"Animal Bar" -- Red Hot Chili Peppers

Okay, so Dad wants more! Here ya go...

The Square Shoulder of a Man Named Butch

VII

Roxanne hadn’t slept that night. Under the overpass downtown, she wasn’t the only one seeking shelter from the cold rain. She went from one place to another, looking for a dry, safe spot to go through the handbag. Finally, as it was nearing dawn, she settled in the basement door entrance in a shabby house just beyond the industrial buildings that lined the river south of downtown. She dug out all of Ms. Claire Everly’s belongings. A little less than seven hundred dollars cash, hidden in the various little crevices of the deceptively spacious handbag. She also found several credit cards, two bank cards, and a checkbook in a long wallet. There were lipsticks, a powder compact, a slew of receipts, peppermints, and some loose change had settled on the bottom. Roxanne tucked the cash inside her bra and stuffed the contents back into the purse.

The realization that she was a thief gnawed at her, her stomach knotting painfully in a combination of hunger and guilt. She needed a plan. Her parents weren’t the most strict or straight-laced but they had taught her that stealing was never an option. But she was desperate, and had no where to go. She remembered one of the only times that she’d ever stayed in a motel. She had been woken by her mother, who pulled her from the bed and carried her down the stairs. The fire alarm was sounding and her father was frantically running from the kitchen to the basement with a fire extinguisher when they swept through the foyer and out the front door. Her mother had assured her that nothing was wrong, No, honey, there’s no fire, I think it’s just the carbon monoxide alarm. Daddy’s just checking the furnace to make sure. We’re going to go stay somewhere else tonight, just to make sure. Once inside their minivan with the engine running and the heater blasting, Roxanne had fallen back to sleep, only waking when she heard her mother and father arguing in hushed tones. Vicki, that’s not the sort of place you take your family to stay. I’d rather shell out the extra money and stay in a motel that doesn’t charge by the hour. She had opened her eyes to see them passing a neon Motel sign that blinked “vacancy” in nauseating orange flashes. They were driving further north where the motel signs were lit from within with names like “The Carlton Inn” with shrubberies and covered parking zones in the front. Well, I don’t think a hundred dollars for tonight is going to break us. They had pulled into one such motel and her father had paid for a room with two beds and they watched television until she fell asleep.

She thought of that night as she walked in the rain the few miles to the nearest Goodwill, hoping that it would be open by the time she got there. It was, and there she purchased an outfit, some mismatched socks, a pair of shoes, and an umbrella. Down the block from the Goodwill store was a motel with a partially lit neon sign. The clerk at the desk looked at her through the wire mesh and plexi-glass partition, probably thinking she was a prostitute, and gave her a room key in exchange for forty dollars. As she walked away he was grumbling something about noon being the checkout time.

Room 212 smelled of mildew and old shoes. The bed was made, but did not look very clean in the dim light of the single floor lamp. The bathroom was a seventies style puke yellow that made the dirt and stains blend in. She had hoped that there were plenty of soaps and little shampoos, but there was only one small wax wrapped bar beside the sink. She showered, using most of the small bar of soap to wash away the stench of two weeks on the streets. She dried with the small rough towel, not looking too closely at it. She left her room again and crossed the several blocks to the nearest drug store, where she bought new necessities; everything she needed to clean up and start her new life.

When she returned to the motel she showered, washing everything twice. She brushed her teeth twice, then a third time after she had flossed and rinsed with mouth wash. She put on new socks and underwear, and her Goodwill clothes, gathered all her things and put them into the plastic sack from the drug store, and stuffed them into the drawer under the television.

Out on the street she started walking. She looked for signs that read “Now Hiring” and at the fourth sign, a small soda-shop style diner badly in need of remodeling; she opened the door and went inside. She inquired at the lunch counter; the worn older woman perched on a stool behind the register pointed her toward an office in the back. Behind the small metal desk was an old man, dark gray hair stiffly pulled over the balding spot on his head. Before him were neat stacks of folders, each one labeled, weeks of receipts and invoices. He pulled his glasses from his thick face and managed a polite smile.

“Can I help you young lady?” his voice was much younger than his appearance, thick with an accent she could not place. It came out strong and authoritative, not unlike the voice of her high school principal.

“Yes, sir, my name is Roxanne James and I’d like to put in an application,” she said, and though her hands were quaking she managed to still her voice.

