Potential Uses for That Severed Head of a Goat in Your Freezer that Staunchly Refuses to Decompose

By Steven Christopher McKnight

One of its eyes was frozen shut, and its patchy fur matted in the single layer of plastic that I had wrapped around it. The other eye was open, rolled back as though its dad had just cracked a joke in public. (“You have goat to be kidding me.”) Its horns strained at the plastic wrap, but politely did not break through. The stump at the neck seemed wet with fresh blood, but the plastic wrap did not leak. 

I didn’t care enough to investigate.

I did not particularly care for this severed head of a goat, as it was taking up valuable freezer space. It had become somewhat of an eyesore to visitors who had come into my apartment, wandered into my kitchen, and decided to check what was in my freezer. Luckily, I did not have very many visitors, and the ones I did have were always very easy to warn about the goat head.

Sherry, the building manager, expressed some concerns about health and safety after she found out about the goat head. After much debate, we compromised that I would wrap it in plastic wrap and, should anything leak, I personally would disinfect the unit for the next resident. This was fair.

Tuesday came, as Tuesdays tend to do. Very much unlike words or sentences or paragraphs or a goddamn sense of self-worth for once in my life.

Beyond my living room littered with food wrappers and rejection letters and tissues from that one time last year that I actually cried, I sat in my kitchen, my laptop perched on the faux marble island. The surface was stained with several manners of messily-eaten food, foods which I had resolved to clean up later, only to realize that “later” would eventually come, and I would do nothing upon its arrival. On the screen of my computer stood what I had of my novel: “Title Pending, by Kevin Bright.” The title was not actually pending. I had a title, I just hated it. I imagined people sneering at my novel, like kids on a playground would sneer at the poor child named something like “Chauncy” or “Gaylord.” I just couldn’t subject the poor child to that. My first publication had been a book of contemporary free-verse poetry written solely to ridicule contemporary free-verse poetry, and was proudly titled “Suffering, Despair, Misery.” No title so fitting could possibly accompany my novel.

The buzzer on the door made a buzzing noise, as buzzers tend to do, and in wandered Sherry. I didn’t feel like telling her that normal people wait for the door to be answered.

“Good morning, Kevin!” said Sherry in a sing-song voice that the day did not merit. I shut my laptop.

“Morning,” I responded, more as an observation than a greeting. I had been up—rather, out of my bed—since 4:30, when my alarm went off. Typically, it was set at 5:30, but Daylight Savings Time happened, and I had no clue how to set my clock back because I had thrown out the operating manual. So, I lived as a shameful early bird. It was ten or so now, but my sleep cycles were screaming that it was much, much later. When you awaken at eight, you can get coffee and breakfast before ten in the morning. When you awaken at 4:30, it’s different. You aren’t just privy to the Sun rising. You watch empires rise and fall, the ebb and flow of time itself. And then you can get breakfast.

“Oh! The book! You’re writing a novel! How’s it coming along?” Sherry prodded. She sounded so proud, like my dad back when he thought I was a competent writer. “Like a little Leonardo da Vinci, aren’t you?” Little. Also, Leonardo da Vinci.

“It’s coming,” I lied, pulling a cold mug of coffee from the cryptic microwave. I had put my mug in there twenty minutes ago to reheat it, and promptly forgot it existed. Twenty minutes ago, or twenty hours ago. It didn’t quite matter. It was in my hands now. I spun around to face Sherry, placing my cup over a rather obnoxious stain on the counter.

“Oh my, well, don’t let me get in the way of it,” said Sherry. She started for the door, paused, and then returned to the island. “Are you free at all next week?”

“From what?” I asked. “My demons always haunt me. I am never truly free.” There was a brief awkward pause. There always was.

“Ha! Classic!” Sherry proclaimed, slapping her knee. “So, I assume that’s a yes?”

I surrendered. “Yes.” I then added, “Why?”

“Well, my niece is in town, and she read your book for a class,” said Sherry. “You know, ‘Despair, Misery, Anguish’ or whatever you named it. So, I was wondering if you’d like to get together with her sometime? She fancies herself a writer as well. You two could bond, maybe? Discuss those writerly things?”

“I’ll think about it.” I did not want to think about it, and had no plans to think about it in the near-or-distant-future.

Sherry took that as a yes and left a slip of paper with her niece’s phone number on it. “Just in case you want to meet up with her. I know you’re lonely,” she explained.

