Yella

Phil hadn't gotten over the time Tommy kicked his butt after class. It wasn't the whoopin' that hurt him so much as his Pa's reaction when he came home, bloody-nosed and crying.

"You're a coward, boy," Pa had said, and told him to get out of his sight.

That hurt Phil more than any chokeslam or German suplex ever could.

So, six months later, when a second chance to prove his grit presented itself, he jumped on it like a top-rope dive into a full-body pin.

Brassett, Arizona, had, for the last few months, suffered a spate of burglaries—a real uncommon occurrence for the sleepy suburb—but that topic was presently on pause for Phil's Nana and her deck chair buddies, Aggie and Myrtle, because another atrocity had occurred in the night: The dude across the road who liked to keep his business to hisself had only gone and painted his front door a bright yella.

"Yella! Ya see that?" said Aggie, her hand-rolled teetering on her lips.

Myrtle lifted her sunglasses. "Garish… Garish is what that is."

Phil sat cross-legged at the foot of Nana's deck chair, smearing after-sun cream on her knees. It was summertime, 1993, and the three women—who were all well into their seventies—lounged on Nana's lawn every day from dawn till dusk. While Phil didn't exactly like fetching them iced tea or lemonade, or preening their bushes, or cleaning their gutters, at least it earned him a steady couple o' bucks towards his secret Warrior University fund. At least he wasn't at home with Pa.

"That's enough!" said Nana and bonked Phil on the head with her walking cane. "I ain't no slice of blueberry pie."

"What do you think, Nana?" said Aggie.

"'Bout what?"

"'Bout what? 'Bout Mister Mysterio over there paintin' his damn door yella."

"Some folks got peculiar tastes, don't they?" said Nana. "It's an eyesore, but, hell, so’s your toenails."

Aggie muttered something under her breath and buried her nose in a magazine.

"What's an eyesore, Nana?" asked Phil.

"It's somethin' ugly that you don't wanna look at. Like that sink full of dirty dishes you ain't started on yet. Go on, get! If you want your allowance."

Phil frowned and ambled into the house to do his chores.

That night, Phil prised up the loose floorboard under his bed and took out his secret savings jar. On its side was glued a picture of The Ultimate Warrior that he'd cut out of a magazine. He hadn't taken much interest in pro wrestling till about six months ago, but when he saw The Ultimate Warrior in the ring, routinely puttin’ to sleep dudes that were twice his size, he became a die-hard fan.

Then, last month came the announcement: The Ultimate Warrior was opening a combat school—Warrior University—right here in Arizona.

Phil felt like destiny had sung his name.

The next time Tommy wanted a pop at him, Tommy would be the one goin' home crying to his Pa.

The next day, Phil went back to Nana's house.

The dude across the street had painted his whole porch yella in the night, and Nana's friends were all up in a fuss about it.

"It's a travesty," said Aggie.

"A God damn travesty," said Myrtle.

"Even I gotta admit," said Nana, "for someone who likes to keep his business to hisself, it's a mighty conspicuous color to be paintin’ your domicile."

Aggie straightened her straw hat and slouched back in her deck chair.

"Man needs hisself a wife to mitigate his impulses, that there's the problem if y’ask me… Phil, honey, be a doll and go fetch your aunty Aggie her woo-woo pills off the coffee table, would you?"

"All right," said Phil. "You got the house keys?"

"It's open."

"I thought there was a thief roamin’ about."

"The boy’s right, Aggie," said Myrtle. "I heard there was another house got broke into just last night!"

"What in the hell?" said Aggie. "Y’all are paranoid Pattys, you can see my damn house from here!"

"Not that well," said Nana, squinting in the direction of Aggie's house. "And I'd bet not at all with your woo-woo goggles on. It's surely feasible a man could slip in undetected."

"Feasible, feasible," said Myrtle, and sucked up half her mimosa through a curly straw.

Aggie huffed and tutted as she rooted around in her handbag.

"All right, all right! Here's the keys, child, lock up after yourself or these two ninnies might have theyselves an embolism."

Phil took the keys and was about to jog over to Aggie's when Aggie yelled, "Wait!"

Everyone looked at her.

"There was a burglary last night, you say?"

"S’what I heard," said Myrtle.

"There was one the night before last, am I right?"

"So?" said Myrtle.

Aggie sat up and lit a hand-rolled.

"Ladies, I'm no Señor Poirot," she puffed from the corner of her mouth, "but don’t there seem to be emergin’ somethin’ of a pattern here?"

Everyone looked at each other.

"Oh, come on! It’s plain as pimples!"

"What are you rattling on about?" said Nana.

"Well, think of it! Two burglaries, twice Mysterio’s painted his house the same nights they occurred. Didn’t all this start when he moved in?"

Nana burst out laughing.

"What’s funny?" said Aggie.

"What’s funny? What’s funny?" snorted Nana through her fingers. "That there’s gotta be the dumbest idea you ever had! That’s includin’ the time you tried to get us to summon a UFO with that séance."

"Now you just hold your horses there, Nana," said Aggie, waving a finger. "I ain't done connectin’ the dots yet!"

Nana was in hysterics.

"Oh, connect 'em! Please connect 'em!"

"His first few crimes hadn't garnered full attention round town till recently, right? But now they have, he's gotten cautious, decided he needs an alibi so when the police come knockin', he can say, ‘Look, officer, I was paintin’ my house on the night in question!’"

"Aggie… that is an alibi. How in the hell the man gon’ be paintin’ his porch and out doin’ mischief at the same damn time?"

