The Story Garden 5.0
Flash Fiction
Punk
John keeps a raccoon tied to a tree. He makes it wear a dog harness he bought from the feed store. He put it on the raccoon after slipping him a mickey in a ball of hamburger.
He'd tried to name the raccoon a half-dozen times. He called it Rocky, after the Beatles' song, then Rory after some cute toy or something he saw once, then Glenda after Punk Halborn asked if he thought maybe it was a girl raccoon. Then Bandit because of the mask, then Shithead because of the mess, then Punk after Punk Halborn laughed at him one too many times. He still calls it Punk.
Every day after work, John goes out to the back yard to where the oak tree shades the area behind the garage, and he sits and talks to Punk, the raccoon. He has a theory, that if you are nice enough to something you can win it over. So he sits and tosses food to Punk and talks about whatever comes to mind. At first Punk didn't eat the food. He'd hide behind the tree and growl. But after a few weeks, Punk began sitting half way from the tree to John, eating the food and, John thought, listening to him talk.
Punk, the human stops by one day, while John's feeding his namesake.
"Ain't you shot that thing yet?"
"Why would I?"
"Cause he's a nasty, shit producing varmint and he probably has rabies."
"He doesn't have rabies."
"How do you know?"
"I know."
Punk, the human, sits on the other chair and spits toward Punk, the raccoon. "I don't care, I hate him. I want you to change his name."
John flicks an apple toward Punk, the raccoon. "We'll see."
"Call him Leanne. You don't know it's not a girl."
"I'm not calling him Leanne."
Punk laughs. "I ever seen a creature deserves to be called Leanne, it's that thing." The other Punk bites into the apple. "You see her much anymore?"
John grimaces and looks out past the tree and into the cornfield that stands in back of his place. "Couple times. In town. She doesn't ever say anything." John cuts a chunk off a carrot with his pocket knife. "She used to wave sometimes."
Punk, the human, picks up an apple and starts to peel it in a long thin strip with his knife. He gets a quarter of the way done before it breaks. "Marlene says you still send Leanne flowers. And a card at Valentine's Day."
John shifts in his chair. "Marlene ought not be blabbing."
"She's your sister. You tell her."
John looks sidelong at Punk and snorts.
"Anyway," Punk says, "you're wasting your money on Leanne. She's been with five other ones after you. At least."
John shrugs. "It's my money."
Punk shakes his head.
Every few days, John tests Punk, the raccoon. He saves the best food for last—in this case a big wedge of watermelon. He walks slowly toward Punk, who no longer runs and hides, and he holds the watermelon out for Punk to sniff. Punk creeps forward, sniffing and stopping and starting and sniffing, until he's close enough. John reaches out and tries to touch Punk and Punk growls and spins. John barely gets his hand back in time and he drops the watermelon. "That's okay," he always says, "I can wait."
"I still think you should call him Leanne," Punk, the human, says.
John shakes his head and sits down. "Nah," he says. "I just need better bait."
--F. John Sharp
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