Monday, April 19, 2010

Jesup, part the fourth

friday night end of school hanging yeah just hanging around chugging a couple of beers toking on a joint or two

he had met up with sally

where she would slide right up next to him hop up into his truck slip across the bench seat her tanned thigh touching his she'd cause him to have that same nervous shiver oh how he fumbled how he knows he'd still be fumbling if he could

his grin that night a drunken stoned ear to ear wide and toothy and full of expectation and hope

sweet sally oh such sweetness she the honey in his tea long straight hair not blonde not brown depending on the seasons seasoned by the sun such curves oh so hot not by the way she looks but how she carries her look

this south georgia hippie chick sometimes in her peasant blouse and cut off jeans sometimes in a soft tee and a wispy skirt sometimes in her overhauls and tube top the buttons open on one side the top strap longer on the other giving an admirer just that briefest glimpse of sugary seventies small tit cleavage soft and inviting

carries that look around most of the times barefoot dainty white angel feet those little piggies always out going to the market scurrying about the dry dusty ground happy as can be happy as someone could ever be

ron he wonders how it's possible that he could be so happy around that cute little bottle of bubble up ron he wonders if he'll ever feel that way again god how it might feel to be that happy all the time god how it might be not to know the sadness of her missing from his side from within his arms

the loneliness of a long atlanta winter in the dorms with all these boys from parts unknown to him these boys who just don't understand

what a boy has to do to become a man

all these boys from new york and new jersey and miami and cleveland driving their daddy bought cars wearing their momma bought clothes so easy to come upon such things that just show up not even on their birthdays not even on christmas these boys their mommas don't even bother to use the permanent marker to write their names on their underwear making sure when they go off to school with ten pair of drawers they come home with ten pair of drawers

these boys whose mommas probably brought them breakfast in bed every morning interrupting their weak masturbatory efforts around tucked away playboys and penthouses whose mommas wiped their ass with extra soft tissue right up to the day they left for college

he could tell by the way they walked from the bathroom down the dorm hallway kind of pigeon toed to keep their asscheeks from rubbing

these boys who never did understand who could never know in their bones the tragedy the hole left in their hearts lynrd skynrd ceased to be ronnie van zandt and his plane falling from the sky into those fiery woods the unused tickets from the concert that was never to be pinned up on the cork board above his desk that saddest of sad

last autumn

ron's first fall away from sally his first quarter away at school

that morning before classes after a night of the usual beers and bongs the news came across the radio a little matter of fact announcement a little interruption on ninety six rock dubya kay ell ess atlanta it had sliced him like a paper cut deep and sudden and painless until he saw the trickle of blood him standing there in the middle of the room his towel wrapped round his waist drops of water beading up on his shoulders dripping from his hair he saw the blood that unexplained loss

he remembers assorted words


private plane




van zandt dead

rossington collins barely alive

hoss sitting on the edge of the bunk his head in his hands looking up at him

they didn't speak they couldn't speak hoss he took budweisers out of the mini fridge popped the tops ron he loaded the gatlin bong they stacked all five skynrd albums on the turntable even the brand new street survivors hoss had just picked it up the day before they'd be talking about the prophecy for weeks that endless leisure time called youth the frivolity of philosophy the time and will to grieve they played them all the way through flipped them over played them through again over and over

lather rinse repeat

until a day later after having sat their southern shiva unshaven stoned and drunk they arose from the dead and ascended into the hallways to find the puzzled stares of those others in the dorm this dorm populated with exiles nay interlopers from new york new jersey miami cleveland ron and hoss outsiders in their own state

these trespassers could not gather the depth of their loss ron and hoss made no attempt to explain hell a simple man he don't need them around anyhow ron and hoss

american by birth southern by the grace of god


these pussies who listened to those faggots billy joel and paul simon repackaged lounge lizards whose mommas also probably most likely wiped their asses as well

how could they understand when ron and hoss could barely grok the shifting of the winds how could any of them know that the old freak who parked himself daily on the uptown corner right there where ponce meets peachtree like out of some comic strip an old hippie an old man holding the sign declaring the end of world how could he have known such truths

such prescience frightened and humbled ron johnson

they these guys don't even know didn't understand that ron and hoss could give a shit about flight kay ay el double oh seven about the fucking war in ethiopia about israel and egypt about israel and lebanon these guys who couldn't understand what ron and hoss knew aw hell that israel invading lebanon mattered about as much as karl wallenda taking that last and fatal fall from the high wires shit happens you buy the ticket you take the ride you build a house out there in the desert some strong wind gonna come down blow you around


cmacp said...

There was Piano Man wafting more through the high school dorms than college but this, this is loaded like the rifle...

Anonymous said...

"Watergate does not bother me/Does it bother you?/Tell me true." That's a line from "Sweet Home Alabama," as you well know. Those redneck hicks should've hired a lyricist. Fuckin' crackers. -- Peter