"Aha! See, that’s the clever part. What if he gots hisself a partner? You know, one paints while the other’s in the act. Maybe they rotate, like on shift. I mean, that’d explain the brazen color—make it flagrant what he’d been doing of a night. And he is a night owl, ain't he."

"That is true. He is a night owl," said Myrtle.

Nana finally stopped laughing.

"You two can’t be serious! Myrtle? You buyin’ this shit? What about you, Phil?"

Phil looked down at his shoes and jangled Aggie's keys.

"I mean… a wacky theory’s better than no theory at all, I guess."

Nana shook her head. "I cannot believe my ears! I swear, you lot would've sent the Scottsboro Boys straight to the gallows!"

"All right, all right," said Aggie. "How's this... I won't mention it till it happens again. But if it does, you apologize and pay me the credence my intuition's owed!"

"Seems fair," said Myrtle.

Phil nodded.

"All right," said Nana. "And when it doesn't, it's double pay for my grandson all week! From the both of ye! Deal?"

The next few days went by without a burglary or any more yella on Mysterio's house. Phil thought the ladies had forgotten about the wager and went about his usual business—hosing their lawns and jogging to the store for seltzer and lottery tickets.

The summer was getting swelteringly hot. The chores felt twice as draining in the wide Arizona sun, but Phil reminded himself of his goal nine, ten, twenty times a day if necessary. What sort of Ultimate Warrior am I if I can't handle a little desert heat, he said to hisself. He was determined to be top of his class at the university—do anything it took to become the mean machine that nobody would mess with.

Tommy hadn't been on Phil's case since the whoopin', but Phil knew that was because he saw him as a slain foe—no longer a threat. But Tommy was wrong. And when Phil graduated from combat school and put the fear o' God into Tommy, Pa would never dare call him a coward again.

On the fourth day, Phil got to Nana's and saw that every remaining inch of the house opposite was painted bright yella.

"Ah, shoot," he said. "I hope nobody's got burgled."

Then, for the first time ever, he saw that Myrtle's deck chair was empty.

"Phil!" yelled Nana.

Phil ran over.

"Would you believe it! Myrtle was only burgled last night! Right under her nose as she was sleepin'."

"You don't say," said Phil. "Is she all right?"

"Oh, she's fine, she's fine. Just a little shook up, she is. Absolutely terrifyin', knowin' you're upstairs sound asleep while some creep's snoopin' 'round your house, ain't it? Fortunately, she keeps her valuables in a safe, so the weasel didn't make off with much."

Aggie sat circling the rim of her margarita with a long, pink-varnished fingernail.

"Well," Nana said to her, "if you've been holdin' off till Phil got here to gloat, go on, get it over with. Not that it's anything but a coincidence."

"Could be," said Aggie.

Nana paused. "What?"

"It could be a coincidence," said Aggie. "That's why we need proof."

"Say what, now?"

Aggie downed her margarita and gasped.

"Yeah. We gotta go in."

Nana let out a sigh. "Oh, boy. Here it comes."

"All the signs are there. We just need the clincher, just one piece of hard evidence—a stolen necklace, or a watch, hell, even a pair of gloves or a balaclava would do. They can do hair samples! Skin samples! Semen samples!"

"Semen samples? What in the… Aggie, nobody's breaking into that man's house, yella eyesore or not. Christ, you had your hip replaced three months ago. What else you willin' to break?"

"This is bigger than a plastic hip, Nana," said Aggie in a ceremonial tone. "Myrtle is our friend. And it's fallen at our feet to avenge her—"

"I'll do it," said Phil.

The ladies turned and gazed at him vacantly, as though they didn't recognize him.

"I'm not afraid of no thieves... It has to be me, anyway. I can climb through the chimney... Ain't no way you two are gettin' up there."

"He's right."

"No, he isn't," said Nana. "Phil, go home to your Pa."

"What for!" protested Aggie. "He'll be in and out in no time, won't ye, Phil? The night owls'll be fast asleep—get in, snatch the evidence, get out! It's child's play!"

"Oh, shut the hell up!" said Nana. "By all means, lay your tin-foil hat shit on me, tin-foil me up like a Thanksgiving turkey for all I care, but when it comes to my grandson, do not—"

"Go on, Phil!" blurted Aggie, for Phil had already crossed the road and was shimmying up the yella drainpipe.

"Oh, for cryin' out loud! He'll get hisself killed!"

"Don't be a ninnie! They're like monkeys at that age! Look at him go!"

Nana got up from her deck chair, snatched her walking cane, and marched across the street.

"Nana! Nana!" shouted Aggie. "What are you doing?"

Nana approached the porch. Phil disappeared down the chimney. Nana lifted her cane to knock on the door but heard a rumpus coming from inside.

"Ow!" came Phil's voice. "Ow! Oooh! Ow! Eeeh!"

"Phil!" cried Nana and yanked the front door open.

A giant chicken's egg, five feet tall, rolled past Nana out of the house, down the porch steps, and into the middle of the road. It slowed, wobbled there for a moment, then stopped upright.

Both ladies, dumbstruck, approached the egg from opposite sides. It began to crackle and rumble from deep inside.

"Phil?" said Nana.

She bonked the egg with her walking cane, and the shell exploded into a fountain of white membrane, drenching her and Aggie head to toe. They wiped the goo from their eyes, and there stood Phil in a luminous yella singlet, in a bodybuilder's Front Double Biceps pose, roaring at the top of his lungs.

"Phil! Phil!" said Aggie. "What happened? Did you find anything?"

But Phil didn't answer; he was already storming toward Pa's house, flexing his brand-new muscles in the morning sun.

He had something to say to Pa.