Baton Rouge

They say your whole life pass before you when you die, but how do they know? Ain't no one lived to tell about it, have they? Did my old man cry out “Jesus Christ! Would you take a look at that bass!”?

That's the only thing I can remember him ever having said, and I’m not even sure he did. It was a hell of a fish, though, honest. Longer then my arm, which wasn't that long those days, but long enough that we were eating bass for three days.

Maybe, if I had paid a bit more attention back then and, maybe, if he had stuck around more I'd come up with something better . And, maybe, Mom would have told me more about him instead of ending nearly any question with “That damn fuck, I ain't gonna talk about him”. She was bitter and it only took me some puberty and some of her teaching to make me bitter too. So I stopped asking and if anyone else did, well Mom had given me the most appropriate answer.

So I wasn't very pleased when I got that call from the coroner asking what should be done with the body. And he wasn't that happy when I told them to dump it in the river and watch it sink.

Only later, when I got there did I find out that they didn't have a river in the town. And I wouldn't have gone there if that stiff guy hadn't said in his oh too polite voice like he was talking down at me about the money. I've been talked down to a lot in my life, so I've got a real fine ear for that sort of thing, but when someone says 50 grand, hell, I get perfect hearing.

They conned me out of 2000 anyway just to get him six feet under, probably why they wanted me to come anyway. Bunch of crooks, if you ask me. Hell, why didn't they just roll him, take the dough and chuck him in the river? We'd all be a lot happier and none the less wiser in the end. Except for Maybelle who took me for another 100 to spread her legs. And add them overpriced drinks we were drinking makes a cool 200 for that. And the 99 dollars and two days it took me to get to Baton Rouge on the Greyhound. I don't recollect exactly what I spent in all, but I left Birmingham with 58.43 in my pocket and returned with 47003.23 so whose complaining? Not me.

Let me tell you, if Birmingham's the ass the world, Baton Rouge comes in for a cool and close second place. Maybe the armpit or something. It stinks, and I mean it literally. Yeah and I know some of you folks know that Baton Rouge has got a river, I found that out too when I was there. River stinks too. But, instead of deciding to keel over somewhere even in the proximity of the bus station, Pa decided to squeak out in some little town off to the east. I'm going to call it Pissoff, ‘cause it sounded a bit like that and I'm too lazy to walk over to the table and read the death certificate and tell you. I remember it cost me another 30 bucks to get there by taxi because the place was so out of the way that they didn't even have bus service.

So I get to Pissoff and talk to the guy I already talked to on the phone and he looked real closely at my driver's license – yeah, I got one and now I'm going to get me the car to fit it. And then he went into this long speech about what had happened and all and that my dad had been drinking and they had tested him and it was like he was really plastered. Well, he didn't say it that way, he said, “your father seems to have been heavily intoxicated when he lost control of his vehicle.” Damn, I've seen the “vehicle”, since when did a '73 Ford Pinto ever deserve to be called a vehicle?

Anyway, because he is being too charming and educated I don't want to just burst out and say,okay, give me the cash and let’s throw a load of dirt on him and we can both get along with or lives, right? I play it cool. I do a lot of mumbling and trying to look sad or worried. I don't think he bought it, but it didn't matter.

And then he asks me if I was “close to your father” and I'm like damn, I ain't seen the guy in 28 years, but something tells me to stop and I say that we were close enough as a pa and his 30 year old son can be and I want to launch into this story I'm thinking of telling about how, of course, when you grow older and live apart you don't meet too often but he breaks me off and says that's good because they'd like me to identify the body. And I'm like, damn, I don't want to see him ever again. And I already saw the Pinto up front like a twisted and tangled mess and I'm thinking they're gonna show like pieces of him.

But I don't say that. I just nod and see it as one step closer to 50 grand.

He didn't look as bad as I thought he would and a lot worse then I remembered. Sure, he was banged up a bit and I'm guessing they toweled off the blood and maybe straightened him out some. He looked real peaceful in fact and for a second I wanted to joke with the doc', what was his name? Sounded foreign, German-like I think, or Jewish. He must have fun in Baton Rouge with a name like that.

Anyway, I wanted to joke and say, can you stand him up and maybe clench his fist and maybe get a woman in here for him to beat? Because that's how I remember him, the dumb fuck. But I just think it and look at him lying there on the slab and all I say, because I have a big mouth and can't help it sometimes is, God – he's almost blue, you guys deepfreeze your stiffs up here? But the doc just clucks his tongue like a chicken and tells me about some crushed bone in the throat and uses that word with “ass” at the beginning which doesn't mean anything but choking to death. So I guess Pa took a nice long time to die and maybe he had more time to remember then just the fish, I hope he did.

