Post by John Weyland on Apr 12, 2016 10:38:15 GMT -5
PROLOGUE II
Four-Fifty-Four
Four-Fifty-Four
name and worth stolen
lost amid terrible waste
the denizens of jealousy
There was a split-second moment where I thought my father was going to stop me, before I left his office. It was between my last step towards the door and when my hand hit the cold metal door handle. I ventured to turn a glance back towards him, but found that he had already taken his seat and returned to the paperwork before him. I realized, at that moment, that he had pushed me away with permanence. When I turned away from him, ready to leave his office for good, I saw myself reflecting in the door’s window. I simultaneously saw myself and my father.
As I walked through the door, I quietly hoped that one day that resemblance would disappear.
Before the reality of what had happened began to settle in, I didn’t know what to do with myself. I moved forward thinking of everything I needed to do at once. It pounded out through my mind in an insane disorganized fashion. Get car, get clothes, call Donte, drive east, get lost, and find myself. Over and over again it continued. Suddenly, I began confronting each step with an issue. Get car and find out it will turn over, but not start. Get clothes, but my mother won’t let me into the house. Call Donte, but he won’t answer. The car’s fucked, so how the hell can I drive anywhere? The only part of my grocery list of plans was, Get Lost. I knew deep down that I would never actually find myself.
Get lost, young traveler.
I took a cab back to my former home and as I went, I texted one of my sisters. Of all of my sisters, I knew there was one, the youngest, who would still talk to me. Molly. I knew she, of all of my family members, wouldn’t give up on me. She and I have a relationship unlike the rest of my siblings. We’re the ones who did all of the dumb things in between the brilliant things--together. We still share cover stories for one another. I asked her to gather up a few of my things and toss them into an overnight bag. I listed off a few things, but not much. I’m sure I mentioned useless items as my mind grappled with total severance. I just needed enough things to get me through until I started making some money, but I still found myself asking for . She told me she would throw in a couple hundred bucks and I told her I didn’t need her money. She refused, said she was giving it to me regardless of what I said. I told her thank you and she said not to mention it.
As I walked through the door, I quietly hoped that one day that resemblance would disappear.
Before the reality of what had happened began to settle in, I didn’t know what to do with myself. I moved forward thinking of everything I needed to do at once. It pounded out through my mind in an insane disorganized fashion. Get car, get clothes, call Donte, drive east, get lost, and find myself. Over and over again it continued. Suddenly, I began confronting each step with an issue. Get car and find out it will turn over, but not start. Get clothes, but my mother won’t let me into the house. Call Donte, but he won’t answer. The car’s fucked, so how the hell can I drive anywhere? The only part of my grocery list of plans was, Get Lost. I knew deep down that I would never actually find myself.
Get lost, young traveler.
I took a cab back to my former home and as I went, I texted one of my sisters. Of all of my sisters, I knew there was one, the youngest, who would still talk to me. Molly. I knew she, of all of my family members, wouldn’t give up on me. She and I have a relationship unlike the rest of my siblings. We’re the ones who did all of the dumb things in between the brilliant things--together. We still share cover stories for one another. I asked her to gather up a few of my things and toss them into an overnight bag. I listed off a few things, but not much. I’m sure I mentioned useless items as my mind grappled with total severance. I just needed enough things to get me through until I started making some money, but I still found myself asking for . She told me she would throw in a couple hundred bucks and I told her I didn’t need her money. She refused, said she was giving it to me regardless of what I said. I told her thank you and she said not to mention it.
Childhood Home
Present
I’m standing on the same sidewalk where I use to draw doodles with chalk when I was just a kid. This is the same cement path where I earned skinned knees and wore out bicycle tires.
I’m looking over the yard I use to play in and eventually had been enlisted to mow. In front of me is the only home I’ve ever known, but the relaxed feeling I use to feel has been replaced by a hollow one.
