The First Prize by David Larsen

Abel Oates tossed his crumpled corduroy jacket onto the heap of brightly-hued sweaters, scarves, and windbreakers that festooned the stiff, straight back of the godawful blue, pine chair just inside the front door of the house he shared with his patient, long-suffering wife, Lois. The damned chair teetered, then tottered, then regained its equilibrium like a bantamweight fighter who’d been caught off guard by an out-of-nowhere uppercut in round one. Abel had half a notion to give the chair a swift kick and be done with it.

Instead, he tapped at the leg of the chair with the tip of his boot. The damned thing was a poor excuse for a piece of furniture; it wobbled even worse than Abel himself after no more than two beers. But, what the hell, it was just a chair, hardly worth making a fuss over. And Lois was Lois. She would doggedly defend the chair no matter what. Like her fancy schmancy mother in Austin, a woman of refinement and old money, a woman Abel always felt uncomfortable around, Lois could be stubborn about the most unlikely of issues.

To Abel’s relief, and, when he was younger, to his dismay, he wasn’t much of a drinker. He never had been a chugger, not even in college when it was expected of him. Two beers, and the room began to spin as if he were nine years old and back on the rickety merry-go-round at Washington Park in El Paso, three hundred miles to the west, where he’d spent his far-from-satisfactory childhood. To save face, he mastered the art of faking it at keg parties with his Mu Alpha Psi brothers at West Texas State, a bunch of hedonists away from home and on a loose leash for the first time in their lives. Abel, not exactly a hipster, preferred a tighter leash.

Now, at fifty-seven, happily married, the assistant principal at Travis High School, he still faked it; one beer seemed to be his limit, though he often ordered a second—just to be one of the guys—then nursed it until it was time to get up and vacate the bar or party, though parties were hardly his thing anymore, if they ever really were. In Dos Pesos, Texas, a man who couldn’t hold his own when it came to drinking beer was looked upon with some degree of skepticism.

Abel was well aware that he was a man who possessed more than his share of faults, but one shortcoming dwarfed the others: he had never learned to fit in, anywhere, or so it seemed. He didn’t quite make it at work, in social settings, amongst the guys, with women—except when it came to Lois—or even when he was by himself. Thank God, his wife had the decency to overlook this inadequacy. Still, it bugged him, his inability to impress. He’d been passed over twice when the principal position came open. He once told Lois, “In a school district, if you reach fifty and you’re still stuck in the assistant principal’s job, you’re just plumb out of luck.” She pish poshed the notion. Yet, the more he thought about it, it was true, although he also felt that life wasn’t all that bad, at least it was somewhat bearable, most of the time.

He studied the cheap chair as he caught his breath. Though October, it was still stifling outside. He’d playfully—and rightfully—griped at Lois about the unstable piece of junk every chance he got; the flimsy chair wouldn’t support his one-hundred-and-eighty-one pounds even if his heart were to give out on him, as the doctor in Ft. Stockton had suggested that it might, and needed to get off his feet to save his life. He would die ignobly in his own home from lack of a decent chair. Let his untimely demise lie heavily on his wife’s conscience. That would show her. Her widowhood would be spent in remorse over not having listened to her husband when she had the opportunity.

Abel, for months now, ever since Lois bought the chair, had debated with himself over the wisdom of having the eyesore in the living room where people might see it. What was she thinking when she bought the damned thing at Walmart? She’s a heck of a lot smarter than I am, no doubt about it. So, what’s with this tawdry piece of shit? Was she sick or off kilter that day? She’s way too bright to be taken in by some salesman. Does Walmart even have salesmen? But this goddamned chair… What the hell?

He let himself slip onto the recently reupholstered sofa (a damn good job—Lois had found and hired, Chuy, the upholsterer). He yanked at his dusty, scuffed, size-twelve-and-a-half Tony Lamas, then flipped the boots, one after the other, into the corner of the cavernous living room where a pair of his sneakers and two pairs of Lois’s running shoes awaited one more offering to the god of footwear. One thud followed another. The entire house seemed echoey since their two daughters had skedaddled out of town, one to Ft. Worth, the other to St. Louis. Each of the girls could hardly wait to put Dos Pesos behind them like a bad dream. Now, it was just Abel and Lois, and the confounded coyotes that howled through the long nights on the mesa south of town.

It was late afternoon. Abel was bushed. He wasn’t getting any younger. That was for sure. And the people in Dos Pesos weren’t getting any smarter. That was also for sure.

“Did you stop off for a beer after work?” Lois, silhouetted in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room, asked.

