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ken*again
The Outlaws
by Barnali Saha
Conclusion
rang the bell, there was no answer. I rang it again, the dog barked this time,
but no one opened the door. I moved the door-knob and the door opened. The dog
snared at me, and baring its teeth in the most violent manner began to growl. I
did not care; I was once a volunteer for the local humane society and have
handled those aggressive fellows before. The thing one has to remember during
aggressive encounters with quadrupeds is to not run away and provoke the beast.
One has to learn not to dread the bare fangs of the animal. You need to keep the
upper hand in such circumstances; I mean to say, the key to survival in such
situations would be to show the beast that you are not scared of it. The action,
however, does require a certain amount of tact, which I, thankfully, possessed.
I walked in to a house which was very much like my own. Showing complete
disregard to the growling animal, I went to the living room and shouted,
"Mr. Eisenbart, this is Kathy Heinz; I need to speak to you. Mr. Eisenbart,
Debra. Hello!" There was no answer. I looked around me: piles of unopened
cardboard boxes, empty soda bottles, pizza boxes and paper plates lay astray; a
heap of unlaundered, smelly clothes sat on the leather couch, the only furniture
that stood in the room. On a stand at a corner stood a keyboard, and next to it,
on the ground, lay an electric guitar, a bass guitar, a couple of drums, a boom
box and four microphones and their stands. Posters of Led Zeppelin and Deep
Purple adorned the sidewalls. I felt disgusted. I shouted once more. The dog
walked in snarling and growling more violently than before. It evidently took me
as a threat to its family and had vouched to drive me out. Its burning eyes
froze my blood. "Shoo, shoo" I said. It barked once more and began
walking towards me. I sensed danger in the air. Chanting pleasantries to the
beast, I slowly began walking out of the room. It followed me. I walked in short
back steps to the half-opened egress. The animal gave me a surprised, almost
bewildered look as if it had not expected me to find the right exit. I stepped
out, softly, still chanting pleasantries to the flabbergasted animal. It
seemed a bit softened now because he did not protest anymore, on the contrary,
began wagging its tail. I did not wish to entertain the animal any longer. I
shut the door and began to walk in the direction of a safe haven recently
rendered unsafe on account of a series of unforeseen mishaps. I walked in
the direction of my house.
The whole day
I stationed myself at the window of my room looking intently for a sign of the
Eisenbart bunch; there sadly, weren’t any. Not a strip of their spiked hair
was seen. Dejected, around noon I decided to leave the window and think of a
clever plan to teach the weirdoes a lesson, or, perhaps, a way to drive them out
of the neighborhood. But first I needed a healthy lunch. I cooked 'Oeufs en
Croustades a la Hollandaise' — a perfect fodder for my old brain before putting
the thinking cap on.
After lunch I
seated myself in the study to try and sort out my options. I had a number of
choices: I could inform the management; but that won't do me any good since the
bulk population of our county (including Mr. Thompson, the property manager) was
deaf in the ears, noises never affected them. Still, that was a valid option. I
could call the police too; I was sure that they would heed my plea for help
because they rarely had an opportunity to use their cop-powers on account of
Jackson County being a perfect county with almost no criminal history. And
finally, there was this drastic option; I could set the Eisenbart house on fire.
With the ball
on my court, I was completely at ease. Around four in the afternoon, I went out
for a little stroll in the park. It was a holy hour for me since at this time,
almost everyday, my usual neighbors, the lords and the ladies of the area, went
out for a healthy walk in the park. It was the best time to catch them and whine
a little about the big, bad Eisenbart bunch. They might show me some compassion
if they manage to understand what I said. You see, since the majority of my
neighbors, the men mostly, were war heroes who lost their hearing in some great
war, they boasted about the flaw instead of regretting it. It was a beloved scar
that they fondly treasured, and if you asked them why they did not do anything
for their ears, they would go on and on and on with their war stories and would
eventually bore you to death. They seldom wore their hearing aids because they
had a special way of communicating with their other deaf and semi-deaf mates and
rarely needed any hearing aid to do the job. Their wives, whose once perfect
hearing abilities were too partially impaired by the intensely high volume of
the television sets and their daily dealings with their deaf husbands, also
seldom needed to put hearing aids on to decipher their jargon. I was among the
very few hearing persons in the neighborhood. That was an important reason why
they regarded me with such great respect. Overtime, I had learned to skillfully
interact with them: the trick is to shout and speak every word distinctly. I
helped them in their communication with the outer world, at the post-office, or
when they needed to hear a radio broadcast, and other things of that sort. You
may understand at this point that I was an important part of my community, and
any problem of mine was ought to be regarded as the problem of the community.