I use to want to run up the path and throw open the door and announce my arrival. I’d kick my shoes off and I’d run straight into the kitchen and i’d find something to eat. I’d get hugs from my sisters and mother on the way through, too. That’s the way it use to be. Now I can only think about everything I need to do before I can leave. Yeah, with some design, I’ll be leaving for good.
I don’t even bother trying the front door. I make my way around the side of the house and go through the tall fence into the back yard. I walk past my old tree fort and I make a point of ignoring the memories of all the family bbq’s I had enjoyed since I can remember. I practice blocking it all out as I go. I figure this is something I’m going to have to get use to.
I get to the old garage. I look up and see that old sign above the garage door. The sign reads “Weyland” burned into wood. Yeah, I made it. Wood burning in boyscouts. I’m suddenly confronted by an uncomfortable feeling. Everything I did as a kid, all my accomplishments, and dumbassed mementos--they get to remain. It’s the guy who exists on the other end of the scandal who had to go.
“Fucking Wood burning.” I scoff.
Before I move another muscle, the startling sound of the garage door opening abruptly shatters my quiet introspection. I turn around quickly to see Molly approaching me. In one hand she has the garage door opener. In the other, she has my old high school football duffle bag. She makes her way through the gate and walks right up to me, dropping the duffle at my feet. We hug. She squeezes me tighter than I think she ever has before. I go with it. I smell her perfume and the sense memory takes me back to much better days. Days when the feeling of love and happiness was the norm. Good days. Those days I had lost when this new hollow feeling began to take hold.
Molly puts enough distance between us to look into my eyes, “Did you get taller or did I get shorter?”
Yeah, there was a time when I was a little guy. Between twelve and thirteen, I shot up a solid foot in height. Up to that point, Molly was convinced that she would always be taller than me. She’s tall for a lady at nearly six feet, but the day came when I finally grew taller than her. When she realized it, she asked me that question, “did you get taller or did I get shorter?”
I repeat the same words I did back then, “Both, Shorty.”
It’s weird. This should be a great homecoming. I should be happy to see her, but the words I say seem staged. The words seem like a shield to shelter me from the arrows of reality plummeting down to skewer me for good.
That hollow feeling.
“I grabbed all the stuff you asked for,” she pauses, “I packed you all the underwear I could, too. You’ll at least have your ass covered for a while.”
“Thanks.”
“So, are you going to tell me where you’re going?”
“Carolinas,” I admit.
“And what do you expect to find, there?”
My sister is always interrogating me. In fact, it makes me feel almost at ease to have her all up in my business poking around where she doesn’t belong. I kind of wish I could bring her along with me. She’s got a million reasons to stay put, but part of me still needs that family connection and right now, she feels like she’s the only family I’ve got.
She wouldn’t come.
I shrug, “I have an opportunity to start over. It’s not football, but it’s still sport. Wrestling.”
She doesn’t miss a beat, “Like, singlet-wrestling hairy sweaty guys?”
I scoff and shake my head, “No. Professional wrestling.”
She echoes my scoff and adds, “Like, cage of doom stuff?”
“Exactly.” I nod.
Molly walks into the garage and I pick up my duffle and follow her. She stops at my car and grabs hold of the cover and begins to pull it back.
“I’m not gonna lie--I’ve driven it a few times. Good for the seals, right?”
I smile, “Right.”
She pulls the cover off revealing the shadow gray paint and the black racing stripes. I set the duffle on the hood. This car was my father’s when he was my age. I helped him rebuild it. We shared this car and finally the day came when he handed over the keys. Looking at it almost breaks my heart.
“You sure are lucky, you little punk,” Molly chuckles, “I wanted this car, so bad.”
It’s a nineteen seventy Chevrolet Chevelle. An SS. You know, the one with the big block four-fifty-four under the hood? It’s that beast and I hope it’s going to carry me into a better, brighter, tomorrow.
“Can I?” Molly asks, opening the driver’s side door.
“Sure,” I say, pitching her the keys.