“Won’t you have a seat,” he gestured to a chair, “You look young; are you old enough to work?”

“I need the money. I don’t have any parents and I want to live on my own,” said Roxanne, her false confidence never wavering.

The man looked at her for a very long time. Roxanne started to twitch uncomfortably in the chair. Finally, he picked up a paper from a bin to her left and a pen from a cup on the corner of the desk, and handed them to her, “My name’s Mr. White,” his “t” came out crisp, and she wondered if it was his real name, “I’m the manager and owner of this restaurant. You can fill this out, but I’m not sure that you’ll be able to do much around here. I’ll help you what I can, up to six hundred dollars.”

“Thank you so much,” said Roxanne, starting to write. In the address space she put in the address of the motel, pausing a little before the second line, trying to remember the correct zip code.

“I have a full staff of waiters, but I need someone in the kitchen. Since you’re young you can do dishes, but you can’t touch any of the appliances. If someone doesn’t show up for their shift, you can wait a few tables. You can work two, three hours a day through the week, after school. After six hundred dollars I have to put you on payroll—tax forms and all…I suppose you won’t be causing any trouble, right?”

“No, sir,” and Roxanne smiled for the first time in two weeks.

VIII

The first sign of his anger breaking free again was while Carl was driving. He found that driving in the city was mad. People who followed the rules, he could tolerate, but those whose driving was less than exceptional bore his rage without even knowing it. He cursed under his breath at them, and sometimes, if the music was loud enough in his car, he would shout. Follow the rules, Carl. The person who arrives first at an intersection has the right of way, Carl. Fasten your seatbelt, Carl. Don’t forget to check your blind spot!  Oh, how I wish people would read their driver’s manuals. He heard his mother’s sing song voice inside his head and cringed.

No, he preferred to walk. He favored the street that went through the campus, where there were always pretty young people doing important things. Watching for and spotting the same ones at the same time of day, first outside the high school two blocks north of campus, all the girls and boys arriving well before the bell. Then he saw the older, more developed women and men of the college campus; all those walking to and from class, jobs, or sports. There were a few here and there that he always looked for; he gave them names inside his head and pretended conversations. Carl thought of himself as an observer as he drove. Slightly removed from the college world he was once immersed in, following their lives through the things they carried. 

The day that Carl stopped listening to the inner voice that was his mother, he was driving to work because it was raining. It was Saturday, and he had been called in to work to fix the boss’s computer, which had crashed the prior evening. It was the third Saturday in a row that he’d been called in to fix someone’s computer. “You know, I sent out a memo last week. You just can’t download all this crap onto work computers—they don’t have the memory capacity to handle all that,” he’d told them the previous Saturday.

 On his way downtown, he didn’t follow too closely to the other cars. He minded his speed, distance, and used his lights and signaled. He was almost to his building when a car darted out from a side street, right in front of him. He had to slam on his breaks and nearly stop to keep from hitting the sleek black sedan. He cursed and sped up, fishing in his console for his notepad and paper. At the next light he tried to copy down the plate number before the light changed and the car sped away. Carl checked his blind spot and changed lanes, speeding now, to follow the man who cut him off. The black sedan was just entering the public parking garage up ahead. Carl went into the garage after him, jabbed the button, and snatched a ticket from the machine. He sped up the entrance ramp and followed his glowing taillights up the spiraling levels. At the third level the sedan parked, and Carl slowed as he passed by, glaring at the man gathering his things inside his car. He parked a few spaces away and pulled an old baseball cap low on his face. He stepped slowly and deliberately out of his car. He circled around to the open trunk and reached inside. He started toward the man, his quickening footsteps echoing louder and louder.

As the man walked toward the elevators, he punched buttons on his phone, a coffee mug tucked in the crook of his arm. Carl struck quickly. The man never expected it. Dropping his things, he immediately started to fight back, when Carl struck again with the tire iron. The man went limp, his coffee cup rolling away from him sloshing mocha java whatever onto his nice leather briefcase as it stopped. Carl lugged the man up onto his shoulder and hurried back to the car. He put the unconscious man into his trunk, then ran back to gather the briefcase and scattered bits of blackberry. Carl got back into his car and drove back out of the garage.

He turned onto the street and headed home, dialing work on his cellular phone. He hated to use his phone while driving, but decided it was necessary. He told his boss he was sick, and wouldn’t be coming to work.

