short story, part 2

Twelve years later I’m climbing out of Randy’s front seat while he wipes burger sludge on the upholstery. The dark canvas holds a masterpiece of grease, soda, snot, and God knows what else. I didn’t even want to guess when he’d had it cleaned last, probably towards the end of the Clinton administration.

Randy’s tin can backfires, leaving me to drown in a sea of carcinogens. I should take up smoking after all the times I’ve done this, menthols can’t be half as bad as the poison that car runs off of.
Halogen lights sterilize the world around me. This was my home- four walls, outdated Berber carpet, one window with a great view of Crazy Eddie’s Liquor Store, and hot water that would stay hot as long as you only shower once every three days. Sure, it’s a shit hole, but it’s my shit hole- assuming my rent cleared the bank.

I throw my shoes into the corner and click on the stereo. Randy and I never could agree on music. The kid lives off of grunge and 80’s power metal, while he’d describe my inclinations as, “Fucking venti mocha latte Mac-elitist euro-bullshit.” I call it talent and remind him that Iron & Wine is from South Carolina.

You have to ease into my Lazy-Boy, otherwise the reclining back will turn on you and leave you with your legs in the air like a drunken sorority girl on a Saturday night.

They cut the cable a month ago, so instead of watching chimpanzees hump each other on the Discovery Channel I lay back and make shapes out of the water stains on the ceiling. There’s Abe Lincoln on a sailboat, the pentagon, and something that looks way too similar to a dick with arms. This is what my life has resulted to- seeing shitty movies with my ogre best friend and spotting cocks on my ceiling. Ain’t life grand?

I pop too many Ambien and pass out with my jeans on, feeling like Mary Jane Watson’s independence; trivial, fake, and utterly useless.

I’m a junior in high school, our football team has just thrashed the defending state champions and here I am, fifteen miles from civilization watching my classmates dance around a raging victory inferno. Kids running drunkenly with red Dixie cups filled with whatever they could get their older brothers to buy them. Caleb and his cronies scored a keg somehow. He tells everyone he has a fake ID he got in Panama over the Summer, the reality is he probably paid some frat boy to hook him up. Regardless, Jennings is the man of the hour.

Randy’s sitting across the blaze with a fifth of Jack Daniels, smirking at a group of freshmen girls. He’ll turn eighteen in a few weeks, so I let him play his little game while he still can.
Me, I just stand there, wrapped in the October air, gazing into the fire like Moses, waiting for a word from God. I remember in Sunday School they used to tell stories about how God would reveal himself to the prophets, guys like Moses, Joseph, David and Elisha. Then around the time Jesus showed up, the revelations just stopped.

I can’t say I blame him, I’d be pissed if my children crucified the baby sitter while I had my back turned. Ever since then the skies just kinda shut up. Nowadays if a man hears the voice of God he’s a Mormon, and therefore a lunatic. I just wanna know what he’d say.

There’s a shout followed by more panicked screams, blue and burgundy lights flood the plane like the tide. People are diving into cars, sprinting into bushes, spot lights tracking kids like rabbits.

I stop thinking and run. Hurdling bushes and hay bales, stampeding through puddles and cow pies, praying for an exit. In the distance Randy’s transition grinds as he pushes for the right gear. The four wheel drive on his beast could keep those police cruisers at bay for hours out here, assuming he doesn’t roll it and kill himself.

My legs are numb, the cold air is turning my lungs to confetti, the world around me is passing at the speed of sound. Lights keep slashing behind me, licking up my trail. I turn around to judge my position and feel something tear into my ribcage, knocking me backwards. Everything goes grey after that.

The police report said they found me tangled up in a barbed wire fence. Apparently, I close lined myself with the steel teeth and knocked myself out when I hit the ground.

I come too and look straight into the eyes of a walrus. Not a real walrus, but your run of the mill, donut guzzling, coffee fueled, overweight Officer Sir- glorious mustache and all. I can’t tell if the throbbing in my head is from the collision or if I’m hung-over. Officer Sir doesn’t care. Through chew laced teeth he pries little bits of personal information out of me and a dozen other saps that were dumb enough to get caught. Name, address, parent’s phone number, name, address, parent’s phone number, the routine drolls on.

Freshmen girls huddle tight together, bawling hysterically. The bacon sends them home, along with the other boys whose last names wouldn’t look good on the back page of the newspaper. I didn’t fall into either category, so I got a free ride to county. Forty-five minutes later, Officer Sir tells me what I already know- my parents weren’t posting bails, so I was getting a night stay on the taxpayers.

My pop’s is a bastard like that. The man dreamed of raising the next great shortstop for the Yankee’s. Instead, he got me.

I wonder if Jesus had daddy issues?