some of the unwanted crap that we didn’t want to take with us on the move. We had planned on only taking with us a small closed-in trailer hitched up to the back of the Truckster to transport most of our personal belongings, so all of our old, run-down furniture and appliances had to go.
The day of the sale, all of Saraland’s cockroaches came from out-of-the-woodwork to rummage through our things like they were going to find a Van Gogh hiding somewhere in the piles of trash. In the end, though, most of them had left happy with a piece or two of my Step Daddy Cade’s collection of NASCAR commemorative plates or a couple of his old copies of Swank . And by the end of the day, and the sale, we had made more than fourteen hundred dollars, though nine hundred of that came from the sale of the Trans Am.
Nine hundred bucks! I couldn’t fucking believe it. What a steal some jack-off got! I was pissed off to no ends. But my step daddy had said that without it running with new tags he had no real choice but to take whatever he could get for it. But all I knew was that when my parents finally did get that inheritance money I better be getting something a hell of a lot better than that Trans Am.
Moving Day
I have to admit that when moving day had finally come I’d reckoned that I would’ve been anxious to leave Saraland. But looking back on it, I was really the opposite with my emotions. I had spent the night before with Tucker sleeping out under the stars in the back of his pickup and it had reminded me of everything that I would be giving up and would miss most about Saraland. (I had told my parents that I would be spending the night at Lettie’s house so that way I could spend my last night with him. I don’t think they had really believed me though, but they let me go anyway.)
Tucker and I had spent the first part of the night drinking wine coolers while cuddling under a blanket as he gushed on about how much he was going to miss me. It was a little sappy, but it rather made me feel special. And for a little while there I thought the wus was going to start crying, but thank God he didn’t.
Later on in the evening he told me about how he had already begun making plans in his mind to drive all the way up to New York to see me just as soon as he could get the chance to use his vacation time that he had accumulated at his Uncle Fisher’s garage. He kept rambling on about it for most of the night until it had annoyed me to the point where I had decided to give him a goodbye blow job just so I could get him to shut-up and go to sleep. At least after that, and a couple of good swishes of wine cooler to get the taste out my mouth, I actually enjoyed the last night of us being together.
The next morning my parents and I began the twenty-four hour trip it would take to drive up to Mount Harrison. We had stayed on the road, literally the entire time, except for stopping to eat and when we had spent an overnight in a fleabag motel called the Trailblazer Motor Inn located somewhere in Dead Rat, Kentucky. The place’s bed sheets had come pre-stained, and the bathrooms were a certified hepatitis C factory, bio-safety level 4.
But that wasn’t even the worst part of the trip. The worst part was the half-dozen or so stops my Step Daddy Cade forced us to make to a Waffle Castle to eat. “They don’t have these in New York, so we had better get’em in now.” He would say each time he’d pull into one. “This might be the last time you’ll ever be able to eat here.”
And, how lucky would we have been if that were true?
Now, I’m sure there are a lot of people out there who’ve never had the pleasure of eating at a Waffle Castle, so let me just tell you a little sum-um about them. Waffle Castle is an open 24 hour a day, completely filthy, lowbrow greasy spoon that is the first choice of dining for every drunk, slob, dirt-bag, clinically obese,
The day of the sale, all of Saraland’s cockroaches came from out-of-the-woodwork to rummage through our things like they were going to find a Van Gogh hiding somewhere in the piles of trash. In the end, though, most of them had left happy with a piece or two of my Step Daddy Cade’s collection of NASCAR commemorative plates or a couple of his old copies of Swank . And by the end of the day, and the sale, we had made more than fourteen hundred dollars, though nine hundred of that came from the sale of the Trans Am.
Nine hundred bucks! I couldn’t fucking believe it. What a steal some jack-off got! I was pissed off to no ends. But my step daddy had said that without it running with new tags he had no real choice but to take whatever he could get for it. But all I knew was that when my parents finally did get that inheritance money I better be getting something a hell of a lot better than that Trans Am.
Moving Day
I have to admit that when moving day had finally come I’d reckoned that I would’ve been anxious to leave Saraland. But looking back on it, I was really the opposite with my emotions. I had spent the night before with Tucker sleeping out under the stars in the back of his pickup and it had reminded me of everything that I would be giving up and would miss most about Saraland. (I had told my parents that I would be spending the night at Lettie’s house so that way I could spend my last night with him. I don’t think they had really believed me though, but they let me go anyway.)
Tucker and I had spent the first part of the night drinking wine coolers while cuddling under a blanket as he gushed on about how much he was going to miss me. It was a little sappy, but it rather made me feel special. And for a little while there I thought the wus was going to start crying, but thank God he didn’t.
Later on in the evening he told me about how he had already begun making plans in his mind to drive all the way up to New York to see me just as soon as he could get the chance to use his vacation time that he had accumulated at his Uncle Fisher’s garage. He kept rambling on about it for most of the night until it had annoyed me to the point where I had decided to give him a goodbye blow job just so I could get him to shut-up and go to sleep. At least after that, and a couple of good swishes of wine cooler to get the taste out my mouth, I actually enjoyed the last night of us being together.
The next morning my parents and I began the twenty-four hour trip it would take to drive up to Mount Harrison. We had stayed on the road, literally the entire time, except for stopping to eat and when we had spent an overnight in a fleabag motel called the Trailblazer Motor Inn located somewhere in Dead Rat, Kentucky. The place’s bed sheets had come pre-stained, and the bathrooms were a certified hepatitis C factory, bio-safety level 4.
But that wasn’t even the worst part of the trip. The worst part was the half-dozen or so stops my Step Daddy Cade forced us to make to a Waffle Castle to eat. “They don’t have these in New York, so we had better get’em in now.” He would say each time he’d pull into one. “This might be the last time you’ll ever be able to eat here.”
And, how lucky would we have been if that were true?
Now, I’m sure there are a lot of people out there who’ve never had the pleasure of eating at a Waffle Castle, so let me just tell you a little sum-um about them. Waffle Castle is an open 24 hour a day, completely filthy, lowbrow greasy spoon that is the first choice of dining for every drunk, slob, dirt-bag, clinically obese,
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