So I tell the guy, yeah it’s him, because even though he looks like about 60 but could only be about 50 I can tell from those two gold teeth he was so proud of. You know, telling you this just now, makes me wonder. Should I have asked for them? They must have been worth something and Pa was like really proud of them so they must have cost a lot, maybe 200, 300 dollars? Well, it's too late now, unless I get me a shovel, right? Just joking.

So we get through that and I think that everything is cool and the doc'll give me the money and if I really hot foot it I might get back to the station to get the last bus out, but no, it don't work that way.

The money he tells me was in cash and they had to check the numbers to see that it was legal and all. And when he says that I get really worried because I know Pa or at least I knew him some and if he was carrying 50k around it wasn't legal. So I see myself here with fewer than 60 dollars in my pocket and no ticket home and policemen asking those questions I've heard before. But then he tells me it’s okay, that has been checked – but he acts when he's saying it like he knows they just didn't find anything – but I have to go to the bank tomorrow to pick it up, but first I have to go to the police station to get a receipt to pick it up. So I'm staying in town tonight it seems.

You know, I can be pretty smart sometimes and this was one of those moments. I could have said fine and gone off to find me a Route 6 by the highway; I saw one coming in, and lay 45 bucks on the counter and gone to sleep. Instead I tell the doc, Goldberg – that's his name, now I remember – that I spent all my cash just coming up here in the belief that I would be receiving money and if there wasn't something that could be done. It's like if you don't ask, you won't get, right? Exactly. Because as it turns out there is some sort of law for this thing and this guy gives me two hundred dollars for expanses.

And I go to the Route 6 anyway, right? I mean, as soon as I fall asleep it doesn't matter if the hotel room costs 50 or 200 bucks; my eyes are closed.

But before I go, maybe just to be mean because he knows that I'll have to lug it downtown, the doc gives me this large suitcase they found in the car and makes me sign three pages for it. For all I care they could have tied it to his body and chucked both of them into the river -if they had had one – it would have kept him from bobbing up as soon as he got all gassy,

I don't say that, of course.

But I do think of chucking it because it’s fucking heavy. The only reason I don't is because I'm thinking there might be something useful in it and the only reason I don't flip it open right there on the street is because I'm afraid it might contain nothing but porn mags and hell knows what got my dad's rocks off on. Can you see me there, right by the road with copies of “chicks with dicks” fluttering around me? I can't.

I get to the Route 6 and check in and the bastard at the counter makes me pay right off which wouldn't have annoyed me that much, but there was a couple just ahead of me and they had a credit card and he didn't act like that with them.

I like Route 6, they're clean places. You don't get the feeling that someone has just left life or just entered it on your bed. And they have those little bars of soap and towels. So I take a really long hot shower and use up one of the soaps, because I may not have finished high school, but I know, somewhere in those 45 bucks I'm paying for this soap and this water and I'm going to get my money's worth.

And I'd probably have hit the sack right then, but I had a good 200 burning that hole in my pocket and when I looked out the window across the highway I see this bar. So I go over.

“Tennayson's Taverne”. That's it's name and if you are ever up in Pissoff you might want to stop by. It's an okay place. They play the right music, modern country, I remember McGraw playing when I came in. And I don't think they fight too much, a lot of truck drivers at the bar with just enough strength left in their arms to move their glass to their mouth and few local yokels to cause you problems. And there's Maybelle too.

I was onto my fourth double when she, what's the word, sashayed over? And I mean she really moved, I could see her in the mirror behind the bar when she walked in. She cased the joint and especially us at the bar. Then, one hand on her hip the other holding her purse up in the air she cat-walked over, leaned her forearms on the bar and asked how I was doing.

I was doing really good, who wouldn't after four doubles.

I said fine and asked in one sentence how she was and if she'd care for a drink. She answered in one too, the first half to me and the second a loud “double scotch” in the direction of the bartender. I was drinking scotch too, so I got the feeling right away we might catch on.

I've done this shit before so I know how it works. She asked me what I was in town for and you can either lie or tell the truth. I said business, which I think she thought was lying, but I didn't. I asked if she lived here which she admitted. I said it was a nice place, which was a lie. And she said yes, which I hope was a lie too. She drank down her scotch in one go and ordered another and then told me she'd go powder her nose and gave me a fine display of her ass swaying on the way. I used the pause to lay a ten on the bar, call the bartender over and ask if she was a cop. I didn't think so, but 10 bucks is better than a charge for soliciting.

Maybelle, if that was her name, came back and stood real close, rested an arm on my shoulder and gave me another free look down her dress while she grabbed her glass. I'd downed a quick one while she was gone, because, honestly, whores make me nervous.

