It was meant to be an April Fool’s Day prank: put a goose in Carl’s old work truck and watch him deal with the problem. We figured Carl would enter his truck, get bit by an angry goose, and come flying back out in a panic. I had my phone ready to capture the moment.
Thing about Carl is, he’s a hard worker but can be caught up in his own world. He got inside his truck, put her in drive, and swept out of the parking lot to head home like he’d done every day for twenty years.
We stood there, dumbfounded. Should we call him? Make sure he even saw the damn bird?
“He must have done,” said Rick, scratching the stubble on his cheek with a liver-spotted hand. “It was honking like hell when we shoved it in there.”
Mark spat out some tobacco juice. “Sumbitch knew we were watching, that’s all. Didn’t want to give us the satisfaction of seeing him panic like a man caught with his pecker in the pumpkin. Whaddya reckon, Jude?”
I shrugged. “Could be he pulled over down the road and got the goose out.” Truth was, I felt disappointed by the anticlimactic letdown. I just wanted to get home and settle down in my armchair with an ice-cold beer.
Carl didn’t come to work the next day. Then, a little before lunch, the boss came out of his office.
“I’ve just had a phone call from Dottie, Carl’s missus,” Silas said. “Seems like he never made it home last night and ain’t answering his phone. Dottie’s checked the hospital and called the cops, but she wanted to see if any of y’all had some information. Lemme know if you do.” He went back inside his office.
I exchanged a nervous look with Rick and Mark. We had some information, alright.
The three of us approached Silas’s office, and I gave the door a tremulous knock.
“Come on in,” the boss hollered.
Rick, Mark, and I shuffled on in and stood there looking awkward as three schoolboys who’d done wrong.
“Uh, Silas,” I started, “we wanted to talk about Carl.”
“I’m sure he’s fine. Dottie was upset, but a man has the right to spend the night away from his missus.”
“Well, see, that’s the thing. We, uh, played a prank on him yesterday.”
Silas raised his eyebrows. He sounded more amused than worried when he asked, “What the hell did you three do to Carl?”
We told the boss about our prank, and he said again that it was probably nothing.
“You boys are welcome to go search for him, but you ain’t getting paid for it, so I suggest you make it quick.”
“Copy that,” said Mark. Rick and I nodded our understanding.
We set out to follow Carl’s path home, taking my truck.
“You really think something could’ve happened with the goose?” Rick asked.
I grunted and gripped the wheel so hard, my knuckles turned white.
Nearabout a quarter of the way to Carl’s house, Mark spoke up. “Lookit there — those are fresh tire tracks.” He pointed out the tracks that swerved off the road.
Throat dry, I pulled her over. We all got out and followed the tracks into the woods. Nobody spoke. We didn’t walk long before we found Carl’s truck, rammed into a tree. A branch had pierced the windshield.
Rick hollered and ran to the car, me and Mark not far behind. As we got closer, I knew the goose survived — I could hear the damn thing honking away inside.
When Rick got to the driver’s side, he wrenched open the door and dropped to his knees. I saw Carl in the seat, his lower jaw replaced with a tree branch; I couldn’t help but vomit up that morning’s eggs and hashbrowns.
Well, I could hardly look Dottie in the eye at the funeral. And everywhere I go, I can still hear that damn goose, honking away.
Jennifer Peaslee’s work has recently appeared in Breath & Shadow, BarBar, Moonday Mag, and on the Kaidankai podcast. She lives outside Atlanta with her mischievous cat, Trouble, and runs The Bleeding Typewriter, a creative writing advice blog and online community.
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