Captain Carnivore’s Phantasmagorical Hydrochloric Fork

by Jason Baltazar

There was once a wee scrawny birdling of a boy quite confused in his manners at table.

[Quite confused, indeed. Go on.]

And being quite confused, this skin and bone birdling, who had hopped down the stairs from his neat little nest holding the bannister in one hand and his mumble-grumbling belly in the other, sought the counsels of wise Captain Carnivore.

<He always forgets Lady Lipstick.>

[He does seem to, doesn’t he? Come now sweet birdling, leave none overlooked.]

And also elegant Lady Lipstick, ever attending the Captain’s side. What, he had inquired of them, can be done to calm this cramping belly? At which Captain Carnivore proclaimed, Welcome to my splendid idea! producing forth his one, his only, his phantasmagorical hydrochloric fork, gleaming green and all a-bubble through the glass of its barrel. 

[And welcome to my splendid idea still, dear birthling, even aft er such time has passed.]

<Take care to hold it properly, your manners reflect upon your instruction.>

[Indeed. M’fl edgling, you recall the appropriate grip?]

The birdling squeezed his fist around the handle of the fork in backhand control, needles down, with his thumb resting over the plunger.

[The proper posture?]

The birdling made an L of his arm and raised the fork high overhead.

[Quite so. Proceed.]

But the birdling looked down at his supper and did not care for the way that it squirmed, wrinkling up the dining linen. In fact, he was still very upset over how the supper had kicked over his glass of one hundred percent all-natural juice cranberry juice with its flat-soled canvas shoe, redding all over everything. He found red a disquieting color. A very loud color, in fact. May I ask again, he inquired of his instructors, seeking the reassurance that he had been appropriately guided, what the Captain is in captaincy of?

[Again again again, I reassure you it does not matter one iota of what I am captained in, when, how often, or by whom, for do you not concede that I am the very picture of command? Whence these epaulettes, if not years of service?]

The birdling observed that the epaulettes were exquisite and authoritative.

<And if not a Captain, would I ever bother to wind and intertwine?>

The birdling observed that Lady Lipstick did drape adoringly about the Captain’s form.

[So, my fleshling, settle the matter that once again brought you begging.]

The birdling’s belly clenched tight as his hand upon the fork. Glancing from the epaulettes’ bullion fringe to the impish penciled upsweep of Lady Lipstick’s cat eye, hunger won out. The fork came down.

With a push of the plunger miraculous change occurred: the former thigh joined to the majority of the supper via thigh meats and femur bone tumbled and twisted, transubstantiating with hiss and sizzle from food to food like the fruit reel of a slot machine. In the flash of an eye Salisbury steak to asparagus with hollandaise drizzle to chicken a la Duke, demoted in the birdling’s estimation due to very little chicken, mostly pea and mushroom. At last the former thigh lay wobbling in its final form, a jellied beef mold all a-glisten in the curved shape of a swimming carp, olive for an eye.  

And as that fork-induced miracle unfolded, the supper spoke out: “Avast!

Alack! Aghast!”

What, the birdling inquired, does the supper say? For the enunciations made unappetizing accompaniment, disturbing the genial quiet he would prefer.

[Why, my darling peeper, would I ever learn to speak meal when all the wide, vociferous world turns its tongue to me?]

<To him. To him!>

The birdling would have joined in Lady Lipstick’s toast if not for the overturned one hundred percent all-natural juice cranberry juice.

“Begat! Began! Begone!”

Nonetheless the birdling hovered irresolute, suspecting still that the supper’s words signified some underlying meaning. 

[No no, suspicion leads you astray. Signification never occurs upon the saucer or the spoon. These are merely material noises, escaping gas, juices sett ling upon the plate. Trust is the only way forward. Trust your Captain.

Wisdom resides in the teeth, my boy. In the Mother. Fucking. Teeth.]

And the birdling, fearing the discipline that is the prerogative of those conferred a position of command, did finally slide the fork through translucent brown aspic and lift ed the jiggling slice to his beak. Upon the table the supper slipped to a tonal drone at back of its throat, the key unpleasant but generally improved over its prior vocalizations. Savor seeped into the birdling’s tongue and he hastened to swallow as he had also begun to discern the distinct taste of a somewhat contented lower middle class life conducted in a historically Polish neighborhood filled with one-off  eateries and a politically engaged bicycle shop. May I, he inquired of his instructors, be excused?

