Last edited Wed Nov 17, 2021, 03:11 PM - Edit history (2)

My light is not dying, Mr. Thomas…but the world seems to still be getting darker.

I’ve got to save my own life before I can save yours.

𝙱𝙳⁄𝚂𝙴𝚁

Last edited Wed Nov 17, 2021, 03:49 PM - Edit history (2)

In late 1958 a boy was born. That much is fact. Quickly circumcised, whisked to the loving home of his loving parents, and told for the first of many times the most horrible thing an innocent child can be told: how special he is. For that child...naive, unprotected, defenseless...will grow to believe that he is, in fact, special. And when that child, so trusting, grows to later discover that he is not, in fact, special...well, every certainty, every assumption, every dogma, every belief, is then called into doubt. That much is also fact.

After that, there is no truth here. Don’t even look. Nor lies.
A Truth implies insight. A Lie implies dishonesty. There’s none of that here. Just a disjointed story, a fantasy. A faulty memory of reality, blended with delusion, fiction, and fever dreams.

That is my position. To admit otherwise would be too painful.

𝙱𝙳⁄𝚂𝙴𝚁

    I am not an easy man to be with. If I were to be fair to those around me, I would grace them with less of my presence. I smoke too much, I talk too much, and my hearing is weak. Social skills are not a strong suit. Emotions...mine or others...often confuse me and leave me silent, suspicious, tense, and unsure.

    I can imitate normalcy for short periods of time. I watch ordinary people giving ordinary reactions, then mentally rehearse for situations that never seem to exactly arise. But I have learned to exchange pleasantries without receiving odd looks, and hold short conversations without discomfort.

    ▓    ▓    ▓

    “What are you thinking about?”
    “What?” Once again, I have failed.
    She rolled her eyes. I saw it...she tried to hide it, but I saw it. She definitely rolled her eyes. Definitely. Then she saw that I saw and felt guilty about it. A little. But not that much. I don’t blame her...she spends half her speaking time repeating herself, and another good portion replying to some banality that popped into my head that I felt required an exposition of my opinions or ideas, after which I ask her opinion and then I carry on further with my opinions. As I implied earlier, I am quite the asshole.
    “What are you thinking about?”
    Great. Think of something...something...don’t say it...just keep quiet...don’t bark...don’t bite...something... something...ah, a turtle.
    “Just looking at that turtle down there.”
    She can tell. I’m tense, quiet. Definitely not thinking about some fuckin’ turtle on the bank of the fuckin’ Trinity River on the fuckin’ west side of fuckin’ Fort Worth, where I will fuckin’ die and rot if I don’t get the fuck outa here soon...very soon. Definitely not.
    “What’re you thinkin’ ‘bout?” My language is lazy...I know. When I listen to myself I sound like a hick. I sometimes try to improve, but I quickly relapse.
    I can feel a spell coming on. I don’t really know what they are, but they started a few years back. It’s like cotton starts filling my brain, making it more difficult to think. Sometimes there is a fleeting kind of sound that accompanies it...almost like amplifier feedback of the lower notes of a guitar. My vision gets just a little wonky, just for a second or two, and I feel just a little weak. It usually feels like I can “will” it away, and I do. But once I passed right out...in a lake. Face down. Fortunately Sally was right there, right beside me. Pulled my face out of the water, screaming for help. She said I was out for only about five seconds. But I don’t know. I don’t know if it’s my heart or brain or blood sugar or anxiety...the doctors can’t really find anything. I can generally pass it off without anyone even noticing. I call it a fugue.
    “You’re just quiet. It’s a beautiful evening, isn’t it?”
    “Yeah, it’s nice. Real nice.” I light another cigarette. “You wanna walk down to the bridge and look at the water?”
    “Yeah, that would be nice.” We walk to the water’s edge, sit, and I pull the container of coffee from my pack. We each sip, gaze at the water, peaceful, stand and return down the trail to the van. The fugue passes.