Me, lonely?

How absurd.

My sister had been bugging me all week. Said she had news she needed to share. She and I had never been particularly close. She was about five years older than me, and when we were growing up, she was always off doing her own thing. Last time I’d seen her was at her wedding. Married some big-shot pharmaceuticals sales rep in New York. That had been about six months ago. I came home one night from shopping to find her sitting at the island in my kitchen.

“Grace,” I greeted, setting down my shopping bags on the counter right across from her.

“Hey, it’s about time you showed up,” said Grace, standing up and giving me a hug that I half-assedly reciprocated. “You didn’t return my calls.”

Phone calls. Who calls people on phones anymore? This isn’t 2005. You don’t just take out your flip phone, dial some numbers, and try to forge a genuine human connection. This was 2017. If you wanted human connection, tough luck. You had Facebook at your disposal to collect your friends and relatives like trading cards, but that was just about it.

“That sounds like a personal problem,” I said, sliding away from her grasp. “What’s up?”

“Well, you might want to sit down for this.”

“Just get on with it,” I urged, not sitting. 

She smiled, shook her head, and produced what appeared to be a Rorschach test. She set it on the counter without a word, and I stared at it for a while, wondering why she would show me this. Typical Grace, trying to psychoanalyze me. Trying to “help” me. Trying in vain to pull me out of some void of despair. You’d think she’d stop trying. Ugh. I humored her.

“I see a butterfly, a lion, and Father’s disappointment,” I concluded.

“It’s a baby,” Grace corrected.

“What do you mean there’s a baby? It looks nothing like a baby,” I said, squinting.

“It’s an ultrasound, I mean,” said Grace. “I’m pregnant.”

I shot her a sidelong glance. “Really,” I said, less as a question, and more as just a word to use to fill the silence I knew would ensue if I didn’t say anything.

“Isn’t it wonderful?” she squealed, bouncing up and down. “You’re going to be an uncle!”

I smiled. Perhaps I meant it, but chances were, I didn’t. “I don’t know, Grace, that sounds like an awful lot of commitment.” 

She hugged me. 

“Congrats,” I added, “or whatever.”

“So, what’s new with you?”

Oh, how I dreaded those words.

“Not much,” I responded. “Did a poetry reading last month up in Cockeysville.”

“How’d that go?”

“Not bad.”

“You get a good crowd?”

“College students and old people. It was a university reading.”

“Still getting invited places?”

“Sometimes. It’s toned itself down. Dad doesn’t promote it nearly as much as he used to.”

“And the novel?”

“It’s coming.”

Grace frowned. “How much of it do you have?”

“A title and a page,” I said. That wasn’t a lie. “Title Pending” was still technically a title, and a blank page was still a page.

“Kevin,” said Grace, shaking her head, “that isn’t good.”

“I was going to get some writing done at 9.”

“It’s 10:17,” Grace pointed out.

“I meant at night,” I lied.

“It is night,” Grace shot back. 

Was it really? I glanced at the clock. 10:18. I glanced out the window. Black. Now how’d that happen? 

“Kevin, have you been sleeping at all?”

“Of course,” I said. This also wasn’t a lie. Defining “sleep” as “a prolonged state of unconsciousness,” passing out at my computer counted. Technicalities. Always my sister’s Achilles’ Heel.

“Because you have a bedroom for a reason,” said Grace. “You have a bed for a reason. Sleep. You need it.”

“I do sleep,” I retorted. “Maybe not as much as I need to, but—”

Grace wrinkled her nose and carefully sniffed the air. “Do you still have that goat head?”

“Why?” I asked. “Do you smell it?”

“No, not this time,” she said. “Did you get rid of it?” She sounded so hopeful.

“No, I just wrapped it in plastic,” I said. “Sherry complained about it, and we came to an agreement.”

“Ugh. Get rid of it, please,” she grunted, realizing I was still the same, starting for the door. “I have to go—”

“Wait, Grace,” I begged. She stopped. “Are you really going to drive all the way home? It’s after 10. You can stay the night if you want.”

“I’d love to,” she said, “but I’m staying with Dad tonight. Maybe some other time, Kevin.” Her hand lingered at the doorknob. She refused to make eye contact with me. “Look, I know it’s hard, but you need to make progress somehow. You can’t just live like this, in some sort of limbo. You need to do something with your life. Write that novel. Make a friend. I don’t know.” Pause. “Get a cat, maybe?” She opened the door. “See you around, Kev.”

