REALISM / ABSURDISMS

Excerpt: Evelyn’s Pride

Twenty minutes later a black four-door Chevy pulled up to where I was hitch-hiking. I didn’t hesitate, just jumped right it. If I had known it was Eldy behind the wheel, I might have made an excuse about going some other way than he was, but probably not. And even after that I had chances to escape, but one mistake seems to lead to another more often than not, so when he asked me where I was going I told him the truth.

“Nowhere in particular.”

When he told me he was going to stay on his father’s houseboat for a while and he’d be glad to have some company, I followed up my truth telling and evened myself by him with a lie.

“Sure. I wouldn’t mind spending some time on a houseboat.” I don’t know if the truth or the lie was more costly.

Excerpt: Of Wolverines and Cowards

So our mother told us how violent Uncle Bert had become. She told us that the family had not supported his efforts at avoiding a short, dry, county jail term. She told us that in six months, after he had served his time and had time to brood, he might come back more drunk, more angry, and more violent than ever. But most importantly, she said, after due pause and in very clear terms, a baseball bat would be considered a reasonable and likely weapon in the case of his unhappy, overly-aggressive return.

My god! Hit my own uncle, whom I no doubt respected if for nothing else tangible in my pre-teen naivete than for being my elder. I was speechless. I was mindless. All that kept reverberating through my head was, “No, no, no, no, no.” And endless procession of denials.

My mother, who collected Aid for Dependent Children, worked four nights a week at a bakery to survive and, I am now convinced, drank vodka whenever feasible, was telling me to hit my uncle with a bat!

“No!” I cried.

My grandfather, whom I supposed, wrongly, to be penniless just like everyone else in the family, and, I knew, drank whatever he could get through his liver, was telling me to hit my uncle with a bat!

“No!” I cried.

My grandmother, who cooked and cleaned her mind into oblivion, was telling me to hit my uncle with a bat!

“No!” I cried.

My aunt, a barmaid, bartender and barfly, who lived above a barroom was telling me to hit my uncle with a bat!

“No!” I cried.

Excerpt: A War of the Mind

Well before noon, a blanket of heat settled atop New Mexico and, sweating, I drove through what seemed like hundreds of miles of unchanging scrub-covered mountain terrain. On and on this pock‑marked landscape stretched, canyons seemingly blown willy‑nilly into the earth’s hide.

Shortly after noon, a vast storm settled over the mountains to the west. Lightning flashed in the distance and thunder rumbled suggestively close. I imagined whole mountains being leveled by weaponry, new, uninhabitable canyons being artillery-formed even now.

I raced southward as the storm lumbered east on an intercept course. Whatever weapon had destroyed the face of New Mexico, I was determined, would not get me. Other travelers raced north or south as they willed, always a sense of frantic purpose to their driving and on the faces I glimpsed. But no one noticed anyone else much. After all, we were trying to avoid being swallowed up by the front that moved toward us – whatever its composition.

Sometimes the curve in the road brought me nearer the storm, lightning flashing boldly before my eyes as if taunting me, my helplessness no doubt obvious. At such times, my will almost failed me, and I thought about pulling over into a ditch, hoping beyond hope that this front would rumble on past, destroying the arid landscape and leaving me in peace.