“No, son, we don’t remember … you must be imagining it”, Dad announced.

Frustrated, I bolted outdoors. As I sat and brooded, my father approached me … he was irritated.

“Son, let me repeat … your recollections are faulty. Get that through your head.”

The skewed look on my face told Dad that I was not getting it. 

He laughed.

“Listen … you’re an adult with your own family and a professorship; however, what I say is crucial. Every young man needs a free pass for the screw-ups of youth. In your case, you needed several free passes. Life’s tough without mercy, and a soul needn’t wonder incessantly why the hell he did or didn’t do this or that … why things didn’t work out differently or better. That kind of fretting ain’t worth the energy needed to fart. You’ve done what you’ve done … it can’t be changed.”

“Our saying it never happened doesn’t mean we’re senile: it means that we’ve remeasured you by latter achievements, like being a good spouse and educator, a slate cleaned with a good life. Though we don’t want to see your bare butt again, we’re proud. So, release what’s troubling you … let it flee. That’s our gift to you. It’s God’s way of helping you help others. Now drop this shit right now.”

I walked away, moved by Dad’ words. I had forged a decent life: forgiveness bequeathed time to forget. But I wondered … with all those free passes, should I have tried screwing-up more?

I laughed.

Did God?

Michelo Isola is senior gentleman residing in Fayetteville, Georgia with his husband of 20 years and three lively canines. Michelo hold a degree in Environmental Engineering from Lake Superior State University and relishes attendance in creative writing classes at nearby Clayton State University (free for seniors in Georgia). Michelo won first prize in fiction at Clayton State in 2023 for his story "Flight from Egypt", published in "Cygnet", the literary journal of Clayton State.