A Conversation In September
“Man, I tell ya its HOT! So damn hot I seen the trees sweating. False fall hell! I think we done lost fall all together. Davy lets go to the creek and cool off. I’m going to die!”
“Shut the hell up Jeffery! I told your fat ass, Mr. Rodney was paying me twenty bucks to clear out this barn. He ain’t gonna pay half for a half job, and besides I asked your lazy ass to split it with me. Instead, you sittin’ there with a coke in your hand talkin’ bout its hot. Take your ass to the creek! I’ll be down there if I can get done before my momma calls me for supper.”
Earl James Rodney was born into a family that in the early 1900’s owned over a thousand acres of farm and forest in what is now Porterland proper. Practically all of the original family farm, ran by Earl’s daddy, mostly cattle and corn, some pigs, chickens and other such, had been developed during the sixties and seventies. By 1991 Mr. Rodney owned a 50 acre farm in the middle of town engulfed by the neighborhood in which I grew up. He had built him , and his wife Rosey, a retirement home. One huge master suite on the north end of the house with built in shelving and cabinets to store Mrs. Rodney’s endless supply of old lady leisure suits, scarfs, and shoes. In the middle of the house was an enormous great room with huge bay windows and a grand entrance facing west, down on the rest of the Neighborhood. There was a kitchen and dining area south of the master suite flowing east from the great room separated only by a bar that protruded south from the edge of the cooking nook stretching about half the length of the room before a round corner turning it towards the rear of the house. On the south end of the house was a two bedroom guest suite, both rooms fully furnished with a queen bed set with bedside tables on either side, chest of drawers, and each with a connected bathroom. There was a hallway that passed between them.
My family lived in the house Earl Rodney had built for his family when they outgrew the little old farmhouse his father had given him about sixty years earlier. We were their closest neighbors. Our barn yard was separated from one of his last grazing pastures by a barbed wire fence with an aluminum utility gate. The old farmhouse was still standing; it was just about a quarter mile down the road from our mailbox. Our house was set back from the road with a barn on the frontage of the property facing south. Oakwood drive twisted and turned through the rolling hills of the old farm and what was left of the forest, now best to be described as divided woods. The Neighborhood was situated in the area between Sgt. Parker Parkway and Mills Street, north to south, and Glasgow Road and Highway 25, east to west. Davy lived in the latest subdivision, put in only a few years earlier, with his folks. His older brother lived with them as well. He was in a rock band and knew a lot of girls. They were much older, and the girls cared nothing about us. But we would hang around while they drank beer. The band would practice, and the girls got drunk. We would listen and watch everything until Davy’s mom would call him upstairs and send the rest of us “kids” home. His house was a stone’s throw from mine. Jeffery and Davy were best friends since birth. Their moms were part of the “popular” girls in high school, and they were still living in that truth, so to speak. The three of us lived nearest to the patch of woods in the middle of the Neighborhood that became the epicenter for the tales and adventures that came from my experiences in that place. Corey lived in the trailer park just the other side of Mills Street, but still a short bike ride to the Clubhouse in the Woods. His daddy was a pipe fitter and was always on the road. When he was home, he drank George Dickel whiskey until he felt the need to beat on someone. Mostly his wife, but also his children and the dog as well. The Clubhouse was a tree house my grandfather, who was a master carpenter, built for me in the Woods, maybe three hundred yards from our back door. One morning while attending to my duties, feeding the dogs and horse, I was compelled to go out and check on the Clubhouse. Upon ascending the ladder, I found my mate sleeping; badly bruised and bleeding from above his eyebrow. When he awoke he was startled and fearful. We didn’t talk with our words only with our eyes. I snuck him in the house and to my room. It wasn’t hard, Pops was gone on an Army Reserve weekend and I was the only early riser in the house. And, it certainly was so early that Saturday morning, that sun had just begun to rise. We didn’t talk about it then and never have spoken of it since. But, whenever Corey’s dad, was coming off the road we found a reason for him to stay the weekend at our house, even if we slept in the Clubhouse or out in the barn.