While Molly turns over the engine and ultimately starts the car. Hearing the engine rumble to life helps me calm down. Everything is falling into place. There’s only one thing left to do. I grab a step ladder out of the garage and set it up beneath the open garage door.
The Chevelle sounds just as tight as I remembered. Molly can’t help herself as she revs the engine. She looks at me with innocent eyes before sticking her tongue out at me.
I shake my head and roll my eyes as I climb the step ladder and extend to grab the wood burnt sign from above the garage door. I climb back down with it in tow. Once my feet hit terra firma, I clutch the sign and look at it. All of those memories stare back at me and my body just takes over. I hold the sign out and drive it hard into a rising knee. The sign breaks in half and splinters go everywhere. I let go of the sign and watch it fall with a ‘clank’ against the asphalt driveway.
Molly, already out of the car, approaches me slowly and puts her hand on my shoulder. She tells me, “John, you’re going to come back soon. Everything’s going to be ok. Mom and Dad? They’re doing tough love right now. They just want you to figure things out. They’re disappointed, but they still love you.”
“Could have fooled me,” I pluck up my duffle and toss it into the backseat of the car and slide into the driver’s seat, “I’ll be in touch.”
“You’d better be.”
I slap the Chevelle into drive and roll out of the garage. I brake and open the glove box. Sure enough, my aviators are still there, right beside that snub nosed three-fifty-seven. I grab the sunglasses out of the glove box and take a good look at that pistol.
“Might be needing that,” I say softly as I close the glove box. I turn to Molly, “Alright sis. I love you. Take it easy.”
“I love you too, brother. Good luck and...try not to worry about what’s happened. Just go out there and make something good happen.”
I nod.
The Chevelle further crushes the splintered sign as it rolls out of the driveway.
Soon I’ll be on the highway and en route to something...better.
I’m looking over the yard I use to play in and eventually had been enlisted to mow. In front of me is the only home I’ve ever known, but the relaxed feeling I use to feel has been replaced by a hollow one.
I use to want to run up the path and throw open the door and announce my arrival. I’d kick my shoes off and I’d run straight into the kitchen and i’d find something to eat. I’d get hugs from my sisters and mother on the way through, too. That’s the way it use to be. Now I can only think about everything I need to do before I can leave. Yeah, with some design, I’ll be leaving for good.
I don’t even bother trying the front door. I make my way around the side of the house and go through the tall fence into the back yard. I walk past my old tree fort and I make a point of ignoring the memories of all the family bbq’s I had enjoyed since I can remember. I practice blocking it all out as I go. I figure this is something I’m going to have to get use to.
I get to the old garage. I look up and see that old sign above the garage door. The sign reads “Weyland” burned into wood. Yeah, I made it. Wood burning in boyscouts. I’m suddenly confronted by an uncomfortable feeling. Everything I did as a kid, all my accomplishments, and dumbassed mementos--they get to remain. It’s the guy who exists on the other end of the scandal who had to go.
“Fucking Wood burning.” I scoff.
Before I move another muscle, the startling sound of the garage door opening abruptly shatters my quiet introspection. I turn around quickly to see Molly approaching me. In one hand she has the garage door opener. In the other, she has my old high school football duffle bag. She makes her way through the gate and walks right up to me, dropping the duffle at my feet. We hug. She squeezes me tighter than I think she ever has before. I go with it. I smell her perfume and the sense memory takes me back to much better days. Days when the feeling of love and happiness was the norm. Good days. Those days I had lost when this new hollow feeling began to take hold.
Molly puts enough distance between us to look into my eyes, “Did you get taller or did I get shorter?”
Yeah, there was a time when I was a little guy. Between twelve and thirteen, I shot up a solid foot in height. Up to that point, Molly was convinced that she would always be taller than me. She’s tall for a lady at nearly six feet, but the day came when I finally grew taller than her. When she realized it, she asked me that question, “did you get taller or did I get shorter?”
I repeat the same words I did back then, “Both, Shorty.”
