My dad and sis found a body one time. I mean, I was there, but I didn’t look
cause I didn’t want to. I must have been nine or ten at the time- too young to
be brave enough to peer through the filthy windows of the faded dodge pickup
to see an old man, lying peacefully in the cab, his white beard and relaxed
demeanor mimicking Santa Claus, but stiff as a board and bloated. He must
have been there for days- decided he was too tired to keep on the road, weary
of the Pennsylvania turnpike and its endless drones of truckers hopped up on
black coffee and speed, baring down on the unexpecting. Decided he’d pull off
the highway, onto the same back road, into the same small clearing between
the pines and oaks near a brisk little stream where we used to relieve ourselves
during the long trips to see grandma. Decided he’d take a nap, for an hour maybe,
regain the strength he used to have when he had his first son, or when he
worked steel in Pittsburg in the 1950s, or when he was a young marine in Korea.
Decided he didn’t need to hurry cause he knew his wife didn’t care if he was
an hour late, only that he got there. Decided he’d close his eyes and dream of
something nice. And died.
It was a cold day in autumn, the Alleghenies were bright with the yellows,
oranges, and reds of dying leaves- the sky beautiful, empty, and clear.
This reminds me of the short story style of the '40s and '50s, something like Salinger. I like the use of imagination in it, because clearly the narrator didn't even see the body.
ReplyDeleteDefinitely, Edward. I also sense some Faulkner-like qualities in his cadence and stream-of-consciousness flow. This was moving, Ryan. My favorite line: "regain the strength he used to have when he had his first son, or when he worked steel in Pittsburg in the 1950s, or when he was a young marine in Korea." I don't know what it stuck out for me, but it did.
ReplyDeleteWell, at least like Faulkner the narrator didn't lust over his sister. Does that always happen in the South or something?
ReplyDeleteyeeeehaw
ReplyDeletevery nicely put. I love the ending especially.
ReplyDeleteThe ending reminds me of either your writing or Ryan's name about a day on Mars when all the clocks struck thirteen.
ReplyDeleteThe whole incest is more of a popular theme of what's considered "Modern Fiction" rather than the South. Proust is a perfect example of a Modern incestuously oriented writer who is basically the opposite of the South (being from France).
ReplyDelete*The whole incest thing
ReplyDeleteI need to stop taking adderall and staying up three hours before I have to work a double shift. Life.
I'm sure Bethany could talk to you about Proust, but I've never read him (3000+ pages?!). But yes, I suppose incest is a big theme in Modern literature. (I still think you're trying to defend the South here.)
ReplyDeleteMe? Never.
ReplyDelete