Shay, born Shayan Mohammed (worthy prophet) lived right down the hill from Davy’s subdivision in a low-income subsidized apartment complex, Creekside Condominiums and Townhomes. When first built in the late seventies, Creekside was high end, executive, suburban housing developed to accommodate the growing business class. By 1987 Reganomics had impacted every aspect of the economy and the housing market needs changed from high-income executives to low-income family housing options; a predicament we still find ourselves in today. And so, the property managers convinced the owners that if Creekside didn’t start accepting government assisted families it would go under and have to sell. Creekside was then opened to all socio-economic demographics. By the mid-nineties the owners and managers, seeking to maximize profits, allowed the once elegant and pristine property to become a hood slum. Shay’s mother was a single woman with two kids, Shay and his younger sister Aliyah. His pops was a top hustler back in the day and known as a primetime player. Somewhere in the life he started to smoke coke; free base, crack, that dope boy! It was the beginning of his decline. Like so many he was able to conceal the hold his habit had on him for several years. By this time he was too far gone not to be called a crackhead. Shay’s momma, Momma May (short for Majabeen named after the beauty of the moon), was simply not having it. An artist of multiple mediums trained classically, Momma May once viewed the street life and drug use through bohemian rose colored lenses. But, the firsthand experience of addiction along with the heartache and pain that inevitably accompanies the condition was too horrific for her to live with. So, the spring before we all started kindergarten Momma May had divorced Shay’s pops. Working at the public library and having only one income she had few options, and for her Creekside was the best for the children. I’m glad because he, and Aliyah both are some of my closest friends still to this day. And so, that was our crew. There were dozens of other kids that lived in the zone come to be known as the Neighborhood attending either McDonald Elementary, Porterland Middle, or Porterland High School. There was a natural social hierarchy with the high school elders ruling and the rest of us finding our place in that micro-society; which existed within the larger social paradigm of the City of Porterland. We were all just trying to find our way, our place, our path.
Let Me Tell You About That Summer
I turned twelve that summer. I had one more year before middle school and my older sister, Ivy Lynn, was in the upcoming senior class at Porterland High School. The Porterland Panthers had just completed a football season, the previous fall, that made them back-to-back state champions and were primed for a three-peat! I myself was just coming into my own as a top prospected athlete in the area. The county youth travel team, the Hazard County Hawks, were known for dominating the region commandingly securing the TrueShield Bowl trophy for the last five seasons. And, to my father’s delight, I made first team d-end. As well as backup tight end on the offensive side of the ball. So, a lot of the guys, that inevitably hang around popular girls, like Ivy Lynn, were starting to give me dap when they saw me instead of punching me in the chest. I had always been the tag along for this senior class, but until that summer most of the guys beat me up and most of the girls would trap me in bathrooms and molest my innocence. An innocence that was all but used up while still remaining naively intact.
School was starting soon. This was the first year of my schoolboy life that I would not be attending McDonald Elementary, and like wise would not be at the same school as the rest of the Neighborhood crew. The summer before I had read and become enamored with the life and writings of Samuel Clemmons, Mark Twain, and set out to fashion my own life after that of the great American author. So, before the close of that summer I had resolved to be a modern Huck Finn, although my socioeconomic station was much closer to that of Tom Sawyer. Regardless, I spent most of the next academic year engaged in some mischief. I had been planning but was always too chicken to skip class since the beginning of the fall semester. The first time I had the guts to actually go through with it, I thought it a good idea to miss an entire week of class, not knowing that my extended absence would cause the school’s administration to inquire of my parents to my whereabouts. I had the whole game set up. I told my folks I would stay at my Mimi’s house, that is my maternal grandmother. This was not so uncommon. Mimi and Pawpaw lived only about a mile away, still within the Neighborhood. And, another kid, Palo, that went to McDonald Elementary lived two houses down. Palo was the oldest son of a wealthy Venezuelan oil tycoon. He had all the freshest gear, and although while at school and around others he was quiet and introverted, when it was just he and I in that culd-a-sac he shared with my grandparents, we were great pals. Because his father wanted him to experience an “all-American” life he rode the bus every evening and some mornings, when his mother slept in. And, I had in the past used the stop when staying with Mimi and Pawpaw, but this had only been for my parent’s convenience. It took a good bit of convincing, particularly for my father, who, with the rigidity for scheduling ingrained in him through his years of military service, supervised his children as a commanding officer does his unit. But, I finally effectively made my case. It was a lie from the beginning. And, I stood there in front of my parents displaying my responsibility and trustworthiness with every intention of violating the relationships I had with them. It was the first time I had planned to be deceitful, it hurt my own feelings as much or more than it did my folks when they discovered the truth. But, I was resolved to follow in the footsteps of my literary hero, as well as his fictional characters.
