ready to.
She still had her clothes on, but he had her
hands clasped down above her head and she was kicking and telling
him to get off her. He was calling her a bitch and telling her she
gave birth to a sissy boy—
I took one of his trophies. And I cracked him
on the head with it.
Blood poured. I watched him fall off the bed.
I thought I’d killed him, and I didn’t care. Momma didn’t seem to
care either. I looked over at her on the bed. She was hustling up
to the headboard, frightened, terrified, a look of horror in her
eyes. Her fingers shook at her mouth, her eyes were black. She
trembled. My breathing was heavy, hard. I looked down at my father.
Blood ran like a river, marring the white sheets, staining the
off-green carpet.
He was breathing. But he needed treatment.
Fast.
I looked up at her again, asked her, “Do you
want me to call an ambulance?”
She knew what I was really asking.
After a moment that lasted forever, she gave
me her answer, and although I wasn’t happy with it, I respected
it.
I called the ambulance.
Pops had a concussion. Momma made up some
story about him falling or some bullshit. Old School Tie. Everybody
knows and nobody does anything. That’s the way of it where I grew
up.
Pops was up and running three days later. And
three days later, he kicked my ass. I couldn’t walk for a week.
I started lifting weights. I’d always played
football as well, but now I started taking it seriously. I knew my
dad could physically kick my ass, but not for long. I worked out, I
pumped iron, I threw pigskin, and I tackled men. I never got huge,
because I never did juice, but I got strong. I only went out when
my sisters were out as well. My youngest sister was coming of age,
and sometimes I had thoughts that... Well, I wasn’t gonna let that
happen to her. I might not have been big enough to take on my dad,
but I was sure big enough to put up one helluva stinking fight if I
had to.
Bobby, Jed, and Lewis. My “friends” at that
age. Idiots. They’d pick up girls, fuck em, leave em. They’d break
their hearts. I didn’t particularly care about girls with broken
hearts. Broken hearts happen. It’s life. And I played a similar
game, but with a key difference: I never told any of these girls I
loved them.
Because I didn’t.
Were they hot? Damn straight. Did I wanna get
it on with them? Uh-huh. Was there gonna be a second night? Not a
goddamn chance. They knew it. I knew it. We were all on the same
page.
Bobby and Jed and Lewis played it a little
differently. They lied.
If you can’t get a girl without lying, then
you just can’t get a girl. Period.
No, I didn’t care about broken hearts. But I did care about how these boys played the chicks. It just
wasn’t cool. It’s one thing to be smooth, it’s one thing to flirt,
it’s one thing to look at a girl in such a way that she wants to
drop her panties for you. It’s another thing to tell her you love
her when you don’t.
That just ain’t cool.
So I told them.
They made fun of me.
So I fucked them up. Each one. I took on all
three of them, and I had it good for a few rounds, landed some good
shots. But three guys is still three guys. And eventually they got
me down, kicked me a few times on the ground, not so bad. I’d been
kicked worse, much worse. Daddy had taught me how to take a
beating. When I picked myself up off the ground, and when they
realized I was ready for more, they ran. A week later they got
their brothers involved, big brothers, military brothers.
I didn’t win that one.
Pops laughed at me, but I didn’t care. I was
becoming a street fighter. I was learning through experience.
It wasn’t gonna be much longer that he’d hold
physical sway over me.
More years rolled by. I was nineteen now.
Janice (pronounced Jan eece ), my youngest sister, was now
fourteen, and “developing.” Pops would look at her in a way that
made me uncomfortable. I never left her alone in the house. It was
just a gut feel I had.
She still had her clothes on, but he had her
hands clasped down above her head and she was kicking and telling
him to get off her. He was calling her a bitch and telling her she
gave birth to a sissy boy—
I took one of his trophies. And I cracked him
on the head with it.
Blood poured. I watched him fall off the bed.
I thought I’d killed him, and I didn’t care. Momma didn’t seem to
care either. I looked over at her on the bed. She was hustling up
to the headboard, frightened, terrified, a look of horror in her
eyes. Her fingers shook at her mouth, her eyes were black. She
trembled. My breathing was heavy, hard. I looked down at my father.
Blood ran like a river, marring the white sheets, staining the
off-green carpet.
He was breathing. But he needed treatment.
Fast.
I looked up at her again, asked her, “Do you
want me to call an ambulance?”
She knew what I was really asking.
After a moment that lasted forever, she gave
me her answer, and although I wasn’t happy with it, I respected
it.
I called the ambulance.
Pops had a concussion. Momma made up some
story about him falling or some bullshit. Old School Tie. Everybody
knows and nobody does anything. That’s the way of it where I grew
up.
Pops was up and running three days later. And
three days later, he kicked my ass. I couldn’t walk for a week.
I started lifting weights. I’d always played
football as well, but now I started taking it seriously. I knew my
dad could physically kick my ass, but not for long. I worked out, I
pumped iron, I threw pigskin, and I tackled men. I never got huge,
because I never did juice, but I got strong. I only went out when
my sisters were out as well. My youngest sister was coming of age,
and sometimes I had thoughts that... Well, I wasn’t gonna let that
happen to her. I might not have been big enough to take on my dad,
but I was sure big enough to put up one helluva stinking fight if I
had to.
Bobby, Jed, and Lewis. My “friends” at that
age. Idiots. They’d pick up girls, fuck em, leave em. They’d break
their hearts. I didn’t particularly care about girls with broken
hearts. Broken hearts happen. It’s life. And I played a similar
game, but with a key difference: I never told any of these girls I
loved them.
Because I didn’t.
Were they hot? Damn straight. Did I wanna get
it on with them? Uh-huh. Was there gonna be a second night? Not a
goddamn chance. They knew it. I knew it. We were all on the same
page.
Bobby and Jed and Lewis played it a little
differently. They lied.
If you can’t get a girl without lying, then
you just can’t get a girl. Period.
No, I didn’t care about broken hearts. But I did care about how these boys played the chicks. It just
wasn’t cool. It’s one thing to be smooth, it’s one thing to flirt,
it’s one thing to look at a girl in such a way that she wants to
drop her panties for you. It’s another thing to tell her you love
her when you don’t.
That just ain’t cool.
So I told them.
They made fun of me.
So I fucked them up. Each one. I took on all
three of them, and I had it good for a few rounds, landed some good
shots. But three guys is still three guys. And eventually they got
me down, kicked me a few times on the ground, not so bad. I’d been
kicked worse, much worse. Daddy had taught me how to take a
beating. When I picked myself up off the ground, and when they
realized I was ready for more, they ran. A week later they got
their brothers involved, big brothers, military brothers.
I didn’t win that one.
Pops laughed at me, but I didn’t care. I was
becoming a street fighter. I was learning through experience.
It wasn’t gonna be much longer that he’d hold
physical sway over me.
More years rolled by. I was nineteen now.
Janice (pronounced Jan eece ), my youngest sister, was now
fourteen, and “developing.” Pops would look at her in a way that
made me uncomfortable. I never left her alone in the house. It was
just a gut feel I had.