Bryan Hurt

Bottom Ten Percent

Ever since I moved back here things have been messed up. I’m not just talking about how Ohio went to the right-wingers during the last election or the new recession which meant I could buy my house for a joke. According to all the listicles, Ohio’s one of the top five worst states in the country. It’s the bottom ten percent in life expectancy, education, looks. It’s flat, it’s humid, and I hate how everyone smiles at you. They live in Ohio. What do they have to be so happy about?

Even Art’s smiling and he’s lived everywhere. Chicago, North Carolina, New York. When we meet for happy hour at one of the new breweries by the river, he’s smiling and practically bouncing out of his seat. Jenny’s pregnant. He and Jenny are going to have a baby. Can you believe it? A brand-new life!

I sip my beer and pretend to be happy. Sean and I call Jenny the Solar System because her face is round like a planet. She’s probably frigid like outer space. Except now she’s pregnant, so maybe not. Art takes out his phone and shows me the baby. A white tadpole on black water. A cloud in the shape of a cloud. I hand him back the photo of the peanut. “He’s got your nose and everything,” I say. “A regular chip off the old block.”

“Shut up,” says Art. “Aren’t you going to congratulate me? The least you can do is buy another round.”

I drain my glass and signal for the waitress. While we’re waiting, the fatso at the table next to ours lights up a cigarette. Another thing I hate about Ohio. You can smoke like it’s the 90s. I spend the next minute coughing a fit.

“I hate it here,” I say when the smoke clears and I’ve sucked on my inhaler. Eighty percent of people outgrow asthma. But who’s got two thumbs, a lease on a black BMW 3-series he can’t afford, and lungs like California grapes?

“If it’s so bad why don’t you leave?” says Art. “Go back to Los Angeles?”

“I would,” I say. “But you know how it is with parents.”

The truth, of course, is that my parents are fine. My dad’s retired and just bought a juicer. My mom walks five miles a day. Anyway, ever since they got their condo in Florida they’re barely around.

“Plus,” I say, lying, “business is good.” For a while I tried to make it in L.A. but found that out that I was just mediocre. Here, where everything is worse than mediocre, I thought I’d get to be on top.

“You see,” says Art. “Ohio’s not so bad.” He points out the old brick factories along the river that are being converted into condos. The foothills, the joggers, the park. “We could be anywhere,” he says. “And it only costs half as much.”

“But we’re not anywhere,” I say. “We’re not in Brooklyn, not in Boulder, not in Echo Park.”

“How’s Rachel?” he says and I hate the way he changes the subject. Rachel and I broke up a week ago. I put it on Facebook and everything. Everyone knows.

“How do you think?”

“Okay, okay,” says Art. “But you don’t have to be such an asshole all the time. I invited you here to celebrate. I’m going to be a father. Holy shit!”

The waitress finally comes around for our orders and Art asks about the specials. She says there’s nothing special but that the frog legs are pretty good. That sounds about right for Ohio. Nothing special. The only good things are gross.

Art studies the menu. He hmms and huhs and points at the entrees, asking the waitress for her opinion. I wonder how Jenny would feel if she saw him putting on such a show. The waitress is good looking, I’ll grant him that. For Ohio, I’d say she’s a seven or eight, which would make her slightly above average everywhere else.

Art asks about the frog legs.

“Loveland frogs,” the waitress says. She tucks a strand of hair behind an ear. “They’re local. They catch them right over there.” She nods toward the river. I order a grilled cheese. Art gets the frog legs. We split a pitcher of beer.

While we’re waiting, Art tells me how they’re going to have the baby. A doula, a bathtub, Mozart, candles. “It’s going to be really something,” he says. “The baby will swim right out.”

When the waitress comes back with the food, I think I’m going to puke. The frog legs are as long as turkey legs. They’re as round as my forearm and even though they’re fried, you can still see green skin underneath.

“What kind of frogs are those?” I ask behind my napkin.

“They’re giant frogs,” she says. “Totally unique to the region.” She smiles a wide, warm smile. “These are from the juveniles. Very tender, very young.”

Art picks up a leg and takes a bite. “Good,” he says. He asks if I want to try one. I cover my mouth, shake my head.

We try to talk about other things, but the whole time I’m too nauseous to think. “What were you saying about business?” says Art.

“Booming,” I say with as much conviction as I can muster. “I’m making more money than I can spend.”

“And girls?” he says. “Now that you and Rachel are split, you should live a little. You’re thirty-five. The prime of your life.”

I tell him that I’m back on the app.