The moment had come. I walked out of Mimi’s house full of bacon and eggs, plus biscuits and gravy, fresh squeezed orange juice, toast, and homemade jam. Not the breakfast of the orphan I sought to emulate. The day before, during my afternoon ramblings, I stashed my fishing pole, tackle box, and bike as well, in a stretch of woods behind the houses where the bus stop was located. A rush of emotions overcame me; fear, guilt, excitement. All of my senses became intensely sharp. The busy traffic of nearby highway 25 sounded as if I were standing in the middle of an intersection, not on a peripheral cul-de-sac, an offshoot of a tertiary road. Mentally, I began to spiral out into the universe, paralyzed by the adrenaline flooding my bloodstream. Suddenly, I heard the screeching of brakes as the bus came to the road. Then, the rushing of air through the engine’s intake as the driver accelerated up the hill towards my stop. I had to make a decision. There was no more time to consider any consequence or debate, with myself the benefits and detriments of my planned adventure. Out of time, the yellow bus rising into the horizon’s view. I dove into the brush at the edge of a neighbor’s property and scampered in a bear crawl towards the tree line. If the driver saw me, I was cooked for sure! Furthermore, if the wrong one of my peers observed my movement they were sure to snitch. So, I stayed low and moved quickly, just like my pops had taught me. Only a few yards away from freedom I leaped into a forward roll towards the woods, and there I was engulfed in liberty, as well as the guilt of my dishonesty and fear of what my father might do if he found out.
I sat there covered in fallen leaves, brush, and loosened earth for more than a few moments. I cannot now tell you what thought then ran through my mind. Perhaps, for that brief period of time, I was devoid of conscious thought beyond my sensory observations. I only say that because I remember with great detail the cool moist forest litter that pressed against my skin. The sound of the wind sweeping through the maples, oaks, and pines. I can still envision the mighty trees swaying in the as the sun continued to rise in the sky. Slowly my mind came back to me. With a great sense of pride, I sauntered over to my stash spot. Everything was as I left it. I had complete confidence in their security. I had hidden my bike and fishing gear behind a huge fallen tree and covered it with pine branches still filled with needles. Furthermore, no one knew the woods better than me. I strategically placed them where no kid, or tramp, would happen upon them. So, I prepped my gear for the short ride through the woods to a bend in Town Creek where one, who was looking, would find a deep blue hole inside of which did reside a catfish of legendary stature. Thought to be at least four feet long and God knows the true mass of the creature. There were some older guys who claimed to have seen the beast. I, myself, had fished the hole many a time, and though I never pulled any catfish out of it, I had on several occasion hooked something large and living. Though I have never to this day seen the mythical monstrosity, I was convinced that it was the creature I had battled in the past. Regardless, any time I dropped a line in that hole I pulled some fish out. Most of the time good sized bluegill and occasionally some impressive small mouth bass. To lure the beast, you had to cast a sinker dead I the middle of the bluest part of the hole, and wait. No one I ever met could tell you the depths of the great pool in the bend of Town Creek. I had tried to dive to the bottom several times, as well as others from the Neighborhood. Regardless of the strength, skill, and aquatic experience, no one in history had reached the bottom.