But Maybelle played it by the book, acted as if she was really interested in me and I'm sure she had more than one or two customers who got to the door of the hotel room and to the surprise of their life when she told them she needed 200 dollars to come in.

I was a lot cooler. I found that out while still sitting at the bar with a scotch in my hand and the other sliding up her leg. And I convinced her that we should go to my room. I'm guessing my professionalism convinced her – either that or her pimp was somewhere near, but what the fuck did I care.

I bought a fourth to take with us and by the time we had scooted across the highway and up the stairs to my room we had finished half of it. We both stayed professional though. I paid up front (and then hid my wallet while she was undressing). We landed in bed in a tangle of limbs and a cloud of whiskey. She said she wouldn't let me kiss her, but I wasn't crazy about doing that anyway. We played around with each other some and when I slid in it was warm and wet. Maybe she had prepared for that too, but what the fuck did I care? I probably lasted longer then she wanted me too, with that much scotch in me I was right on the borderline of a long go or no go. And afterwards she lit up two cigarettes which I thought was a nice idea and passed one to me.

I don't know about you guys, but after I've fucked with someone it’s hard to lie to them – at least straightway. So when she asked why I was in Pissoff I told her, to bury my dad. She made sounds which seemed to say she cared. I pointed at the suitcase and told her, maybe a bit melodramatic, I know, that that was all that was left of his life.

She asked what was in it, and I answered honestly that I had no idea.

You know, curiosity does things to people and in Maybelle's case she went childlike. Open it, she said, bouncing on the bed and clapping her hands. Let's look what's inside. It was like it was fucking Christmas for her even if it was mine. I guess it was the scotch and maybe the five or six sentences I said about really, really not knowing what was inside that made me decide to open the lock and look.

Maybelle knelt on the floor next to me while I did it, her hands clasp together in excitement, I guess. I flipped it open and we saw...

A flannel shirt. Spread out neatly, folded precisely and as boring as hell. I tossed it aside. We saw more clothes: socks, a pair of jeans, three underwear – all clean, thankfully. I tossed them as well. We looked through a small bag and discovered a toothbrush, toothpaste, a brush with hairs, a razor and some blades, a bar of soap still in its paper package (and from Route 6). two condoms that looked old, dental floss and a deo of Old Spice. The only thing else in the suitcase was a Gideon's Bible which embarrassed me almost as much as “chicks with dicks” might have. Who the hell steals a bible from a hotel room? I tossed that aside too and that's when the two letters fell out.

I'll give them to you chronologically and I guess it’s okay to tell you in full. I mean, a whore in Baton Rouge knows them why shouldn't you?

The first one was from my mother, dated January 12th, 1982. It began...

You dumb fuck. What the hell do you think you're doing? What's this shit with a PO box? Are you fucking running out on us you bastard? If you are, I'll hit you with everything the law will allow – and I swear, if I see you shitty face around here again I'll hit you with a hell of a lot more.

But that bit had been crossed out. Not carefully, wildly – but you could still read it. Beneath that we read...

Darling, is everything okay with you? Are you having problems? Babe, its okay, if you need time to think I understand that. Just call and say you're okay. Just a quick call. Jim is asking about you and I said you were travelling. It’s okay, dear. Just get it out of your system and come back, okay? Babe, I love you. Come back for that and for Jim. We'll be there for you. Babe, I love you.

It was signed with a big Barbara across the entire page and a heart over every a. I would have recognized the writing of my mother without a signature.

The second letter used just a part of the page and wasn't signed, but I saw the cramped style of my father’s and the date red January 23th, 1982. It began...

Dear Barbara, there comes a time in ay man's life when he must decide between what is and what he wants to be. Now this time has come for me. I have taken a long hard look at my life and I believe that we, you, me and Jim will all be better off if we go our ways. I am sure that you will understand in the end that my happiness and your happiness are better achieved on separate paths. You may think now differently, but I am sure – as time passes – you will realize that this decision is best for the both of us. I left the PO Box in case I got important mail. Send it there. When we look back it will be with a smile and a frown, I know, but let us think of and remember the smiles and not the frowns. I wish you all the best in life and I will always remember you.

Here and there my dad had crossed out words, but it didn't really matter, I could tell they weren't his anyway. I wondered which book he had copied and what it was called. “Breaking up for teenagers”? “Ending a relationship”? He seems not to have found one called “Leaving your wife and kid”.

“That is so sweet”, Maybelle said. “I wonder what you mother answered.”

I wondered if she did, I hope she didn't.

“How did your father die?” Maybelle leaned against me with her head on my shoulder.

“Slowly.” I said. And I thought, much too slowly. Then I led Maybelle back to the bed to fuck any more thoughts out of my mind.