Bottomed Out Language I don't understand this: my shapeless shuffle through darkness to dress, the
numb amble to my 79 Monte Carlo hulking
outside, the door-creak, the ignition, the moan of mufflers attached by
hangers, and the sudden realization-- I'm on 61 North again, traveling past barren fields of
clumped clay and sparse gas station lights, to some place I don't want to be. Driving toward Onward, Mississippi, where the cluster of trailers with
sheet curtains and sun-paled decks raised on cinder
blocks continue to house stray dogs and children who chuck rocks at soup
cans and cats unlucky enough to walk by, I remember calling that place home. Now it's personality with edges. One summer I found my arm fitting a
fat boys' throat. Pea gravel imprinted our red knees. Kids semi-circled us on their bikes while my dad eyed us from behind the
open-mouthed GTO. All I wanted was the boy to give and I would have let go. Now my dad had seen fights before - bloodied and purpled himself a few
times I'm sure - so he understood how rage gets inside
a person, spreads like buckshot till he's all
holes, and he probably thought I needed to
reach that threshold, that bottomed out language of skin and
fist to heave each hard syllable one breath
at a time. I'd wonder later why that boy wouldn't
say it. After I let him go, he blubbered in a
heap, sucked air and held his throat. I turned and rushed indoors. The exit for Onward is always straight
ahead. I want to take the town for its
namesake and keep going. I know I won't. The last I heard that fat kid got skinny, married at
eighteen, and moved to South Dakota or
Minnesota, a place where the sky smothers
everyone, holds them down, no matter what they may say, or want. Originally published in Defined Providence, now defunct; however, you should check out the founder and editor's paintings which can be accessed here. |