It’s weird. This should be a great homecoming. I should be happy to see her, but the words I say seem staged. The words seem like a shield to shelter me from the arrows of reality plummeting down to skewer me for good.
That hollow feeling.
“I grabbed all the stuff you asked for,” she pauses, “I packed you all the underwear I could, too. You’ll at least have your ass covered for a while.”
“Thanks.”
“So, are you going to tell me where you’re going?”
“Carolinas,” I admit.
“And what do you expect to find, there?”
My sister is always interrogating me. In fact, it makes me feel almost at ease to have her all up in my business poking around where she doesn’t belong. I kind of wish I could bring her along with me. She’s got a million reasons to stay put, but part of me still needs that family connection and right now, she feels like she’s the only family I’ve got.
She wouldn’t come.
I shrug, “I have an opportunity to start over. It’s not football, but it’s still sport. Wrestling.”
She doesn’t miss a beat, “Like, singlet-wrestling hairy sweaty guys?”
I scoff and shake my head, “No. Professional wrestling.”
She echoes my scoff and adds, “Like, cage of doom stuff?”
“Exactly.” I nod.
Molly walks into the garage and I pick up my duffle and follow her. She stops at my car and grabs hold of the cover and begins to pull it back.
“I’m not gonna lie--I’ve driven it a few times. Good for the seals, right?”
I smile, “Right.”
She pulls the cover off revealing the shadow gray paint and the black racing stripes. I set the duffle on the hood. This car was my father’s when he was my age. I helped him rebuild it. We shared this car and finally the day came when he handed over the keys. Looking at it almost breaks my heart.
“You sure are lucky, you little punk,” Molly chuckles, “I wanted this car, so bad.”
It’s a nineteen seventy Chevrolet Chevelle. An SS. You know, the one with the big block four-fifty-four under the hood? It’s that beast and I hope it’s going to carry me into a better, brighter, tomorrow.
“Can I?” Molly asks, opening the driver’s side door.
“Sure,” I say, pitching her the keys.
While Molly turns over the engine and ultimately starts the car. Hearing the engine rumble to life helps me calm down. Everything is falling into place. There’s only one thing left to do. I grab a step ladder out of the garage and set it up beneath the open garage door.
The Chevelle sounds just as tight as I remembered. Molly can’t help herself as she revs the engine. She looks at me with innocent eyes before sticking her tongue out at me.
I shake my head and roll my eyes as I climb the step ladder and extend to grab the wood burnt sign from above the garage door. I climb back down with it in tow. Once my feet hit terra firma, I clutch the sign and look at it. All of those memories stare back at me and my body just takes over. I hold the sign out and drive it hard into a rising knee. The sign breaks in half and splinters go everywhere. I let go of the sign and watch it fall with a ‘clank’ against the asphalt driveway.
Molly, already out of the car, approaches me slowly and puts her hand on my shoulder. She tells me, “John, you’re going to come back soon. Everything’s going to be ok. Mom and Dad? They’re doing tough love right now. They just want you to figure things out. They’re disappointed, but they still love you.”
“Could have fooled me,” I pluck up my duffle and toss it into the backseat of the car and slide into the driver’s seat, “I’ll be in touch.”
“You’d better be.”
I slap the Chevelle into drive and roll out of the garage. I brake and open the glove box. Sure enough, my aviators are still there, right beside that snub nosed three-fifty-seven. I grab the sunglasses out of the glove box and take a good look at that pistol.
“Might be needing that,” I say softly as I close the glove box. I turn to Molly, “Alright sis. I love you. Take it easy.”
“I love you too, brother. Good luck and...try not to worry about what’s happened. Just go out there and make something good happen.”
I nod.
The Chevelle further crushes the splintered sign as it rolls out of the driveway.
Soon I’ll be on the highway and en route to something...better.
these splintered emotions
falling freely from my heart
fractured and bleeding
To Be Continued at Trauma 191...
