Saturday, June 18, 2011

jesup, part the seventeenth, screen doors

and ron johnson he stands at the doorway the paint peeling from the doorjamb in little spidery lines intricately mapped here there everywhere across down the wood a bas relief of lake sinclair and what some might call the foothills thereabouts a geographical representation of all the possibilities of all the roads trails paths routes out of jesup out of this place but

to where to where to where

maybe merely simply a medical textbook sketching of the various blue veins plotted charted engraved on the calves of his great aunt louise on saturday morning that one morning that she doesn't have on her thick nylons that one morning of the week she pads around the kitchen in her slippers and bathrobe serving up grits and eggs and bacon and biscuits to great uncle chic sitting there at the kitchen table adjusting his teeth the expectant drool limiting the bond a little slipping a little sliding

hell it's just grits

and ron johnson he scratches a bit on the screen door peering through hands cupped over eyes his nose scored just a bit by the wire mesh perhaps a couple of them just a little bit frayed jabbing stabbing his nostrils a little touche from her daddy the sun rising up into the late morning sky shining behind him creating patches of grey and black in front of him

and there she is on the other side of the screen that oh so thin veneer that separates them that keeps them apart that allows that oh so close that oh sweet jesus that sweet sweet summer morning smell to arise from those hippie chick fuzzy wuzzy armpits exposed beneath the white wife beater that more likely than not is branded with ron's name rank and serial number in black permanent ink where the tag should be where mister hanes normally leaves his mark her hands clasped above her head those little cupfuls of joy and pleasure and nourishment pushing up through the cotton tiny twin mounts of vesuvius declaring their intent their purpose their mission to burst into life she oh me oh my miz sally she stretched out in her full sepia glory in the family room lazy boy at full tilt recline literally wriggling in what ron hopes prays is anticipation the television dancing silently mary ann and ginger dancing on a bamboo and palm frond stage gilligan and the skipper wide eyed and jaw dropped hands in their pockets hips hula hooping they got spurs that jingle that jangle

they all got wood that twirls around like a compass lost on the north pole

ron he scratches on the screen he whispers hey sally hey girl come on now let me in ron he raps taps rat-a-tats lightly on the wood it gives it bounces slaps against the door frame miz sally her eyes sashay over to ron's silhouette pressed against the screen slowly she smiles that wide wild welcoming hello that turns ron's knees to jello that sends a shaky leg shiver from hip to ankle and back up his spine

weebles wobble but they don't fall down

and sally she motions sends smoke signals says hey sailor slide on in slide on over come on over here lemme have a look lemme have a long one come on come on in and ron he opens the door is welcomed by the long moan and groan of the screen door springs

natural paranoia twists his gaze over his shoulder toward whence he came

an empty whiskey bottle maybe old crow maybe old granddad sits atop the partial fence that attaches to the garage set there like some blindfolded prisoner awaiting execution set there awaiting its bullet that one bullet that will separate it from itself

and desire that bubbling bubbling boiling trouble that stirs that shakes that transmits tremors of elastic electricity little yo-yo’s of ecstatic energy up and down up and down up and down his spine down and out his big toe burning a hole in the door jam as he crosses it

the bottle it just sits there like a knot on a dog’s dick left behind on the fence post

and he ron johnson he walks across the room his eyes catch hers she smiles he smiles she lays back opens her arms wide her buttercups pressing up against the white cotton slight stains of sweat spot dainty wet crescents beneath a seaming water source rather than result

or consequence

she wiggles and giggles on the reclined recliner he ron johnson he stops in front of her looking down upon her his young cock a dowsing rod searching searching desperately searching reaching out for her for her love for her loins his young cock trying to break the bonds trapped against his leg by tidie whities and levis discomfort drives him to reach down squat just the slightest suck in his gut to give himself room while his hand slides down to grab wrap around adjust himself to a more bearable position

his eyes never having left hers hers never having left his ron johnson he wonders if this is love he knows that this is love he doubts that this is love he is convinced that this is love he doesn’t give a shit about love he would give everything if this were love he wants to fuck love in the ass and then toss it over his shoulder on his way out he wants to build love in a bottle and display it on his mantle he wants to

sing a love song on the town square love being such a fucking traveling minstrel show comes into town on a friday afternoon with a parade down main street parties well into the wee hours stays a while gives everyone a thrill and some laughs