𝙱𝙳⁄𝚂𝙴𝚁

Some events from the past are repulsive only in their entirety. Any one scene is mundane, any set of scenes is uncomfortable, maybe distasteful. And there is no terrible climactic scene with blood or gore or closing drama. Just a continuum, flowing into a more mundane setting. But in its entirety, this type of story haunts the people that lived it, saw it. This is one of those stories.

      ▓    ▓    ▓

    The air conditioner was losing. Badly. And loudly. The motel room window, viewing the walkway which looked over the unused and stagnant pool one floor below, was shadowed and curtained but did little to block the summer Phoenix heat. The prostitutes and drug dealers would hit Washington Avenue, the street out front, shortly after dusk.
Ron sat ragged and beat, face in hands, staring at the chipped top of the cheap folding table. Chrome edges, flimsy steel legs. One ashtray. Two loose jointed chairs.
    Kathy With a K was pregnant, drunk, and sprawled on the bed, pretending to sleep. Black stretch shorts, too short over her butt and too taut across her hugely extended stomach, one bra strap across her upper arm, and a thick tangled pile of bleach blonde hair with dark roots over an inch long. A bottle of Two Fingers Tequila and a plastic cup were on the stand beside her. She was very specific about her name, her liquor, and her ancestry, which was, according to her, Spanish not Mexican. Despite being from Gallup, New Mexico.
    Kathy With a K’s boyfriend, Adrian, was definitely Mexican. More accurately, maybe Aztec or Incan. He was out, hoping the bit of change in his pocket was enough for a can of tuna or some lunch meat. If not, we would have to get aggressive if we wanted to eat. Which meant shoplifting or dine-and-dash. Again. Both had risks.
    I was sitting in the second loose jointed chair, across the chipped linoleum table top from Ron, as close as I could get to the barely functioning air conditioner. Also beat and tired. I dug the longest butt from the ashtray and lit it. Three good drags and it was gone.
    The door opened and a blast of heat neutralized any small effect the air conditioner may have had. Adrian walked in and flipped Ron and I each a cigarette. We were glad for them, and lit up. Kathy With A K soon dropped her pretense and sat up, adjusted her bra, then took another drink before silently signaling for a cigarette herself. Adrian tossed one, almost derisively, quietly showing his disgust and embarrassment for her state.
    Adrian sat on the edge of the bed, dropping a small paper sack from under his arm. Kathy stood, pulling a metallic gold blouse over her pregnant tits, and announced with a slur her need for ice. Black heels slid on her swollen feet. Ice bucket in hand, the door opens then slams, and the unsteady click-click-click of her heels echoed down the covered concrete walkway. The tragic depression of the sight was noticed by no one outside the room.
    The provisions Adrian secured were modest, but enough for everyone to have a sandwich and five cigarettes each. I secretly stash one for a breakfast smoke, the remaining three go in my shirt pocket. We ate the sandwiches as the sun set. I stood outside on the walkway, watching the prostitutes and johns as the desert air quickly cooled. Maybe tomorrow would be better.

