PICNIC ON THE RUNAWAY TRUCK RAMP

A highway curves along the flank of a shaggy green mountain. At the foot of an especially steep grade, where the pavement swerves away behind a jagged scarp, a mudcaked gravel path stretches straight into a narrow valley, culminating in a mound of rutted dirt. Presently a minivan, moonbeam blue, emerges from the haze hanging about the mountain’s crest. Clanking like a jalopy, a twist of duct tape flapping from its bumper, the vehicle descends—then, approaching the ramp, flashes its turn-signal. As it rumbles to a stop, coiling clouds of dust, the doors swing open, and the Family emerges: DAD lumbers forward like some prehistoric bird; MOM lugs a basket the size and heft of a small boulder; SON struts in a cowboy get-up, complete with holstered six-shooters; DAUGHTER squirms resentfully in a ratty pink dress.

DAD (stretching his arms). A fine spot! Just the place, Family, for our picnic.

SON (kicking a stone). Zip it, Dad. Why do you have to be such a corny retard?

MOM totters by with the basket, jowls trembling.

MOM. Don’t speak that way to Dad! Jesus will be angry.

SON. Jesus blows goats.

MOM (over her shoulder). Daughter, fetch the blanket from the van and bring it along.

DAUGHTER (scowling). Why do I have to do it? (She points to SON.) He never has to do anything! Is it because he’s a boy?

SON. I’ll go to war one of these days.

DAUGHTER. Big deal. Girls can go to war. Anyhow, you like war.

DAD. Nobody likes war, kids. (He strikes a patriotic pose.) But sometimes—Duty Calls!

DAUGHTER flounces past DAD, the blanket spilling from her arms.

DAUGHTER (muttering). Stupid, stupid, stupid.

MOM tips forward and drops the basket with a muffled crunch, then stumbles sideways to her knees. DAUGHTER flings the blanket on top of her. MOM swipes it away, scolding, then stands, thrusts one corner into DAUGHTER’s hands, and together they spread the blanket out over the dirt. Then, kneeling, they open the basket and, one by one, unload dozens of plastic tubs, jugs, plates, and cutlery. DAD circles the blanket, clutching the lapels of his cardigan.

DAD. Kids, a great man once said that our Founding Fathers were inspired by three core principles: 1) Give Me Liberty or Give Me Death, 2) Don’t Tread on Me, and 3) Every Man for Himself. I hope you’ll remember these notions and keep them as food for thought—because, when properly understood, they provide a solid foundation for understanding why we must fight when our values are threatened.

MOM. What on earth are you talking about?

Suddenly a squadron of fighter jets appears, roaring, in the sky. As they pass overhead, their shadows sweep the ground, flickering the sun like a strobe light. Then they disappear behind the mountain, their mighty thunder fading in rolling echoes.

DAD (choked with emotion). Freedom!

SON. What about the Injuns?

DAD. What about them, Son?

DAUGHTER. Or the slaves? What about them?

DAD. There are no more slaves!

MOM. Kids, please don’t upset Dad.

DAD. I’m only trying to inculcate certain lessons in your callow young minds. That’s part of my job. One of these days you’ll come to appreciate it.

SON & DAUGHTER (in unison). Gee, thanks!

MOM (to DAD). Maybe this isn’t the right time, dear.

DAD. Do you have a better idea?

MOM. Let’s maybe focus on appreciating the finer things.

DAD. Like what? Potato salad?

The four take their places, cross-legged, at the corners of the blanket. A tub of cheese curls topples, spilling its contents into DAD’s lap. Grumbling, he plucks the curls from the folds of his trousers and flicks them away into the weeds. MOM bows her head while SON and DAUGHTER exchange furtive grimaces.

MOM. Dear God, we gratefully thank You for Your bountiful gifts and the nourishment we are about to receive. Please help Dad to remember that he is not Your representative here on earth but only Your humble servant. Also, look down on Son as he enters the hormonal firestorm of puberty, and, if possible, please see if you can get Daughter to stop picking her nose—

DAUGHTER (mortified). Mom!

SON (ecstatic). Fire!

DAD (deflated). Christ.

MOM (aglow with piety). Amen.

They fall to eating—a cacophony of biting, chewing, slurping, licking, smacking, gurgling, gulping. Soon a pea-green hatchback passes on the highway, slows to a crawl at the ramp entrance. Behind grimy window panes, pale faces gape, contorted by sneering laughter. The Family stares back, bewildered. The hatchback speeds away.

SON (gazing vacantly). Fletcher O’Toole keeps a gun in his locker. I’m the only person who knows. When I came up behind him one afternoon and saw it, he dragged me by the hair to the bathroom and held me over a urinal and put the barrel in my mouth. He told me I was on his list. He said the Day of Reckoning was at hand but that I should keep quiet about it or else.

DAUGHTER. Or else what?

SON. Or else—he would murder my ugly sister!

DAUGHTER shrieks with terror. SON cackles.

SON. You’re such a girl.

DAUGHTER. Shut up!

SON. Sissy! Pansy! Puddle pants!

DAUGHTER. Shut up, you fucking toad!

DAD (furious). Watch your language, young lady!

DAUGHTER. What’re you yelling at me for?

MOM (to SON). That was very cruel.

SON shrugs.

DAD. Say, I’ve got an idea. (He stands, claps his palms together.) Let’s play Frisbee!

Groans all around.