“Bye,” I said. “Congrats on the tiny person.” The door slammed. “Okay, then.” I opened up my computer, brought up the almost-blank document that my novel manifested itself as, and deleted “Title Pending.” Proudly, I typed the word “The” and went to bed.

Time passed, as time tends to do.

My novel had burned bright for two days, and then fizzled out on its third chapter, its twenty-third page, and its 6483rd word. Once more, I had been left to either stare at a blank page, or a goat head, or the piece of paper on my kitchen counter that held the number of Sherry’s niece.

Absentmindedly, I opened the freezer door. There sat the goat head. That’s all it ever did was sit. Stagnant, unyielding. Morbidly winking.

“Why are you?” I asked the goat head. No response. “Answer me, damn you!” Silence, almost as if the goat head was pondering something.

“Hi, Kevin,” I said in a falsetto, pretending to be the goat head, very slightly aware how creepy and pathetic I was being.

“Hi, Mr. Goat Head, how nice of you to finally talk,” I responded.

“Well, it’s very difficult,” said the goat head. “My mouth is kind of frozen shut.”

“Sorry about that,” I said.

“Oh, it’s fine,” said the goat head, its expression never changing. “I understand. Maybe I’m the only one who understands you, Kevin. You’re my best friend—”

The timer dinged on my microwave, and I slammed the freezer shut, pretending I hadn’t just had a conversation with the frozen head of a goat. I pulled out a plate of leftover spaghetti from last week. Unfortunately, instead of placing the plate on my counter, I flung it across the table, desperate not to burn my hand. Luckily, it slid to a halt before it hit the edge. Unfortunately, spaghetti does not stick to plates, and the pasta followed its initial inertia and slid right off the plate, all over the counter. A good majority landed on the floor. Oh well, I thought. I resolved to pick it up eventually, confident that “eventually” would never come this time.

The way I was going now, nothing was being accomplished. Part of me gave a thought to calling and inviting the girl over to have tea and discuss my book and avoid staring at the goat head in my freezer. At least I’d be procrastinating constructively.

Finally, I broke and called the number.

“Hello?” a voice answered. It was dripping in confusion, as if the “Hello” was also a “Who the hell would call me on an actual phone? What is this, 2005?”

“Hi, this is Kevin Bright,” I greeted. “I’m calling for a…” I had no idea what the name said. Sherry had written it below the number, but it had been done in haste. Plus, it was smudged in pasta sauce. I hadn’t moved the paper, but various foodstuffs had dripped on it over the course of the week, including a good glob of pasta sauce from the recent misadventure. So, I guessed. “Gretchen Kramenhauer?”

“Wrong number.” Wrong name. The phone beeped. Suppose that meant she hung up. I put my phone down and opened my freezer.

“Looks like it’s just you and me, buddy,” I sighed in the general direction of the goat head. 

Its face remained stagnant, but I could imagine it bleating out something along the lines of, “No, bub, it’s just you, I’m dead.” I did not say those words with my mouth.

My phone rang out the refrain of my ringtone, which caused me to shut the freezer door in a panic. “Foreign Object” by the Mountain Goats.

I answered the phone. 

“Hey, so I read your book.”

“I’m sorry, who is this?” I mumbled. I shook my head and recomposed myself. “Sorry, yeah, Sherry told me you were in town and-”

“I’m Alison,” said my phone, bearing the voice of a girl.

“Yeah, I figured. Misread your name.”

“Pretty badly, I might add,” said Gretch—Alison. “Yeah, hey, so I read your book, and I kind of liked it, and Aunt Sherry told me you lived in her complex, so I thought—Well, I—”

“I’m free whenever,” I said. This was sort of a lie. My demons. But, I was willing to make an exception for Alison. “Apartment 209. Door’s unlocked.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Alison. “Thanks.”

Last time I called my dad, whether it was weeks, months, maybe even years ago, he told me what a disappointment I am. Told me art is subjective. Told me that art is not something to be mocked. Told me that I’m no son of his. Told me so much, and yet said so little. “Oh” was all he said. That was all he needed, just a word and then silence. Barely even a word. A man, who knew words like the back of his hand, and he couldn’t even manage one. And then he hung up the phone.

At the time, I found it difficult to care.