"Just Because" -- Jane's Addiction

All right, those of you still with me after this morning's rant, here's the next couple of chapters:

The Square Shoulder of a Man Named Butch

V

The office was dark and quiet, except for them. In the dim bathroom, the handsome Judge and the lovely social worker straightened their suits in front of the mirror, the woman patting soft fragrant powder on her smooth face. From a distance she looked smooth and young, but he knew every line that framed her pursed lips and fanned out from her bold, dark eyes. Back in the spacious office they grabbed briefcases and overcoats and turned out the lights.

“Dinner tomorrow at my place,” he asked, with a knowing smile.

“Only if you’re cooking,” she replied.

“Reservations for two, then,” he said, laughing.

Claire wound her way through the maze of cubicles that made up the outer office space. No one else was there so late, it was nearly midnight, and it was Friday. She imagined her co-workers and associates downing stiff drinks at the bar down the street, the co-mingling smells of expensive whiskey and leather booths and for a moment wished that they could go there together. But not yet. Not yet.

In the employee parking garage adjacent to the court house they walked to their cars in silence. Outside the wind had quickened, just enough to moan between the close buildings and stir the litter in the streets. No rain, but she could smell it coming, over the smells of oil and old fumes in the garage, she could smell the wet, earthy smell of rain to come. The wind seemed to be singing to them, a sad song, low and long, with a sound that was almost weeping. As they neared their cars, parked only a few spaces apart, the weeping grew louder. No, it was not the wind or the rain to come. It was a child crying; dirty and alone, tucked into the dark cold concrete corner of the far end of the garage.  

“Are you lost?” he asked the child.  Claire stepped from her car door, shifting her keys, hand bag, and briefcase in her hands, taking a few timid steps toward him, straining to see the child more clearly.          

“No,” she spoke in a hoarse whisper, “I was waiting for you,” inclining her head toward Claire. He was close enough that he saw it was a young girl, about fourteen, maybe fifteen years old, with wide fearful eyes.

“And instead I see you! You took me away from them! And now I have nothing!” The girl cried weakly. She stood from where she was crouching, her long legs unfolding her full height. She was not that much shorter than the Judge, who graced 6’ 3.”  The girl’s pants were crawling up her socks above the dirty sneakers she wore. She had been crying some time and her green eyes were red, the skin around them puffy and raw. She wore a holey flannel sweatshirt over a faded black t-shirt, her long chestnut hair flowing in stringy waves down the back.

“I’m sorry, I—,” he started to say, but she narrowed her eyes and silenced him with a voice growing stronger in anger.

“You may not remember but I do. And you, what do you have to say for yourself?” she took a step closer, coming a little into the pale yellow of one of the lights that were scattered down the wall of the garage. The judge and the woman both saw her more clearly now. One of Claire’s cases, Roxanne something, the Judge thought, how could you forget that face?

“Roxanne James. Your foster parents have been worried about you,” said Claire, “They called me the other day; they said you ran away.”

“I had to. Mr. Trenton told me I had a snowballs’ chance in hell of being emancipated! On visiting day, they wouldn’t even take me to see my parents. He was drunk again. You told them to take me every week. But he wouldn’t let her take me! He said it was just one weekend and that they wouldn’t even miss me!” her sobs grew louder now.

“Let me just call the Trentons—“

“No! No. They don’t want me to leave them. But they’re not my family,” Roxanne’s tears made salty stains on her nearly black shirt.

“I’m sure they would want to know that I’ve found you—“

“You found me?” she said incredulously, “I just came here because I thought you would understand; that maybe you could find me another place to stay. Instead I find you here with him! Isn’t it just dandy that you and Judge Gabeheart are fucking around—you could have helped me two weeks ago—but you said wait! And the whole time you’re fucking the guy who could grant me emancipation!”

Claire took a tentative step forward, “Listen, maybe I was wrong. I didn’t know how bad it was for you. But here you are, it’s a miracle you aren’t hurt. Let me help you.”

“Let us help you,” echoed Judge Gabeheart, “We can call someone, Claire could wait here with you for an escort, Claire could go with you and speak to your foster parents” and when her eyebrows flew up and her eyes flashed with anger he said, “It would be so much safer for you if you would just let us get you home.”

Roxanne was retreating already, “I went home, but not to the Trenton’s. And now some guy lives in our house. It doesn’t even look like our house. The neighbor told me they auctioned our house and all our stuff after they took me away,” she was losing her breath, the sobbing gone now, taking with it her energy.

