Honey and Vinegar
Kevin Roller
“Let me tell you a little story,” Darla said as she laced up her boots. “My family moved around a whole lot, ended up spending more than a few years in the South - middle-southern part of Georgia, nothin’ out there to see but gas stations and the occasional opossum. Crazy, flat land with lots of trees and lots of crazies. I bet you’re wondering how I wound up here, doin’ what I do.”
She looked at the slump man-shape under the stiff motel blankets. She chuckled.
“Yeah, your kind is usually quiet afterwards. Don’t worry, I’ll go soon. Kind of funny - you guys are all talk at first, but once things are said and done, I can’t get a word out of you. Maybe you’re guilty, worried about what the dowdy wife of yours would think if she found out. (Most of ‘em never do, so don’t sweat it, buddy.) Or maybe you’re trying to send me a signal, tellin’ me to shut my pretty little mouth and fuck off. One fella I knew - similar man to what’s in your position - called it a ‘nonverbal cue.’ Didn’t mean nothin’ to me then and it don’t mean nothin’ to me now, so you might as well listen. Might just learn something.”
She put her freshly-laced boot on the ground and walked towards the stained motel mirror. She uncapped her lipstick.
“Anyway, I don’t remember too much about the South. I remember the gas stations and opossums, like I said earlier, but I also remember the heat. I remember lots of greasy lookin’ men with striped sunburns and big guts. They paid well, once I got into - once I got into this, but not nearly as well as you northerners. But that’s not what I think about when I think about my time down there. No, you say the south and I start thinking about flies.
“I was constantly flicking them off my arms, off my thighs, off my lips. Somehow the flies could always find me - find the tip of my nose or the inside of my ear - night or day. I thought I was going half crazy. Once my mama threw her coffee into the yard because -- not one, but three flies dive-bombed into her mug right before she took a sip. Can you believe that? Three flies.”
The man didn’t move, the blankets pulled tight around his head.
“Well, it didn’t get much better from there. I thought flies had invaded our house -- that maybe we were in their house, and that we were the invaders. Just the year before in school I had learned flies are actually takin’ a dump on you when they land. Ain’t that just disgusting? Don’t that make your skin crawl?
“I used to flail all around, nearly crazy with crying, trying to move fast enough so that the bugs couldn’t land on me. My mama -- it was just me and her at the time, you see; my daddy, that dirty sonofabitch, ran off with a bartender while we were cutting through Wyoming -- she used to rage at me, get all kinds of pissed off at my antics. Once she pinned my arms behind my back and held me real still so that the flies could land on me - thought it might make me get used to the feeling of those tiny, tickly legs on my skin.
“Of course it didn’t help, but then again nothin’ did. She even sent me off to the local priest, but he did more harm than good, if you follow me. Not the first time I’d been in that kind of situation, but God damn it didn’t help, let me tell you,” she said with a chuckle.
“You’re being a good sport,” she said as she straightened her hair. “You see this comb? Nice comb, right? That priest gave it to me. Another red-faced guy but no big belly, which was surprising for some reason. In exchange, he said, for keepin’ secrets. At first I couldn’t touch it - couldn’t even look at it - then one day before school I noticed my hair was a mess. And I mean real messy, real rat’s nest. So I picked up that comb, had no choice. And you know what? It worked goddam great. So I kept it -- kept it for all these years. Don’t know why; I could afford another, thanks to guys like you. But I kept it.”
The man was still.
“Anyway, I’ll wrap this up. I can tell you want me to go. At some point I heard someone say you could catch flies with honey and vinegar. I now know it was just an expression - you catch more flies with honey than vinegar - but my tiny brain hear and, so I latched onto it. It seemed like a solution, at least. Better than losin’ it a little every damn night with nothin’ I could do about it.
“So I went down to the local convenience store - got some jars, some honey, some vinegar. I used a secret twenty my daddy gave me a few weeks before he split. It was real wrinkled - used to sleep with it in my hand.
“I was up all night settin’ traps, pourin’ a bit of both things into mason jars, stirrin’ the mix together with a spoon, then puttin’ them in different spots around my room. Under my bed. On my one shelf. A whole bunch by the windowsill and door. I thought for sure, by morning, that the traps would be filled to the brim with dead flies. The idea even gave me comfort, helped me fall asleep real quick that night.”
Darla sighed. She put her comb and her compact back into her purse. She began to count the stack of money left on the bureau.
“Anyway, here comes the bummer. You ready? It’s a doozy.”
She paused. Again he did not move, did not react.
“I never found out what happened. My mama, drunk off her ass, busted into my room. Smashed a couple of jars by the door. Started raisin’ all sorts of hell about the stink in there. She started wailin’ on me, and --shit - - think I snapped. I started hittin’ her. I started cursin’ and spat on her and knocked her back on her ass. She was screamin’ Darla, Darla, what happened to you? as I opened up the window and slipped out. I could hear her for maybe a quarter mile, cryin’ and drunk and stupid as all hell. Haven’t seen her since.”
She put the money -- over fourteen hundred -- in her purse, next to the knife and the man’s wedding band. She picked up his empty wallet.
“That’s a pretty name,” she said. “I bet you were a nice boy. I bet your mama cared about you. I bet you never had to think about keepin’ a comb or not.”
The man did not move. A small puddle of blood was beginning to form beneath the bed.
