stairs.
Mom was out for the night, with some friends. Just like I’d planned my own night, so had dad. He’d been all alone with
Janice.
My finger tightened again on the trigger
instinctively.
I took the keys to his ’67 Pontiac, grabbed a
few hundred from his wallet, picked up my guitar, and Janice and I
drove, and drove, and drove. Seven hours later we were in New York,
at my aunt’s house. Brooklyn. And not the rich part, either.
Aunt Nola, my mother’s half-sister, is no
fool, no pushover. She took Janice in, threatened my father to high
heaven with social embarrassment and legal threats, and dad backed
down.
No one fucks with a New Yorker.
-21-
I stayed in New York for a bit. Virginians
say I’ve lost my accent. If that’s true, it was here that it
happened.
New York’s not a great city for a country
boy, because everything’s cramped up and the people dress funny. I
was used to the wide open spaces, but I needed to work, and I
needed money. I found a job that required muscle, and I saved up.
Aunt Nola let me stay with her if I helped her with the cooking,
which I did. I didn’t know how to cook at first, but I learned.
“All good men need to know how to cook,” she’d say to me.
I was in no position to argue. I really had
nowhere else to go. So, by day I’d haul ass and sweat like a
monkey, and by night I’d put on an apron and slice garlic and dice
tomatoes. Aunt Nola’s really into the Mediterranean food.
Weekends I’d call home, just to make sure
everything was OK. As OK as it could be, all things considered.
Mostly I just wanted to talk to my mom. But sometimes dad picked
up. He’d berate me for not joining the army, for being an asshole,
for being a “nigger-lover,” and any other colorful terms he’d like
to use for me. When he was done, he’d put mom on the phone. He
might play it tough, but I think he knew I was missing a few
marbles, and if I wasn’t certain my mom was OK, I’d take him out
without fear of criminal repercussions.
These are the hard, cold truths of life.
Talking to my dad always made me angry, so
angry. And when I got angry, I wanted to run. I stayed because I
had to stay. I stayed because of Janice. I stayed because of the
promise I’d made to her, to myself, by putting that ink on my right
arm, the ink of Justice.
But staying was the hardest thing I’ve ever
done in my life.
If I hadn’t found the underground fight
clubs, I would have never made it. Hitting, and getting hit, kept
me sane, kept my marbles together. If I don’t run, I wanna throw my
fists. If I don’t throw my fists, I wanna run.
If there’s one thing I learned how to do when
I was growing up at home it was getting my ass kicked. So that’s
pretty much what happened when I did these underground fights. I
got my ass kicked. Sometimes I got my ass kicked on purpose,
because it paid more.
When I didn’t talk to my dad for a while,
things actually felt “normal.” At Aunt Nola’s we had a grand time.
We were actually happy, the three of us. It’s funny how being in
such a heavy environment for so long can give you a pessimistic
view of life, making you think everything is evil and horrible and
terrible. But being away from that monster actually cleared my
head, made me think more positively.
Janice was doing well at school, making
friends. Pops never did call the cops or child services about what
happened that night with her—about the fact that I’d “kidnapped”
her.
We’d gotten away.
I tried to get Fiona, my other sister, to
follow suit, but Fiona is daddy’s little girl. She blamed me for
taking Janice, accused me of being disrespectful to my father, told
me it was against the commandments. Yeah, she and I are definitely
different colored sheep.
Momma, well, I never understood why she stays
with the man. She just does. She’s still with him. Does he hurt
her? I’ve been down there a few times, and I don’t really know. I
can’t tell.
I’ve been down there when
Mom was out for the night, with some friends. Just like I’d planned my own night, so had dad. He’d been all alone with
Janice.
My finger tightened again on the trigger
instinctively.
I took the keys to his ’67 Pontiac, grabbed a
few hundred from his wallet, picked up my guitar, and Janice and I
drove, and drove, and drove. Seven hours later we were in New York,
at my aunt’s house. Brooklyn. And not the rich part, either.
Aunt Nola, my mother’s half-sister, is no
fool, no pushover. She took Janice in, threatened my father to high
heaven with social embarrassment and legal threats, and dad backed
down.
No one fucks with a New Yorker.
-21-
I stayed in New York for a bit. Virginians
say I’ve lost my accent. If that’s true, it was here that it
happened.
New York’s not a great city for a country
boy, because everything’s cramped up and the people dress funny. I
was used to the wide open spaces, but I needed to work, and I
needed money. I found a job that required muscle, and I saved up.
Aunt Nola let me stay with her if I helped her with the cooking,
which I did. I didn’t know how to cook at first, but I learned.
“All good men need to know how to cook,” she’d say to me.
I was in no position to argue. I really had
nowhere else to go. So, by day I’d haul ass and sweat like a
monkey, and by night I’d put on an apron and slice garlic and dice
tomatoes. Aunt Nola’s really into the Mediterranean food.
Weekends I’d call home, just to make sure
everything was OK. As OK as it could be, all things considered.
Mostly I just wanted to talk to my mom. But sometimes dad picked
up. He’d berate me for not joining the army, for being an asshole,
for being a “nigger-lover,” and any other colorful terms he’d like
to use for me. When he was done, he’d put mom on the phone. He
might play it tough, but I think he knew I was missing a few
marbles, and if I wasn’t certain my mom was OK, I’d take him out
without fear of criminal repercussions.
These are the hard, cold truths of life.
Talking to my dad always made me angry, so
angry. And when I got angry, I wanted to run. I stayed because I
had to stay. I stayed because of Janice. I stayed because of the
promise I’d made to her, to myself, by putting that ink on my right
arm, the ink of Justice.
But staying was the hardest thing I’ve ever
done in my life.
If I hadn’t found the underground fight
clubs, I would have never made it. Hitting, and getting hit, kept
me sane, kept my marbles together. If I don’t run, I wanna throw my
fists. If I don’t throw my fists, I wanna run.
If there’s one thing I learned how to do when
I was growing up at home it was getting my ass kicked. So that’s
pretty much what happened when I did these underground fights. I
got my ass kicked. Sometimes I got my ass kicked on purpose,
because it paid more.
When I didn’t talk to my dad for a while,
things actually felt “normal.” At Aunt Nola’s we had a grand time.
We were actually happy, the three of us. It’s funny how being in
such a heavy environment for so long can give you a pessimistic
view of life, making you think everything is evil and horrible and
terrible. But being away from that monster actually cleared my
head, made me think more positively.
Janice was doing well at school, making
friends. Pops never did call the cops or child services about what
happened that night with her—about the fact that I’d “kidnapped”
her.
We’d gotten away.
I tried to get Fiona, my other sister, to
follow suit, but Fiona is daddy’s little girl. She blamed me for
taking Janice, accused me of being disrespectful to my father, told
me it was against the commandments. Yeah, she and I are definitely
different colored sheep.
Momma, well, I never understood why she stays
with the man. She just does. She’s still with him. Does he hurt
her? I’ve been down there a few times, and I don’t really know. I
can’t tell.
I’ve been down there when
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