Nuts, Bolts, and Monster Worship

By Craig Draheim

A child discovers a deity in Godzilla. After being involved
in a horrific family tragedy, a teenage girl avoids suicide by taking long
walks with her little brother. A young Marine goes to war with his identity. A
teacher with bouts of depression suspects cheating from a talented adolescent
whose hormones cripple his ability to prove his innocence. A sixteen year old
goes on an acid trip and unknowingly sets a farmers field on fire that
threatens a neighbors home on the other side.

Like a student taking a pop quiz on a subject he never
received a handout for, these characters and others in the six stories that
make up this book, find themselves faking the answers to a life they came
unprepared for.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jan 14, 2004
• ISBN: 9781414039114

Craig Draheim

Craig Rory Draheim has a varied background, giving him a unique perspective in fiction. Having been a soldier, sailor, painter, carpenter, plumer, surveyor, printing press operator, home health care worker, and maintenance person at a chocolate factory, his experiences are evident throughout his storytelling. He currently lives in Northern Michigan with his wife Margaret. They have two sons, Charles and Craig.Draheim has written three other stories: Coffee with Ghosts; Nuts, Bolts, and Monster Worship; and A History Book, Sir Elton John, andthe Grasshopper Man.

Book preview

© 2004 by Craig Draheim. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrievalsystem, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the author.

ISBN: 1-4140-3911-5 (e-book)

ISBN: 1-4140-3912-3 (Paperback)

1stBooks-rev. 01/07/04

Contents

Wrath Of Godzilla

Old Testament

Goliath and David

Immaculate Perception

Aesop Fable

New Testament

About the Author

Wrath Of Godzilla

My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me? Why art thou so far from helping me, and from the words of my roaring?—Psalms 22:1

Kenny found some of the stories in the bible kinda cool, the ones about Noah, Jonah, Samson, and in particular David and Goliath, Kenny’s favorite. But he also knew how much his mother wouldn’t approve of his father taking him and his two sisters to church. She told him when she still seemed like a real mother, God doesn’t even go to church, so there’s no reason for us to. This was after a time when he asked her why they never attended church, and following a confrontation at school with Vicky Pearson who said he was going to hell because his family didn’t honor the Sabbath. Still curious, he questioned his mother more about God, but the answers she gave seemed too big and angry for him to understand. He knew it was because of his age, but what would become understandable to him by the time he was twelve, God was stuck up. He had a certain group of people that were in his inner circle or clique, as his mother called it, and the rest didn’t matter.

How do you get to join, mom? Is there like an in-ish-ee-a-tion? Kenny asked knowing what the word meant, but unable to pronounce it.

No honey, it’s simply something you’re born into.

When Kenny’s mother was in the hospital for what would be the final time, he still believed her. Everyone else said she was crazy, and she was at that time, but Kenny knew that before she spent her days twirling her hair and staring off toward things that no one else could see, she was very sane.

Kenny’s father took advantage of his mother being put away, a saying the other kids liked to use against Kenny. The family went to a Lutheran church for a few weeks until the pastor made Kenny’s father lose his temper. Kenny remembered it vividly, standing at the side of the two men only a few feet away. Kenny’s father yelled at the pastor and it was frightening, but even a simple gaze from his father was enough to scare Kenny.

The pastor was standing in the coat room just before the front doors, following services, shaking everybody’s hands as they were leaving and telling a couple of the ladies what good cookies and cupcakes they baked for bingo night. Kenny, led by his sisters, snuck around behind the preacher so they could look out the windows at the first fall of snow that year. But that wasn’t the only reason, neither Kenny nor his sisters felt comfortable talking to the preacher. He always asked them how their mother was doing. Although the three would reply good, and often in unison, they all knew it was a lie. But she wasn’t really doing bad either. Her health was fine.

Kenny didn’t hear what the pastor said to his father, but he certainly heard his father’s response. Spinning on his heels, Kenny stared in amazement as his father, within inches of the pastor, was shouting and looking as though at any moment he was going to hit him. Kenny thought his father might be damned for this and because it was his father, Kenny was afraid he could be damned as well. Vicky Pearson might end up being right after all.

Baptism? Just the way Kenny’s father said the word, quieted the room and many in line in the row between the pews leading back into the church. You ignorant son-of-a-bitch. If it’s suppose to take a bath for my children to be recognized by God, then it must take a delousing for you to get any attention. The way his father pointed toward the pastor, Kenny imagined his finger as a saber, and the pastor looked as though he found it just as deadly. I put a goodsum of money in that collection plate every week, and for what? To listen to a choir that can’t hold a note, and you tell us that by some divine miracle God himself told you to take a right turn on Ballinger road to avoid a traffic jam? Give me a break. Though it was obvious that Kenny’s father was mad at the pastor, as soon as he raised his voice Kenny thought he was in trouble again too, then at some point during the yelling he became relieved to see the preacher get the entire ass chewing, as his father called it. Come kids, let’s get out of this shit hole.