then sneaks out of town before monday’s dawn

ron johnson he stands tall and lifts his tee shirt up and over his head marshal tucker wrinkles and folds into a crumpled pile on the bare but polished pine floor can’t you see oh can’t you see what that woman been doing to me he leans over placing one hand on each of the arms of the chair the fold of his skinny gut squeezes two rivulets of sweat out of his navel and they slide down the twin trails of pale red fuzz that lead down below the belt loops of his jeans

her arms sally’s arms they suddenly wrap around him bringing him down to her

her lips

his lips to her lips

and she lifts herself up to him he remains tensed over the recliner his arms trembling her legs wrap around him she is a little writhing snake a creature from the lagoon fighting to hold on to get into his skin under his skin

she is a fucking love leach insatiable gluttonous a ravenous varmint that bites and won’t let go till she gets what she wants gets what she needs what she requires to keep going to keep on she grinds herself against his hip his legs his stomach his chest her love cups pressed up against him soft and young and willing and wanting

she slides around his tensed body like the red on a barber pole

they kiss so hard their teeth click and clack she pulls on his scruffy hair on his ears clasps his throat hangs on by incisors sunk deep she he they so hungry so ravenous desire slices off their ear sends it back home in a box with a ransom note

small unmarked bills only

if you ever want to see them alive again

ain’t nobody know what they know ain’t nobody gonna know what they know

and they collapse into their lover’s prison into their fuck cage trapped by their youth enslaved by his cock chained to her cunt they collapse onto the chair with a bounce and a shout of surprise and a titter and a snicker and a laugh

and then for a moment for a minute for a few more they are not a them they are an it a singular organism shedding clothes and skin and sweat

and they fuck

young fucking

animals rutting

flopping in their own sweat

the recliner bouncing bounding across the wooden floor inches at a time

deep scratches left in the soft pine

and they don’t hear the crunching of tires on gravel outside and they don’t hear the the cadillac pull up front and they don’t hear the dying whine of the air conditioner as the engine shuts down and they don’t hear the open and close of the door

metal on metal

that sweet sound so often associated with the end of the evening with mom getting up and going to the kitchen like pavlov’s dog getting down the glass and bottle from the cabinet the clink clink of ice dropping into the glass with mom pouring from the bottle of old granddad old crow two glugs of the bourbon over ice a lift a slight shake to cover and warm the two cubes

and they don’t hear the scraping of feet on the mat the tapping of the toe on the step to loosen and shake free the dirt caught in the loose cracks between sole and shoe

but they do hear the sound of the front door opening the casual greeting followed by the usual curse of the day this time a hey i’m home goddamn john amberlin got an emergency call some knocked up trailer trash having her baby early john had to take off after the fourth hole just as well i was putting like shit anyway hot as goddamned hades out there anyway hey sally where are you come make your daddy some iced tea

and ron johnson is up and off sally up and off that recliner and sally hopkins is up and out from under ron johnson up and off that chair and they scramble for their clothes and ron johnson he slides back into marshal tucker and slips on his jeans and boots as he hustles out the back screen door sally hopkins chasing after him stopping at the door to catch the screen keep it from slamming with one hand as she slides into her shorts in the other

and she looks back and there on the floor are ron johnson’s underwear and she knows they are his because ron johnson his momma had written his name in big bold black letters over the tag in the back and sally her eyes are locked on ron johnson’s name and when they let loose of those drawers she looks up and sees her daddy judge hopkins sees his eyes themselves are locked on ron johnson’s name

and judge hopkins he doesn’t say a thing and after a minute a full sixty second count he just walks back into the kitchen picks the receiver up off the wall phone and punches in a few numbers and stands there

later sally hopkins when she would see ron johnson next maybe two maybe three days on sally hopkins she would tell ron johnson that the only thing her daddy said into that phone were

hey charlie this is judge hopkins


yeah say charlie do me a favor send a car on around here will you

yeah that’s right

my place

yeah that’s right

thanks charlie you tell that sweet wife of yours i said hello all right now good bye

and he judge hopkins he walks back into the sun room he leans over he picks up ron johnson’s drawers he balls them up puts them in his front golf pants pocket and he walks out the back door to watch ron johnson unload the truck

and wait for the patrol car to come on around

No comments: