Josiah Golojuh

The Corpse Boy

Josiah Golojuh

Although he did not look like one, The Golem was a hero. An accident in space ravaged his body and made him appear a monster, as it did his brother, The Grim. Glen “Gray Hair” Graboyes, a hot shot shuttle pilot, and his brother Reuben, a crackpot scientist; together attempted to travel around the rings of Saturn, backwards and forwards through time. Interstellar raydons changed the identical twins into matching monsters. Save for the distinct scar across Glen’s face, they remained two stupendously different men who happened to spring from the same chromosome. They shared only two things, their appearance and their bold daring sense of adventure. A cataclysmic miscalculation on Reuben’s part, and overly impetuous piloting on Glen’s part, resulted in the interstellar radiation that changed them. They returned to earth, but they did not return as Glen and Reuben. Glen came back the noble and loving Golem, however Reuben’s dark heart grew only shades blacker as he became the murderous and hateful Grim. When Oliver’s mum gave him the toy, the package read “THE GRIM,” in bold yellow and red letters, but he knew better. He knew it was actually The Golem, it was the hero. The Grim lied, cheated, stole, and even killed! Oliver’s toy was that of a good man. A man befallen by tragedy, which made him a better man. His toy was not the Grim, it was the Golem. Everyday Oliver played alone in his yard. Inside the trailer his mum yelled so loudly at the TV it forced Oliver to gather a handful of toys and make his way to the barren front yard. There the tall dying grass became a desert savannah, a tropical rainforest, a far off alien world, anywhere other than where Oliver was. His imagination carried him off with one consistent feature to his tall tales, a quiet thoughtful hero subdued a loud and bombastic villain. The toys he took would vary, with one exception, he always took The Golem. The Golem was always the hero, Oliver’s hero. The yelling happened when his Mum was alone, as she was nearly all of the time. Sometimes she shouted about those “liberal bastards,” or “those cunt bag Republicans.” He did not know what any of it meant, but he knew if his mum did not like them they must be no good. Other times the shouting was different, like she was in pain, but enjoying it. That kind of shouting came when the men visited. She called them her “Special Company.” That shouting came at night. He knew it was best to pretend to sleep, trapped in his bed attempting to find quiet in his head. When the Special Company came during the day she never had to tell him to go outside, he already knew it. It was apparent to him by the looks on the faces of the men. There he remained until they left. On those days, even if it was raining,

Oliver would venture as far from the house as he could go without leaving the yard. In the yard he played, and for the most part he tuned out the noise. He took The Golem on adventures all around the world. In his hands The Golem traveled deep into the past and far into the future. The noise from inside often prevailed, and he moved farther out into the yard. On the loudest days he played almost on the gravel road that weaved through the trailer park, often coming to the edge, but never stepping into the street. Everyday the Paper Boy would come, deliver the newspaper, regard Oliver’s toys and then be on his way. Other than the Paper Boy and the Special Company visiting every few months, never coming back a second time, Oliver was left alone in the yard. Occasionally he had company from the Neighbor, a former Marine turned kindlybut-chronic-drinker-next-door. The Neighbor periodically stood over the open hood of his rusted, patchwork-primed Trans Am. On the rarest of occasions he even got as far as taking a wrench to a valve or hose on the engine, but in the whole of Oliver’s short memory no progress had been made. It was a Tuesday, and it was hot. Oliver’s mum somewhere in the house with her Special Company. The noise forced him to the edge of the lawn. He would never step onto the road. He pulled several bunches of the pebbles from its edge and built The Golem a fortress of rock. A battlement from which The Golem and his super heroic adventuring friends would enact justice and protect the weak. As he played, he became lost in The Golem’s medieval journey. The sound of gravel crunching under boot and the smell of garlic and motor oil snapped him out of the trance of his imagination. Returning to reality, he saw a large man standing over him. By adult standards The Man would have been considered short, but to Oliver, as he loomed over him, he was a giant. For a split second he could have sworn he looked upon The Grim. He was sure he was a villain, until The Man spoke. “You best be careful buddy, else you’ll end up in the road,” he said grinning. After the man spoke, Oliver knew he could not be The Grim. The Grim would not be thoughtful; The Grim would not look out for anyone other than The Grim. The Man continued, “The road’s dangerous, it’s not nice to little guys who get lost on it.” The Man hunched down over Oliver, casting his shadow over both him and The Golem’s fortress. Oliver flinched at the man’s proximity. The Man leaned back, but he did not step away. “It’s a snake that’ll bite off your little head,” The Man smirked as he snapped his teeth together with a hiss. Oliver fled into the house, leaving his toys behind. Once inside, he locked the door