            “Let me help you, Roxanne,” said Claire, stepping closer, reaching out her hands. “I think I can help you to be on your own. It will just take a little while; we’ll get all this sorted out.”

“You. Have. Helped. Me. Enough!” she looked from one to the other with accusing eyes, she started to cry again, rivulets of tears dampening her cheeks and neck, the back of her hands. She backed away toward the concrete half-wall that was between her and the alley.

“Roxanne, wait. Don’t run again. Come with me,” Claire stepped closer, extending her hands, and as she did Roxanne snatched her hand bag and vaulted over the concrete, into the darkness, followed by Claire’s pleading calls that echoed in the narrow alley.

VI

 When Carl was thirty five, his parents passed away, first Mr. Rhodes, dying peacefully in his sleep at the hospital where he was being treated for pneumonia. And then his mother, only months after her husband, a heart attack claiming her life as she was watching television at home alone. He saw his sisters and their husbands at the funerals, promising each other to visit, though knowing that he would drift farther with these losses. He lived downtown, much closer to the family home than his sisters, and he was left to go through their things.

       In the attic, in a box that was marked his birth year, he found pictures, documents. He found the truth. He phoned his eldest sister to ask her, and eventually she gave in. She told him about his mother and father, older brothers. But she knew nothing more than what she had overheard their parents discussing in heated whispers in the room next to hers, the night her mother had brought him home. Phrases like, “deplorable conditions,” “couldn’t possibly leave him there,” “we don’t have to tell him the truth,” and then finally, “I’ve hired a lawyer, and I’m going to get custody.” He hung up the phone feeling very alone in the world. He hired a removal service to clean out the rest of their parent’s belongings, only packaging and sending the things his sisters had requested. He talked to his sisters occasionally through email or by telephone, and received Christmas cards from them every year, their family picture selves growing and changing progressively in the Christmas card album he kept.

He went to work every day and treated ailing networks and computers up and down the long hallways of cubicles. But in his mind pathways were forging. Somehow he had found that place, the dark growing stain, where the evil lurked down deep in his soul.  When he found the place, he found possibilities he had never considered before. Hurting people was possible, probable even. His desire to inflict pain swelled and crested, stronger and quicker and focused on violence. But he held back. Always, he heard his mother’s voice telling him to be good. All his life he listened. He tried to listen.

"Eulogy" -- Tool

Well, today I have a rant. For those of you who wont understand, that's all right. for those of you who do, enjoy:

Parents: you have a responsibility to your children. Becoming a mother or a father does not end when you decide to leave, when you decide to take the lazy track to parenting, when you decide to give up. Those kids need parents. They need you to lead by example. If you leave abruptly and unkindly, breaking the hearts, and mental capacities, of those you leave, you are still responsible for them. You can't just decide one day that you'll be a parent to someone else, but not those you've left behind. YOU are responsible for every hardship that those left behind will face because of your uncaring attitude. Kids shouldn't have to go to bed hungry, they shouldn't be wandering out into traffic to get to a store to buy some toys because you were too sorry to get up and take care of them. Kids shouldn't have to take care of their guardians. They shouldn't have to worry about whether they are going to have food to eat, somewhere to live, or warm clothes to wear. But they do. And though they are stronger for it, they are deeply flawed from the lack of love and care that a responsible parent provides. Not all parents are perfect. Everyone makes mistakes. But YOU will get what is coming. In the end, you will face all the things that you try to ignore now. There will be a reckoning. Can you honestly say that you did what you needed to do--that you did it while trying your damnedest not to hurt anyone--or everyone--involved? You can't go back and change things, of course, but you can live today differently. You can change. You can if you feel it in your heart that it is what you need to do. I know some of you will read this and consider what I've said. I know others still will read it and get angry, defensive, say you've done nothing wrong, that you've really tried your best. Well, let me just tell you one last thing...there will be a day when your last breath leaves your body and all you will be able to think about is all the things that you wish you could have done with your life. And if, in those final moments, you have no regrets, you have no apologies, you have nothing that you wish you had done differently--be afraid, be very afraid. I don't know what happens when you die, but I like to hope that people get what they deserve in the end.

and... i'm spent.