“You see,” he says again. “Things aren’t so bad here. Business is good. You’re going to meet someone new. I’m having a baby. You don’t need to moan about how much you hate Ohio. There’s a lot to be happy about. Now try one of these frog legs. I’m serious. You’ve never tasted anything so good.” He shoves a leg across the table. Brown juice drips off the bone.

The waitress comes by and ask how everything’s tasting. She notices I’ve barely touched my grilled cheese.

“It’s fine,” I say. “I just don’t have much of an appetite.”

“Oh come on,” says Art. “I’m trying to share something with you. We’re here to share and celebrate. Have a bite.” He shows the waitress the baby picture. She coos and congratulates him. She says the beer’s on the house.

“No,” I say. “No.” I pull out my wallet and toss a near-useless credit card on the table. I tell the waitress I’ll cover the check. “Congratulations on your baby,” I say to Art. “The first of many. I hope you and the Solar System have a bunch of kids.”

“Solar System?” he says.

I open my mouth to say something. But the only words that matter have already come out.

“It’s nothing,” I say. “Just something that Sean came up with.”

“Sean?” he says.

“From California,” I say. “You met him when you visited. You said you liked him. He’s sort of a funny guy.”

“You and Sean have a secret name for my wife? You know what,” he says and sets down his frog leg. “I don’t even want to know what it means. You’re an asshole. You’ve always been a negative, arrogant, lying asshole ever since I met you in college. That’s why Rachel left you, you know. She told Jenny everything. Everything. You deserve all the unhappiness you get.”

He shouts that last part from the edge of the patio. Everyone else has stopped talking and is looking at me. Even the fatso, his cigarette hanging from his lip.

The waitress picks up my credit card. I try to catch her eyes and smile my best Ohio smile back, like “forget it; everything’s great.”

“You know,” I say, “leave the legs. You say that they’re from around here?” Because so what if I’m still nauseous. I just bought them and haven’t eaten since lunch.

“Down the river,” she says. “Around the bend.”

Art was right. The frog legs are very good. They taste like chicken. They melt in your mouth like fish. He was also right that there are parts of this city that feel like they could be anywhere. After I finish the legs, I walk along the river. I watch the sun melt into the clouds like a scoop.

Around the bend, under a bridge, just like the waitress said, there’s a frog family splashing in the river. Two juveniles. Two full-grown adults. I’ve never seen anything like them. The adult frogs are almost as big as I am. They have green leathery skin and webbed hands with goddamn opposable thumbs. I burp and feel my dinner come up. The frog people watch me cautiously as I come nearer, something not quite animal in their eyes.

No one else seems to be paying attention. Or if they notice, they don’t seem to care. Kayakers dip their paddles in the river. Couples hold hands and push babies. Joggers don’t miss a step. Another fucked up thing about Ohio. See something completely incredible, and no one else seems to give a shit.

I sit on a rock and watch the frog family. The adults go back to sunning themselves. The children chase dragonflies through the cattails. One of them opens its mouth and shoots out a tongue like a lasso. The dragonfly disappears. I take out my phone and open the app. There are messages from girls who’ve swiped me. But to be honest, I don’t have the heart to swipe any of them back.

I’m only on the app to see if Rachel’s on it. Art was right about why she left me. She said nothing made me happy. “All you do is pay attention to the negative,” she said. “You don’t realize what good thing you’ve got.”

She told me this right after I came home from the jewelry store. I’d just spent the last of my savings on a ring. She met me in the kitchen, looked at me like I was a stranger, and told me it was over.

“Please,” I said but she was already leaving. She’d packed a bag and everything. She slammed the door.

The last time I saw her, I was on my knees presenting a black box to the empty air.

At quarter after seven, the chef from the restaurant comes down to the river. He’s still got on his apron and chef hat and everything. Over his shoulder, he’s carrying a long gun. He stops about twenty yards away, loads the gun, and points it at the frog family. There’s a boom that echoes across the river. The two adults and one of the kids dive into the water. When I open my eyes, I see the other frog kid on its back.

The chef picks up the dead frog, still smoking, and drags it away by its feet.

“Hey,” he says when he sees me sitting on the rock, watching. “You should come to my restaurant and try these frog legs. They’re one-of-a-kind.”

The rest of the frog family has stopped hiding and is mourning hard. The adults splash in the water, make strangled gulping sounds, and beat their chests. The kid is rolling around on the ground boneless. A jogger needs to run through the cattails to get run around.

“Thanks,” I say to the chef. I finger the cold, silver ring in my pocket. “I already had them. They were good. Like nothing else in the world. I can’t wait to eat them again.”