Novel Treatments / Southern Confessions
“Well, isn’t that the shit!” Ramone exclaimed as he pulled yet another cigarette out of his mouth before clenching it between his tobacco stained fingertips and throwing it to the ground—rubbing it into the clay-like dirt beneath his flip-flop covered feet as he paced his porch. The shit. A one word expletive that to my father could mean anything from ‘damn, but isn’t that a load of bull!’ to ‘hell, if that isn’t some extraordinary news!’ Yeah, it’s a family defect—one I’ve tried hard to forget and even harder to view as reality. So, I did the next best thing—I rolled my eyes.
“No one has ever accused you of being prolific.” I mumbled under my breath as I looked over at the white sheet of paper dangling now between his fingertips. My ride out—maybe. Have you ever had one of those moments in your life where you’ve sat for hours in front of a mirror perusing yourself critically while wondering if this was it, if this was all there is? Well, it’s not just a moment for me—it’s an every day occurrence. The wind pulled at the paper, and I jumped for it—grabbing it and holding it to my chest protectively as my father sat down on a chair propped against his sagging porch and took a swig of a Bud Light. The breakfast of champions, right? Yep, sits right up there with Frosted Flakes. Grrrrr! Ramone glanced at me curiously as he cocked his head to the side.
“Awful protective of that thing ain’t ya?” He asked in wry amusement as I curled up in my own chair, one leg propped up underneath me as I read the letter again—over and over as if the words would change with each inspection. It seemed funny to me that my family cared all of a sudden about the child that had been a mistake—about a trite young woman that had been raised in destitution. Did they mean to make up for it now? And why should I care? I leaned back casually—crumpling the paper in my hand dismissively as I looked out over the brown summer grass next to my father’s trailer. It had been a hot summer in Mississippi, and we desperately needed rain.
“What makes you think I give a shit about any of it?” I asked nonchalantly as dear ol’ dad handed me a beer. I only looked at it a moment, suddenly disgusted by its aluminum appearance as he raised a critical brow in my direction. Only I would think in terms of descriptive jargon for describing anything about my father as ‘critical’…well yeah, that’s just good for a laugh. I think my father was something once, before life changed him—made him bitter and sad, seeking solace in a bottle that only brought back the ghosts. I knew he loved me in that self-pitying way of his by the way he watched me sometimes as if he wished he were different—as if he wished alcohol wasn’t his mistress.
“Aw shit! Maybe you should go.” Ramone mumbled before getting up and slamming his now empty can into a black open garbage bag hanging off the side of the porch on a nail. He shrugged before popping the top off another can.
“Ya always was smarter than hell, and a pain in the ass to live with.” He grunted as I bit my lower lip to keep from smiling. I wasn’t really made for adventure. That had been something my mother had been good at before she passed away—good at making rash decisions that changed the world. Well, her world at least. I finally popped the top on my own can and took a swallow—grimacing at the bitter after-taste it left in my mouth. Like life I guess. That’s laughable, I know—viewing life as if it were a can of beer. But it fits. Take a swallow, feel the heat as it flows through your veins, but suffer the after-taste that’s always sure to come. And so my grandfather, the greatest bastard known to mankind was dying? Should I worry that I felt no remorse—that for some strange, alien reason he wanted to see me succeed first. College? I shook my head as I stood up and walked through the trailer door into the dimness within.
“You’re just afraid I’ll hide all of the beer again.” I muttered soundly as my father laughed—that deep, rumbling laugh that always followed his binges. He was really treading that thin line between being an alcoholic and being insane. I’m not sure which problem suffices as the worse of the two. He grabbed me by the upper arm, and I twisted away from him. I didn’t want his touch right now—didn’t need it. Maybe life had torn him apart, but I wasn’t going to let it embitter me. Maybe he was right.
“Just get the hell outta here, Cat.” He grumbled as I watched him stumble past me—tripping slightly before finally managing to land on the brown, stained sofa just inside the door. If you landed on it just right, it could even give you a few free treatments of acupuncture without the supposed relief that’s meant to follow. Holistic medicine…that’s another issue altogether. Maybe I should try it some time. I leaned over, picked up a piece of crushed aluminum and threw it at him.
“You just want to kill yourself here—alone.” I ranted as he shielded his eyes with his palm—covering up the chubby after effects of his habit. He was destroying his liver.
“Nah, I’m just keeping you from witherin’ here with me. Go see that damn lotta stuck up relatives of yours and find out what they want. If nothin’ else, it’ll get you outta this hell hole.” He proclaimed as I sighed in exasperation. There’s a difference between the hell hole he was talking about and the place where I lived. I loved the south. There’s something about it that brings to life the fanciful works of Tennessee Williams and Mark Twain—revealing the spirited adventure and culture that really existed here, but then there was our life—the kind that dissipated under the lack of money—under this furious need of my father’s to gamble away his soul. I unclenched the fist I had tightened around the piece of paper earlier. It was a summons from my grandfather insisting that he wanted me present when he passed. This was a joke really. I hadn’t seen him since I was a child—since my mother had married the alcoholic Vietnam veteran I now resided with. I wasn’t stupid. He just wanted a good show before he passed into the afterlife because what’s more funny that a bunch of classy folks and a lone outsider educated on books from the library. I could quote anything from the Bible to Frost and Byron. I didn’t need pity. My father was the epitome of that on his own. I didn’t need charity.
