"Ash Heap Hound (13)"
Me: Max Barduff, yup--I knew some stuff. We all might know some truth, but most of us are in it for ourselves. One man drinks cause he's an alcoholic and likes to party and get dirty sex; on the contrary, one man drinks to survive, and kicks the shit out of the southern army. God forgive us all.
* * * *
But I knew Zoe was a dog; specifically, an American Foxhound. Too, I knew Conner had more baggage, that he alone carried, than was mentioned by Zoe's observations of it all.
His family. The tricks. The arrogance, No confidence. Hell, there was no other with more confidence, for Conner was the Iceman--it slid off of him, or he was too stupid to be depressed.
Knew too he had bad shit in the gut. Pooped on newspaper, like a dog. Maybe that's why Zoe liked him. Didn't think about getting laid. Was raped by one woman, and it got to him. The toxic gut, people always saying: "You so skinny, boy."
He should have known Christ commanded to rebuke, saying: "You got an ugly countenance; plus, your heart is like unto worm-dirt."
He carried his cross. Had carried it for others. Did what The Book had asked him to do. Nobody knew. Just kept putting him down, driving him to the junkyard. He never stole. He never failed to mortify his senses if wrong himself. Do they? Bleeding internally for years, and still that stupid grin, as if knowing: at the hour of death, well, he's been there a few times. Have you? Will you cry when God puts the gun to your head? Or will you save your tears for a loved one? Which is wiser?
I got out of my trance. The energy was always there though. You can't kill positive energy. And the negative energy goes home in the end, to where it belongs.
"Ash Heap Hound (12)"
Me: Conner McCall, well--I wasn't impressed. Furthermore, (admitting) I don't understand the true mechanics of automobiles; moreover, would never be able to do internal block work; I am a novice, only knowing the literal specifications.
Yeah, Zoe's Dad was nice. A place to stay. A chance to make love to my crush, and to have it last until matrimony and beyond, maybe; however, Saint Paul may argue the point. Regardless, Max and Zoe's cars didn't get the respect from my 1969 Mustang with a small block 302, only a two barrel, and merely a factory hood induction; nonetheless, I was a mercurial beast out of the hole; therefore, here's them, in my mind:
MAX:
1986 Buick Grand National (though he claimed he liked the Japanese shit).
V-6, turbocharged.
235 Horsepower.
A fiery, steroid induced motor; indeed, a true muscle car.
But . . .
ZOE:
Modified and ambiguous 'Cuda with a 383 block.
Performance Package, including:
High-Performance Drive-train.
Dual-exhaust, and non-functional hood scoop.
330 horses pulled that thing.
But . . .
I just loved the Mustang. Wild horses and all that shit, like me. Whatever. I need to focus on the relationships, and tear my compulsions away from literature and motors.
"C.J. Box and BADLANDS"
Being in a perpetual phase of moonstruck, no--not romantic love, but in a state of saddened awe for the Mother reflecting Her bleeding Son's brilliant salvation, I sauntered hunchback-style through my local grocery market dubbed PUBLIX.
I am not concave, nor do I have curvature of the vertebrae, but a cerebral hyperactivity that hinders my posture; plus, the toxic stigma of being socially slow eternally haunts me, until my next manifestation of again, meaning my energy is forever; anyway, in that food-hunting market, I stumbled across the magazines and paperbacks, finding C.J. Box; specifically, his immortally cool novel: BADLANDS.
It was freaking $9.99, but I purchased it, for what is more sublime than a paperboy and a female cop from Montana? It did NOT disappoint!!!
The "slow" kid Kyle is sincerely heroic, outshining even William Wallace in the art of butch bravery. And Cassie, the female cop with super-suave cool is totally solid; moreover, the literary culmination stings the heart with gladness for all of us--if we've lost loved ones, and we all have.
Too, the Teddy Roosevelt moments are heartfelt, feeding us spiritual strength, and a physical chance to always grow, no matter how corporeally warped we are; next, entrance into the Otherworld.
To me--the book's metaphor is: resilience. I adored it. Heck, might read it again, someday, when all is falling down around me, and I need a firecracker of hope to ignite my human sparkle.
"Ash Heap Hound (11)"
My name is Max Barduff. I'm an old timer, well, not really, but it gets me the chicks, well, not really, but ya gotta stay positive and shoot the bullshit sometimes. I'm a widower after all, having a fondness for pilsner and liking to play cards, usually Solitaire with myself--I do most things by myself.