[Oh no no NO, my beastly boy, most certainly not. You have not yet fulfilled duty of table. Here we do not nibble, we clean our plate.]

The birdling averted eyes from Lady Lipstick’s frustrated tear at the Captain’s wool gabardine sleeve, but not before the sight of it recalled a snippet of documentary-style film depicting a wheel of wolves so tossing their snarls around a focal patch of red, red snow.

I have, the birdling explained, had my fill.  

[You have fussed and finnicked. It will not do, not at all. In. Th is. House. We. Con. SUME.]

And the birdling shrank back as Captain Carnivore unhinged his jaw.

Mouthdark dilated wide as the table and the Captain’s chin met the polished hardwood floor. Lady Lipstick slithered up his arm and peeked from behind an epaulette, purring a cat’s purr. Captain Carnivore commenced to lift  the dining table in its entirety, tilting it at such an angle that all of its contents slid into the chasm of his appetite: the moaning supper, the thigh-cum-beef carp, the embroidered place settings, the summery centerpiece of baby’s breath and canary violet, and even the dining linen too. When the Captain’s jaw cracked closed louder than the table crashing back to ground Lady Lipstick dabbed his lips with the hem of her skirt.

[Now, you know too well what happens when poorly behaved bird boys neglect their duty, do you not?]

Yes, the birdling admitted that he did.

[We await.]

So, dejected, regretting once more his inability to stomach a perfectly serviceable meal, the birdling carried the phantasmagorical hydrochloric fork to its place of honor in the heirloom china cabinet, resting upright upon a mahogany display stand custom-built for this purpose. He wished more than anything he was capable of living up to that instrument, that his own appetite was the equal of the expectations placed upon him, free of doubt and hesitation. He moped into the foyer and opened the storage closet. Reaching past his father’s batt le coat and his mother’s many furs, he pulled down his own all weather birthday suit. He stepped into its limp legs and shrugged its shoulders over his nubby wings. Clothing himself inside with a whine of zipper he stepped outdoors, resigned to procure another bite of supper.

(He braced against the porch railing, the eff ect of leaving the house always a fog of confusion, as though brought awake of a sudden from the most lucid dream. In the dream he had family, and with the family guidance, values to structure the performance of his life. But out here on the porch beneath the evening birdsong drifting down from the sycamores he was just a man. A lonely man who lived a quiet life, a little uncomfortable in his own skin.

A man who found himself quite hungry. He set off  for town.

He distributed a share of customary nod-and-smiles to those who recognized him, or, if not him per se, the shape of the man he presented in type or kind. He passed among them efficiently in the birthday suit. In the pale line of scalp exposed by the crisp part of his hair they found certainty, in the moderately gelled sheen of his slick back, control, each quality a reassuring sign of existence within an ordered universe. The shirt always pressed and butt oned, but never a tie–business casual. He was responsible, not formal. And the shoes, well! The shoes were fun! The winning detail of the entire skin: moderately expensive limited edition sneakers updated every other season. In so many inches of coated leather and vibrant textile pattern others located precisely the quantum of personality to earn their charm. Fun!

At the bison-themed sports bar and family restaurant he nursed two upper-Midwestern pilsners and volleyed pleasant conversation with the bartender, only idly watching the innings of a baseball game wind down. She complimented his moderately expensive limited edition sneakers, to which he replied that he appreciated the classically shaped yet expressively pastel colored frames of her eyeglasses. She returned to his two feet of counter space each time she finished tending to another patron and he detected, or believed he detected, in her gaze the suggestion of an interest surpassing the mercenary duties of her employment.

What, he inquired of the bartender, are you doing aft er this? To which she replied with none too subtle an undercurrent of satisfaction that she would entertain suggestions. He offered to make her a nice supper. She accepted.

And so, aft er the home team triumphed in a well-contested matchup, the two of them mounted the man’s walkway, the bartender complimenting the orderly beds of canary violet skirting the front porch. Are you, she inquired, the gardener? Yes, the man replied, my mother taught me to dig when my father was away.

Then he showed her inside.)

Upon stepping through the wee scrawny birdling returned to himself, the familiar air of the ancestral home infusing him with welcome. His birthday suit itched and pinched something terrible. Much as he longed to be shed of it though, his movements were slowed at thought of the ordeal facing him, yet another attempt at making meal.