"Cold Desert" -- Kings of Leon

really cool video on procrastination:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=37wR_TWdVy0

so here's the next installment of:

The Square Shoulder of a Man Named Butch

III

Roxanne was sitting in her room at the Trenton’s house when Mr. Trenton came home from work. “Call me Tom,” he’d said when Claire had brought her to meet them for the first time. She could hear their muffled voices slowly rising as they always did, becoming barely restrained shouts before the back door slammed and the garage radio came on.

“Roxy,” Mrs. Trenton pecked on the door before pushing it open and sticking her head inside, “You can call me Becky, its short for Rebecca,” Roxanne remembered that day, learning all those names and faces. “This is our daughter, Millie, and these are our foster children, Matt, Sue, and Charlie.” She had gestured to a toddler that clung to her leg, a small wiry boy with a mess of strawberry blond hair, an effervescent seven-year-old whose dark hair swept back and forth as she fidgeted on the sofa, and a bespectacled young man with large brown eyes whose tan face conveyed a rebellious expression. Just now Mrs. Trenton was crossing the small distance between the foot of the bed and the door. 

“Listen, honey, I know that this has been a hard adjustment for you, but you need try a little bit more. You’re never gonna feel like a member of the family if you don’t keep trying. Now, I’ve never asked for a whole lot. But, I’d like you to come on down and help me with dinner, maybe this time with us will make you feel a little more at home,” she tried to look calm, but Roxanne could tell that Mrs. Trenton was upset. She wondered what they had been arguing about.

“Okay, I guess I could help a little, but I have to finish this report, so I can’t chase Millie all night,” she replied, pushing her books and papers aside and throwing her feet over the edge of the low bed.

“I’m not asking you to chase Millie, I just need a little help, that’s all, honey,” Mrs. Trenton turned and headed out into the hallway, ignoring the upward roll of Roxanne’s eyes.

Roxanne thudded down the carpeted stairs and around the corner into the kitchen where Mrs. Trenton was cutting round steak into small cubes and throwing them into a pot on the stove, “You can just jump right in here, I need these cans opened and, see if you can find that brown gravy mix in the cabinet up there, hon.”

Dinner in the Trenton household consisted of Mrs. Trenton serving her husband at his recliner while he watched whatever sports program happened to be on at the moment, the boys gathered around the large battered coffee table to watch as well. Mrs. Trenton ate her dinner standing at the kitchen counter, finishing quickly and leaving Roxanne to keep watch over the girls while she fled to the upstairs bathroom for a shower, or to sneak onto the patio outside to chain smoke.

Roxanne went back to her room as soon as Mrs. Trenton returned, first pulling Millie from her high chair and instructing Sue to finish her snack. Roxanne had never had any brothers or sisters before, and the little ones seemed to drink up that fact, pouncing and prodding and pushing her limits in new ways every day. But Roxanne missed her mother and father. No matter how nice the Trentons’ were, no matter how loving all the children were, she couldn’t help but wish she was at home, back in her old room with the purple patterned wall paper. Her mother had helped her pick it out, and her father had kept careful count of the weeks until he could afford to go to the hardware store and order it, coming home with a bed spread and sheet set ordered to match. She remembered that day, the way the large sack he carried nearly hid his wide grin as he hoisted it up from the trunk of the car. The plastic zippered bags were perfectly intact, no clearance aisle merchandise that day. Roxanne had thrown her arms around her father and cried incessant thanks until he insisted that she open the packages and make her bed immediately. Afterward, father, mother, and daughter lay back against the full sized headboard, squeezed tightly together and wondered aloud how hard it would be to hang the new wall paper.

Roxanne thought about that day, how it was the last before they went to jail. Her room had been pretty and perfect. All she worried about back then was what new lip gloss she wanted to buy, finding the perfect handbag, or seeing who was in the food court. Now she was thrust into the awkwardness of a brand new family. She became sister and babysitter in one fell swoop.

IV

When Carl was in college he ran cross-country, his high school success providing him with a full academic and athletic scholarship. He often ran along the trails in the large state park just north of the city, his knowledge of the paths giving him an advantage during home meets. Plenty of girls found his athletic body and vibrant charisma quite charming; he and his buddies had their parties, when they weren’t running, and he found that he had an ease with women, an ease that came with having sisters.