I put on my
running shoes and hopped out of my apartment. I cast a look at the Eisenbart
dwelling; there still weren’t any sign of them. At the park I met Mr. Wesley
sitting on the bench licking an orange pop. Mr. Wesley was a kind, hearing,
happy gentleman, blue eyed and bald and always keen on listening to the newest
gossip of the community. Seeing me, he showed his leftover teeth and an orange
tongue. "Hello there," he said cheerfully. "What's up?" Mr.
Wesley was not one of my targeted audiences since he was given to slandering,
but every little bit helps, and since I needed so badly a shoulder to cry on,
even this orange-tongued Wesley seemed like an angel to me. I sat beside him
like an exhausted, overburdened donkey. Because of the excessive summer heat the
park was not as full as it usually was at that hour. I saw handful of old lads
and ladies jogging at a distance. Adjacent to the bench, under a huge tree, the
laughing club was in session and a group of old gentlemen and ladies like a
bunch of Santa Clauses were laughing in an animated chorus. They paid me no
attention and went on with their laughing. Finding no other option at hand, I
began to sing my tale of distress to Mr. Wesley. The old bloke rolled his eyes
as he listened, frequently chanting words like, "Oh, no" "Good
Lord!" and so forth to display his sense of surprise. When I finished my
sad tale, he got up, as if he remembered something and wishing me a hurried
goodbye almost ran out of the park. I sat on the bench for a short while and
watched the laughing goons. At the moment it seemed that they were all laughing
at me, at my hopeless condition, at my inadequacy of valid options to teach the
Eisenbarts a lesson, and, ultimately, at my worthless life in a deaf community.
I felt sad, and got up to leave the park.
I came back
home and spent an hour rallying my thoughts. It occurred to me, rather
unexpectedly, that may be the Outlaws had left their house. Despite that being a
remote possibility since their belongings and their dog were still at home, yet,
somehow, that thought came as a much needed respite for my overwrought mind. I
debated with my previously contemplated options and decided to wait one more
night before taking any drastic measures like calling the police or enflaming
the house. Around seven in the evening I had my dinner, and having nothing
else to do watched television for an hour or something and then, around eight
thirty, went to bed. I peeped out of my bedroom window to have a last look at
the Eisenbart residence and finding the house still seeped in darkness, went to
bed in peace.
An
earsplitting explosion woke me up. A catenation of eccentric noises like the
crash of a thousand cars, like the explosion of a million volcanoes, like the
denotation of a zillion war-bombs rocked the entire world around me in the most
violent manner. The metallic ectophony threw me out of my bed. The edacious
noises began to consume me like a tidal wave. Stupefied, shell-shocked, I cried
for help in an eroded dsypneal voice. No one came. The bang of the drums, the
clang of the electric and bass guitars, the boom of the surround sound system,
and the horrendous, cacodemonic voices of four creatures from hell together with
numerous strident cries of applaud roared from wall to wall of my room. Burning
with anger and calling the Outlaws all the names I had knowledge of, I walked
out of the room and picked up the telephone to dial 911. The operator could not
hear what I said, and I could not hear what she said either. I banged the
receiver then picked it up again to call Mr. Stone. Mr. Stone lived a few houses
away, he was a police officer. I dialed his number, but nobody picked up. Mad
with rage, and almost at the point of tearing away my hair with vexation, I
decided to go to the Eisenbart home, immediately. I stormed out of the house in
my nightgown and walked in audacious, vehement steps toward the Outlaw home. The
deafening noises rolled and gathered violent strength, the metallic crashes were
more agonizing, but I did not stop. The noises did not bother me anymore. For a
moment I thought I was as deaf as the other neighbors. Hissing a series of
maledictions under my breath, I marched on.
