disdainful shake of his head, turned away.
Moses still had no response. He didn’t understand the meaning in his preverbal drive to meet his biological father, and now his mother. Neither endless hours of therapy nor reading an array of august thinkers delivered any eternal truths from the Tree of Knowledge. No—he felt as if he stood beneath some emotional Tower of Babel and would forever struggle for answers. He cursed himself for possessing no language to explain his feelings, or even understand his own questions.
He lay awake that night as old dilemmas, which had lurked in his nightmares and daymares, and new mysteries rushed along the eaves of his consciousness. Why did his urge to see his father become even greater with each new confirmation that his negation was intentional? And now this new ache for the mother whom he did not know existed—how could he miss what he never knew he had, had never had? Especially when his mom Hannah so loved and nurtured him? And what drove the Savants to hide his birth, if indeed they did? What caused Hannah to abide the charade of the unholy alliance of Teumer, Bickley Sr., and Lively for so long? Finally, fatigue took hold, his eyes closed, and his mind went quiet.
9
MEMOIRS OF A USELESS GOOD-FOR-NUTHIN’ (2020)
The Great Fire Escape, 1992
I know, I know most of you wanna hear about Alchemy Savant. The facts of his scurvy-pervey sexcapades and what really happened that night he bought the
big one
. I’ll get to that, but I been prepping for some time and I got a story to spill that’s more than just Alchemy. I loved the bastid
and
I despised him. Like he said, we was honest brothers, and sometimes brothers fight. Yeah, he rescued me from a life of scrounging for dimes in the deep end of the shitpool. Did that for lots of us. That was him, then and always: a lifesaving con-trol freak. After becoming a rock ’n’ roll god, he wanted not to be prez but a left-wing
king
.
I also been advised by the people paying me to do this to start when we met in ’92, almost thirty years ago now. I ain’t writing a word, just dictating. Don’t worry, it’s all me. They can fix everyone’s grammar except mine. I gotta sound like I sound, not some airbrushed version of me. I ain’t gonna soft-sell nothing neither. Some shit will make me look like a crude, ignorant crudhead and a world-class a-hole, which I was way back then and maybe still am. Judge for yourself.
I was born Ricky McFinn. Twisted branch in a warped family tree. Part Italian, part Irish, and all lapsed Catholic.My journey to becoming Ambitious Mindswallow began late summer of ’92, I’d been doing zip for a few years since I got my butt tossed out of the highfalutin School of Performing Arts for acting like a plastic surgeon and “repairing” my piano teacher’s nose after he opined my mother should’ve aborted me. Since it was my third offense, I was fresh out of community service and no-jail-time cards, so I was awarded an all-expense-paid trip to Spofford, the juvee jail. Before I could even join a gang, this motherfucker, who had body tatts of his mama, the Mother Mary, and muscle heads, tried to stick his wang up my anal hole. I elbow him in the nuts and tell him to take his queerass Puerto Rican butt back to his cell and leave me the fuck alone. That night, in the showers, in front of his compadres he gets on me for being so skinny (I was about six feet two, 130 pounds back then). So I put this fucker
down
: “Yeah, so what? I’m carryin’ weight in the only place it counts.”
“What you mean? You got dope?”
“Wha-utt?” I says. “Cocksucker, you so fuckin’ stoopit.” I grab my nuts. “I seen four-year-olds carryin’ bigger logs.” I let that one sink into his big, bald skull. Then wham, I snap him, “Hell, I bet yo’ mama’s clit’s bigger than your muscle!” That did it. They gouged out my left eye, which got me out of Spofford fast and gave me my little good-luck charm. Still keep
Moses still had no response. He didn’t understand the meaning in his preverbal drive to meet his biological father, and now his mother. Neither endless hours of therapy nor reading an array of august thinkers delivered any eternal truths from the Tree of Knowledge. No—he felt as if he stood beneath some emotional Tower of Babel and would forever struggle for answers. He cursed himself for possessing no language to explain his feelings, or even understand his own questions.
He lay awake that night as old dilemmas, which had lurked in his nightmares and daymares, and new mysteries rushed along the eaves of his consciousness. Why did his urge to see his father become even greater with each new confirmation that his negation was intentional? And now this new ache for the mother whom he did not know existed—how could he miss what he never knew he had, had never had? Especially when his mom Hannah so loved and nurtured him? And what drove the Savants to hide his birth, if indeed they did? What caused Hannah to abide the charade of the unholy alliance of Teumer, Bickley Sr., and Lively for so long? Finally, fatigue took hold, his eyes closed, and his mind went quiet.
9
MEMOIRS OF A USELESS GOOD-FOR-NUTHIN’ (2020)
The Great Fire Escape, 1992
I know, I know most of you wanna hear about Alchemy Savant. The facts of his scurvy-pervey sexcapades and what really happened that night he bought the
big one
. I’ll get to that, but I been prepping for some time and I got a story to spill that’s more than just Alchemy. I loved the bastid
and
I despised him. Like he said, we was honest brothers, and sometimes brothers fight. Yeah, he rescued me from a life of scrounging for dimes in the deep end of the shitpool. Did that for lots of us. That was him, then and always: a lifesaving con-trol freak. After becoming a rock ’n’ roll god, he wanted not to be prez but a left-wing
king
.
I also been advised by the people paying me to do this to start when we met in ’92, almost thirty years ago now. I ain’t writing a word, just dictating. Don’t worry, it’s all me. They can fix everyone’s grammar except mine. I gotta sound like I sound, not some airbrushed version of me. I ain’t gonna soft-sell nothing neither. Some shit will make me look like a crude, ignorant crudhead and a world-class a-hole, which I was way back then and maybe still am. Judge for yourself.
I was born Ricky McFinn. Twisted branch in a warped family tree. Part Italian, part Irish, and all lapsed Catholic.My journey to becoming Ambitious Mindswallow began late summer of ’92, I’d been doing zip for a few years since I got my butt tossed out of the highfalutin School of Performing Arts for acting like a plastic surgeon and “repairing” my piano teacher’s nose after he opined my mother should’ve aborted me. Since it was my third offense, I was fresh out of community service and no-jail-time cards, so I was awarded an all-expense-paid trip to Spofford, the juvee jail. Before I could even join a gang, this motherfucker, who had body tatts of his mama, the Mother Mary, and muscle heads, tried to stick his wang up my anal hole. I elbow him in the nuts and tell him to take his queerass Puerto Rican butt back to his cell and leave me the fuck alone. That night, in the showers, in front of his compadres he gets on me for being so skinny (I was about six feet two, 130 pounds back then). So I put this fucker
down
: “Yeah, so what? I’m carryin’ weight in the only place it counts.”
“What you mean? You got dope?”
“Wha-utt?” I says. “Cocksucker, you so fuckin’ stoopit.” I grab my nuts. “I seen four-year-olds carryin’ bigger logs.” I let that one sink into his big, bald skull. Then wham, I snap him, “Hell, I bet yo’ mama’s clit’s bigger than your muscle!” That did it. They gouged out my left eye, which got me out of Spofford fast and gave me my little good-luck charm. Still keep
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