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Rated: GC · Prose · Personal · #1209251
A southern man laments the loss of his golf game
The sound I reckon is the loudest is ‘clank’. Everybody’s comin’ in and hollerin’ ‘bout an accident. I keep wakin’ up from these weird dreams, but it ain’t like I see nuthin’ when I get up. Matter of fact, I see more in my sleep than when I wake up.
Everythang hurts. My leg is throbbin’ like a sumbitch and I’m getting’ these headaches. Makes me think ‘bout my daddy, who used to eat that damn Goody’s headache powder like it was pixy sticks. The clank sound is my Maxflight driver. Muhfucka can hit a golf ball damn near two hundred and seventy yards. How quick I can get a ball on the green is my bread ‘n butter. Right now, everything is dark, and I can feel somethin’ over my dang eyes. Makes me thank a playin’ pin the tail on the donkey with them Mexican kids when I’s little.
I can feel skinny tubes runnin’ into my arms, makin' my biceps all cold and liquid movin’ around in ‘em like a dang hot tub, ‘cept the water damn sure ain’t hot. Momma used to always bug daddy ‘bout gettin’ one, a hot tub I mean. To her, that was livin’ like Hollywood. Momma is the one right now carryin’ on ‘bout the accident and such. The tubes ‘mind me of that Otis Redding song she used to play all the time, ‘These Arms Of Mine’. Kinda funny, ‘cuz right now, these fuckin’ arms a mine ain’t doin’ a gosh damned thang. I know that sounds funny, but Preacher Jacob used to tell us that if we put God’s name in front of damn, that’s what God was gon’ do to us. He was funny like that. After he got kicked outta the church for bein' improper with a young lady, we pretty much stopped doin’ what he said. Don’t matter where I put God now, ‘cuz right now I feel damned either way. I don’t know really what happened, but it don’t feel right.
A few more words are breakin’ through the ringin’. I can understand ‘golf cart’, ‘crushed’, and somethin’ that starts with the letter ‘b’. Hope it ain’t what I’m thinkin’ of. It feels like my eyes is open, anyhow. But if they’re open, why can’t I see anything? Am I on drugs? That can’t be right. My buddies used to smoke that weed, but I always said no. I don’t think I need somethin’ to make me lazy. My teachers said I did that well enough on my own.
Then I hear the first full sentence, from a doctor, prob’ly. “Mr. Williams, I’m going to give you some I.V. Benadryl to help you sleep. We simply can’t give you anymore morphine right now.”
Morphine? What the Hell?
“What the fuck for?” I try and scream, but my throat’s all sore and it comes out soundin’ like some old geezer.
It’s still pitch black, too. Maybe right now’s a dream, and what I think dreams are is me really bein’ in real life. So the shit they gives me puts me back asleep, and I dream again, this time ‘bout my first girl, Darla. First girl I ever did anything with. Then I know it ain’t possible that shit’s real, that was dang near fifteen some odd years ago.
Feel like now that I’m bein' pushed around in a chair. Momma’s cryin' and it’s still darker than shit. How I know that it’s momma cryin’ is ‘cuz I had to hear her doin’ it so much when daddy drank his Miller and put his hands on her. They keep sayin’ all those words again and I guess this is what it feels like bein’ on dope. The words, over ‘n fuckin’ over.
Golf cart. Crushed. And now I hear it, like an echo in a big empty cave, like when we used to climb around in caves in Tennessee when I was a boy. The word, the ‘b’ word, is ‘blind’. I squirm around and try and get up and yell at somebody, but I get dizzy and confused.
I hope like Hell the rest a my days ain’t like this, ‘cuz I swear I won’t even say the word ‘ass’ if that’s what God wants. Right now though, that sucker is my enemy, no matter what them wives in the congregation say.
How can that sumbitch lead me to salvation and what not when I can’t even see the way to it?
© Copyright 2007 Maverick Dante (jckeyser at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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