With that the Bliss family would never return to church. The pastor received pats and hugs from several old ladies with their husbands in tow, reassuring him of how much they enjoyed his sermons, and that Mr. Bliss is just an angry man whose wife is very sick.

Like Jesus, the pastor reminded his congregation, I forgive Mr. Bliss and will include in my sermon next week a special prayer for him and his family. Kenny heard this when he had to run back into the church to grab his jacket, knowing that the preacher saw him and suspected that he even talked a little louder so Kenny could hear.

It was incidents like the one at the church that made Kenny realize why everyone called his father Mr. Bliss, not only the few friends Kenny would have, but adults as well. And this was how Kenny thought of his dad, as Mr. Bliss. Though slim and average height, it was the way he looked at people that made them either respect or fear him, and he rarely looked directly at others unless he wanted a answer to something, was going to yell at them, or was disgusted by their actions, pushing them away with a glance. He was uncomfortable with kindness and rolled his eyes at flattery. Kenny received a lot of disgusted looks from his father. And Kenny figured it was because he was too sensitive. That’s what his father accused him of many times, being too sensitive just like his mother. That’s what put his mother in the hospital, Mr. Bliss told Kenny.

She was just too sensitive, he once sprayed at Kenny and quickly walked away as if to avoid the fog he created. This was one of the rare times Kenny worked up the courage to continue asking his father a question until he answered, pestering him with a child’s infinite why. Most times his father would show a level of impatience, that if pushed any further, would only end badly. Kenny learned early to give his father plenty of room. He also learned that it wasn’t his fathers job to comfort him.

In the fall of 1971 when Kenny was eleven, a cat he was taking care of as a secret pet, ran away or so Kenny thought. It was near Halloween and this was the first time his mother went into the hospital, so there was still hope that everything would eventually get back to normal. For three weeks his mother hadn’t been home and for two weeks Kenny hadn’t seen the cat he named Sylvester. Also it was one of the few weekends that Mr. Bliss was home and not sleeping during the day to rest for the night shift, Kenny found Sylvester amongst a stack of tires in the corner of the garage. Its hind quarters were mangled as if it had been hit by a car, still alive, but grossly starved, gaunt and skeletal. It’s meows were barely audible and sometimes didn’t transmit when it opened its mouth, to weak to complete its voice. Kenny lifted it from the tires and struggled not to cry as the deflated and crushed back legs dangled like wet socks. He laid it on one of the rugs that was meant for its bed, then ran into the house. Kenny’s two sisters were with friends for that weekend, so it was just him and his father.

There was something about the tragedy that made him feel that his father would show pity, both on the cat and himself. Kenny was certain his father had to care this time and show some compassion. After all, this was at a time when the family still had hope.

Dad, Kenny barked after bursting into the kitchen, able to keep the emotion from his voice for that instant and then realized he may have sounded too demanding. Hisfather was playing solitaire and drinking his coffee. He squinted as he studied Kenny for a moment, then the moisture evaporated from his concern and his look curled with disgust while Kenny was fighting the urge to weep.

What is it? Mr. Bliss asked annoyed. Kenny still thought his father would be kind after he told him what the problem was. But he also couldn’t contain himself and keep from crying. It raised up inside him so when he talked it was like a pressure relief valve, causing his speech to come out in sobs.

The cat I was taking care of is...hurt bad...and...

Oh Jesus. Quit your damn crying and speak up.

I think it’s dying. Kenny raised his shoulders as if that made it seem as though he was holding his breath. And he was to some degree, or at least trying to steady himself so he wouldn’t cry, but it was too late. He could see how much his father detested him as he left the kitchen in long strides and came back with a jacket and pair of loafers with no socks on. He also had a .22 rifle in his hand. He grabbed Kenny just under the arm pit and jerked him along outside and into the garage.

Grab that goddamn cat and put it out on the lawn.

But dad he’s still alive.

Do what I said. Kenny picked it up seeing the disgust and anger in Mr. Bliss’s face. He lifted it the same way he pulled it out of the tires, cupping his hands around its chest, under the front legs and holding it out in front of him, letting the hind quarters hang down. He laid it just outside the garage door on the grass. Kenny’s father handed him the gun.

Here, now shoot it and put it out of its misery. Kenny wiped his cheeks again with the sleeve of his coat as he had several times before.

But dad, can’t we save him?

You have to be shitting me. Look at that thing. The only thing we can do now is keep it from suffering. Now quit your whining and shoot that thing. Kenny took the rifle and aimed the muzzle down close to the chest.

