Never Been Nowhere. Never Done Nothin'.
Never Been Nowhere, Never Done Nothin': Age 14
A short story
Eleven years old and she had a mouth on her already. “When you grow up, you’ll still be a loser. Like Deddy you’ll never leave this town. Grow up here; stay here. You’ll live in a loser trailer and play yer loser guitar, dreaming of something you’ll never get: outta’ here!” He was three years older and heard their mamma’s voice in hers. That same whining, nagging that Mamma had in hers when she went after Daddy. He was “Daddy” to the boy, not “Deddy” like his sister, Miss Junior Ag, 1981, would say. God how he hated that tone of voice from his sister and his mamma too. God, how he wanted out of here. Out of the room. Out of this town.
Sitting on the plaid sofa with his guitar in his hand, he just wanted to smash it across his sister’s head. But then the recriminations would follow, he thought. His momma would cry and moan about how much the guitar from the Sears catalog had cost. She’d then berate his Daddy, tell him to do his duty as a God fearing man and decent father until he gave in and the boy would get a lashing with the belt. So the pudgy fourteen year old sat there and said nothing. His sister huffed, angry she couldn’t get his ire up, turned and stomped out of the room.
The guitar had been the only present he’d received last Christmas. His parents cried poverty as always despite wasting their money. How could they be so stupid? Ten percent of their pay, before taxes ‘cause the Lord knows what you really earn. Other “love offerings” when the preacher turned on the tap or the tent revivals came to town. Then there was the damned $300 a month private school, a god-damned nuisance. There, he’d said it: “God-damned!” Would lightning strike? Nope. Inside the boy knew it was all nonsense and hokum. Ten demerits, no, probably 25 demerits, at that crazy religious school. An immediate day’s suspension for saying God-damned. God-damned. God-damned. God-damned. But did it even count if you said it in your head and not out loud?
If he had just learned how to behave when he’d been in elementary school. But the public school woulda' never been good enough for his parents. They were aspirational- their word, not his. More like deluded, he thought. Besides, they didn’t want him going to school with black kids. They didn’t have to. Why should their children? The religious school was all-white, except that black boy they’d brought in the year before to play football. He didn’t last long. The school administration said he’d stolen something. But everyone knew the truth. The black quarterback had talked to the white girls and they’d listened.
The boy strummed a few chords. The ten page booklet that came with the guitar was barely a primer, more an inspiration to hire a teacher. But there was no money for a tutor. There was never any money. When the family had gone to see a movie two months ago his Daddy had to replace the neighbor’s alternator to pay for the tickets. Not enough for the Boston Baked Beans peanuts or popcorn, just the matinee tickets and $5 to put gas in the station wagon.
He’d figure a way to get out of there some day, some way. His stack of library books at the far end of the sofa spilled onto the floor as he shifted his weight. The books. What ‘cha always reading for? How many times had he heard that? He lost himself in the pages. Men’s adventure, spy novels, science fiction, fantasy. Whatever he could get a hold of. Last weekend he’d finally collected all the John Carter Mars books. The whine and nag in his mamma’s voice had nearly undermined his thrill at getting the remaining novels.
It had been last Saturday when he’d gone to the festival at the neighboring town. He wished he could have that day all over again. His best friend’s mom, Mrs Childers, had taken Jimmy and him. The boy had saved up four months cutting grass, reading the water meters, and cleaning Miss Henry’s garage. At the Springtime Fete Jimmy’s mom had treated the boys to lemonade and funnel cakes, conditional on them standing in the line half an hour to get the treats while she gossiped with the church ladies. She’d even held his lemonade as they rode some of the half dollar carnival rides.
When the sun became too hot, Mrs Childers suggested they head to a neighboring mall to escape the heat. Besides, she was looking for an excuse to spend her husband’s money. Jimmy had once told him Mr Childers worked two full time jobs just to get away from her. At the mall the boys were allowed two hours of free time. It’d probably take most of that time for Jimmy’s mom to unharness the bra which held her battleship sized breasts. Christ, they were almost too big. Almost. Cleavage was cleavage. Just the word left him slightly aroused.
The friends ran to the toy store and fought with Japanese robots on the display table. Then they threw cuddly animals at each other littering the aisles. Peeking through the shelves they gawked at the girls buying the latest cutesy crap. At fourteen neither of the boys had even kissed a girl much less felt-up girl boobs. Girls mature faster than the boys so even at 11 and 12 and still in middle school, there were enough curves to stare at and dream about later.
After the toy store, the friends walked into the bookstore. It was there that the boy had found the six remaining John Carter books missing from his set. Priced at $2 each, he quickly handed over the crumpled bills and proudly displayed the bag as he walked through the mall. A book store bag would show others he was smart, that he spent his money wisely, that he was learned. Learn-ed. Say it right, even if only in your head.
When he’d returned home that evening, his mother saw the bag, tore it open, and balked. “Books? Books? I thought you said you were going to the festival.”
“Well, we went to the mall when it got past noon. Mrs. Childers insisted; besides Jimmy wanted to go too.”
“So you spent your money on books? Is that all you got?”
“Yes,” he stated it clearly and even toned, hiding defiance or disdain from his voice. She was so stupid he reminded himself.
“All? Books? What do you think they thunk of you? Buying books!” She nearly spat the words out. “Couldn’t you have bought yourself some clothes? Saved your Deddy and me some money. Books? What were you thinking?”
That same damned, god-damned nagging and whining and moaning she threw at Daddy whenever he got outta’ line. God-damned. God-damned. God-damned. Smirking at his secret blasphemy, he took the bag and books to his room. He was careful to not slam the door.
There were a couple of sets of bookcases in his room. One came with the bedroom set and sat atop a hutch desk. The other set, his favorite, had been made by his father. Those shelves had never been discussed, never asked for. The shelves just appeared one day after he’d come home from school. Thrilled, he’d turned to yell thank you but his dad stood blocking the door. Putting a finger to his lips he mimed a shush that told him he understood. He too had lived in that same small town all his life and dreamed of escaping somehow, some way, some day. He had hugged his Daddy tighter than he’d ever done before or since. As he walked in with the John Carter books last Saturday he realized the shelf would soon be filled.
Now with the library books in one hand and the guitar in the other, the boy headed back to his bedroom. Next weekend he’d cut another two yards and it was time for the water meter reading the following week. He could start saving up again for some more books. Meantime, the library books and the remaining two John Carter books would do for now. Well, later anyway. He picked up the guitar and instruction book and started plucking the strings.
