inspirational sodomy

A couple more minutes.

That was the difference between right and wrong. Yes and no. Fucked and fucking.

It happens.

I’ll get over it. Always have, always will. Except for that one thing. The only thing I never get over.

Ah. Who cares? In the end, we all end up worm food and back into the food chain. For some, it just takes a little bit longer. I think that may be the best thing about being poor. I’ll be tossed into a pine box and the bugs will eat me fast. No sitting in a moldy, metal box for centuries. Then, being moved by some developer and most likely dumped into a trash heap or into an oven.

***

A light. A small red reflection of it, at least.

That’s all I saw.

Then came the thud.

Everyone knew what happened. No one wanted to say a word. Especially when Joe kept driving. The only thing he did was turn up the radio.

It haunts me to this day. I wonder how much different our lives would be if we had stopped. If we had cared.

***

Walking out of jail was almost as frightening as walking in. Five years is a long time to have taken away from you. To be isolated from humanity. Because what’s inside is nothing. And it certainly wasn’t humane.

I went in at the age of 40. Already having wasted most of my life.

Now, I’m 45. The economy is worse than it was when I was free. Now, I’m just an ex-con. That’ll make it easier to find a good job, I’m sure.

They gave me $75 and a the wallet I brought in with me. Plus the suit. My mom bought me this blue suit when I was interviewing for jobs for the first time. That was when I was 27 years old.

I feel in the pockets. They’re empty. Except for a business card of the lawyer my dad found for me. He was a shitty lawyer. I should have been on probation. Instead, I got 10 years. Served five, got five off for good behavior.

The sun hits my face as I leave the yard. I strain to see who is there. I can make out a silhouette only. I walk towards it. Figuring this person must be meeting me.

I told my family I’d be getting out this day. March 14, 2016. I sometimes wonder if God gets a good chuckle out of me and dates.

After a few paces, I see who is waiting for me. I’m kind of surprised.

It’s her. The only person not related to me who wrote me. Who visited me. Who gave a shit.

“Thanks for being here,” I say.

“Least I could do, I guess,” she says shyly.

“But I’ve got to ask,” I say looking deep into her eyes. “Why you? It can’t make certain people very happy.”

“Nope.”

“You avoided the question.”

“Yep.”

Always a wordsmith. She could say so much more than I could in one word than I could say writing a book. Something I actually did while I was in prison. But, for the life of me I can’t figure out if anyone wants to read about a skinny white guy who was falsely imprisoned and then fucked in the ass for five years.

“How’s your corn hole,” she says, almost sensing my thoughts. Just like always.

I look at her smile and give her a big hug.

“Still too tight for most of those fuckers. But not all of ‘em,” I laugh. “Now, why are you here? It’s driving me a bit nuts.”

“It’s your mom. She’s sick.”

“How bad?”

“We’re not sure yet.”

I’m taken aback by the we part of that reply. But I don’t bring it up. That can wait.

“Let’s go then. I gotta see my mom.”

My mom. The greatest woman on the earth. Just like most guys see their moms. Even the ones that beat you, cussed at you, or fucked the whole town. My mom never did any of those things. Really, all she did was read books.

Maybe that’s why I wanted to write one my whole life so badly. And killed myself over not being able to do so. I just wanted her to pick up my book one day and smile.

Now, I have a book that took my five years of being cannon fodder for murderers and rapists to finally inspire my ass, pun intended. And my mom is sick.

We get in my old car. Guess she drove it here, which makes sense since she would have had to fly in to come pick me up. I notice a sticker on my window. It’s one of the Who. The bulls-eye logo.

“Paul’s been driving your car the last few years,” she says.

“Well, that makes me smile. He take it anywhere interesting?”

“Open up the glove box.”

I push the button and out pops a rock. On it is some scribbling.

“From the “Dom Rock”, for uncle Randy” it reads.

“God damn. He got there before I did. Little shit.”

She starts the car and we’re off. It’s two hours to home. She puts in a CD. It’s Lucero.

“Thanks,” I say and look out the window. The road is so soothing. I missed it. The only thing I had in my cell was my torn copy of Kerouac. Which I read 458 times. I counted.

“You know, I haven’t heard a single note in five years. They still together?”

“Put out album No. 9 last week, actually.”

“Well, at least I can count on that.”

“You can count on a lot of things, Randy. You just never do.”
***