Concerning the Extinction of the Mullet in Hemlock, Michigan
 
By Josh Maday  
   
   
Buckey Littlejohn, age twelve, owned one of the last two mullets in Hemlock, Michigan.

Gathering mail from the scorching tin box at the road, Buckey’s bare feet danced on the oily hot gravel. His sunburn tightened as he retrieved the ads for his mother, who liked to sit in the living room and look through the glossy inserts all afternoon while the box fan blew her nightgown into a tent.

A battered pickup truck parked at the end of the driveway. With 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 lying so feeble and truncated on the cardboard.

“Din’t mean to scare yer little girl,” he mocked to himself.

Buckey taped the box shut, 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 the rusty shears, Buckey eyed the long curls at the base of Skeeter’s neck, and that 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 this mullet, Skeeter’s lifelong companion, on this rusty guillotine for the last time. Finally, gritting his teeth, Buckey said, “Jest shut up. You don’t wanna look like a little girl, do you?”

Skeeter gasped, “Don’t—”

But it was too late.

Josh Maday cannot verify that he was ever born, since he does not remember that particular event and cannot produce any video or photos or cave drawings to prove otherwise (due mostly to computer illiteracy). Neither his work nor his writing has yet appeared in The New Yorker, Harper’s, The Atlantic Monthly, or Playboy. Currently, he does not live in New York City (or anywhere near the state of New York , for that matter). And, finally, having never considered the fact that he will die someday, he fully intends to read all those books on his shelves. Thank you. Amen.