At the time.

Tuesday came, much to my constant disappointment. But, with Tuesday came Alison. I didn’t know enough about her to be disappointed or not, so I basked in pleasant indifference.

“So, what brings you here?” I asked, more out of politeness than interest to the girl sitting across from me at my kitchen island.

“Job interview,” said Alison, glancing about the place. “This is a nice apartment.” Well, at least she noticed I’d cleaned. “How’d you land this on one book?”

“Connections,” I answered. “What’s the job interview?”

“Some broadcasting job,” said Alison. “I wanted to get an editor position with one of the journals up in Washington, but all of those internships were unpaid, and…” I didn’t care. Her voice faded into nothingness as I (hopefully) looked like I was invested in her hopes and dreams. She fidgeted with her hair briefly. “Connections?” So we were talking about me again. Good.

“My dad loved it,” I explained. “When I published a book, he was so… blinded by pride, showed it to all of his friends.”

“Yeah,” said Alison, trying to brush some hair from her face and unintentionally pulling individual hairs from her ponytail and letting them fall along the sides of her face. “I liked it.”

“So, um…” I paused for a long time. “Which one was… your favorite?”

“Ode to My Heart,” she answered point-blank, excited to finally talk about the book itself. “I loved it! It exemplifies the emptiness of the human spirit, you know?”

I remembered that one fondly. It took no time at all to write. It was literally just a blank page. The only reason someone could know what it was titled was if they gleaned the Table of Contents.

“My professor had us read it, reflect upon it…” Her voice trailed off. “Do you know Edward Bright?”

“He’s my dad,” I answered. “Didn’t he mention that?”

“No. We, um, thought you two were related. We asked him. He said you… weren’t. Maybe we misunderstood?”

Oh. I felt some semblance of pain. Might’ve been hunger. Who knew.

“Doctor Bright loved your book, though,” said Alison. “I mean, he… he… claimed it was… one of the best books of poetry out there!” Alison smiled. “He had us spend a whole unit theorizing about what the individual poems mean, and how they relate to one another as a whole, and I would often say that it’s, you know, an introspective into… into suffering.” It was almost as if it meant something to her. “That this book examines the pain of loneliness and emptiness and isolation. It’s the sort of book we need. That’s why I like it so much.”

“I see,” I said. I did not see. “Well…” I searched for the perfect word to say. “You’re wrong.” She opened her mouth to say something, but I claimed the silence. “‘Suffering, Despair, Misery’ wasn’t written to have a profound impact on anything. I wrote it to make fun of free verse poetry.” I was making things worse, but I couldn’t stop. “Nowadays, if you want to make profound art, all you have to do is slap some words on a page, or even not slap any words on a page, and claim it has meaning. Give it a title. People will find a meaning in something if you claim it has meaning. Even if it’s meaningless. A blank page means nothing. You just saw what you wanted to see because of the title.” 

 “Oh.” She seemed genuinely disappointed. It almost broke my heart.

“I hope you get the job,” I said, attempting to get the conversation back to something less depressing.

“Thanks,” she returned, less out of gratitude, and more out of obligation. “Look, I need to go…”

“Okay,” I sighed. “Um, yeah.”

“Talk to you later, maybe?”

“Maybe.”

She got up and started to the door.

“Wait,” I begged, standing up. She did. “I… have something for you.” I spun around, opened the freezer door, and produced the severed head.

“What the hell is that?” she gasped.

“The head of a goat,” I answered.

“Where the hell did you get that?” she shot out, backing toward the door, her hands covering her mouth and nose.

I was at a loss for words. “I don’t know.” This was not a lie.

“How long have you had it?”

“I don’t know… Not long. Since the seventh, maybe?”

“Three weeks?!”

“No, um, the seventh of October.”

“It’s May!”

“Well, for a while, then.”

Alison seized the doorknob.

“Look, I can’t handle this right now—”

She opened the door and stepped out.

“It’s yours,” I pleaded.

“I…” She took a deep breath in, then a deep breath out. “I don’t know what to do with a goat head.”

I tried to smile. “I think that’s the point. Ultimately, a perfectly good goat head is still a goat head. It’s useless, Alison. All it does is sit in your freezer.”

The door slammed.

The goat’s second eye finally thawed long enough to open. It stared right at me.

I swept it all into the trash.

Steven goes to school here, but not for much longer. Thanks, Catherine.