Middle-of-Buttfuck-Nowhere

I lay in the middle of a heat-stricken field, taking drags from my shitty expired blunt. The grass browned from the unbearable sweltering heat. I watch as the clouds dance to form shapes as if they are putting on a show just for me. Giggling as the shape of a mother and child embracing takes form, thinking, “How funny, the sky showing off just for me, and it’s something I’ve always wanted.” I close my eyes, dreaming of a life I’ve only ever seen in movies, to awake to the cast of a gloomy shadow above me. With the outline of his hideous red cowboy hat looming over me, I could smell the scent of sour whiskey on his breath from a mile away. He looks down at me and spits on my face, “You fucking degenerate, plan on getting high out here all day for the whole world to see?” I sit up, wipe my face, take another drag, and mutter, “Fuck off, Chaz, sleeping with my mom doesn’t make you my dad.” He laughs under his breath, “Hunter; they couldn’t pay me to want to be your dad; get the hell out of here before I arrest your ass for possession.” I stand up, curtsy, flip him off and begin racing towards the creek.

I never imagined I’d be stuck in this middle-of-buttfuck-nowhere town watching as my life passed by me, yet here I was. I strip down and wade into the creek feeling the ice-cold water pierce my dusty pale skin, letting my marijuana-induced mind run wild with ideas of what could’ve been. What would have happened if my dad didn’t find he loved pills more than teaching? What would have happened if he didn’t lose his job and our entire life savings as a result? What would have happened if my mother hadn’t found him dead on our black and white checkered linoleum flooring seven years ago? What would have happened if that didn’t cause my mother to become a raging alcoholic? But I stopped myself there; I wasn’t going to throw myself a pity party, not today. I dunked my head under the water and opened my eyes to see the bottom piled with old beer cans and glass; I felt as though I was suspended in time. My hair sticking straight up and my limbs slowly wading back and forth; it felt like I had been under there for hours, but it couldn’t have been more than a minute or so when I was forced to surface for air and water rushed into my body. I shot up and started coughing up the murky, garbage-infested water from my lungs. I looked at my watch, “5:30 shit, she’s going to kill me.” I struggled as I tried to force my denim shorts over my wet body; they resisted at first but finally gave way after a few forceful tugs. I fell as I rushed to slip on my dirt-encrusted light pink vans. My clothes clung to my damp body as I ran to my beat-up putrid green Volkswagen Bug, Booger I called her. I bought her off the junkyard moments before she was going to be scrapped for pieces, she wasn’t much, but I found her endearing. Endearing how I had to jiggle the key to start the ignition. Endearing how I had to floor the pedal in order to reach a whopping 40 mph. Endearing how she always managed to die when I was running late. And, of course, when I jiggled the key into the ignition, she refused to start. I tried a few more times, laying on the wheel, taking the key in and out, in and out, but to no avail. I cussed under my breath and screamed, “Fuck it, I’ll run.”

The only motherly duty that my mom had upheld since my father died was her mandatory 5:45 pm dinners. Why 5:45 pm? It seems oddly timed and unreasonably early, huh? Because dinner at 5:45 meant my mom could make it to the bars before happy hour ended promptly at 7:00 pm. Meaning she could be wasted for cheaper and earlier; what a steal. I made it back to the house by 5:55 pm, my clothes dripping, partially with sweat and partially with water from the creek. Dust clung to all the places it could reach. The last time I had been late to dinner was two years ago; my mother had rung me out and refused to feed me for the week. I survived on frozen chocolate chip eggos and saltines and vowed never to be late again until today. But when I sprinted into the doorway of our tacky one-bedroom motor home, there was no one there. I looked over at my ‘room’ a couch surrounded by a makeshift shower curtain door but it seemed untouched. I then stepped into my mother’s room, looking as though a bomb had exploded yet everything strewn about looked as though it was in the correct ‘order’ my mother liked it. I gazed over at the outdoor furniture we used for meals and the table was set, with three laid-out tv dinners, yet it had been abandoned. Was this punishment for being 10 minutes late to dinner? I stuck my fingers in the plasticky-looking mashed potatoes - they were still warm, slightly overcooked, but warm nonetheless. I sat down at our pink plastic table and waited, and waited, and waited some more. I didn’t track the minutes, just stared down at my food until the milk in my glass curdled and the oil around the veggies had hardened into a sickening-looking block. I looked at the clock, and two hours had passed since I had gotten there; something had to be wrong.

