Sikes Hebert: Triangle Player
by Chris Duncan
Entry number one: August 11, 1983. I am what one might call a musical
genius. Jesus gave me perfect pitch. Thank you, Jesus. In addition
angelic singing voice, I am a virtuoso triangleist or, if you prefer,
triangle player. My wit ain't bad either, let me tell ya. After a
meal I can arouse hysterical, pee-in-the-pants laughter by farting with
uncanny precision any of several requested ditties. I'm grounded and
a real people-person, small in stature, delicately fingered, lithe, and
attracted to hairy obese men that will treat me like the imp that I
am -- really
put me in my place. Smack me around. Humiliate me. What really gets
juices flowing is the right kind of fat-assed bastard who can eat a
hamburger with one hand and spank me and auto manipulate me with the
But I digress.
Let's see. What else? I knew I'd ramble. My hair is wispy and
yet transcendent, kind of like kelp at the ocean's bottom, flowing this
and that, gorgeous, an ingredient in ice cream. I paint my
nails -- nothing
ostentatious, mind you. My name is Sikes. Sikes Hebert. Not
It's French. A-BARE. I've just turned thirty, but I could easily pass
fifteen or, maybe, at least twenty-three.
I am speaking into a tape recorder because my shrink, Mr. Lipchitz,
I call "licks dicks") says that I am not in touch with the feelings of
inner child, and that I should record my thoughts. This led to a
the differences between thoughts and feelings. After two hours, he
told me to shut the fuck up and keep a fucking diary because he was the
fucking doctor and he fucking says so. Can one's very own doctor tell
shut the fuck up? I'm like, who's paying the bill here, buster? A
little respect would be nice. But, admittedly, people are often
by my intellectual capabilities -- particularly doctors. So I try to
their trite put-downs and occasional outbursts. I told him I'd keep a
tape-recorded diary until my hands healed from their carpal tunnel
(too much triangle practice and auto manipulation during my mid to late
adolescence). He shook his head and stared at me saying nothing,
amazed by the genius incarnate sitting in front of him.
So after a week of procrastination, I sit here atop my Betty Boop
comforter in my bedroom of my parent's trailer where I still live, rent
recording my very first diary entry. I feel warm in my trailer
of cuddly, like a puppy that's just eaten his warm milk and Puppy Chow
looking for a nice spot on the carpet to take a shit. My parents,
definitely unlearned and simpletons, recognize talent when they see it,
they take care of me, fostering my abilities all they can with what
they have. We all get along pretty well, me, Mommy, Daddy, and Jism,
albino cat, named, of course, by yours truly. I told Mommy and Daddy
Jism was one of the stars in Orion's belt. They just nodded their
said, "Oh, really." They haven't a clue where Orion's belt is. But
not a Leave it to Beaver congeniality at the Hebert household. Just
morning, Daddy told me to, quote, "Keep my perverted shit out of the
He can be so funny. "Daddy," I said, wrapping my arms and legs
home. "It's just a butt
He shook me with hostile belligerence and kicked me off, flinging me
the refrigerator; I could hear him mumbling none too quietly as he
out our trailer's front door, "Goddamned weirdo little freak bastard
sum'bitch queer-ass pansy fucker." Daddy can say what he wants, but he
me in triangles.
Entry number two: August 15, 1983. Fuck. First of all, I am
the nth fucking degree. Daddy has ordered me to, quote, "Put my lazy
ass in gear," and help my Uncle Gene on his bull-insemination farm,
conceptually, granted, does sound inviting and exciting and
stimulating, but in reality is grueling work. And totally thankless.
bulls don't give a flying fuck about anyone else. As long as they get
theirs, they could give a fuck less about anybody else's
needs -- bastards. My
forearms are getting so hard and gross; these purplish big veins keep
up like I'm a heroin addict or something. I'm even growing black hair
knuckles and big toes, due to my constant physical exertions with the
peckers. I've Naired them, of course, but Jesus, talk about
you have any idea how hard it is to jack off a bull? It ain't easy.
grunt and snort and whine and moan and crap and are just awful. Uncle
doesn't give a big shit. He's just like Daddy. They think it's funny
am forced to perform manual labor, even though my heart beats like a
hummingbird's, and I'm on beta blockers. Uncle Gene just says, "You're
Sikes. Keep jacking, boy." He sits on a wooden bench out in the barn
I'm on my hands and knees, struggling to hold this big hollowed out
thingy that I pull back and forth over the bulls' monstrous dongs, and
Lord, do they groan and carry on. Jesus, one of the bastards took
get off. I mean, good grief, my back is aching, my feet hurt, my neck
like it's going to fall the fuck off, and all Uncle Gene can say while
trimming his damned dirty nails is "Keep stroking, Sikes. I believe
getting close, boy. I can see him tensing up his ass muscles."