During his senior year, he was dating a girl named Layla. His friend Drew had introduced them at a coffee shop on campus, later confessing that she had been his high school girl friend. Layla was a tall, broad-shouldered swimmer with a cascade of auburn hair and a classically beautiful face. Layla had sort of highly sculpted cheekbones that framed her impeccable green eyes. She knew she was beautiful, and most of her days were centered on swimming and running. Just like many other student-athletes, her days were micromanaged and wind-suit clad, often going from activity to class and back.

One crisp autumn night Carl drove Layla to a friend’s cabin, up in the mountains about an hour out of the city. The cabin was large, easily accommodating ten overnight guests or a few dozen partygoers with sleeping bags. Inside they were greeted by a throng of their friends and they were soon separated, easing into the crowd shouting greetings. Later, Layla found Carl crammed between two voluptuous, barely clothed blondes.

“You’d think that with the low tonight of 35 degrees, you sluts would have some warm clothes on,” Layla’s face had blossomed red, her hands shaking with anger.

“Whoa, hold on a minute, here, honey. We were just getting acquainted. These girls were just telling me they were thinking about joining an intramural team this fall….” Carl said, pushing up from the loveseat.

“I think I would like you to take me home now, Carl.”

“Hey, baby, it’s all good. It’s not like we were fucking right here in the living room or anything,” Carl pulled at Layla’s waist, nuzzling her neck.

“Get off me! Just forget it. I’ll find Drew, he’ll give me a ride home,” she extricated herself from Carl’s grip and was only a few steps away when he snatched her with both hands and whirled her around.

“Come on, honey, I wasn’t doin’ anything, really,” pleaded Carl, embarrassed. He pulled her face close to his and kissed her.

“Get. Off. Me!” she shouted, pushing him away and wiping at her mouth.  Every conversation in the room ceased, the music thudding loudly amongst the quiet crowd. Drew was making his way through the crowd, taking long strides and pushing people out of the way.

“What the fuck is going on, anyway?” he said, leveling his narrowed eyes at Carl, who released Layla and balled his fists.

“Listen, man, I was just sitting here and she came up and made a rude remark to my new friends. But it’s all right, man. I was just about to take Layla home,” Carl said, unfurling one of his hands and placing it on the small of her back.

Layla swept his hand away and stepped aside, “I’m not going anywhere with you, you’re drunk.”

“C’mon, Layla, I’ll give you a ride,” and turning to Carl, Drew said, “I think you should go back to entertaining your new friends.”

“And I think you should mind your own business,” replied Carl, stepping forward, so close that Drew smelled his sour whiskey breath.

“Layla is my business,” Drew pushed Layla behind him possessively and inched forward until they were almost nose to nose. Carl caught him by surprise with an uppercut to the jaw. Drew went down swinging, but Carl took the advantage to kick him with his hiking boots, landing several blows to Drew’s ribs. Layla and some other women were screaming in the background, but no one stepped forward to stop him as Carl pounded Drew’s head and upper body angrily. Layla screamed over and over, but Carl didn’t seem to hear her. After a couple of minutes, when they saw Drew wasn’t going to be getting up, a couple of big guys who looked like line-backers, stepped forward and pulled Carl away. Drew lay curled in the fetal position and Layla rushed to his side, “Get out of here, Carl,” she said, tears streaming down her face.

Layla took Drew to the hospital where the doctor wrapped his broken ribs and stitched his bleeding face. Layla never saw at Carl again, avoiding him at school functions and refusing his apologetic phone calls. Carl’s lawyer arranged a deal with Drew; Carl agreed to pay all of Drew’s medical bills in return for dropping the assault charges against him.

Carl tried to forget about the incident. He managed to control his anger most of the time. He still had his parties with friends, but he rarely drank whiskey anymore. But every time he saw a woman toss her long auburn hair, Carl remembered Layla’s tear-stained face as she crouched over the bleeding man on the floor—all the anger and embarrassment flooding back to him as if it were happening all over again. Carl had promised himself that he wouldn’t let his anger consume him ever again.

"Karma Police" -- Radiohead

The reworking of chapter I:

March 2, 1979, 1:27 PM

Mrs. Lydia Rhodes pulled her reliable minivan up to the curb outside a small house in a moldering neighborhood far south of downtown, and turned off the engine. A calmness settled over her, and she knew that what she was about to do would mean taking on the responsibility of someone else’s life. She glanced up and down the rows of sagging houses, looking for neighbors or bystanders. Clouds stretched low over the neighborhood, casting the day in shades of somber grey. The street was eerily quiet on the weekday afternoon. She left the car unlocked and crossed the distance to the front door in a few quick steps. She kicked a few stinking garbage bags out of the way to reach the front door and knocked loudly. 