Hell no. Aim for its head. Kenny’s dad grabbed his arm and moved the barrel so it was pointing at the cat’s head. Kenny thought he felt a tenderness in his dad’s touch. The cat tried meowing again, but no sound came out. Kenny dropped his aim and starting to cry again, turned to his dad.

I can’t. His father slapped him and Kenny fell to the ground. He looked up at him in shock. When his father bent over, Kenny thought he was going to get hit again. He raised his arm for protection, but Mr. Bliss picked up the rifle, put it near the cat’s head and shot it through the temple.

Get up off the ground and bury that thing, Kenny’s father only said before stomping back into the house, the upper half of his body flexed, rigid and untouchable, taking large strides to clear the concrete steps to the porch. Kenny watched closely for a moment, while laying on his shoulder and his head not far from the cats, as steam and smoke drifted out of the bullet hole like streamers in the clammy October air. The head was twisted and it forced the mouth ajar and showing its teeth like Godzilla, an image that came to him quickly, before the final pain of Sylvester’s death.

Bill Kennedy at the Movies and Kenny’s house kept him company after school, when his mother was gone, which was nearly every day. Even when she was well, she would be gone during that time of the day, afraid to stay home alone. And if she was home she had some great big project she was doing, like baking too many pies or cookies that Kenny or his sisters would never finish. One day after Kenny came home from school, he found his mother making curtains for every room in the house from all thebed sheets. They were flowered bed sheets and his mother thought they looked better hanging in front of the windows with the light shining through them. After threading a rod through one the curtains, she demonstrated to Kenny by hanging it in the dining room. At that time of the day the light was shinning directly across their white table. His mother removed a bowl of apples from the center.

Look at that, honey. Isn’t that beautiful? The colors of the flowers and stems were stretched making them unidentifiable, but it was better to look at than the old light beige ones. Kenny wasn’t as excited as she was, but he didn’t want to disappoint her.

Yeah mom that looks really beautiful.

When Kenny’s sisters got home, they seemed bothered and called their father at work. When Mr. Bliss came home, he took his wife into their bedroom to talk. Kenny expected a lot of yelling, but the only one that raised their voice was Kenny’s mother, and even then Kenny could only make out single words at a time. Every time Kenny tried to get close enough to listen, his sisters caught him and pulled him off to the kitchen at the other end of the house. During one attempt, while pretending to be interested in building a house out of a deck of cards, and Barb and Debbie were singing along to a favorite Donovan song on the radio, Kenny was able to sneak away long enough to lay prone in front of the bedroom door to peer under the crack and see his parents feet. But before he could make sense of anything, his sisters had a hold of his ankles and were dragging him away as he clawed at the carpet.

Both sisters were seldom home right after school, because they knew to make friends or volunteer for school activities. And Mr. Bliss, if he wasn’t sleeping, was pulling a double shift or out with his buddies, at the bar, bowling or fishing. The doors were never locked on the house, and Kenny could usually tell if there was anybody at home as soon as he walked through the door, even if his father was home sleeping. It wasn’t the cars in the yards, which he paid little attention to, or the lights that may have been left on, he could just sense it.

The house was old and framed with hard wood 2x4’s, around the time his grandparents were born. Kenny didn’t see it but just before he was born, the kitchen had a dirt floor. With a high ceiling Mr. Bliss had plenty of space to lay joists and put in tongue and groove oak flooring. The old house creaked and moaned, but Kenny was used to it, unlike his mother who said it was spooky. He would even talk back to it when no one was around, comforting it. Any time his father had a weekend at home, he seemed to be consumed in remodeling a room or putting on an addition. Kenny thought it probably hurt the house like an operation. So many times when he heard what sounded like a moan or a groan, he would say something soothing the way his mother did when he was sick and she wasn’t.

There, there, it’ll be okay. You’ll be better soon.

With Peter Pan peanut butter, saltine crackers and his old house, Kenny would lay on his belly in the middle of the living room, swing his feet and watch B movies after school. Mr. Kennedy’s show aired out of Detroit on a UHF station, channel 50. The best Kenny could get it to come in was still fuzzy, though he lived just outside of Flint, Michigan, but it was good enough and the sound was clear. His favorite was the Godzilla movies, ever since he had seen the first one, Godzilla, The King Of Monsters. Though he looked less human, he didn’t seem as much of a monster as Dracula, the Werewolf, or Creature from the Black Lagoon, he just seemed as though he was mad because someone woke him up too early, like his father would get, only instead of hitting a door or wall Godzilla crashed buildings, trains, and pulled power lines down. The movies that were made in the sixties showed Godzilla as a caring monster and no longer the threat that he was when Raymond Burr reported his rampage in 1956.

Still there was something about Godzilla’s purpose that Kenny liked better than the other monsters. He didn’t care what others thought of him. Kenny wished he could make an impression the way Godzilla did. Godzilla