Christ! Daddy's got me by the balls. If I don't help Uncle Gene,
wife broke a hip trying to jack off Buddy, a real mean-assed prick who
considers his cock his and his alone (I know the type), Daddy won't pay
me to attend triangle camp at Julliard next fall. Daddy's mean and
Men on Wheels: Truck Driving Beefcake. "He's never going to
your triangle schooling now," said Mommy, whimpering, sniffling, close
I told her -- "Mommy," I said. "He'll pay." And you can bet your
ass he MOST CERTAINLY WILL PAY. I'm busting my hump here at No Bull
name of Uncle Gene's farm; I could definitely have come up with
better. What about Sweet Bullabies? Or, perhaps, Shooting Bull-its?).
fingers are so sore and calloused and cracked open. Neosporin doesn't
the pain. Mommy and I cried together tonight over the phone. We cried
said, "I'm holding you in my heart, Mommy," and Mommy said, "I'm
in my heart, too, Sikes."
Entry number three: August 17, 1983. Not good. Not good. Not good.
you get that? Not motherfucking good. "What's not good?" you ask.
let me tell you. I've got hemorrhoids that actually jingle jangle
legs. When you've got a hemorrhoid that hangs lower than your nuts,
you've got problems. They are bigger than big. They have a fucking
their own. One of them actually has its own heartbeat. I've seen it
pulsating. I told Uncle Gene, and he rolled his eyes. "Sikes," he
"You've got bigger problems. We've got to get a load out of Buddy
Imperative is a big word Uncle Gene is proud that he knows, so he
it a lot. Last week it was indubitably. Everything was indubitably.
sweat running down my back and into my ass-crack, I say to Uncle Gene
I'm jacking off Duke, who keeps smacking his lips together in a very
disgusting manner: "It's hotter than hell out here!" "Indubitably," he
Indubitably this, fucker.
I can barely walk. My cracked and calloused fingers are
tummy is upset. I've already commented on my anal problems. I called
and she told me she's running a warm salt-water bath for me in her
said, "Shit, Mother, I need a bath in your heart like I need a hole in
head. I need you to get me the holy hell out of No Bull. Triangle
starts next week, and I need to start practicing. Hang is already
completely embarrass me -- little bitch." Hang is this eleven-year-old
bitch who was born with a silver spoon shoved in her mouth -- or perhaps I
should say silver chopsticks. She mocks me with her triangle
virtuosity -- little bitch. Of course, some people can practice
seven instead of stroking bull cock all day long.
"Daddy ain't gonna pay," Mommy says, crying. "Not with you getting
perverted magazines in the mail."
"Tell Daddy it was sent to me by mistake!" I respond desperately.
"But it weren't no mistake, baby, and you know it. I know it.
knows it. Even Jism knows it. And honey?" Mommy says.
"What?" I say.
"Daddy found one of those dirty men flicks underneath your
Baby, it's filthy. It's filthy as filthy can be. Why, my heart felt
it'd been wading through a soggy cow pasture after I'd watched two
that...that...that shit, Sikes. I felt like I was caked with cow-shit,
"Which one?" I ask her. "Which one did Daddy find? Was it Forest
The Ass Menagerie? Huh? They're all pretty vanilla, Mommy. No
golden showers. Jesus, Mommy, I didn't mean for Pops to --"
Mommy cuts me off, saying, "You never mean to do anything, Sikes,"
she starts sobbing on me and hangs up. She doesn't answer when I try
her back. Great. Terrific. Then Uncle Gene screams at me: "Get off
phone, Sikes. We gotta drain Buddy's main vein. It's imperative.
up. God, boy, if somebody don't get you off your mama's tits."
So I limp out to the barn, feeling like I've got burning charcoal
stuffed up my ass, and all I can think is, fuck, I should be practicing
triangle. I am an artist! Uncle Gene reclines on his stool and starts
trimming his nails. "Don't spill any, Sikes."
Before he can finish I say, "It's imperative, right?"