There was no answer. Glancing around, again, she retreated off the porch and started around the side of the house. There was a little path through the narrow space between the houses; the dormant plants lining the path were strewn with garbage. It didn’t take long to reach the back door, which was all but four feet away from a chain-link fence penning the neighbor’s equally dismal back yard.

Lydia tried the doorknob, but it was locked. She moved a few broken plastic lawn chairs to reach the nearby window. There was a faint sound, muffled whimpering. It sounded pathetically quiet and pitiful. Panic spread through her body and she wrenched the aluminum window up. It screeched open far enough so that the whimpering sound became instantly clearer. This had to be the baby’s room. Using both hands, she pushed up, sliding the window all the way open. 

"Karma Police" -- Radiohead

The reworking of chapter I:

March 2, 1979, 1:27 PM

Mrs. Rhodes pulled her reliable minivan up to the curb outside a small house in a moldering neighborhood far south of downtown, and turned off the engine. A calmness settled over her, and she knew that what she was about to do would mean taking on the responsibility of someone else’s life. She glanced up and down the rows of sagging houses, looking for neighbors or bystanders. Clouds stretched low over the neighborhood, casting the day in shades of somber grey. The street was eerily quiet on that weekday afternoon. She left the car unlocked and crossed the distance to the front door in a few quick steps. She kicked a few stinking garbage bags out of the way to reach the front door and knocked loudly. 

"Bohemian Rhapsody" -- Queen

I'm going to try something new. As some of you may know, I am currently working on a book, and will, over the next few weeks, feature chapters from my book right here on my blog. I hope you are as excited as I am. Feel free to comment and make suggestions--this is largely unedited, and may contain typos/mistakes. Please remember that this work is my intellectual property, and that the unauthorized reproduction of any or all of this work may be subject to litigation. 

  To Ashley, the epitome of perseverance.

The Square Shoulder of a Man Named Butch

I

In a dim bedroom, in an overcrowded house, filthy with the stench of dirty clothes and overflowing trash cans, there was a baby crying. Mrs. Rhodes found him in his crib, soiled and hungry. In her niece’s home—if you could call it a home—she picked up his small body and cradled him. She walked through the slender old house, past his parents’ vacant eyes, and walked out into a moldering neighborhood far south of downtown, close to the train yard. They hadn’t even noticed Mrs. Rhodes as she passed between the broken television and the coffee table littered with blackened pieces of foil and empty lighters. They seemed empty, as if there was no life left in them. But there they were, too fucked up on drugs and alcohol, having forgotten to respond to the screaming child, or even buy the necessities. What was the woman to do? A nurse and mother herself, she took the child and made it her own.

 Mrs. Rhodes always waited for the day when her niece might get sober enough to remember that she’d had another child. But a year passed without any contact whatsoever. She nurtured the boy, and soon he was smiling and laughing just like any other baby. She could never have imagined what is left after such abusive abandonment. Deep within the boy was a tiny little smudge, somewhere, where it counted, was the smallest little flaw. As he grew, so did the smudge, growing like an impalpable cancer of the soul. The years that passed, while filled with love, could never be enough to erase the damage that his biological parents had inflicted during his infancy. Sometimes Mrs. Rhodes would watch him, playing quietly by himself, amongst the piles of toys in his play area.

In the Rhodes’ household, adjustments were made, of course. In their small home the two girls’ bedrooms were shared, one for the boy, one for the girls, and were eventually painted to suit. He had to have all the things that children needed; food and clothes, always more and more. Mr. and Mrs. Rhodes picked up extra shifts at work. They hired the retiree turned neighborhood care-giver, to keep the boy while the girls were at school. The eldest girl, being almost seventeen, was old enough to watch the others after school. Mrs. Rhodes liked to come home and have dinner with her family, even if she had to go back to work afterward. It was nauseatingly normal. The family was happy, just as dysfunctional as every other, siblings and parents all conflicting in different ways at different times.

Carl grew up happy with his family. No one ever told him what truly happened that he came to live with them. Mrs. Rhodes had told her daughters, when they asked, that he was adopted by them because he didn’t have a family. Carl never asked; he never thought himself as anything but a member of the family. 

