LITR 3731: Creative Writing
Student Fiction Submission 2005

Micah Goff

Excerpt from The Clergyman

Delbert W. Dunghauser sat silently straining upon a carefully cleaned commode. Curiously faint, he noticed the odd coloration of the grout before his face crashed down upon the dirty tile.  The swelling over his right eye masked the hairline fractures that lay beneath the rapidly forming red and purple knots that marked his banged up brow.  His chin slid loosely upon the reddening tile, as his body jerked and bobbed in complete synchronicity with the rise and fall of the bare brown heel that violently beat down upon him.  The floor, a bloody testament of anger unrestrained, provided clear evidence of the beating laid upon Delbert by the three hundred and twenty three pound Samoan named Frank.

While Delbert laboriously raised himself to his hands and knees, the pudgy Samoan bluntly drove his fat brown knee into the small of his back.  Too weak to fight back, Delbert concentrated only on pushing the blood from his mouth to keep from choking.  For a moment, he looked at himself in the dark red pool of blood that lay beneath him on the gritty, urine-covered floor.  His eyes quickly shot to the reflection cast in the dim light of the restroom.  The light bounced off the misshapen line of his brow to the concave profile of his face, as the menacing Samoan stood laughing in the doorway of the plywood bathroom stall.  Delbert’s heavy gaze furtively fell to Frank’s fat feet, while he wondered if the blood soaked denim that clung tightly to Frank’s fat shins were any indication of the shape he was in.  He looked once more to the dark red pool, but his eyes failed him. 

Momentarily, Delbert heard the fat brown feet slide upon the gritty floor.  He heard the fat Samoan’s ankle pop as his weight shifted, and Delbert braced himself for the explosion that was sure to follow as the dirty brown heel came to rest between his head and neck, driving his face back down to the floor.  Delbert’s swollen purple lips shielded the bloody gums that lay behind as his face came to rest once more on the piss-marked and bloody floor.

Moments later, Delbert felt like the captain of a sinking ship.  He found himself face to face with the frailty of human life, as he lay in a pool of his own blood on the floor of the men’s room. Delbert lay completely still, floating between life and death, not quite here and not quite gone.  Then, for the first time in his life, Delbert made a conscious decision to continue breathing.  With every breath he grew stronger and more determined to rise from the bloody floor.

Suddenly, Delbert lunged forward, grabbing fat Frank’s leg and clinging to it with all his might.  He heard thunderous explosions as the Samoan’s heel peppered the numb area around his spine.  Undeterred, Delbert reached for Frank’s belt and began to pull himself up.  With his face buried in the sweat-laden inseam that floated above the fat Samoan’s crotch, Delbert tried desperately to hold the smelly Samoans wide waist with the hope of shielding himself from absorbing the fiercely directed knees that robbed him of the air within his lungs.  When he began to feel the Samoan’s knee hitting him in the groin, he knew that he was standing.  In an instant, Delbert found himself staring deeply into the dark, cold eyes of the fat Samoan.

  Delbert threw his forehead forward with all his might, disregarding the sound of snapping bone and cartilage as it gave way beneath the crushing blow.  He took a step back and watched as blood spewed from the freshly marred face of his aggressor.  Delbert drove his knee into the fat Samoan’s groin with holy rage, severing a testicle and mocking the vas deferens that lay broken between him and Frank. 

 The orange lights lit up the parking lot as Delbert stumbled to his car. Their beams illuminated the dark spots of blood that marked his every step and accentuated the angular deformities that plagued his new face.  He thought of the fat Samoan as he had left him—perfectly still.  He nervously checked the rearview mirror as the flashing lights screamed past him like rockets in the night. 

Delbert stumbled through the doorway of his tattered apartment only to stagger down the hallway and find himself again in the bathroom.  As he pulled back the clear curtain and stepped into the steamy shower, hot water swept across his numb body, reddening the skin that showed beyond the wounds he carefully washed. Unsure if he could handle one more fall, Delbert W. Dunghauser leaned heavily upon the shower wall and watched as the red tide slowly dissipated in the drain beneath him.

2.

His feet shuffled slowly as he made his way down the long, dark aisle. He approached the casket, unsure of what the body would look like. He looked down at the swollen head, the face almost distorted by the trauma.

“Is that really his head?” she asked.

“Yes,” he sullenly said.

She pressed against him as a flood of tears poured from her eyes, masking her intention and drawing the attention of all around. His body stiffened, and he pushed her away without acting. No arm around her, or even an acknowledgement of her presence, other than the words that passed between them. Eventually, she would saunter off, try to take advantage of someone else’s grief, maybe even get herself knocked up by someone who didn’t live in a trailer. 

He could care less. He stood in silence, like time was stopping. He stared at the mahogany box and noticed the way the light rested on the wood before spilling into the coffin.  He felt the rough grain of the cloth that lay just beyond the casket’s edge.  He felt the way that death had hardened his chest and shoulders and noticed the way his hands looked like they were glued together.

