Simon and Potally

Simon had used up all of his brain tablets for the day. He was completely exhausted and still had to bend to the will of his sister; this meant running her errands. It was the little things that bugged him. Of course he could never talk back to her. Punishment was swift, and any word spoken after her decree would be added to his daily whipping schedule. Most days he required at least two straight hours of whipping. The first hour was done by a professional, thirty mintues was done by Potally herself, twenty five minutes was done by Potally's husband (a real jackass named Fio) and for the last five minutes he was required to do it to himself. Afterwards, she would lie him on the floor, stand on his back and give him the sternest talking to she could afford while still keeping her balance. 

Simon would not report the times to be great. "How are you doing?" one would ask, and he would be caught. Terrible, he thought. He was always on his way to some high fashion store or on some asinine errand, but yet he didn't know how to react. I'm not doing well, but I do not want to show that. Why should I bring them down just because I'm already there? But, be honest, he thought. So he would try to manufacture happiness. He would remember a hilarious joke he heard on TV. He would recall his friend doing the silliest, wiggliest dance. It never worked in time. About forty five minutes later his efforts would bear fruit. The shop keepers he visited thought it was his glee over their product. When he burst into almost insane laughter whilst buying his sister's wedding dress six months ago, kind Mr. Avero thought it was his ceaseless joy for his sister's forthcoming ceremony. "Keep it rolling, my good boy! You're a good brother too! Don't let anyone tell you otherwise." Simon chortled when picking up Potally's new art from the arrogant frenchman, Jean Sousan. This infuriated him because the painting was imagined and drawn by his recently deceased grandmother. She had put to canvas her last memory. Doctor at her side. She unable to move. Doctor staring deeply into her chart. Family at the foot of the bed, Jean Sousan gripping the metal bedframe, downcast Bozo the clown with balloons sagging. The worst news imparted. And this fruitball Simon had the leaking brainmelon to laugh about it! Jean Sousan stood over Simon. Simon was still reeling within from the laughter he wished he could express but did his damnest to hold back. Sousan nearly slapped him. He raised his hand, thought better of it because of Potally's stature in the community, and covered the averted action by blocking the sun, that streamed through the display window, from his sensitive eyes. 

Art in hand, Simon left Sousan's, walked his lonely path home and deliberated the day's happenings. He began to feel somber again. He stopped by a candy shop for a lolly. Leaving with three in his mouth and twelve in his front pocket, he began to feel better, lighter. A little sway from his hips merged with his step. His arms swung loosely beside his torso. They swung towards the sky. He stopped to wonder at them; they continued to swing. Now he skipped and hopped and cavorted. Neighbors and townsfolk saw him. Some laughed, some drummed and sang to his beat, and some bit at their novel covers. Suddenly Simon burst into song and spine wrenching frivolity. With such intensity and severity of exertion did he flop about, that the awful painting slipped from his grasp and sailed high into the air. Up and up and over rooftops it soared. He stopped, mortified. It just keeps going up, he thought.

"Rest assured it will fall, sonny," Sammy Old Timer mumbled. Simon could hear the old man's false teeth smack against his gums; they were surely secured too lightly. "I know it will fall, Old Timer. I just didn't expect it to take off like that."

"Yeah, well, some take off and some don't take nothin' at all. I s'pect it's cause a the paint dryin' diff'rent."

Simon just walked away. Head down, knowing the exact number of lashes he would receive. He stopped and sat on a stump, happy for shade. Run, run, perhaps I shall, he thought.

"SIMON!" Potally's voice ripped through the landscape, severing branches from the greenest of trees. He whistled his response that meant, "Coming quickly, as you command!" 

And so he returned to his sister. She was in her bed chamber, standing triumphantly on her love nest. She held a man's head in her hands. She tossed it from hand to hand and then caught it in the middle so Simon could discern the face. It belonged to his best friend Barno. "Where..." he began. She merely pointed. Barno was a consummate dancer. Of all types. His favorite was tap. And that is what he was doing. He was tap dancing his death beat, minus one head. Simon could tell it had not been long since the severing of his head, for his body was still mostly upright, and the beat was held solid. Seconds passed, and as blood spurted and spat to partake of its new freedom, Simon saw the torso begin to teeter. The legs stiffened to hold out, but soon could no longer. It flopped with a thud, the ankles still straining, and then it was done. 

"UNJUST!" Simon cried. In a moment too quickly passed to be analyzed, and with movements too frenzied to be interrupted, Simon ripped off his sister's crown and ate it jewel by jewel before her very eyes. 

"No!" She cried. Helpless she had become. "Please stop. Don't!"

But he didn't. And she watched. Having some trouble passing the massive jewel in the center of the head piece down his esophagus, he thought he had gone too far. Salivary glands working overtime delivered the lubrication necessary to shove the whole bit down. So I haven't gone too far, thought Simon. How far can I go? he wondered. So he grabbed his sister by the hand and took her out of her castle. She was trembling at every step, still gripping Barno's head. He took her to his tiny shack, fed her soup and placed Barno's head on his mantle, which stared bug eyed at his one prized possession, a nine foot grand piano. Potally was fed clam chowder in a breadbowl. She even at the bowl, which he had never seen her do before. And they talked. He told her his feelings. He reminisced, reminded her of when Dad married Mom and how funny it was that they couldn't remember that because they were not yet conceived. How odd that I cannot remember things before I was born, Simon mused. Potally, fearing her life was in danger chimed in at every available moment, affirming his correctness and rendering her voice raspy and overworked. His had more endurance - he was used to friendly conversation. And then he simply stared at her. She began to get the point at last. She realized what they had been to each other as brother and sister. He stared. Leaned closer and closer. She stayed put. They were almost touching noses. Deeply staring. When Simon felt there was nothing more to do, say, think or express, he jerked his head up, kissed her forehead and wandered off into the woods.

Brother and sister are born hand in hand, but it is not a bond that is long held sacred. A different sort of pair they are as growing siblings. Goes equally for a doubling of boys or girls. Each is unique, and each walk side by side, though they may be worlds apart, without pause, until the time of one or both's demise. If one is left alive they might breathe a sigh and finally know what it was all about, holding the other high in their memory. Some, frail and thin, might throw their hands up, exclaim some nonsense question and answer themselves saying, "Exactly!" And that too is what it was about; their lives together. Together, apart, one way or the other. Rolling, rolling, rolling, the train will meet its destination.

Choo choo.