He shoots me a dirty look. "Yeah, that's right," he says. "It is
imperative. We're talking white gold coming out that pecker, Sikes.
gold." He starts coughing and spits a glob of phlegm to the ground
would disgust a maggot. Uncle Gene breaks the string of phlegm with a
and says, "What you waiting on, an invitation? Get to it."
Every muscle in Buddy's gigantic body is quivering like he's in
middle of the DT's or something as I lower myself to my knees and
stare at the fake vagina thingy in my hands. "You might need to play
him for a minute or two, Sikes," says Uncle Gene between hacks. "He's
of slow to pop a boner."
My life is a living hell. I repeat: my life is a living hell.
Gene yells at me, "Tug on his nut sack, Sikes. Not too hard. That'll
rise out of him -- pun intended. Ha ha ha."
I'm sitting underneath Buddy, pondering why Jesus has deemed it
necessary that I endure this humiliation. I know He's my friend and He
better than I what I need. I smile. I really do. I smile, because
suffering artist -- a triangle player who will certainly be better than
will overcome. I will! I will! "OK, Uncle Gene," I say. "You're
right. I will tug on Buddy's nut sack." I'm happy and friendly and
world in acid-trip colors. I love everyone and everything, even my
motherfucker of an uncle who winks at me. "Now that's a boy," he says.
Life is great.
I even love Buddy. I'm going to get that white gold right now.
"Buddy," I say, grabbing a huge tube of K-Y. "Get ready for a trip to
Uncle Gene cackles at my antics and enthusiasm. "That's a boy,"
says. My world is sunny as I wrap my wounded hands around the most
set of bull nuts you can imagine. Buddy whines angrily and snorts and
shuffles his feet like he's a drunken eighty-year-old man at a Ralph
concert. "Easy!" screams Uncle Gene. "Massage, damn it! Don't jerk."
"What?" I ask, violently yanking Buddy's bulging
toward the floor. Simultaneously, I hear Uncle Gene scream, "Oh shit!"
see a hoof flying at light speed toward the middle of my eyes.
Jungle heat. I'm sliding down my drain into a pit of angry monkeys,
with shiny red asses, their teeth gnashing, and the air humid and
Entry number four: The day after my last entry. All is not well.
nearly decapitated me. I'm not exaggerating. Were it not for what the
neurologist called my "freakishly thick skull," Buddy's blow to my head
certainly have killed me. Thank God for thick heads. Anyway, Mommy
Daddy to let me come home to recuperate. So here I am in bed, my Betty
comforter wrapped tightly around my waiflike body, my hair wispy as
lips cherubic and awe-inspiring, and I'm sporting a rather chic patch
my left eye (Buddy's terrific kick to my head caused my left eyeball to
dislodge and dangle from my head. What a funny sight I must have been.
suppose I caused the EMT guys a good belly-laugh. Too bad I was
to experience the joy emanating from my soul. I give and give, and
never stop giving. People need people like me).
No Bull and my hideous Uncle Gene and all those huge bull peckers
like a distant nightmare now that I am back in the safety of Betty Boop
my doting Mommy's loving care. Mommy: what would I do without her?
been a real trooper: applying ice to my dangling hemorrhoids, a
task, certainly, but one which any mother would gladly do for her
adult/artist son. Mommy is very good with doctoring hemorrhoids; she's
out quite a bit in the past. After a really raucous weekend my lily
cute bubble bum usually needs some soothing, and Mommy is right there
it. Daddy just grimaces at me and Mommy. What an A-number-one asshole
can be! He wouldn't apply ice to my hemorrhoids if I were suffering
than Job -- you can bet your sweet ass on that one. At least the
going to pay for me to go to triangle camp. I'm so excited. Earlier
while Mommy was diligently applying ice to my ass, Daddy pokes his -- as
usual -- angry looking face through my door. "Sikes," he said. "You
to go to faggot camp?"
Ignoring his playful repartee, I gleefully answer, "Why, of
Bear. Baby Bear is so happy! Mommy Bear, did you hear what Papa Bear
Mommy, crying with delight, replies, "Yes! Yes! Yes, Baby Bear,
Mommy and I are crying with joy, literally sobbing with ecstasy,
Daddy guffaws and shakes his head and mumbles barely coherently as he
into the kitchen to grab a snoot of liquor, "Anything to get your freak
out of my damned house, pansy-assed sad excuse for a son dear God what
do to deserve this I should've pulled out why the hell didn't I pull
about a wasted load God Almighty."