behind him. He sat on the floor next to his mum’s chair, hoping she would come and comfort him, but knowing she would not. Outside The Man bent down and carefully reinforced the walls of the Golem’s stone fortress. The Neighbor stepped through his front door. The Man froze for a moment as the Neighbor peered at him. The Man resumed his reinforcement and the Neighbor

passed it off as “simply peculiar.” Oh-so-carefully closing it Louie?” The Man paused. “I As the Neighbor popped the behind him, he stepped through know what it really is, your mum Trans Am’s the door. His action figures told me, she’s my friend. She said hood, the Man gathered The greeted him on the porch. The it’s Oliver.” Golem and the other action Man had stood all the toys up in Oliver smiled, and figures, walking them over to a row, The Golem at the center. moved The Golem. the house. The Neighbor glared Oliver smiled. He checked the “My name, I had to give at The Man as he crossed the yard, and looked down the street. it to myself. Your mum named yard, The Man responded No sight of The Man, only the you, but my daddy named with a hidden chuckle. Neighbor leaning over his Trans me and he was a villain. I named Back inside the trailer, the Am’s exposed engine. Oliver myself Indian. All the greatest Special Company stepped out of returned to his fortress, finding it heroes and warriors were the bedroom. He was better than when he left it. Twice Indians, and I became a good fat and hairy. As he walked as tall, twice as strong, infinitely man when I gave myself that to the bathroom, Oliver saw more glorious. name,” Indian finished. everything: all of the parts he Each day the strange Oliver’s hand trembled. knew he should never see. Even Man passed, and each day he The action figure dropped parts half hidden by fat. All of passed closer and closer, finally out. Over time, the comments the parts he never wanted to see crossing through the yard. Prior expanded beyond broad again. Despite his disgust, Oliver to that, the only one who would greetings and generalities; they wished that one day the Special cross through the yard was the became open doors. Doorways Company would be nice, that Paper Boy, everyday bringing through which Oliver refused to one would stay, that he would be more. Eventually The Man step. Invitations to conversations his dad. But they were never nice, passed through daily and freely as the boy did not want to have. they never stayed, they would though he were strolling through Day by day Indian tried never be his dad. After using the a park. The only exception being something new, saying something bathroom the Special Company if The Man saw the Neighbor about the neighborhood, stopped in the hall, looking on at his Trans Am. On those days, cartoons, superheroes, even the boy through small dark eyes. The Man journeyed at an absurd Oliver’s mum. With the crossing He entered the bedroom. distance, inconveniently far away. always came a kind word, a warm A moment later his mum One day The Man greeting, a comment on Oliver’s shouted, “Get outside! Mummy’s stopped. “I know your name,” he toys or the cartoon or superhero got company! Go play in the said. t-shirt he was wearing. Oliver did not like it, Oliver did not like Indian, “Oliver ceased to see a man, he now only saw a monster.” but he was always so polite, and knew the names of all yard!” Oliver glanced up. the toys! Nothing worked, Oliver Upon his mum’s yell he “Is it Glen? Maybe never responded. got up to the door. Reuben?” Until one day Indian hit “And don’t slam the Oliver looked away. upon the right detail. “You know goddamn door on your way out!” “Maybe it’s Huey, Dewey or The Golem really isn’t the hero,