Darla left the room, wondering where she should go next.
“Let me tell you a little story,” Darla said as she laced up her boots. “My family moved around a whole lot, ended up spending more than a few years in the South - middle-southern part of Georgia, nothin’ out there to see but gas stations and the occasional opossum. Crazy, flat land with lots of trees and lots of crazies. I bet you’re wondering how I wound up here, doin’ what I do.”
She looked at the slump man-shape under the stiff motel blankets. She chuckled.
“Yeah, your kind is usually quiet afterwards. Don’t worry, I’ll go soon. Kind of funny - you guys are all talk at first, but once things are said and done, I can’t get a word out of you. Maybe you’re guilty, worried about what the dowdy wife of yours would think if she found out. (Most of ‘em never do, so don’t sweat it, buddy.) Or maybe you’re trying to send me a signal, tellin’ me to shut my pretty little mouth and fuck off. One fella I knew - similar man to what’s in your position - called it a ‘nonverbal cue.’ Didn’t mean nothin’ to me then and it don’t mean nothin’ to me now, so you might as well listen. Might just learn something.”
She put her freshly-laced boot on the ground and walked towards the stained motel mirror. She uncapped her lipstick.
“Anyway, I don’t remember too much about the South. I remember the gas stations and opossums, like I said earlier, but I also remember the heat. I remember lots of greasy lookin’ men with striped sunburns and big guts. They paid well, once I got into - once I got into this, but not nearly as well as you northerners. But that’s not what I think about when I think about my time down there. No, you say the south and I start thinking about flies.
“I was constantly flicking them off my arms, off my thighs, off my lips. Somehow the flies could always find me - find the tip of my nose or the inside of my ear - night or day. I thought I was going half crazy. Once my mama threw her coffee into the yard because -- not one, but three flies dive-bombed into her mug right before she took a sip. Can you believe that? Three flies.”
The man didn’t move, the blankets pulled tight around his head.
“Well, it didn’t get much better from there. I thought flies had invaded our house -- that maybe we were in their house, and that we were the invaders. Just the year before in school I had learned flies are actually takin’ a dump on you when they land. Ain’t that just disgusting? Don’t that make your skin crawl?
“I used to flail all around, nearly crazy with crying, trying to move fast enough so that the bugs couldn’t land on me. My mama -- it was just me and her at the time, you see; my daddy, that dirty sonofabitch, ran off with a bartender while we were cutting through Wyoming -- she used to rage at me, get all kinds of pissed off at my antics. Once she pinned my arms behind my back and held me real still so that the flies could land on me - thought it might make me get used to the feeling of those tiny, tickly legs on my skin.
“Of course it didn’t help, but then again nothin’ did. She even sent me off to the local priest, but he did more harm than good, if you follow me. Not the first time I’d been in that kind of situation, but God damn it didn’t help, let me tell you,” she said with a chuckle.
“You’re being a good sport,” she said as she straightened her hair. “You see this comb? Nice comb, right? That priest gave it to me. Another red-faced guy but no big belly, which was surprising for some reason. In exchange, he said, for keepin’ secrets. At first I couldn’t touch it - couldn’t even look at it - then one day before school I noticed my hair was a mess. And I mean real messy, real rat’s nest. So I picked up that comb, had no choice. And you know what? It worked goddam great. So I kept it -- kept it for all these years. Don’t know why; I could afford another, thanks to guys like you. But I kept it.”
The man was still.
“Anyway, I’ll wrap this up. I can tell you want me to go. At some point I heard someone say you could catch flies with honey and vinegar. I now know it was just an expression - you catch more flies with honey than vinegar - but my tiny brain hear and, so I latched onto it. It seemed like a solution, at least. Better than losin’ it a little every damn night with nothin’ I could do about it.
“So I went down to the local convenience store - got some jars, some honey, some vinegar. I used a secret twenty my daddy gave me a few weeks before he split. It was real wrinkled - used to sleep with it in my hand.
“I was up all night settin’ traps, pourin’ a bit of both things into mason jars, stirrin’ the mix together with a spoon, then puttin’ them in different spots around my room. Under my bed. On my one shelf. A whole bunch by the windowsill and door. I thought for sure, by morning, that the traps would be filled to the brim with dead flies. The idea even gave me comfort, helped me fall asleep real quick that night.”
Darla sighed. She put her comb and her compact back into her purse. She began to count the stack of money left on the bureau.
“Anyway, here comes the bummer. You ready? It’s a doozy.”
She paused. Again he did not move, did not react.
“I never found out what happened. My mama, drunk off her ass, busted into my room. Smashed a couple of jars by the door. Started raisin’ all sorts of hell about the stink in there. She started wailin’ on me, and --shit - - think I snapped. I started hittin’ her. I started cursin’ and spat on her and knocked her back on her ass. She was screamin’ Darla, Darla, what happened to you? as I opened up the window and slipped out. I could hear her for maybe a quarter mile, cryin’ and drunk and stupid as all hell. Haven’t seen her since.”
She put the money -- over fourteen hundred -- in her purse, next to the knife and the man’s wedding band. She picked up his empty wallet.
“That’s a pretty name,” she said. “I bet you were a nice boy. I bet your mama cared about you. I bet you never had to think about keepin’ a comb or not.”
The man did not move. A small puddle of blood was beginning to form beneath the bed.
Darla left the room, wondering where she should go next.
