he’s not there,
because if I ever see him again, I can’t guarantee my or his
safety. I visit Aaron when I’m down there, and my mom. Not my
father.
People don’t realize it’s complicated. But it
is. Love complicates things, families complicate things, fiscal
responsibilities complicate things. It isn’t as simple as
telling someone to shove off and then being rid of them. Does mom
stay with him because she loves him? Needs him? Wants him?
Truth is, in a weird and convoluted way, if
my dad goes down, so does Aaron’s family, because dad’s got
everything locked down financially. He’s the man. And he owns
everything.
See how complicated it gets?
But if mom ever wants to run, I’ll be here
for her. I’ve told her that. But more than that I can’t do. Because
if I drag her out of there kicking and screaming, I’ll be no better
than my father.
Lesson number one that Aaron taught me about
women is that a woman must be willing . And if she is, she’ll
go to the ends of the earth for you.
-22-
At twenty-one I hit the road, with the Harley
and the Gibson I’d saved up to purchase. The Harley was a piece of
shit, but I had a friend at a hotrod shop who fixed it up for
me.
That was three years ago. I mostly travelled
the northern states, and then the west coast. It’s as if I wanted
to stay as far away from the South and from Virginia as possible.
I’d settle a few months each time in a place, do some work, save
up, put some money in a bank account. I usually stayed in
out-of-the-way places.
Because I can cook I tend to save up on
eating out, and I also tend to get the short-order cook jobs when
they’re available.
I don’t fight for money any more, and there
have been places where the demand has been there, and the money
offered has been good—Detroit, Chicago—but I turned it down. I
needed wheels, and I got them. Dad’s Pontiac had long since been
returned to the farm by me. So now I live hand to mouth. More than
that I don’t need.
The last six months it’s just been open road,
no working, no stopping, just riding, moving from town to town,
spending two or three days there at the most. You spend very little
when you’re on a bike, feeding only yourself. I have enough to keep
me going for another twelve months, maybe eighteen, provided I
don’t stay at The Ritz or the Sheraton whenever I make a stop. And
even if I did that, I could probably still go four to six months
without working.
Yeah, I got my ass kicked a lot in
Brooklyn. Made good money doing it. And I saved up.
I just needed to clear my head.
The pictures come back sometimes. They bother
me. And it’s not the pictures of my dad’s fists to my face or my
ribs. Those don’t bother me. He’s an asshole, so I don’t have any
worries about him not loving me or anything like that.
The pictures that bother me are the ones of
my mother screaming, him on top of her, and then the fear in her
green eyes. The pictures that bother me are the ones of him sitting
next to my little sister, on her bed, his hand on her leg. And the
sounds of fear she was making. This fourteen year old girl.
I want to kill him when I think of that shit.
I really do.
And that scares me.
So I ride.
-23-
I started off telling you about Mr. Cowboy
Hat at the Blues Bar, and I’m sorry I went off on a tangent there.
But sometimes you need to get these things off your chest.
Sometimes you need to get them off your chest more than once.
I’ve told people bits and pieces of this
story as I’ve ridden through towns, but never in so much detail.
And never anything about my sister.
So, Mr. Cowboy, ogling Ginger the blue-eyed
Diva, a girl I can’t stop thinking about.
I chested him out of the Blues Bar because
he’d pissed me off. I took his hat off, and told him to fuck off or
else I was gonna cut him a new one.
Blood was burning in my fists, and if I’d hit
him, I don’t think I would have been able to stop.
I’m sorry I don’t have a major climax to
because if I ever see him again, I can’t guarantee my or his
safety. I visit Aaron when I’m down there, and my mom. Not my
father.
People don’t realize it’s complicated. But it
is. Love complicates things, families complicate things, fiscal
responsibilities complicate things. It isn’t as simple as
telling someone to shove off and then being rid of them. Does mom
stay with him because she loves him? Needs him? Wants him?
Truth is, in a weird and convoluted way, if
my dad goes down, so does Aaron’s family, because dad’s got
everything locked down financially. He’s the man. And he owns
everything.
See how complicated it gets?
But if mom ever wants to run, I’ll be here
for her. I’ve told her that. But more than that I can’t do. Because
if I drag her out of there kicking and screaming, I’ll be no better
than my father.
Lesson number one that Aaron taught me about
women is that a woman must be willing . And if she is, she’ll
go to the ends of the earth for you.
-22-
At twenty-one I hit the road, with the Harley
and the Gibson I’d saved up to purchase. The Harley was a piece of
shit, but I had a friend at a hotrod shop who fixed it up for
me.
That was three years ago. I mostly travelled
the northern states, and then the west coast. It’s as if I wanted
to stay as far away from the South and from Virginia as possible.
I’d settle a few months each time in a place, do some work, save
up, put some money in a bank account. I usually stayed in
out-of-the-way places.
Because I can cook I tend to save up on
eating out, and I also tend to get the short-order cook jobs when
they’re available.
I don’t fight for money any more, and there
have been places where the demand has been there, and the money
offered has been good—Detroit, Chicago—but I turned it down. I
needed wheels, and I got them. Dad’s Pontiac had long since been
returned to the farm by me. So now I live hand to mouth. More than
that I don’t need.
The last six months it’s just been open road,
no working, no stopping, just riding, moving from town to town,
spending two or three days there at the most. You spend very little
when you’re on a bike, feeding only yourself. I have enough to keep
me going for another twelve months, maybe eighteen, provided I
don’t stay at The Ritz or the Sheraton whenever I make a stop. And
even if I did that, I could probably still go four to six months
without working.
Yeah, I got my ass kicked a lot in
Brooklyn. Made good money doing it. And I saved up.
I just needed to clear my head.
The pictures come back sometimes. They bother
me. And it’s not the pictures of my dad’s fists to my face or my
ribs. Those don’t bother me. He’s an asshole, so I don’t have any
worries about him not loving me or anything like that.
The pictures that bother me are the ones of
my mother screaming, him on top of her, and then the fear in her
green eyes. The pictures that bother me are the ones of him sitting
next to my little sister, on her bed, his hand on her leg. And the
sounds of fear she was making. This fourteen year old girl.
I want to kill him when I think of that shit.
I really do.
And that scares me.
So I ride.
-23-
I started off telling you about Mr. Cowboy
Hat at the Blues Bar, and I’m sorry I went off on a tangent there.
But sometimes you need to get these things off your chest.
Sometimes you need to get them off your chest more than once.
I’ve told people bits and pieces of this
story as I’ve ridden through towns, but never in so much detail.
And never anything about my sister.
So, Mr. Cowboy, ogling Ginger the blue-eyed
Diva, a girl I can’t stop thinking about.
I chested him out of the Blues Bar because
he’d pissed me off. I took his hat off, and told him to fuck off or
else I was gonna cut him a new one.
Blood was burning in my fists, and if I’d hit
him, I don’t think I would have been able to stop.
I’m sorry I don’t have a major climax to
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