The Green Man
by Burk Farley
University of Nebraska-Omaha
Burk Farley will be a graduate of the University of Nebraska Omaha with a Creative Writing major and a Business minor. Born and raised in Nebraska, he is pursuing his interests in genre fiction through short stories, novels, comic scripts, and screenplays.
A young boy plays in his yard. Wooden rocking horses, shiny plastic six-shooters, wooden bows strewn across the grass. Occasionally, a car passes on the road, the driver honking or giving a wave if they know the boy and his mother. He jumps around the yard, hopping over boxes he’s placed and loosely slinging around his toy revolver. Riding boots and a ten gallon hat shake as he stumbles about, in pursuit of imaginary foes. He waves the revolver, whooping and hollering while his mother sits on the lowest step of their porch, somewhat uncomfortable with the tacky headband and feather placed on her head.
“Hah! Bang, bang! Bang! Reach for the sky, Indian!” The boy points his toy gun at his mother. “Your days of breaking laws are over!”
“I surrender! I surrender! You’re too good, sheriff!” the mother raises her hands and plays at fear before a ding catches her attention. “Oh, cookies are done! You keep playing, I’ll be back out in a bit.”
The boy nods as his mother retreats indoors. Returning to his game, he poses and aims his toy. All the while, he is unaware of movement from behind. Four eyes like green headlights shine, even in daylight. Slowly, something steps towards the boy, lumbering with weighty, mechanized movements.
“Hello. Playing cowboy?”
The boy turns around to see the Green Man towering over him, body rigid and upright. His head inquisitively tilts to one side. The boy nods excitedly, his hat flopping back and forth. The Green Man lowers himself, metallic creaking and scrapping escaping from under flesh made of foliage. A clicking and whirring sound emanates from behind his glowing eyes, like he’s physically forming a thought. He hands a radio to the boy, and his voice comes from it.
“I quite like cowboys.”
“Really? Me too!” the boy exclaims. “Do you want to play?”
“That’d be great fun, but I’d like to talk to you about something even better.”
“Better?” the boy asks.
“Yes, better. Tell me, why do you like playing sheriff?”
“Well… because they’re the good guys! They get to shoot guns, catch bad guys and fight savages, and stuff!”
“Yes, yes. Excellent. Very smart boy. Well, little buddy, I know where you can shoot all the guns you want. You get a cool costume, lots of friends to play with, and many bad guys who need to be fought,” the Green Man says.
“That sounds so cool!” The boy jumps up and down.
Steam hisses from the back of the Green Man’s neck, the sound approximating laughter. “Yes, yes it is! If you come with me, then you can have all that.”
The boy stops, apprehensive for a moment. He glances towards the door of his house.
The Green Man follows his gaze. “Your mother? She’d be so proud of you. You’d be a real hero! A big boy, shooting bad guys and stopping evil! You do want to make her proud, don’t you?”
The boy slowly nods, beginning to believe.
“Then, please, give me your name,” the Green Man asks.
The boy gives it. He wants to be a hero. He wants to make his mom proud. His eyes dart up as the Green Man removes the cowboy hat, replacing it with a metal shell that envelops the boy’s head. Two green eyes light up from the shell, and the boy sees. He sees purpose. He sees things he couldn’t, things he shouldn’t, and things his mother never will.
The yard is vacant by the time the mother returns.
***
A teen leans against the fence of his school’s football field. All the other players have been picked up by their parents. All the players who didn’t fumble or get tackled the second they got the ball. The helmet feels heavier each second it hangs from his fingers. His neck hurts, and he ran out of water by the end of practice.
The sun would be sinking low if the sky wasn’t blanketed with heavy clouds. Rain drizzles down, punctuated by the occasional flash and roar of lightning and thunder in the far off distance. Mud’s been plentiful, and the teen is soaked in it. A lot more than most of the team.
“Goddamnit,” he sighs.
“Tough practice?” a voice asks, crackling with static.
“Who’s there?” The teen swivels his head, surprised. Taking a few steps, his feet stumble across a radio.
“Just someone interested in your potential,” the voice responds from the radio.
“Is this some kinda prank? You think this is funny?” The teen shivers with fear but tries to sound angry.
“Of course not. But they laughed during practice, didn’t they? Gave you shit because you weren’t up to snuff.”
“How do you–”
“I’m interested in your potential,” the Green Man says. A flash of lightning illuminates him before the teen’s eyes. He sees the steel poking out from beneath a wall of vegetation, and the sharp-toothed grin decaled on a smooth metal face, bits of the paint running in the rain. “I see greatness in you.”
“Huh, please. I think you missed the real talent, they left half an hour ago,” the teen scoffs.
“No, no. It’s all about working as a team, lifting each other up. You do your part fine, but you could be doing so much more. They don’t see it, but they will.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m giving you a chance to prove your strength. To get better, faster, to take wins bigger than you’ve ever seen. Be the best you can be, and so much more than them.” The Green Man raises an arm, flexing his own mechanical muscle.