II

The social worker’s eyes were almost warm, and though her soft mouth managed a phony smile, there was always just a sliver of that glinting coldness showing through. The piles of case files clotting her desktop were beginning to carve lines in her face. What had begun as a passion had slowly worn into tedious obligation; and worst of all she felt the cold indifference coming. Like a delayed reaction, the whole reality of the world slowly became opaque to her. At first, when the tears abated, she thought it was good. She tried to remember every person that she helped, tried to help, and ended up feeling uncertain and stoic. The wall behind her desk was covered in cork; its rough painted-over texture peeked through swathes of photographs, blue. Claire hadn’t realized, until too late, that when the tears were gone, so too were genuine smiles and spontaneous laughter.

She looked up from the folder lying open in front of her, “Do you understand, Roxanne?”

“No. I don’t understand,” she looked at her, pouting inside, with the only tell, a sadness in her green eyes that made them look like lake water pooling in her face, “I just want to be free. Why you can’t just let me file for emancipation?”

Claire’s face showed thinly masked exasperation, “Wait just a minute here, let’s be perfectly clear about this. I am not telling you that you can’t file  for emancipation, but, honestly, the court is not very likely to grant emancipation to a fourteen-year-old. You are totally unprepared for living on your own. Where would you live? What would you eat? How would you provide for yourself?” She paused for a moment, pursed her lips. “I think that it would be perfectly fine for you to be emancipated in a couple of years.” Sighing, she narrowed those tepid eyes, “Until then, I suggest that you be on your best behavior.”

“But I can’t take it anymore!” Roxanne’s quiet voice grated through clenched teeth. Her pale face began to redden with frustration. “They won’t let me do anything except take care of their kids. You think I’m kidding, but I’m not—you’re the one that doesn’t understand.”

“It can’t be that bad. I’ve been there; I have written up every ‘incident,’” she said sardonically, “that you’ve told me about—but there’s nothing there. Making you sit in your room all day for a few weekends does not constitute abuse. Neither does asking you to help out with the kids. Mrs. Trenton has her hands full with all of you. You have the necessities—a lot better than nothing, might I remind you, and a lot better than so many unfortunate souls. They have every right to penalize you any way they see fit as long as it is within acceptable parameters, and that is just what they seem to be doing,” she removed her glasses and massaged the bridge of her nose.

“You don’t understand. I haven’t done anything to be punished for,” Roxanne replied, her jaw set, her hands clinching the strap of her backpack. She started to stand, her chest heaving with a sigh.

“Okay, okay. Hold on a minute. Let’s give it a couple of years. You’ll need some time to prepare for living on your own. You need to take some classes, after your GED, of course, and I will follow your progress and we’ll meet again next month to see how you are progressing.” She met Roxanne’s gaze, and forced some warmth into her own grey eyes, “You know, Roxanne, if you just stuck it out for a while, and your mother gets probation, all this foster family business could be over for you in less than a year.” She rolled her chair backward and toward a file cabinet. She slid out a drawer and fingered the folder tops until she found what she was looking for, and handing Roxanne the papers said, “Here, you should enroll in this practical living course. It meets once a week for an hour. You could start looking for an after school job, open a savings account. This pamphlet is a step by step guide to getting your first job; child labor laws, safety guidelines, and how to fill out tax forms. If you need help setting up a savings account, or anything else, just call me.”

            Roxanne looked overwhelmed, “Do you have a pen I could use?” she said, flipping through the pages.

            “Of course, take a couple,” she pulled some new pens out of the box in her drawer, “Let me know how all of this goes, especially your practical living class. It meets after school, so you shouldn’t have any trouble with curfew.” Claire smiled, pushed her chair back, straightening herself and smoothing her clothes. She crossed the room while Roxanne stuffed the pens and papers into her backpack and opened the door.

            “Mrs. Trenton, Roxanne and I have agreed that she should start taking a practical living course at the school once a week. That shouldn’t be any problem, right?” she said smiling.

            Mrs. Trenton pulled a toddler up onto her hip as she stood and lifted her old denim handbag, saying, “That would be good, then maybe she could start helpin’ me more around the house.”

            “All right then, I will see you next month,” smile. “Shelby will make you an appointment,” she gestured to her assistant at her desk just outside the door and then retreated into her office. 

[tune in next week for the next chapters...]