A River Runs Through These Three Points of View
Jacob laid the body at the banks of the tiny green river that ran behind his house. He looked down at the body, the body of his pool cleaner. Bob. He had never been close to any of the workers. They were like ghosts in the house. No one was to speak with them or ever acknowledge their existence unless they screwed something up. Bob was different though. First of all, Bob was a good fuck.
Jacob had been sleeping with Bob since that night by the pool when Jacob noticed how cute Bob’s ass was, how round it was, and how snug it fit into his jean cut-offs. Now that hot ass was lying in the cold mud, dead.
Bob had hung himself after losing his job. Jacob’s father found the two of them in bed and ordered Bob out of the house immediately. Jacob looked down at his lost love and cried, wondering how his father could do this to them.
The river was his only hope now. His mother had told him stories about the magical river when he was a boy. She had told him that once, long ago, a princess had brought her dying prince to the river’s banks and placed him into the waters, instantly reviving him.
He’d always thought the story bullshit, a product of his mother’s nightly martini binge, but he had to try something.
Jacob slowly pushed Bob’s body into the water. He waited for the glow that his mother had always so vividly described, but no glow came. Instead, the body began to float downstream.
Jacob ran into the river, his hands flailing, splashing him with water and muck. He reached for the body but stopped at the sound of a bellow from behind.
“Freeze, asshole!” the man in blue screamed. “You’re under arrest.”
I hate canoeing. I hate canoeing.
“Gabe,” my father asked, “Enjoying the trip?”
“Oh yeah, Dad.” I proclaimed in my best impression of a happy camper.
“I love canoeing,” said Dad.
I HATE CANOEING! I hate the smell of my father, who never showers before we go out on one of these little adventures. I hate the stench of the water and the mosquitoes. The smell of the bait I don’t mind much, but God do I hate the fucking mosquitoes. Being away from my computer for so long is hell. I hate the outdoors.
“Isn’t it wonderful to be outside for a change, son?”
“Yeah, I love the air. It’s so fresh.”
I’ll tell you what’s fresh. The Fresh Prince. He’s fucking fresh. And I’d be watching the fucking marathon on the WB right now if I wasn’t here rowing this fucking sack of shit, watching the water rush by, the cool blue-green, and the body—
“Oh my God, Dad, it’s a body!”
My dad, half-drunk from his first three brews, looked at it and said, “Nonsense. It’s just an alligator.”
“There aren’t any alligators in Maine!”
I continued to row, a little harder now.
I hate canoeing.
Bob, by this time, was at the end of the river, and by this time he was waking up. He had a terrible headache and his ass was sore. He remembered that he hadn’t pulled the butt-plug out before hanging himself.
“I HUNG MYSELF?” he screeched.
What the fuck was he doing alive? As he rose from the river, he felt the heat of a thousand flashbulbs of flickering off at him. Cops, newspaper people, they were all around. How had they gotten here so fast? Why were they all here?
“We’ll pay one mill for your story!”
“Will you talk to us?”
“Will you fuck me?”
“Don’t fuck her. She doesn’t deserve that big hog of yours. Fuck me!”
He looked down and saw his thick phallus flapping in the wind. It was only then that he realized he wasn’t wearing any pants.