I got to the creek with no trouble. It was across a shallow hollar an then downhill for about a quarter mile. There was a trail well established by generations of Neighborhood kids along with the tramps, drunks, and junkies who camp down in the hollar. It was not uncommon to disturb one on the nod or coming off the bottle. You gotta watch out for an angry drunk after they realize every corner of the bottle is empty and there is no more money in their coat. But, I’d rather deal with a drunk over a junkie any time. Broken bottles are much safer than used needles. And, I’ve never heard of a drunk trying ro run off with a bike or fishing rod. I had heard plenty of sordid tales, passed on by older kids, of a junkie trying to steal something, hell anything when they were tweaking. When I reached the Great Bend, the blue hole appeared as a pristine oasis camouflaged by the dense woods surrounded by the suburbs of a society in the early stages of urbanization. As I coasted to the sandy banks of the bluest of holes, I felt for the first time the great tranquility and peacefulness of seclusion and isolation from the modern world. It was still pretty cool that morning, so the first thing I did was to build a fire out of cast aside driftwood that had been sufficiently dried out. I spent maybe an hour and a half, maybe two hours staring into the small but powerful flames. Engaged in a primal transcendental meditation that I was at the time and still do this day unable to completely understand or express. It was not as if I left my body only that I became completely aware of the simultaneous connection to and separation from all things physical, and otherwise, in that moment. As well as, all the moments that had proceeded and all of those which would follow into eternity. By the time the conscious mind emerged from infinity, the sun was beginning to be high in the sky. Not yet noon, maybe ten or ten-thirty.
Regardless, high enough to ascend the trees and begin to warm the Great Bend in Town Creek. I took the excess driftwood and created a cash of firewood on high ground so that it would be available to me in the coming days. I spent a few more precious moments increasing the cash. Once satisfied, I began to prep my lure for casting. And boy what a day. I had rigged up a white roster tail, I had made myself, for short distance, tight space, top water casting. If I pulled out one pan sized bluegill, I pulled a dozen or more. I also hooked a few small mouths, but they were not impressive. Having such fun and success I ignored the screams of hunger radiating through my as long as I could stand it. Once I was convinced I was as hungry as I ever could be, I took my lunch. Summer sausage, a hunk of sharp cheddar, and ritz crackers. It doesn’t get much better, at least not to me it didn’t. For the rest of that afternoon, I was simply free. Completely liberated from anything other than my own imagination and the physical environment I found myself in. I went downstream to inspect a stone dam which was originally constructed by Neighborhood kids from generations passed. The responsibility for its maintenance and upkeep had been passed on as a natural obligation of the generations that followed.
Finally, I began my journey back across the woods to my grandparents’ cul-de-saced street. I knew by the position of the sun in the sky that I had about an hour before Mimi would expect me. So, I took my time trekking through the woods with my bicycle, stopping at all the best climbing trees. I made it back just as the bus turned on the street on its daily drop offs. I hid, again, until the bus had made the cul-de-sac and was off of my grandparent’s tertiary street. It wasn’t until then that the enormous mass of guilt from my deception, along with fear of my father’s unavoidable rageful reaction descended upon me. Or even worse would be my father having an emotionless, calculated, and violent curriculum of corrective behaviorism. I was instantly nauseous. I tried to swallow back the lump swelling in my throat and then with no other indication an eruption of bile from my innermost soul exploded through my mouth and nose. Once it was done it was done. There was no hurling, belching, or dry heaving. I wiped my mouth, consoled my spirit, and gathered my resolve to saunter into my Mimi’s kitchen, like I had any other day, in search of an afterschool snack.
A cast iron grilled hot ham and cheese, freshly made lemonade, and leftover chocolate cake from Sunday dinner was waiting on me at the table. Mimi was prepping for supper; meatloaf, mac-n-cheese, and fried okra (my favorites). “Hi hun. How was your day?” she greeted me. “Eat your snack and go see your Pawpaw. He’s smokig his cigar out on the patio.” I tried to eat, but my stomach was doing back flips inside of me. I finished about half of my sandwich and told her I couldn’t eat no more. I then proceeded out of the sliding glass door. Stepping out onto the screened in, pea gravel patio I saw Pawpaw sitting at the table where we shared many meals, card games, and beautiful conversations. I found him there, as I often did, Muriel Magnum cigar clinched in his teeth on the left side of his mouth and smoke billowing out of the right. The current edition of USA Today is fully open. He notices me and smiles big, snapping the paper like he was folding freshly laundered linens. “Hi ya old man!” he exclaimed. “Hi ya young man.” I replied, as was our way of greeting each other. This scripted exchange was, to us, rich in love and comedy. We sat there, as we often did, he reading the day’s papers and working all the crossword puzzles. Extinguishing expired cigars, only to lite another in quick succession. Usually, I would stay and read as long as Twain, London, or Hemingway could keep my attention, then go to the sanctuary of the woods. But, the adventure combined with the excitement, guilt, and regret of the day weighed on me heavily. I slept soundly on the love seat stationed in the corner of that cozy screened in patio until Mimi came and called us to supper.