he’s the villain. The Grim’s the hero, but The Golem stole his identity and does evil in a good man’s name.” With his eyes as big as hubcaps on the Trans Am next door the boy could not help but retort as the passion for his hero flared within him. “No he isn’t! The Golem’s a good guy.” Halfway through his second sentence he teetered. His stance wavered and the fear of talking to Indian overtook him. “Let me show you, back in my trailer I have the proof. I got all the comic books. All the original issues. Goin’ way back into the sixties. When I was little, fresh little pumpkin peach like you,” he said. Indian reached down for the boy. Oliver shrugged him off. Taking The Grim, he ran inside the trailer. Several weeks passed. During that time, the only person to cross the yard was the Paper Boy. His mum had no visitors, and Indian did not come. Even the Neighbor failed to make an appearance, having given up on the now tarp covered Trans Am. Finally, Indian appeared again. Indian stood far up across the other side of the road, acknowledging Oliver with only the slightest of nods. Paralyzed at the sight of Indian, Oliver stood, regarded him, holding his position in the yard, but not waving back. As the next several weeks passed, summer turned to fall. The days grew colder and more damp, the papers came later, and the sun set earlier. Indian once again inched closer and closer to the yard, until he was again crossing the yard, returning to general pleasantries he greeted Oliver, “Hi little friend.” Now thoroughly the heart of fall, the leaves were a dying rainbow of red and orange. Oliver grew comfortable with the routine. The moment of encroachment a long forgotten memory, Indian’s passing became the highlight of remarkably uneventful days, greater even than the delivery of the newspaper. One day, moments after the Neighbor parted from his again untarped Trans Am and disappeared into his shed, Indian stopped in the yard. In his hands, a comic book featured the splash title “THE GRIM AND THE GOLEM.” Oliver did not know the comic book, but he knew the characters. Entranced by the cover, Oliver yanked it out of Indian’s hands. It featured a weeping Golem standing over a grave that read “Here lies The Grim.” The title at the bottom read, “Brother’s Keeper.” Oliver did not know what the words meant, but he knew they were beautiful. With greater desire than he had ever before known, Oliver wanted to open that comic book. To step through the doorway of the mylar bag and live in that better more vibrantly colored world. “You like it?” asked Indian. Oliver responded with a nod. Indian leaned into the space of the boy, Indian’s beard brushed Oliver’s cheek. The beard scratched the boy’s soft skin just a little, but he did not move away. In the discomfort he felt a closeness he never felt with a grown up before. A warmth that the Special Company nor his mum ever showed him. Oliver thought this must be what it is like to have a dad. In a whisper, Indian asked, “Do you want to see more?” This time, Oliver spoke clearly, loudly, full of anticipation, “Yes!” Saying it the way he would have said it if his dad asked him to go for an ice cream, wherever and whoever he was. Indian nuzzled Oliver. Oliver wanted to inch away, to flee the grotesque encroachment, but again he froze in the intimacy. “I’ll tell you all ‘bout The Grim and The Golem, and Hero, and his son Hero II, even Vigilance. All of ‘em. I know all their stories. I have all the comics, and more toys even than you!” he shouted. It again confused Oliver. He did not understand why Indian knew about the action figures, why he knew so much about comic books and cartoons, but again, he battled back his worry for the sake of this strange new closeness. “Come to my trailer, I have boxes of ‘em in my bedroom,” said Indian. Indian leaned back and took Oliver by the hand. Oliver extended the comic up to the man, but Indian pushed it back upon the boy, “No, no, you hang

