Strange Awakening by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
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Chapter 11
Butch and I continued our drive down Baptist Church Road.
Butch was having a mixed reaction to the prior events. He said;
“I’m glad you’re not scared of the grave anymore, but now they’ve gotten a good look at me.”
“Sorry, I just lost it. I’ve had enough problems in life, to put up with any bullshit from perverts who don’t even live here.”
“Would it be okay if the perverts did live here? Didn’t you ever learn to leave bad enough alone?”
I laughed and didn’t have any bright answer. Butch made a left onto a gravel driveway no more than a mile from my house.
We bumped down a long tree lined road with grass growing out of the gravel in many spots.
In a bit of a clearing I first saw the house and an unattached garage. He parked the car in the garage. We got out and he closed the garage door behind us. He said; “I don’t need anybody seeing that car now.”
“I guess you usually leave it outside?”
“Yeah.”
While walking down the brick path from the garage to the house, I got my first view of it. It was a single story structure covered by old aluminum siding made to look like
clapboard. It would have to be described as greenish, because the years had faded some parts much more than others. Windows were of a graying white vinyl material and many were open. The gambrel roof was covered with new gray shingles. He led me to the heavy wooden front door stained a reddish brown, opened it with no key and we went in. In general the furniture looked like something from Sears, somewhat colonial and somewhat contemporary, the wooden portions stained anywhere from light brown to clear. We walked into a red carpeted family room and I sat down on the plaid couch.
Butch said; “Oh, shit. You’ve got me thinking about your neighbors so much, I forgot the alcohol in the car.”
I started to get up. “Stay there,” he said; “I’ll get it myself.” He went back out the way he entered. While he was gone I eyeballed the room. The wall pictures were actually some knitted material and consequently had a woven texture and exhibited natural scenes, ranging from a huge red barn to a boat docking at a pier. The other most significant features were free standing lightly stained wooden shelves, which held things like records, C/D’s, the television, turntable and speakers.
There was a noticeable lack of books. The few present were travel or other picture books. One we had in common was a picture book about Africa, titled “The Tree Where Man Was Born.”
I heard Butch come back in the house, stopping in the kitchen to put away the contents of the shopping bags. I joined him, opening one of my wine bottles and pouring a glass. He was content with his bottled beer and wanted to have an early lunch.
Noting that he may have considered me a bit silly and pretentious for having the audacity to require a glass, I facetiously said; “A glass infers dignity and commands respect.”
He said; “The last command I got was from my wife and you might note that she is conspicuous, only in her absence. I got some pre-made hero sandwiches in the kitchen. Want one?”
“Sure,” my recent outburst probably increasing my appetite.
I followed him back into the kitchen.
“I’m not going to bring this up again,” he said; “But, Ed, you must not have grown up around here. You would have learned early on that you never argue with a man with a gun unless you have one too.”
“What can I say? I’m sorry. I can’t help it though and it will probably happen again. When somebody pisses me off enough, I just see red and don’t give a shit what happens next. It’s like “You’re going to have to shoot me, mother fucker,” and I’m still here, so I guess nobody’s had the balls to shoot me yet.
I must be bulletproof”
“You’re lucky you haven’t met some of the people I know.”
“If they didn’t give me any bullshit, we’d have no problem.”
We took our drinks and heroes back to the family room. I took the couch and he a light blue upholstered chair. After ten silent seconds I added; “You should know by now that I’m not going to flip out on you, even when you scare the shit out of me. So, what was it you wanted to show me here anyway?”
“First, I’ve got a new video game that a cantankerous son of a bitch like you ought to love. It’s something like a shooting gallery with moving objects. The winner gets the most hits in a minute.”
He showed me how to play the game and operate the plastic handgun. He won all the games, though a few were close. I tried to watch what he was doing. Some large slow targets had a low point value, while small quick ones had a higher value. He seemed to shoot at whatever came on the screen, regardless of size, as I copied. He was just better at it.
We played for about 45 minutes, finishing our heroes, me on my fourth wine glass and he finishing off his fifth bottle of beer.
I said; “Have you got anything else to show me?”
“Sure, but I don’t feel like moving.”
We laughed.
He moved minimally to take out a record album and put it on softly. It was the Eagles “Desperado” album which I knew well and liked.
He said; “I was going to show you some pictures of my bitch ass former wife and where we used to live. It’s near here.
But, now it seems stupid. It’s impossible to tell our story adequately. It started. It ended. I’m here. She’s there.
Fuck it and fuck her.”
“At least show me a couple of pictures. You don’t have to add sound.”
He got out a nearby photo album, sat on the couch next to me and started flipping through the pages. When I saw pictures of the smiling pretty young girl and Butch, I couldn’t help wondering what happened to that happiness, but knew better than to ask. It must have happened quickly too, because he’s 35 and has been drunk, living with his parent for five years. I saw pictures of him and his brother as kids and his parents at different ages. I asked some questions like “Who is that?” or
“Where was that?” which he answered. Butch wanted to keep looking at the album, but also didn’t want to be reminded and didn’t want to look and sound like a sorry story, so he closed the book before getting to the end. The alcohol must have been doing its work. Butch’s face was becoming more emotional by the second. He said; “Well, now you know that I wasn’t always this fuck up that you see now.”
“Who said you’re a fuck up?”
“I did. Everyone does. You, too.”
“No. You fucked up my mailbox, but that’s kind of minor.”
He laughed; “I fixed it, though.”
“Yeah, pretty well.”
He got up and went to the television and said; “Do you want to play the video game some more?”
“No, not now.” I got up and started toward the door. “I’m going to walk home and enjoy the quiet. Then, I want to talk to Diane and see what else I can learn about her and me.”
“Which way are you going to walk?”
“Right down Baptist Church Road.”
“I know a better walk. You can go through the woods following deer paths.”
“I don’t know what a deer path looks like.”
“It’s easy. Many people miss them, but wherever you see grass flattened out, that was done by deer. Sometimes it’s not obvious to the uninitiated.”
“If I get on this path, how do I know it will lead me home?”
“Because the reservoir is east of here and that’s where the deer really live. During hunting season, the hunters go to the reservoir, which is public land. As soon as they show up, the deer herds head west, passing through your property and mine.”
“Pretty smart, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“All right. If they can do it, I’ll give it a try.”
He got up and we walked out to his backyard. He led me to the woods and pointed out the first deer path he saw and said;
“Try this one. If you get confused about direction, just remember that at this time of day the sun should be behind you.”
I started down the path and said; “See you tomorrow.”
Butch went in the empty house and immediately started thinking about some of the pictures he saw in the photo album.
He started to cry. He was glad Ed and his parents were gone.
He had gone over it millions of times before. He remembered how he met her when they were both in high school. He remembered how he soared with the wonderful feeling that this would go on forever. Exactly what happened gets cloudy and nonsensical.
The present was clear and obvious. She was there. He was here.
And there is no chance for any kind of reconciliation. After the split, he spoke to her on a few occasions, but the conversations were impossible as so many words were now loaded.
He remembered that when things were going well, she’d sometimes let something upset her and he would go over to her. He’d hold her hands and look into her eyes. He wanted to stop these thoughts and go to sleep, hoping that he wouldn’t dream.