"Mommy Bear?" I say, lying on my side while my mother plays
proctologist. "Baby Bear love you with all his heart." I growl like a
Mommy, kisses the top of my left buttock and says with a jovial
"Mommy Bear loves Baby Bear beary, beary much." Then Mommy growls at
love Mommy. Even Jism joins in the fun. He jumps up on my bed and
nipples; dainty nipples they are, a light pink, the color of fog
suns. I scratch Jism's head and wish for only a split second that
the ability to love like me, Mommy, and my little pussy.
Entry number five: September 1st, 2002. Yippee! I'm the happiest
thirty-year-old triangle player in the world. I'm at camp. I'm in a
room and, thank God, my floor has a community bathroom and there are
absolutely no partitions in the shower room. None. Zero. That
another yippee. Yippee! I mean...how humiliating and embarrassing
situation is going to be.
My raging 'roids are pretty much better. For precautionary
I apply large gobs (via my fingers) of Vaseline up my poop-chute prior
thrice daily BM's so everything'll be nice and lubed. I wouldn't want to
exacerbate an already tenuous situation, if you catch my drift.
What else? Hang has apparently got the big head now that she's
twelve and already has an orchestral position. It's all about who you
and who you blow -- little bitch! Oh well, at least at the end of the
have my self-respect and her best buddy'll be a jug of Listerine. That
catty, wasn't it? Mee-aww! Scratch! Scratch!
Segue time: Daddy, the evil motherfucker, didn't even bother
goodbye this morning. However, Mommy and I had a good cry together. I
Mommy'll miss me. And my cat, too. My little pussy loves me. Jism
so pitiful, I let him lick the peanut butter residue from my PB&J
from the backs of my molars -- he loves that, and I thought he deserved a
special treat since I'm abandoning him for a month. Daddy saw Jism
me, and he let loose with a diatribe of hateful expletives directed
yours truly (he also threw a couple of hateful remarks at Jism to
Mommy started sobbing, but I stood my ground. "Mommy," I said. "He's
Then I said: "Jism needs love too, Daddy! Go ahead, Jism, lick
want!" Daddy then tells me to get my shit out and that he never wants
me again, and that I'm an embarrassment to him and always have
been -- same old
shit, S.O.S., you know. I go up to him, my mean old sonofabitch Daddy,
hug and nibble on his right earlobe -- trying to be irreverent and whimsical,
know. I want to give Daddy love, my love, but he won't take it. I
playfully, "Papa Bear's a meanie weanie!"
Daddy takes a punch at me but I duck deftly. Daddy is too drunk
contact. He storms out of the trailer, and Mommy drives me to the
during which we both cry our gigantic hearts out. Did I mention my
clinically obese? No? Well, she is. Mommy told me that she'd like to
as fat as the universe, because that's how much she loves me. But I
Segue number two: Get this: The director of the camp tells me this
morning that "your name isn't on the registration form anywhere," so I
her, "Honey," I say, "I've been coming to this camp for over twenty
Somebody needs to get their shit straight and it's not me."
Mommy starts crying and I have to tell her to shut the fuck up
there in front of God and everybody. "HEE-BERT, HEE-BERT, HEE-BERT,"
twit keeps saying trying unsuccessfully to find my name on her stupid
"My name is A-BARE," I say. "A-BARE -- it's French."
The twit keeps shaking her head. "Nope, not on here. Nowhere."
People are starting to snicker. Why, I've been attending this
longer than most of these little fuckers have been alive! "What
to you play?" the twits asks me. Can you believe that! What
I'M A MOTHERFUCKING TRIANGLE PLAYER! EVERYBODY KNOWS THAT!
My lard-assed mother says, "Triangle. Sikes, plays the triangle."
Then the twit's eyes light up. "Oh," she says. "I've found you.
Somebody thought your first name was your last name. That's what threw
for a loop." I'd like to have thrown that stupid bitch for a loop.
a lisp, too. Did I mention that? Instead of Sikes she'd say Siketh.
about annoying. I'm definitely complaining to camp management about
treatment I've received. You should have seen Hang pinching off a
Hang, with her stupid triangle earrings, loves it when I look stupid.
her! She needs to go eat some roasted dog or something and leave the
triangle playing to me.
Whew! I had to blow off some steam. I just need to remember that
where I'm supposed to be and, Lord willing, an orchestral position will
a'knocking at my trailer's front door, and you can bet your sweet ass
ready to open it and say, "Howdy, Mr. Director, c'mon in!"
But I digress. I've got to go practice.
First I've got to go take a shower. I hear the water running.
©2002 by Chris Duncan