By that time my physical hunger overpowered the emotions that suppressed my appetite earlier. I devoured without haste the prepared plate that was constructed with portions large enough to fill any of America’s working men and women who tirelessly labor in the paper mills and manufacturing facilities and the chicken houses and warehouses and the fields and orchards and processing plants all across this great landscape between the oceans. Those that sacrifice a decent breakfast and lunch to save time and be efficient in providing for their families. And, coming home in the evening, completely famished, to their warm homes and the loving arms of children and spouses. I felt in that moment hungry enough to eat all the suppers in all the kitchens in all the homes across America. And, if I could do it Mimi would let me eat the whole house. To the surprise of us all, I managed to clear the massive plate and felt as if I could eat more, but did not have the desire to do so. Pawpaw and I split my leftover cake, which itself was enough for two or three lumberjacks. Afterwards, we crept back to the patio for a smoke. I sat there with him until I heard the bouncing of a basketball in the cul-de-sac.
I knew who it was. Palo would emerge every evening about this time. Decked out in Nike gear and fresh Jordan’s. He would work dribbling and shooting drills, that he invented himself, for about an hour. Many times I would join him. It was in those times and that space that our relationship existed. In the mornings at the bus stop we would not speak. That would continue throughout the school day and life until we met again in that place and at that certain time, when we would be dear friends. That night, when I say I slept, I mean I slept like a rock. I had forgotten my guilt. My parents had not called me home or come to get me, so I must have pulled it off, my deceitful plan. Physically tired, as well as mentally exhausted I slept without any memory of a dream or even lying down. I awoke with vigor, rested, and excited about another day to experience the true freedom of life. I stepped out of the house and found Palo waiting at the bus stop. He didn’t ride yesterday morning, but I wasn’t worried about him tellin’. He didn’t talk to nobody and I felt confident in our friendship, even outside that particular time and space. Without any reservations or hesitation I started towards the woods. Palo, with his head down, stood there in wait. I watched him the whole time. Just as I reached the shrubs he looked up and our eyes connected. Watching me, maybe in awe, but more likely in shock, his eyes grew larger than the moon that was still visible in the morning sky. I wanted to go over and tell him of my adventure yesterday as well as what I had planned for that day (nothing). In that moment I heard the familiar screeching brakes and without another thought I darted towards the tree line, believing Palo was not a security risk.
That day felt different. There was no thrill of liberation. No excitement of a day untethered. Just the empty and unnerving feeling of boredom.. Without experiencing any of the passion for life that had overwhelmed me the day before, I began walking across the hollar towards my favorite fishing hole. Might as well take another shot at catchin’ the monster. As I walked out of the woods and down to the creek bank, I heard a car door shut from the roadside. I immediately ducked into some creek side brush. I waited. I could hear a single individual bushwacking towards the creek. They took their time stopping every few yards. Finally, my biggest fear was realized as my father emerged over the berm above the creek between the road. I froze at first. Then, the chilling understanding that I was busted covered me as if I was submerged in the Artic Sea. For a moment I considered bolting. But, I soon came to my senses and figured it would only make whatever disciplinary consequence which awaited me much, much worse. So, I calmed my nerves and gathered my strength to face the unavoidable violence that was destined for me to endure. As soon as I revealed myself, my father’s gaze was fixed on me. Head down, I walked towards him, mentally preparing myself to be struck down to the ground and lashed with his worn belt from Men’s Warehouse. When I reached him, I stopped and braced for impact. To my surprise, that was soon replaced with terror, he did not lift a hand. He simply said; “Get your ass in the truck. Now!” Without reply, I made haste to the shiny black Bronco II brought brand new the year I was born. Over a decade old now it still looked pristine besides a little mud on the tires and running boards. As I climbed in, my mind kept pondering what was to happen to me upon our arrival home. We passed our house. It was now 9:30 in the morning. I wasn’t sure where he might be taking me. He had many friends in the sheriff’s department. I had overheard my parents speaking in the past of a troubled boys work camp where you spent four hours a day in a classroom, had thirty minutes for lunch then spent another six hours working at some labor-intensive task. Makin small rocks out big ones type of scene. If you stayed long enough and were lucky, they taught you how to frame houses and hang sheetrock. “I’m eleven years old, what the fuck do I wanna learn sheetrock for.” I thought to myself. As my mind slipped away, I reconsidered it to be fairly beneficial and probably fun to learn how to build a house. But this place, damn. They made you go to school, and my mother advised me they employed corporal punishment even more liberally than ol pops. Man, I really fucked up this time. There’s a lot of ways I could’ve went out, but leave it to me to pull some shit like…