Anyway, I was excited to hear from my blonde bombshell of a hobo-crusading daughter, Zoe. She said she was coming home to Oregon, bringing a guy named Conner, who had psychological baggage, but carried it well, keeping a lock on it.
I didn't mind if she liked an esoteric guy; I could use a magical grandchild down the road. And I trusted Zoe in her carnal fashion, for she always held out for those guys with fancy and fabulous corporeal genes. Hey, gotta keep the countenance of the Barduffs glimmering golden.
Yeah, my hair was turning gray, and I had crow's feet--good. Artists like lines and color. I like being old, not distracted and stupid by way of a young brain perpetually thirsting for horny play.
So, I cleaned up my suburban stronghold, gave Zoe a set of rules, and was thrilled to see her 'Cuda that carried a 383 block. Owned a garage myself. But I like foreign cars. Japanese in particular. Not rotary wankel, but a solid V-6 crowned with turbo, or even supercharged. Did some racing when I was a kid. Hell, it's America. We are innate rebels.
"Ash Heap Hound (10)"
Conner found me naked, scattering back to my trailer in search of garments. Once concealed by my modest habitat, I heard him knocking on the door; next, I yelled: "Getting dressed dude!"
It was all too much. Too extraordinary and bizarre, yet benign, if we put our heads together. My Dad was still alive; plus, he lived in the utopia-like suburbs out West. I could move back in, take Conner, and we could make a go of it. I should've never left home on a hobo's crusade anyway, but maybe this was kismet's kiss--I was hungry for independence, and it led me to Conner.
So, yup. I would call Daddy; then, take Conner and his suave but sickly cool home with my American Foxhound self. People take care of each other, especially if love is involved. Get the joke, like Yemana told Barney Miller in them 1970's, saying: "Being married is like having a horse with a broken leg. You can shoot it, but that won't solve the problem."
I had to take sublime action. Daddy would understand.
"Ash Heap Hound (9)"
Supernaturally gifted with my macrosmatic doggy dodgeball,
I couldn't help but chase an erinaceous smell to the junkyard's wall--
A fence, rusted and smeared in the impoverished plague of Tetanus;
Thus, goes Conner in a sickly ash heap; specifically, him morbidly restless.
But Dudes!!! The cool guy is a non-vile valetudinarian,
And I'm Catholic, honoring things Marian;
Regardless, I found myself naked, and human, next to the contagious fence;
Plus, Conner was approaching, all ninja-like, but had health only worth a pence.
Possibly, could he be into the art of deception?
Nah, and I wouldn't foxhound him with direption--
Only: love, love, love--
For even an asymmetrical angel can gel with the Infallible Dove.
"Ash Heap Hound (8)"
Before the Sun ignited its awesome power and life-giving sustenance, I heard something weird by way of my American Foxhound ears; indeed, I first watched as Conner pulled out his phone, his eyes still glued heavenwards; next, he dialed a number, put the call on speaker, and a dude called Doctor Sampson answered. Then, I listened to the phone call, disturbed and saddened by it all, and for my friend, the lovely Conner, but there was some good news for me in the conversation.
DOC
Up early again, huh Conner?
CONNER
You know me Doc--I never sleep, not really. Why is all this happening?
DOC
Well, insomnia and sleep paralysis are majorly misunderstood; plus, your severe social phobia conditions are almost agoraphobic-like. You can't urinate in public, and God forbid you should have to make a bowel movement in public. And I know, nobody without medical credentials understands this type of personal suffering, and even true physicians don't get it, sometimes.
CONNER
I'm still reading, compulsively. It's the only thing that makes me feel normal. When Kerouac brought ON THE ROAD to his publisher, the publisher told him there were run-on sentences, uncanny rambling, and so forth; next, Kerouac grabbed the manuscript from his publisher's hands, telling the guy that those words were dictated to him by the Holy Spirit Itself. And I'm writing short stories now too--to calm myself. Ray Bradbury said people write short stories to have control over a type of environment.
DOC
Just hang in there Conner. Who cares what people think. And talk to that girl Zoe you have a crush on. She may be a real good friend one day. Okay, come see me tomorrow. Gotta go.
CONNER
By Doc. Glares back towards the changing heavens.