[Psst! Don’t dawdle, my birdling, show our guest to the dining area.]

<Yes, let’s have a proper look.>

Obeying these excited whispers, the birdling ushered the dove who had followed him home into the next room, indicating a seat at the bare midcentury table. Please, he said to her, make yourself supremely comfortable while I prepare, it won’t take long. I shall, was her reply. Turned away, he opened the china cabinet and took up the fork from its display. Heavy, he found it, so incredibly weighted with expectation. Behind he heard the rustling of the dove making herself supremely comfortable. His belly clenched and his fist seconded the notion. This time he would carry through and live up to his peerless instruction. He wondered what form the fork would settle upon, hoping for a generous slab of chopped steak in country gravy. 

[Now now, manners, sweet birthling. Present to us your guest and then vise the versa.]

I would like, the birdling said while tugging upon the zipper tab below his chin, greatly relieved to feel air move across his true and purpled flesh, to make a few introductions. Captain Carnivore cleared his throat behind the drywall, Lady Lipstick snickered within the radiator pipes, and the birdling spun, gripping the fork in the manner appropriate for an initial carving. But then, rather than completing the formal introductions, he stood instead immobile and a good deal taken aback while the secret corners of the house gasped in shock.

The dove lay crumpled at the feet of an altogether different houseguest, one who stepped free of her own all weather outerwear, rolling confinement from reticulated flesh and long, prominent bones. She licked a black tongue across disorderly teeth, and the birdling saw brandished in her own right hand nothing else but the thick tarnished steel of what had to be a true believer bereaving cleaver.

[It simply must be! Have you no sense at all in your birdbrain? You’re supposed to fetch us meals, meals, and you’ve dragged in this scandalous feral. Look away, boy! Flee!]

<Troublesome tart! Shameless virago!> 

The birdling stood so rapt in astonishment that the Captain’s directives went ignored and instead he pulled back the birthday hood to stare unhindered into the coal black sockets of this most uncooperative meal, into the shards of night glass that shined there. He had never seen such a dark outside of his mirrored reflection. Within his keel-shaped chest the wings of infatuation took flight. He glimpsed in her shuddering movements his entire future, a life shared between them that did not depend upon instruction but rather a patient, attentive learning, and more than that, he felt himself leaning decisively toward that future, wanting to make it both real and now. He detected, or believed he detected, a reciprocal desire in her gaze beyond the assessment of risks he posed as an object of prey.

[That is not how it goes, sonny boy, try again. She’s nothing for you but a bad idea, false promise. I ordered you not to look, did I not? Take the kitchen exit, go now!]

<Obey your Captain! His house, his rule!>

Feeling the warmth of her from across the table he understood just how cold the house had become. In her presence he now realized the many ways he had truly been alone, that a house does not make a home, and deciding for himself that such revelations are too precious to ignore, he chanced a first step from dream into his possible future.

[NO, no future for you but a full belly. The getting of it, the having of it, listen listen listen close lad before it’s too late. Look into my medallions! Duty, you hear? You know it, such a strong pupil. You’re hungry aren’t you? Tell me, son, tell me you’re hungry, please. PLEASE!]

He shrugged free of the birthday suit entirely and lifted the fork, not in any of the carving postures but indication of mutual interests and compatibility. Much lighter now he thought, freed of limitations. Likewise, she tilted her cleaver across her chest proudly displaying the silver-scratched tallies ornamenting its surface, some of which seemed to be etched by a different hand, at which he whistled his genuine appreciation. Perhaps, he thought, they might converse well into the night on the topics of inheritance and legacy.

The next words that he spoke aloud did not address the Captain’s plea in the least.

Would you, he inquired of her, care to dance?

And so, in the lunar quiet of his house, they circled the table in each other’s arms, naked and without fear.

Jason Baltazar is a proud Salvadoran American, originally from the Appalachian corner of Maryland. His work has appeared in Boston Review, Quarterly West, Salt Hill, and other venues. He is grateful to have been nominated for Best of the Net, Best Small Fictions, and the Pushcart Prize in multiple categories. He teaches creative writing and literature at James Madison University. For more info, check out his website: www.jasonbaltazar.com.