The car stopped abruptly. We were at McDonald Elementary. “Get out” he said, and he proceeded to walk me straight in and through the school to Mr. Sweltzer’s office. From there my father left to go to work; not without advising me “we’ll talk about this latter.” I was escorted immediately to the basement of the school where there was three classrooms and a vast maintenance shop that housed all the bodies of the kids that didn’t make it out. One classroom was very large and had access to the back parking lot, as well as the playground. It was the music room, and one of my favorite places in the building. Mrs. Daughtrey, the music teacher and owner of a local florist shop, said it had great acoustics. She was the best, everyone loved her. Next to the music room was the old art room. Now mostly supplies since the class had moved upstairs after previous addition, before I was around. The only other classroom down there was adjacent to the maintenance wing and across from the steps leading back to the interior main floor of the school. It was the belly of the beast, the I.S.S. room, In School Suspension. I had only peeked into the space briefly as the opportunity allowed by chance the door was opened during class change. I only knew a couple of kids who made it out of there. I was not so lucky, I finished off the rest of the semester in the place. Pastel green walls, puke brown vct flooring. A long chalk board spanned the southern wall. About a month and a half left of school; my mother would bring me every day and walk me down to that place.
That first day, when my father caught me at the creek, I was a nervous wreck. Dad really didn’t say much to me; that was really a bad sign. I was escorted on the bus by Sweltzer at the end of the day. That bus ride home was a dream within a dream. My peers must have read it on my face. No one talked to me, although I could hear whispers from the back. Some girls said, “he’s literally crazy.” Ben Kelsey, my friend since kindergarten, commented, “his dad is going to kill him.” Quickly all conversation faded into chatter combined with the sounds of the city creating a melancholic melody that almost lulled me to sleep. Suddenly with a jerk, almost mystically, we at my stip. I paused for as long as I could. The four of my peers, that shared my stop, shuffled off passing me in my crowded bench seat. “Come on Carter, I can’t be held up cause of your bullshit. We all gotta pay the piper eventually.” Mr. Filmore, the bus driver, bellowed. “Fuck you Filmore,” I responded under my breath. “I heard that you sorry piece of shit. Get off my bus! I hope your dad wears your lil ass out!” “Holy fuck!” I said to myself, “even Filmore knew what I was headed for.”
My pops wasn’t home when I got there, but that gave me no relief. I was, in that moment, defeated in my humanity. I had no homework. After one day in isolation, I finished most of the tasks intended for the remainder of the semester. I put on my shit kickers and headed to the barn. I bet I was the only kid in the city limits, and I know the only kid in the Neighborhood, that had a horse. Ol’ Socks, named for the white hair around all four hooves and rising up his legs that contrasted against the red hair of the rest of his body. He was a great friend. Along with the dogs, Shelby and Lester, as well as the cat, Slyvester, Socks gave me what seemed like endless hours of companionship and comfort. However, as anyone who has cared for any other creature, there was always a backload of chores that I was devoted to, through the delegation of the family hierarchy. And so, I went out to clean the living quarters of barn yard kin. You might think that I set out to lessen the consequences that was sure to befall me upon my father’s arrival home. An, there may be some accuracy to that notion, but more than anything I needed something to numb the mind from the stinging anxiety of anticipation of what was sure to come. I worked all evening. Using pitchfork and shovel to fill the wheelbarrow with feces and piss-soaked straw, along with a stray vermin corpse here and there. Carting the loads to the mystical compost pile. A heap of discarded fruits and vegetables mixed with eggshells, plus the piss and shit collected by yours truly. Rubish on rubbish, and it looked as such, in the northeast corner of the barn yard sloping down towards the creek that ran through the woods behind our house and between Mr. Rodney’s remaining grazing pasture. Somehow it always smelled sweet; pungent, and dank, but nonetheless sweetly aromatic. Pops had been cultivating this thing since he moved us over five years ago. It was huge! Six foot to the top with a fifteen-foot diameter. It was always steaming, even during the driest times. I understood then it was a living thing. The components being complete waste, and disregarded as such, aggregating into the complexity of a modern city. Smelling better in the process. I thought in that moment its worth to be far greater than mine. At least until the time I myself am cast away as rubbish.