      ▓

    We were detailing cars most days. We were hitting up used car dealers, undercutting the regular detail shops by a few bucks, and detailing the cars at a car wash. Same day service, same day cash. This pissed off the regular detail shops, and one in particular we hit hardest. On purpose. He fucked us once, so we often hit the dealerships he did work for.
    Kathy wasn’t much help lately. Mostly driving, picking up and returning cars. Maybe cleaning the side windows or drying a fender. Adrian tried to carry her slack. I did too. That night she was returning a car, getting the days pay, then returning with Adrian’s car. Ron, Adrian, and I were waiting at the car wash, putting gear into Ron’s car.
    A black sedan pulled into the lot...aiming the headlights at us, idling. Lights off, then silence. Doors open, no dome light, and two figures exit, laughing, talking quietly to each other, sharing a joint. They walk to the front of their car and lean on the hood, relaxed, continuing to talk to each other. Then silence.
    “Ronnie, come! Bring your friends and share this evening with us!” Jamaican accent. Quiet laughter. A pause. The smell of the joint drifting across the lot. Traffic passing, unseeing. Pause. Then, “Friends, come please! We are friends tonight! Share with us and let us talk! It is a beautiful night, and we would like your company!” Quiet laughter again. Another pause. “My friends! If you will not come to us we will come to you! Do not worry! We are friends tonight and want to share!” More laughter. The wooden “tunk” sound of baseball bats being tapped on the pavement...“tunk...tunk...tunk”. We stand, silent, tense.
    Kathy With A K pulled up in Adrian’s car, washing the two figures with headlights. They looked calmly at the car, as if she was expected. She stopped, keeping the headlights trained. Ron looked at me, then Adrian. We both nod, and look to the ground.
    “We are leaving tonight. You will not see us again.”
    Silence. “That is very unfortunate, Ronnie! We were hoping for many celebrations with you! Where will you be traveling to on this fine night?”
    “Tulsa.”
    “Tulsa! I have heard Tulsa is a very fine city! Very far away! This is good! I believe there are many fine people in Tulsa! I trust you will be very happy there! I wish you and your friends a safe journey! Be very careful my friends!”
The black sedan swallowed the two figures, started, and drove off. We returned to the motel, weaving past prostitutes and dealers, and prepared to leave Phoenix, Arizona. Then we slept, making a lie of Ron’s promise, and left the following morning.

      ▓

    From Phoenix to Albuquerque is about seven hours. Nobody mentioned stopping in Gallup...nobody thought it worth their while. From Albuquerque to Tulsa is about ten hours. Kathy With A K broke water about an hour east of Albuquerque. The back seat of Ron’s car, using stolen motel blankets and pillows, was turned into a bed. Nine hours of intermittent moans, cries, and sobbing, the pains steadily increasing in frequency and urgency. Stops were limited to refueling and one stop at a liquor store...Kathy With a K wanted Two Fingers and nobody was of a mind to tell her no. Adrian rode with Kathy and Ron. I followed in Adrian’s car. Wherever Kathy With a K dropped this kid, we were stuck. Adrian and Kathy didn’t much care. Ron and I wanted to be stuck in Tulsa. At least we knew we had a bed.

      ▓

    I was born at Saint John’s Hospital in Tulsa, Oklahoma. Almost twenty years later I helped carry Kathy With a K through the same hospital doors my mother had entered to deliver me to this world. Fifteen minutes after that, around 1:00 AM, a new soul, wounded and damaged in ways I did not yet comprehend, was begat unto Kathy With a K, alone in a sterile delivery room in foreign territory, with the doctors and staff as first witness to her shame, ruin, and remorse.
    Nurses appeared...whispers, furrowed brows, condemning glances...asking for the father. Soon, explanations were being given...words describing brain damage and deformities, complications and limitations. Fetal Alcohol Syndrome. The need for both Kathy and the newly born to receive an alcohol I.V. to lessen the risks of convulsions or even death. No sweet whispers of love and kindness and devotion in this child’s ear. Only the dead look of guilt and regret and hopelessness on the face of Adrian as he sat, crumpled, in the sturdy chair beside Kathy With a K, unconscious from medicinal alcohol and pain killers, in the only crisp and clean bed she had ever known.
    I lost track of everyone not long after that. Kathy soon packed her crying and distorted infant son and a fresh bottle of Two Fingers Tequila onto a bus bound for the poverty and anonymity of Gallup, New Mexico. Adrian returned to Phoenix, alone and unencumbered. I visited him once, but it was uncomfortable and full of awkwardness, so I never returned. Ron and I would hook up for a brief stint of dealing weed a few years later, but I haven’t seen or heard of him since. I don’t miss any of them. But here we are.

𝙱𝙳⁄𝚂𝙴𝚁

...and no offense to DU, but why are you sharing it here? At the very least, it seems a site like Medium would get you more literary appreciation and maybe more money. Though the folks at DU will give you more respect for your experience. Thank you for sharing and for God's sake, keep writing. You have a lot of strength for vividly communicating real emotion and experience.