“A lot of good that did me,” said Abel. “Every one of those assholes at the Green Tree is abuzz over this weekend. Like it’s some big deal.” He smiled at his wife. After all their years of marriage, she still looked downright good, too good for the likes of him; her trim shape in the doorway was without a doubt that of, what Abel pictured, a classy call girl or pole dancer in New York or Boston, a woman he’d never have the opportunity to meet, in a place he was unlikely to ever visit. Her curls danced in the breeze from the air conditioner’s vents above her like cobras to a flute heard only by those in consort with the cultured elite. Lois had been an English Literature major at the University of Texas, a Chi O, and a junior leaguer. Back in Austin, she went to art museums and attended concerts. In Dos Pesos, she watched movies on Netflix and taught fifth grade. “I’m afraid we live in a town of idiots.”

Lois shrugged, then turned back into the kitchen.

Alone on the sofa, Abel sighed, then settled back against the stiff, newly-stuffed cushion. Why, he asked himself, do I allow those yahoos at the Green Tree Bar to get my goat? Hell, lately everyone in this town bugs the crap out of me? So, what do I do? I stop off, day after day, to grab a beer with a bunch of simpletons. What difference does it make if they choose to go out and kill and capture a bunch of goddamned pesky spiders? It shouldn’t matter to me, not one bit.

By now, Abel should’ve been used to the pointless fiasco that took place in early autumn. After twenty-six years in what he thought of as nothing more than a dreary West Texas hell hole of a town, he was kidding himself that things would ever get better, that the town would ever catch up with the rest of the world. Every October, the withering burg went absolutely berserk over nothing. At least, to Abel, it was nothing.

The Dos Pesos Scorpion Roundup was but three days away. Folks in town, white, Mexican, male, female…whatever…were already in a tizzy over the carnival-like festivities, the unlikely chance of being the winner in one of the contests, The Longest Scorpion, The Most Scorpions Captured, The Most Scorpions Killed, The Biggest Scorpion and, of course, the grand prize, The Greatest Combined Weight of Scorpions killed and/or captured. The event was nothing more than an overly-hyped rip-off, a cheap imitation of the spring Rattlesnake Roundup in Sweetwater. Another Texas event that made no sense. Or so thought Abel.

How was it that the town was already adazzle over the prospect of the dozen or two tourists who might show up to witness the annual event, most likely out of idle curiosity…or perhaps to look down on the yokels? Then there was the hoopla over the vendors from as far away as Midland and Odessa who set up their rickety kiosks on Main Street and hocked their wares, amateurish landscapes of the goddamned desert anyone in Dos Pesos could get a good-enough look at right out their front window, the jars of prickly-pear jelly, the decorative rolling pins and vases turned by some redneck on a Shopsmith in his dusty garage, turquois earrings, bracelets and necklaces and, everyone’s favorite, scorpions encased in plastic, used as paper weights, keyrings and amulets that dangled between the breasts of the women in town. Not Lois’s boobs, thank God. All of it, for folks who didn’t know any better than to throw their hard-earned money away on folly. And money, in a dying town of eleven-hundred people, was hard to come by.

Abel was no lover of scorpions, nor was he some kind of tree hugger or anything of the sort, but what the hell, what kind of person gets his jollies from rounding up spiders? Or killing them?

He took great pleasure in reminding everyone of what had happened two years ago. There had been an incident the week of the roundup. A brawl broke out in the Green Tree Bar between two oil-field roughnecks over exactly what a scorpion is: is it a spider or an insect? Letty, the flirtatious bartender everyone eyed, but never got lucky with, googled the matter. The answer was inconclusive. Scorpions are cousins of spiders. What the hell? What does that mean?

The two goons then got into it over whether or not children should be involved in the roundup. One suggested each child could paint a scorpion—dead, of course—then a team of judges could select the best piece of art. As if anyone in Dos Pesos knew diddly squat when it came to art. The larger of the two mammoths thought that including youngsters might be going a little overboard. “Leave the fuckin’ celebration the way it is,” he bellowed. “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.” Sheriff Kyle Reed had to be summoned to break up the melee after one broken nose and three splintered chairs.

Abel had never been in a fracas. Not really. Thank God. He hated the idea of fighting. At six-feet-four he was too lanky and awkward. As a boy, he’d suffered the indignity of having his brother bloody his nose when they put on the gloves their father had bought for them. Abel, the old brother, couldn’t land a punch. His roundhouse swings were ineffective while his smaller brother pummeled him with jabs to the face. Being bested by someone three years younger was too much. He never put the gloves on again. To this day, the disapproval in his father’s eyes when he came bawling to the man about what George, a pipsqueak, had done to him, haunted Abel. Some things you can never live down.

He stumbled into the kitchen, though not at all from the effects of the beer he’d ordered at the Green Tree. His gait had nothing to do with alcohol. He’d only downed half of the bottle of Coors. No, he hobbled because he had a hole in each of his white socks, escape hatches for his big toes. As he curled his toes into an insufficient knot, to keep the big toes with unskillfully-clipped nails in check, he tottered like a man on his last legs.

Lois was bent over, searching for something in the refrigerator. Good God, she did look good.