The teen pauses, glancing up at the Green Man curiously.
“Those games are practice. They’re fun, but really just preparation for the real test of a man’s strength. Tell me, what brought you out here?” The Green Man lowers himself to eye level. “The thrill of the fight? The sense of pride in beating another man? The praise that comes with using your strength to snatch victory from your enemies?”
The teen shrugs. “I dunno, kinda all I guess? But–”
“No! No ‘kinda,’ no ‘I guess,’ just yes or no! Be direct!” The Green Man’s eyes flash brighter.
“Yes! Yes! I want to be the best! I want to win!” The teen knows how coaches talk: the intensity has purpose. It’s motivation; it forces momentum.
“Then what’s stopping you?”
The teen glances down at the radio, suddenly gripped in his shaking hand. What’s stopping him is himself. He’ll never play professionally, and there are no trophies waiting back home. But maybe he can aim higher, push himself farther. Give up his old self, and the weights will fall away.
“Then give me your name and take your future.” The Green Man holds out a metal shell.
The teen says his name, takes the shell, and places it over his head. Green eyes light up, and he sees purpose. He sees all that will be. Eventually, his old teammates will fade away into obscurity, their glory meaningless and forgotten. His feats will be remembered. The exhilaration, the pride, they will carry him into acclaim and power beyond any field. The winners will get more than a trophy, and the losers will be punished far worse than a spotted record.
The football field is empty by the time his parents arrive.
***
A man sits on a curb. A car flies by, its lights blinding him against the dark of night. He takes another swig of his bottle, the alcohol dribbling onto his unkempt beard and his ragged jacket. Underneath, he’s still wearing a hastily-assembled suit, his attempt to be professional. Today, it served him nothing. Every glimpse of that suit reflected in the puddle at his feet prompts another swig.
Flickering street lamps emit searing rays of light that burn his eyes more and more as the night goes on. The tattered remnants of his printed resume peek out at him from a nearby dumpster; a reminder of wasted time and dashed hope. Every month or so, the garbagemen find these papers. It’s become something of a tradition, even if they don’t know it. Usually, there’s a couple of bottles keeping them company. He downs the last of the bottle in his hand.
“Interview didn’t go well?”
The man whips his head left and right, trying to find the source of the voice wreathed in static. There’s no people around, not even a car coming down the street. Eventually, his gaze lands on a handheld radio, resting beside the last full bottle on his left.
“What the fuck?” The man is half incredulous and half amused.
“Go on, pick it up. We can drink and talk,” the radio calls.
The man grabs it hesitantly, and by the time he looks up, the Green Man is sitting on the curb to his right. A can of oil is cradled in his rough steel fingers, prompting a laugh from the man. He opens up his own bottle, taking another drink to get through whatever this is.
“Another rejection. That’s, what, thirty? Thirty-one?”
“Why’s it your fucking business?” The man waves the hand with the radio in it at his new drinking buddy.
“Because it’s tough seeing men like this. You ought to have a job, have some structure and real camaraderie. But they just don’t get it. They don’t see what you could do.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” the man says, glancing back and forth, unsure whether to direct his agreement towards the radio or the metal giant.
“You need a job, a good income, and some goddamn respect. Everything a man needs, everything he deserves.” The Green man jabs the can of oil into a small tube in his neck, taking the liquid in.
“Yeah, sure, yeah. But, it ain’t working out.” The man slumps forward. “None of ‘em like me. They think I’m a bum. Maybe they’re right.”
“Correct, they don’t like you. That’s for the best, really.”
“Hold on. What did you say?” The man jerks his head to the right.
“You wouldn’t have been happy at those jobs. Pushing paper? Playing nice? Nah, you need something rough. To bite and tear to get what you want,” the Green Man answers.
“Heh, robot buddy, maybe you should lay off the oil can. What’s any of this about?”
“A job. I can give you a job. Your bills will be paid, and no stuffy suits will glare down at you day in and day out. Good, honest work. Real service.”
“You for real?”
“Very. Join up, and you’ll be doing what real men do. Every day will be worthwhile, and the guys there will be real with you. A lot of them were in the same boat. But now? They’ve got it all in order. They just had to give their name and get in line.” The Green Man holds out a shell.
“Well shit. Alright.” The man says his name, takes the shell, and shoves it onto his head.
Green overtakes his eyes. The paths become clear, and the world comes into focus. He sees people for who they are inside, the disdain and contempt they hold for him. For dumpster street trash. Well, no more. He sees it all. Every frailty and weakness they hold, the dull beat of their lethargic hearts. His beats faster with each moment, anticipation burning through the alcohol and clearing his focus. He sees his purpose, chosen just for him.
By morning, the curb is empty, except for a few bottles.
***
Some boys never come home, their bodies filled by the grains of foreign sands. Most boys, however, do come back. They come back strong, angry, with the taste of metal and the smell of oil. They come back with clenched fists and a ringing in their ears. They come back with memories of the screams and burning flesh of men, mothers, and children.
They come back with solid, bright green eyes.