The door was
unlocked as it had been in the morning and the ghastly beast wasn’t around. I
rallied in, screaming," In the name of Mercy, stop this thing you are
doing." They did not hear me. Fulminating anathemas I approached the living
room. A newer and more brutal shock awaited me. The previously half-empty living
room now resembled a concert hall which held a loud and noisy crowd of almost
one hundred people. The men and women reveling inside were people I know: they
were my neighbors! They were the same old, edentulous, deaf and half-deaf bunch
that lived in the neighborhood. The noises that were driving me crazy no doubt
came to them as soothing notes, and they seemed to enjoy whatever reached their
impaired ears. There was everybody. I saw Mr. Stone, the police officer,
clapping like a hysteric. He wasn’t deaf, yet he too seemed to like the
frenzied sounds very much. No doubt I did not find him at home. He was too busy
merrymaking with the Eisenbarts to care for his cop-duty. Imagine my shock, no,
no, my consternation when I saw those toothless fellows dressed in gory, ornate
outfits cupping their ears with their palms for better hearing and nodding their
antediluvian heads to the hellish notes of the jumping Outlaws! Imagine my
flabbergastation when I saw the old blighters who should be thinking about the
afterlife dancing with their ladies to the outrageous, energumenical tunes,
explosive and unharmonious notes of the Outlaws! The room looked like a wild
undergrad party with the Eisenbart bunch skipping like four big, fat frogs in
their leathery outfits and spiked hairdos cupping their microphones and singing
riotously. Mr. Esienbart holding the microphone and violently shouting
indecipherable words into it seemed like a sweaty Halloween pumpkin badly
curved. The electric guitar— that accursed musical instrument, hang from his
neck, and he was occasionally putting the microphone on its stand to strum the
devilish device. The passion on his face and his body gestures— the rolling of
hips, the swaying, the moving of his hands, almost made him look like Led
Zepplin's specter. And the other three, God! They seemed, this time I was sure,
creatures from another planet. You should have looked at the twins, the way they
somersaulted and banged on the drums, wildly. Their sticky red faces burning
with musical passion and what not. And Debra— I could never forget the bass
guitar she played and the way she danced and sang. All together, her eccentric
activities not only made her look like an otherworldly creature, but also like
an otherworldly creature that had lost its head completely and needed an
immediate visit to the sanitarium. Standing on the makeshift stage -- an upside
down plastic box, with her heavily mascaraed eyes, her over-blushed cheeks, her
painted black lips, she was a drag queen, an apparition of the ugliest human
being. I was so terrified of her scary face that I almost fainted in fear.
Such was my shock; such was my astonishment that I almost forgot why I had come
in the first place to that house. I think I stood flabbergasted at the living
room entrance for almost an hour, but they did not notice me. On regaining my
composure, I thought the safest and the sanest option for me at that point was
to take immediate egress and not stand any longer. As I was preparing to leave
the place, the Eisenbart twins caught a glance of me. They looked a little
bewildered at first and tapped their father on his thigh; he, however, was in
seventh heaven, so he did not heed them. Then they looked at each other and
shrugged. Then, suddenly, their faces lit up in a most mischievous manner and
they turned towards me still standing next to living room door and stuck out
their tongues like a couple of ill-behaved monkeys. Almost at the same time the
dog, yes, that animal from hell materialized from somewhere and began snarling.
Terrified, I jumped. The boys began to giggle; their red faces mocked me in the
most inhumane manner. The animal began growling, aggressively. Its bare teeth
and reproachful eyes were directed at me. I needed to escape, somehow. I began
to run. I began to run faster than the fastest runner in this world. The dog
chased me, but before it could catch me, I had reached my home and locked the
door.
The dreadful music continued to ring in the background. I made up mind. I began
packing my luggage and with the approach of the first light of dawn, I
left the house never to return again to that outlawed community ever again in my
life.