A few days’ stubble still present on his chin, he looked down and noted that the only thing that looked natural was his neck. He looked again to the swollen head that lay in the casket; it was like someone had used an air pump to add about twenty pounds of pressure per square inch.

“They could have shaved him.”

“Yeah” he whispered, the words caught between his throat and his tongue. 

“I don’t understand…” he heard nothing else for a while. He just stood there, lost somehow. He turned and walked away. He sat down slowly, choosing a pew far away from everyone. He needed to think, to be alone, unhindered by the ignorance of those around him. He placed his forehead in his palms and went away for a little while. The floor was green, dark, because it was covered by shadows. He could hear the sobs and moans; he hated them now. He hated the way everyone suddenly seemed so fake, so phony. To each his own, he thought.

He stood. Silence filled the room, and he could feel the weight of their eyes as they came to rest upon him. He walked. Each step a little slower than the one before, he tried to keep his head, but he felt like something inside him was about to break or come crashing down.

“Are you okay?”

He could feel her breasts against his arm. He paused, unsure of right and wrong. He said nothing and stared at death. His body stiffened, and he stood tall and nudged her away. He placed his hand on the dead, hard chest and let the moment pass. He turned and walked down the long, dark aisle. People bowed their heads, not wanting to look him in the eye. He raised his head, pushed his shoulders back, and made his way quietly out of the chapel.

He passed by the smokers on the way out and made his way to the parking lot. The air was cool and thick. He got in his car and drove, the world a blur as he headed off into the night. Disregarding the small voice inside of him, he went faster and faster. Now was as good a time as any to test death he thought. Faster he went, recklessly rolling all over the road. He finally slowed, just in time to save his life.

The car slid sideways, two and a half lanes where not enough to avoid the collision.  The cattle trailer was heavier than the imagined.  He felt the impact as it exploded against him.  In a moment he heard the gutteral sounds as the cattle painfully moaned.

“God”, he cried. He could smell the dying cattle and feel the blood trickling down his forehead as his eyes closed.  His eyes opened in time to see the red and blue lights bounce across his shattered windshield.  He could feel the warmth of the spotlight as it came to rest upon him.  His car shook as someone tugged and pulled on his door.

The two faces looking down upon him told him not to worry, that everything would be all right and to hang on.  He looked beyond their faces and thought that the sky had never seemed so beautiful. His eyes closed once more.

Manuscript Account

When writing this manuscript I started by visualizing the character, though a physical description is not included, I pictured a wiry red-headed man with a mustache.  Before I could begin, I needed a name.  I’m fond of alliteration, so after a few different ideas, I settled on Delbert W. Dunghauser.  I can’t really explain where the idea came from, except that when I started writing, I sort of got lost in the rhythm of the keyboard as my fingers tapped and glided across it, and when I paused, about half of the introductory scene was written.

            The in class discussion was particularly helpful in further development of the story.  I was hoping for some very specific feedback, primarily, I wanted the class to be able to see what was happening in the story as opposed to just reading about it.  Devon said that she had to quit eating while she was reading the story because of the graphic nature of the piece. While I don’t take any joy in interrupting her breakfast, I was kind of happy to hear that the scene demanded attention.  Mary Kate mentioned that she noticed an underdog theme in the story.  I had not intended this, but it seemed that this theme sort of resonated with those in the classroom.  In hindsight, this theme is probably the driving force behind all of the characters I hope to include in the story. I also let a friend of mine read the piece.  He seemed to enjoy it a bit more than many of the people in the class, that could be because he falls on my side of the he/she divide.  His feedback was interesting because he said that it was like a movie.  In fact, a few days later he showed me some illustrations of the story that he had created. The storyboard that he created was very helpful in the development of further scenes.  I also added an additional scene to the story.  I’ve been to a lot of funerals in the past few years, so I was able to draw upon my memory a bit.  I tried not to sensationalize or over dramatize the scene.  I’ve not had anyone read the addition as of yet, but I’m satisfied with the shape it is beginning to take. 

            As for the current status of the project, it is unfinished. I’m hoping to turn the piece into a short story.  Basically, I would like to add a few more characters, each experiencing their own personal calamity and ending up in the same hospital room.  I hope to add more dialogue to the story and hope to add a bit of dark comedy to the piece.  I also intend to build to a climax, an anti-climax really, with a final scene involving a preacher who visits the group. I want to write about things falling apart, about people breaking down and continuing on. 

My intention for the story is simply to finish it.  I would like to explore the notion of the anti-hero in some form or fashion.  In my wildest dreams I would like to create a book of character sketches similar to the ones I have offered in the manuscript.  I’m intrigued with the idea of creating a work that is along the lines of Edgar Lee Masters, with a particular interest in creating a social landscape filled with characters of my making.  I’m not really hoping for publication, in all honesty I could care less if anyone reads a single word that I write.  I don’t write for other people; I write because I enjoy creating something on my own.  I guess some might say that makes me a somewhat problematic social creature, especially when in the confines of a writing workshop, but, like my fiction scene, I’m really okay with it.