“All of the guys at the Green Tree are at it again,” he said as Lois straightened and closed the door to the Frigidaire, the newest appliance in the house. Again, Walmart. “They seem to think that damned scorpion hunt is about the biggest thing in the world.”

His wife chuckled. “Can’t you just ignore them?”

“How do I ignore something like that? They’re a bunch of idiots.”

Lois sighed. “You know…nobody forces you to stop in at the Green Tree.” She paused. “You don’t even like to drink. You sit there and pretend to drink your beer, then come home and tell me what cretins the men in the bar are. Why do you put yourself through the agony?”

Abel, now seated at the kitchen table, stared at the woman in disbelief. She just didn’t get it.

“I like to drink a beer every once in a while,” he said. “And, besides, I like to know what’s up in town.” Abel watched Lois stir something that stewed on the stove in the large orange pot she always used, a wedding gift from his overly practical mother. “When are we going to do something about that chair in the living room? The hunk of junk’s about to collapse.”

“I’ve already done something about it. I painted it blue and put a cushion on it. Or, hadn’t you noticed?”

Abel rapped his knuckles on the tabletop. He’d noticed all right. A not-so-terrible shade of blue. But still… “I’m just bummed out by those goofballs and their damned scorpion hunt. We live in a town full of morons.”

Lois chuckled. “Tell them that if they really want to go on a scorpion hunt, we’ve got plenty around this house. This is the perfect hunting ground.” She shook her head. “I’ve got one trapped in the bathroom right now. I caught him this afternoon. He’s under that clear mixing bowl. He’s a big one.”

“Why didn’t you just kill it?”

“With what? I’m not about to step on a scorpion. Or smash him with a fly swatter. What do you take me for? One of your idiot friends? He’s waiting in there for you to flush him down.” Lois crinkled her nose and squinted. “Yuck.”

It was, by far, the biggest scorpion Abel had ever laid eyes on. Six inches. Maybe more. He carefully pushed the bowl with his exposed big toe. The creature moved. It was alive. Trapped. Probably more than mildly pissed off.

How the hell am I supposed to lift the bowl without the monster coming at me? he wondered. And none of the over-the-counter bug sprays have any effect on these bastards. Especially, not one this size.

Abel stepped back into the hallway. “Lois,” he called. “Could you come in here?”

He waited.

His wife stood beside him in the doorway and grinned the grin he should have known he had coming.

“How am I going to get this son of a bitch out from under the bowl?” he asked.

Lois shrugged. “I thought we could just leave him there until he dies. They must eat something. We’ll starve him.”

Abel bit his lip. “No, I want to take this one alive. This’ll show ‘em.”

“Show who?”

“The assholes at the Green Tree,” said Abel. “This one’ll take first prize for sure. The prize for the longest. We just have to figure out how to get him out from under that bowl. Get me that blue chair. I want to watch him for a while. I’ll figure it out. How to get him to that damned roundup, dead or alive. But I want to take him alive.”

Lois scowled. “Get your own chair. One from the kitchen. The blue chair has all of my stuff on it.”

Abel sat on the chair, the blue one, much sturdier than he would have guessed, and thought about what he would do with his blue ribbon. He kept an eye on the scorpion, the key to unlock a door that had been closed to him all of his life, recognition, perhaps even acceptance. Where would he display the award? He could frame it. Or drape it over a book in the living room or hang it in the bedroom. One thing was certain: once the honor was bestowed upon him, he’d call George in El Paso. His brother, now a big shot lawyer, had never visited Dos Pesos. Lois had only met him one time. George was a busy man. He thought Dos Pesos—and his brother—were beneath him. But the go-getter needed to hear about this. And then, thought Abel, I’ll call my dad and tell him that his son has taken first place in a competition. The old man may be in a nursing home, out of it, zonked out on meds, but he might remember his son, the one with the bloody nose. He’ll be surprised when I tell him what I’ve done.

In the morning, Abel, in a t-shirt and his boxer briefs, stumbled into the bathroom in the hall. He’d brushed his teeth in the bathroom off of his and Lois’s bedroom. He wanted to see how the prize-winner had faired through the night.

The mixing bowl was gone. No sign of the scorpion.

“What happened to the bowl?” he called. “Lois, the scorpion’s gone.”

“I let him go,” said his wife from the kitchen.

“How?”

“I took the broom and lifted the bowl. The spider took off.” She laughed. “I stood in the tub so he couldn’t get me.”

“But I wanted to enter him in the contest.”

Lois, in her terrycloth robe, stood at the other end of the hall, her eyes narrowed. “You did not,” she scoffed.

Abel sighed. “I told you I was going to.” He paused. “Where did it go?”

“It scampered the minute I raised the mixing bowl.”

“You should’ve told me, damn it.” Abel crossed his arms. “I would’ve won. I could’ve got him into a box or something.”

Lois shook her head. “I thought you were kidding. You were, weren’t you?”