The Language of Men by Anthony D'Aries Page A

trunk.
    Right here, okay? See how the fur parts between his ears. Along the spine. Down to his tail. Now this might not be textbook, or whatever, but I like to hang him upside down. Easier to skin that way, instead of, you know, holdin' em up with one hand and tryin' to cut with the other. He ain't gonna bite ya. He's dead. Anyways, I sewed his mouth shut.
    Watch. No blood. No guts, just strippin' the hide, like takin' off a coat. Little slimy under there, but that ain't nothin'. And I just keep slicin', over his ribs, his belly, down each leg, slicin' the membrane. Nice and easy.
    Gimme those shears, will ya? Oh, what do we got, a little Ted Nugent? Turn this up, boy! Those look like shears to you? Those are them. Hold'm steady and when I clip'm, keep that pan under his throat.
    The body's not so tough but the head's a bitch. Gotta be really careful and just use the tip of the knife around the mouth. The nose. Especially the ears.
    There we go.
    Toss the body. Cuz we don't need, it anymore. 'Less you want to eat him? Tie up that bag, too, or Mom'll freak. Then we dunk the hide in this pickling solution. Wring'm out good and keep'm in the fridge 'til we get the mannequin set.
    Some guys use plastic eyes, but I've always liked glass. The way they reflect. Both are tricky, though. If you don't get 'em centered, he'll be all cockeyed, one lookin' for a garbage can, the other caught in headlights. Won't look legit. Put a dab of clay in the socket, then push 'em in.
    Now we just wrap the hide around the mannequin. Pull it up around the legs like a pair of Levis. Stretch it over the back. Gently, real gently, pull the skin on the face, get all the features right. Pretty soon you could put him in the backyard and never know the difference. Hand me that needle and thread. Linen thread, not cotton. Cotton'll rot.
    We can make him hold somethin', if you want. Drill a li'l hole in his paws and squeeze in a pine cone or some shit. Paws got wire in 'em; we can shape 'em anyway we want. Go outside and see what you can scrounge up. I gotta take a breather anyway.

10
    MY FATHER ROSE at 5 a.m., shuffled his calloused feet to the bathroom and slid open the pocket door. After a brief coughing fit, he hocked into the sink. The exhaust fan rattled. A fart kick-started his long piss. Then he blew several quick, hard blasts into his handkerchief. Pocket door slid open, down the stairs, wood creaking and popping, sandpaper hands rubbed along the banister. Muted Weather Channel's blue glow. Silverware drawer, running water, coffee pot. Back up the stairs, bathroom, mug placed on the permanent coffee ring on the sink. Sparked a Winston, let it burn like incense on the wicker shelf. Shower. Scraped his jaw line with a razor, slapped Old Spice onto his cheeks. Down the stairs, checked the weather, coffee cup thunked in the sink. Into his Chevy, first gear, second, third, and I didn't see him again until four in the afternoon, when he coasted the Chevy back into the driveway, tossed his bloody white apron over his shoulder, and carried the scent of nearly forty years of tobacco and coffee and cold cuts inside.
    Seven a.m. My mother officially rose, though she'd been awake for hours, tossing, turning, mumbling. Shuffled out of bed in her pink nightgown. Into the bathroom for a bout with IBS, expelling yesterday's swallowed air. A sigh. Tossed my father's burnt Winston filter into the trash, down the same stairs, same Weather Channel, same coffee pot. Sparked a Marlboro Light. If she were cleaning houses, she took her rags from the dryer in the basement, packed them into a canvas tote, then collected the rest of her supplies: Windex, Lysol, an all-purpose spray called Simple Green, which she swore by.
    Perhaps these were her yacht club years, and instead of Windex and rags, she loaded a rectangular plastic bin full of restaurant checks, an enormous printing calculator balanced on top. Or she was a secretary for the dermatologist, so she'd been up since