There I was hauling loads, and after more than a few I would fold the monstrosity back on itself. The fresh dung and dirt being consumed by the center. Considering all the while the whole of the cosmos created in one pocket of mold or fungus, and the pockets being whole each to themselves still expressed in the collective creature I fought to cultivate. Comprehending not what it was I was then considering. Understanding it all, but not knowing, how the truths of individual agency and social interdependence were more than grotesquely plain. Lost in this consciousness I almost pissed myself when the slamming of car doors snatched my attention. The bolt of electricity that ran through my body when I first realized the arrival of my father had passed and I was left with a deadness of expectancy of what must come. I continued working. The barn was always where the worst of his discipline occurred, so I knew we’d end up out here anyways. As the sun receded over the edge of the Neighborhood, as far as I could see, I knew it was time for supper. I had no appetite; my belly filled with the anticipation. Suddenly, it was dark, and my work was all but done. I looked at the barn and all I had done. Satisfaction replaced fear and anxiety, and for a brief moment I was even proud of all my shit kicking. I went ahead and fed Socks and the dogs, plus ol Sly. With nothing else to do I headed towards the house.
I expected fully to encounter my father upon entry. And, furthermore fully expected him to request that I again meet him in the barn to “talk” I came in through the garage, entering into the lower level of our two story home, separated by a split foyer. The laundry room and lower level bathroom was to my right. Down the hall the den was dark with the light from my father’s study beaming through the room. I know he heard me come in. I made a point not to be silent; I knew I couldn’t sneak by, to try would only further insult him. Covered in dirt and shit, and smelling how I looked, I paused for what seemed an eternity. He didn’t say a word. I went on in the wash room, stripped down, and took a shower that felt in those moments like a baptism. With the study light off, the entire floor was pitch black except for the light of the wash room behind me. The light shining down the stairs from the rest of the house above felt warm and was calling to me. I followed it ascending to the upper level. I turned right down the hall. My bedroom was the first door on the right. I went in and laid on my bed. Completely exhausted, physically, mentally, and emotionally, I entered into a coma like sleep. Ya know the kind where don’t dream at all. Your body doesn’t even move, besides breathing. You just lay there like a stone. I slept straight through the night awakened by the normal routine. Pops flipped the light switch, my eyes opened then squeezed shut from shock. He still didn’t say a thing, and normally didn’t during the wake up. I arose with the usual urgency required by my father, went down to the garage slid my shit kickers back on and was out for the morning feeding. Back inside, I washed up and went upstairs to the kitchen where breakfast was ready and left on the stove for us kids to serve ourselves. Last one finished had to clean up. It was usually me since I tended to the animals as well. I took for granted then my pops gettin up and cooking a hot breakfast. Even if the bacon was burnt and the grits were either a watery mess of thick as quick sand, and always overly grainy. No matter, he was there and the effort came from a place of love. We never spoke of the incident, but something had changed. I’m not sure he ever really trusted me after that, and honestly I can’t blame him. I overheard my parents discussing my “situation”. Most of their talks became arguments, but this one did not. They both seemed disconnected from me, the situation, and each other. “Was I driving them apart?” I asked myself. There was a Seventh-Day Adventist Church on the northwestern edge of the Neighborhood, about a mile and a half from our house. Momma had already met with the administration and secured a slot for me in the fall. And that was that.