onto that. That one’s for you.” With the comic book dangling down behind him in his free hand, Oliver walked hand in hand with Indian. They strolled out onto the road and down over the crest of the hill. Just after they were out of sight, the Neighbor returned from inside his shed, dragging a soiled gray tarp behind him. Staring at the space vacated by Indian and Oliver. He shrugged and covered the Trans Am with the tarp. Down they went, down to a spot, hidden behind uncared for hedges and bent jagged shrubs; there, Indian lived. The yard, filled with car parts and various other elements of mechanical junk and construction debris, was a virtual wasteland. Near the door sat a pile of trash, mostly discarded pizza and takeout boxes. Flies and maggots populated the stack. Oliver halted. With a whimper he said, “I want to go home.” Before Oliver finished his sentence, Indian swung a short piece of rebar, splitting the side of Oliver’s skull. He failed to knock him unconscious. Still clutching the comic book, his eyes searched for an escape that would not be found. With a yank, Indian pulled the now bloody comic book from Oliver and tossed it on the porch. He took Oliver, dragging him by his foot. Blood trickled from the wound across the yard, then the porch and then into the house. Oliver’s exposed skull bumping over the metal at the base of the screen door. Inside the house, Indian stood over Oliver. The house stunk even more strongly of garlic and motor oil than Indian. Oliver ceased to see a man, he now only saw a monster. With his dark deep set eyes and his roundness, Oliver was reminded of The Grim. The villain who shared the appearance of the hero. Oliver saw The Grim, Indian was gone. Oliver took away the last lingering threads of humanity that The Grim carried, nothing of The Man could be left. That made it better. As The Grim dead-bolted the door behind him, Oliver thought of the screen door. “He left the screen door open.” Oliver’s last clear thought. The hours and days that came after were a haze of pain and confusion. A million images a second with crystal sharp clarity in his mind. He could not feel them, but he saw them. The images taunted him, like a collection of memories that did not belong to him, but belonged to someone who lived long enough to understand what they meant. For days it went on and on. The Grim did terrible things to Oliver. Oliver wept and bled. He saw The Grim during the torment. He only understood the pain, pain being all he came to know. His last knowledge. His deepest. Oliver decided The Golem did not exist, there was only the betrayer, only The Grim. Upon this realization he gave up. He stopped believing in God. He stopped believing in his mum. He stopped believing he ever had a dad. He stopped believing in superheroes. There was no good, good was a figment of a child’s imagination. A product of a small boy’s split skull. After a week, infection set in. The gash split wider each time The Grim tormented him. The wound throbbed, the world pulsated and bent in all directions with great awful surges of blistering pain. The gash festered, and with the stench growing ever more pungent, The Grim grew tired of Oliver. In the dead of a crystal clear fall night, under the light of the moon, The Grim took Oliver, cradling him in his arms and carried him out the back door of the trailer. Through the tall dead corn and into the deep dark woods on the other side, The Grim carried him. There in the woods at night, using an industrial steel wire, The Grim strung Oliver up, threading a noose of cold metal wire around his neck. The Grim released him, the wire tightened, slicing into Oliver’s thin neck. The pain did not register for Oliver. He did not know there to be new pain, or more of it, only that it continued. It was pain on top of pain. He hung in the breeze, swaying back and forth, the resultant twitching, a muscular reaction. He did not try to escape. As Oliver hung from the tree, his life squeezed out of him. He saw The Grim, doing something to himself. Oliver did not know what it was, but

he knew it was bad. Oliver did not know it yet, but he had died, the image of the hunched Grim became his last memory. The Grim roared in satisfaction and stumbled away, back through the forest and into the corn. The boy’s lifeless body swayed in the breeze. The hurting stopped. There was only one feeling left and it was that of numbness. There was one more thought, “My mummy doesn’t know I’m gone.” Then once and for all, nothing. The boy’s corpse hung, swaying, waiting to be found. Suddenly there was a great bright light. Great columns and colonnades surrounded the courtyard to an ethereal trailer park. The sun beamed as though it came from everywhere at once. Everything glowed, the world smiled. Thousands upon thousands of cartoon characters and human sized action figures stood cheering at the center of the courtyard. Oliver noticed his mum next to The Golem, together calling him over to them. Picking Oliver up, The Golem cheerfully heaved him up onto his shoulder. Overhead, several fighter jets darted by leaving a wake of fireworks that read, “Happy Birthday Oliver!” A whimper on the wind the boy stood. He looked up, there he saw himself, hanging from a tree, snow upon his shoulders, the ice preserving his body. He knew he was dead and that was okay. He knew what dead bodies were, they were corpses. He was kind of like a superhero now, Corpse Boy. He glided above the snow. Watching himself as the leaves trickled down around his corpse he wondered, “How did I die?”