SON. Lame, Dad.

DAD. All right, Einstein. What do you suggest?

SON. You mean besides raping virgins?

DAD. Frisbee it is, then.

SON springs to his feet, dashes back to the van. MOM and DAUGHTER rise, sighing.

DAUGHTER (under her breath). I hate stupid sports.

SON returns bearing the red plastic disk.

DAD. Okay, gang. Spread out. We’ll need plenty of space for our display of athletic prowess.

SON flings the Frisbee sidearm at DAD. DAD crouches to catch it, but the disk skims over his knuckles and cracks him on the bridge of the nose. Cursing, he sinks to his knees, cradles his face in both hands. Thick ropes of blood spurt through his fingers, forming a lake in the dirt. Then, as the Family gathers anxiously around the spreading pool, shapes like liquid statues rise from the blood and march about in circles: Osama bin Laden, Attila the Hun, Saddam Hussein, Kim Jong-il, Adolf Hitler, Vlad the Impaler, Josef Stalin, Benito Mussolini, Ivan the Terrible, Genghis Khan, Blackbeard, Caligula, Herod the Great—a danse macabre of villainous treachery. SON draws his six-shooters, waves them wildly in the air.

SON. You’re all gonna die, you bloody zombie motherfuckers!

MOM (sharply). Son, please!

All at once, the figures disappear.

MOM (crouching beside DAD). Honey, are you all right?

DAD. Nothebleed.

MOM. Daughter, the First Aid Kit—

DAUGHTER (disgusted). I know. In the van.

DAUGHTER trots away, then returns with a green tackle box marked with a red cross. MOM opens the box and pulls out gauze pads, cotton balls, rubbing alcohol, adhesive tape. As she mops DAD’s face with a towel, she suddenly freezes, hands the towel over to DAUGHTER, plucks a roll of tissue from the box, and stands.

DAUGHTER. Where are you going?

MOM. To that patch of weeds, dear. (She sets off.) You’ll have to fix up Dad on your own.

DAUGHTER (pointing to SON). But he’s the one who broke him!

The two children watch as MOM crosses the clearing, steps gingerly through the tall grass beyond, then crouches out of sight. Soon the air fills with frightening eruptions of groaning, grunting, roaring. SON and DAUGHTER’s faces light up with glee.

SON. She’s birthing a whale!

DAUGHTER. She’s getting plugged by a bull!

SON. She’s laying a Fabergé egg!

DAUGHTER. She’s being bitch-whipped by Satan!

Suddenly MOM’s cries transform into song—a soprano aria of shattering lyrical purity. At once a rainbowed cone of light bursts from the spot where she crouches, pierces the sky like a search beam; dimly visible within its translucent walls, hosts of demons, swarms of flies, bats, locusts, unclean spirits, plagues, and witches ascend, tumbling and howling. DAUGHTER swoons with horror.

SON. Awesome!

The cone vanishes. A few moments later, MOM reappears, her face moony with satisfaction. DAUGHTER scrambles toward her.

DAUGHTER (frantically). Mom? Are you all right?

MOM (smiling). Fine, dear.

SON. Do you feel ten pounds lighter?

MOM. At least.

Now DAD approaches, a tangle of tape splayed across his face.

DAD. Hey, kids. I found a tongue depressor in the First Aid Kit and built myself a makeshift splint. Just goes to show you what a little survival training can do when—

DAUGHTER. Wait! Stop! I can’t take it anymore! (She lifts her eyes and addresses the heavens in a tone of reverent lamentation.) How did we get this way? People haven’t always behaved like this, have they? What ever happened to manners? To decency? We’re all lost—and sunk in foul mire. Is civilization crumbling? I fear the planet itself lies dying beneath our feet.

SON. Such a drama queen.

DAUGHTER (wheeling in fury). Well, you’re such a fucking boy—

DAD. Hey! Didn’t I tell you—

MOM. Look!

All turn to face a mangy black dog approaching them from behind. The animal stares with head aslant—eyes crazed, white foam dripping from its slackened jaws. Scabs and bare patches mottle its greasy fur.

DAD (with exaggerated calm). Whoa now. Nice doggie. Easy does it. Step aside slowly, Family. Let’s give our new friend some room to maneuver.

The Family backs away, clearing a path. When the dog spots the blanket, it lopes forward and ravenously attacks the food, gobbling first one tub, then another, growling and snuffling. At last it flops onto its side and wallows about, smearing itself with bean dip and ketchup.

MOM (with a whine of despair). Our picnic!

DAD unleashes a guttural war cry and charges forward, bearing a tree limb like a cudgel. He attacks the animal with savage blows, causing it to yelp and cower.

DAD. You ugly fucking mongrel! I’ll beat you to a fucking pulp! You’re ruining my fucking family outing, you fucking rabid piece of shit!

MOM clasps her hands to her chest, bats her eyelashes.

MOM. My hero!

SON and DAUGHTER look on, bouncing and shouting.

SON. Can we keep him? Can we? Let’s call him Fang! Here, Fang! Come here, boy!

Suddenly DAUGHTER squeals.

DAUGHTER (pointing deliriously). Oh my God, look! He’s got a boner!

Then from the top of the mountain comes the sound of grinding gears, rattling machinery. Everyone freezes. In the pause that follows, the Family hears a rod snap and the hum of spinning tires. A truck horn blares. The Family stands motionless, waiting.