I looked around the motor park for something, anything, I could take rather than suffering through the creepy pitch-black walk into town. I scoured the ground until I tripped over the rusty old boat my dad had purchased on a bender when I was ten years old, convincing us that we “needed” it for hot summer days on the creek, yet we never used it once. The powder blue paint was peeling off the sides like it was shedding its skin in time for summer, yet you could still see the tiny letters “Hunter’s Dingy” that my father had painted on the side when we had used the boat to play a game of pirates. I smiled crept across my face thinking about it. I lifted the boat, and low and behold; there laid my hot pink sparkly bike, training wheels and all. My father had promised to teach me to ride what he referred to as “a big girl bike.” Then he died. Here I was, 19-years-old and I still had no idea how to ride a bike without the help of training wheels. I hopped on the 2-foot tall bike and sped down the street, tires screeching, wind whipping through my braided pigtails. It must have been a sight to see, a 5’10” 19-year-old girl looking like a circus clown. My first stop was Al’s Pub - the only bar in town - because that tended to be the only establishment my mother was ever seen at. I carefully parked my bike in case this wouldn’t be my last stop of the night and stormed inside, the bouncer trailing behind me and yelling at me for my ID.

There she was, her unmistakable moppy blonde head of hair covered up by Chaz’s red cowboy hat, empty glasses, and burly men surrounded her. I walked in and turned her chair around; she didn’t even seem surprised to see me there; slurring her words, she said, “Chaz broke up with me, so I met these nice men to take care of me instead.” I was enraged; I started shouting, “What the fuck happened to 5:45 pm dinner? You have never missed dinner in 7 years. And for what? A dickhead cop you met a few months ago?” The burly men surrounding her dispersed. She looked at me as if she was seeing through me, her eyes glazed over, and all she uttered was, “I need to go find Chaz.” She grabbed her car keys and ran out the door; I ran after her, managing to narrowly make it into the passenger seat as she drove right over my hot pink sparkly bike. I watched the pink metal bend and tires deflate leaving behind a mess of parts as a single tear ran down my cheek, falling as if in slow motion although, only managing to land just above my cheekbone before I quickly wiped it away. I zoned back in and screamed, “MOM STOP THE CAR NOW.” She looked at me calmly and whispered, “Nope.” She was ripping down the road at 60 mph, 25 over the speed limit, and swerving over the double yellow line. I grabbed my phone to call the police, but she knocked it out of my hand, saying, “Why are you calling the police when we’re going to a police officer’s house, you moron.” She then swerved into oncoming traffic, nearly getting into a head-on collision before she swerved into Chaz’s driveway ramming into his parked cop car. The sound of crushing metal burned into my brain.

My mom jumped out of the car and latched onto Chaz as he ran out of his house. He yelled where she screamed until they both seemed as though they had made up in a matter of minutes. I got out of the car to survey the damage and began pacing back and forth at the sight of the white paint of Chaz’s car smeared over the hood of my mother’s car. Looking as though a child had finger painted shapes and figures in an attempt to cover up the damage. I spit on the ground and thought, “I can’t handle this bullshit anymore; I have to leave.” I hopped inside of my mom’s wrecked powder blue Pontiac and began to drive home. The bumper screeching along the pavement the whole way home, leaving behind scuff marks in its wake. I walked inside and went to sleep on my makeshift bed - a plastic-covered purple and red-flowered couch and closed my ‘door’- a shower curtain that I had positioned around the sofa for a semblance of ‘privacy.’ I had never had a room of my own let alone a bed of my own. I went to bed thinking, “I don’t know how but that’s going to change starting tomorrow.” I awoke to the light leaking into the broken plastic shades as if the world was waking up again, and I began packing the few things I owned into black plastic trash bags. I was getting ready to leave when my mom slammed open the door and said, “Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” I stared at her, black mascara coating the bags of her eyes, her hair looking as though rats had nested in it, and her shirt completely unbuttoned, exposing her entire bra as I mustered up the courage to say, “I’m done watching life pass me by, I’m done peeling you off bar floors, I’m leaving this middle-of-buttfuck-nowhere town.” She looked at me and sarcastically said, “Good fucking luck out there without me.” I walked out the door, placing my black trash bag full of belongings into my neighbor’s little red wagon, and pulled it behind me. Sweat beaded my forehead and my muscles ached but I kept trekking on until I saw Booger in sight, the sun showing her off in all of her putrid green glory. I got in the car, praying she would start, twisted the key, and she roared. I turned onto the road, not looking back once.