Concerning the Extinction of the Mullet in Hemlock, Michigan
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Buckey Littlejohn, age twelve, owned one of the last two mullets in town.
Gathering mail from the scorching tin box, Buckey’s bare feet danced on the hot pavement. His sunburn tightened as he retrieved the ads his mother liked to look through in the afternoons.
A battered pickup parked at the end of the driveway. Despite burning feet, Buckey skipped up the driveway, the springy curls of his mullet bouncing against his neck. A tall man wearing jeans, a mustache and no shirt stalked after him.
Inside, Buckey stood behind his mother. The man spoke through the screen-door.
“Afternoon, ma’am,” he said. “Didn’t mean to scare your little girl. . .”
Buckey handled the rest.
It had been a week since the man asked directions through the screen door. Buckey took the shoebox from under the floorboard and opened it. Kneeling, he studied the locks of his full-bodied mullet.
“Din’t mean to scare yer little girl,” he mocked to himself.
Buckey taped the box shut and carried it to the back yard. Using his mother’s old garden shovel, he dug a hole, lowered the box and buried it. After setting a rock on the fresh dirt, he stood and rubbed his hand over the nape of his neck, feeling the hair, wondering if it would ever grow back.
Skeeter sat atop the stool. Wielding rusty shears, Buckey eyed the long curls at the base of Skeeter’s neck, and the foot-long rat-tail in the middle of it all.
“You sure about this?” Skeeter asked.
Buckey didn’t answer, mesmerized by the greasy mullet, the hair separated and gathered into thick finger-like curls. With unblinking concentration, he worked the blades open and beheld the mullet, Skeeter’s lifelong companion, on a rusty guillotine for the last time. Gritting his teeth, Buckey said, “Jest shut up. You don’t wanna look like a little girl, do ya?”
“Don’t—”
But it was too late.
Josh Maday buried a box with his own mullet in it, too. Sadness.