“I’m not going.” I said finally as I walked back outside into the heat—ignoring the few flying insects that were attracted to the salt accumulated on my skin. I shouldn’t want this. Should I? Dammit! My bare feet burned as I ran down the unpainted, wooden stairs to the dirt and grass below—walking a minute in the sun before kicking at the clay with the toe of my feet. Sweat made my light brown hair cling to my cheeks and I didn’t even bother to wipe it away. I could hear my father moving around in the trailer behind me, and I waited for that crucial point when he would black out—land on the floor in that relaxing state of oblivion, but instead I just heard the sound of a crash as the door of his trailer opened and something went flying into the air. Oh hell! I turned around and gaped. The hell he would!
“Dammit dad!” I yelled as I ran back up onto the porch—pulling at the now locked door of the tin can as I glanced in morbid fascination at the small suitcase and strewn clothes now trying to blow away in the breeze. Dammit! I kicked at the door.
“You’re one drunken son of a bitch, you know that!” I yelled as I kicked at the door one last final time for good measure—leaning over to rub my stinging toes as he laughed from within.
“Couldn’t think o’ no better way to tell ya to hit the road. Have a nice trip. Bring me back one of those bumper stickers that says ‘shit happens.’” He bellowed as I threw several empty cans at the door and windows. The friggin’ maniac! He really expected me to go.
“You got cash I don’t know about?” I hollered as the window opened suddenly—only far enough for him to throw out a roll of bills. I raised a brow as I picked up the wad—thumbing through the rows of fives until I counted up to a hundred. Sure, that’d get me a couple of miles before I had to hike the rest of the damn way. A thought struck, and I smiled suddenly before grabbing the bundle he had thrown outside and leaping off the porch. If he wanted me to go so damn badly then I’d friggin’ go—my way. The wires I fiddled with on the old 86 Pontiac hatchback outside were exposed enough to give me that wonderful start up noise I so enjoyed. Hell yeah! I grinned as the trailer door swung open to reveal my stunned, angry father once the engine started to make a racket pretty darn close to a dying animal. It could raise the friggin’ dead.
“You’ve got to be shittin’ me!” Ramone roared as I kicked the car into reverse—showering pebbles into the air as he scrambled off of his porch before standing barefoot and shirtless in his driveway. All he needed to do now was scratch himself and it would complete the picture.
“I’m just savin’ you the trouble of sellin’ it later.” I screamed out the rolled down window as I continued backwards—shifting into drive just as I turned to face the road.
“Besides, it was a wise man that once said ‘shit happens.’” I quoted with a laugh as I pulled away to the noise of his continuous bellowing. Damn, but if I wasn’t askin’ for trouble. This was lunacy. I mean, Jesus! Maybe the old coot was already dead. Who was I kidding? Maybe, I was glad that I was being forced to go. In the long run, I knew I really didn’t have to—that I could have turned around at any moment and joined my dad back there in a trailer sitting stoically near a bunch of woods, but I was using his strange rant as an excuse to leave, as false courage. I wanted to find knowledge somewhere other than the roach ridden home of a man torn up by time. I wanted to find my truth on a road trip in a beat up old Pontiac with wheels too big for its frame—causing the vehicle to ride at five miles over what the speedometer actually read. Illusion. But isn’t that what life is—a pretty picture painted over a rough canvas. You have to have a good brush and a passel full of talent to make it something other than harsh strokes of nonsensical art. I let the wind rush through the open windows of the air condition free car as I drove—watching the sun as it set above the trees—casting that ever wondrous hue of colors that somehow seeps into the soul and makes you want to cry. Now, all I needed was a little George Jones and a cigarette. Hah! So shit happens huh? We’ll see about that. One of my favorite books had always been the Odyssey. Maybe it was time I took that same path. But there’s this thing about journeys. Sometimes they only consist of dead ends. But that’s road trips for you. It’s about taking a map and hoping you don’t read it wrong.
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The characters are very real. I think I even started to smell beer while reading this. I’m not exactly sure whee the Cat person is going. I assume a releitive ( grandfather) is going to leave him/her money to go to school.
I’m a litte confused as to why they don’t want to take the money. Perhaps that would be explained better. I understand not wanting charity but the charaters home life seems so bleek. I would love to see that explored more. It seems to me that the father and child have a very complex yet touching relationship.
I really like the allusion to the odessy and comparing that to a road trip… which I guess it was. I hope you write more about this charater’s journey and if they presue school.
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Well written again, with life-like characters and great descriptions. Good job!
You make the characters come alive! i envy you. i do not work well with dialogue. love it. life goes on. backroads or the highway.
This story was definately an entertaining read. I liked the whole message at the end, too. Life’s about taking chances. I couldn’t find anything wrong grammatically or anything like that. You’re very talented to have captured the human nature that surrounds you. Very good. Keep it up!
Take Care and God Bless,
SJFoss
well if you enjoy writing it thats the important thing--If it comes to mattering to you, and only you keep writing--I feel my novel even if it’s not published yet is one of my greater accomplishments. It’s a great story of makeing the great escape to something better getting out of a rut and not following in the old guys footsteps.Great keep writing.
I really liked this. The dialouge was so funny. I mean, nothaha, butlaughable, in a sad way. I really like your characters. They seem so real that you could meet them on the street. I wish you had done even more with surroundings, though. So I could picture exactly where they were and what was happening. Keep going.
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