The Race Home(short story- page 6)

 

          The Cabin Inn days were filled with so much excitement and trouble, make no mistake this was a bikers’ bar too, I many times was accosted by drunken rednecks, who thought I was this fragile punk but they soon found out the hard way, I was a great boxer; I ran or jogged regardless of any hangover 2-3 miles every morning, then pummeled a speed bag for twenty minutes, beat an old tire I placed in the backyard of our home with two bats for another twenty minutes then closed out shadow boxing for another twenty minutes, my endurance was phenomenal, a long story short, my record at Cabin Inn in the fighting category was 22-0. Fact. 

          The rear of Cabin Inn was my favorite place, two pool tables were strategically placed in the back east end of this huge place and my favorite table-the Foosball table, in which I rarely lost at, I drank for free for hours on that table until I was buzzed or grew tired of playing. I love that game, still hold my own too. Now, through the rear of this bar was the biggest outdoor deck I’ve ever seen, still is too, benches cradled the outer deck all way around this deck. I smoked the best weed in my life back on this deck, and it was free. I always hooked up with the prettiest gal in the place too, especially on the weekends, and the respect I drew from others was a bond I’ll never forget. I met some of the most amazing people from all parts of the state in this club, eccentric musicians, conniving attorneys, and a few shy doctors, those conversations were about life and I managed to appear wiser than my age. 

          The Wednesday nights were just for adventure, I just got high and tuned into the band on those nights, and when closing time came, I sobered up and drove my car back the twenty miles across the county. I tried to sneak in but my baby Tara always greeted me with so much fervor and joy, she literally barked out my name, and she many times awoke my family, we calmed down and went to the basement where I’d watch some television before I nodded off, but Tara was always beside me in bed, she was a great dog, so smart. 

The Race Home(short story-page 5)

 

          I had limitless hours since work was hard to find those days, just wasn’t any jobs in the early 80s, and the measly $200 every two weeks was a joke trying to survive. I did entertain myself with partying and drinking and hooking up with gorgeous women for whom found me interesting and mutually attractive as well. My youth was wasted on the abject moment of now and I was never concerned with the future, life already bogged me down with death, lost my best friend and dad within one year, so I desperately attempted to drink and party my sorrows away for at least another day. I met several beautiful gals that I’d should’ve never pushed away but I was a lost soul wandering in a godless debauchery. I look back upon my degeneracy with no compunction of remorse or guilt, we only live once in this gifted life and why waste youth in prayer and shame when life gives so much of earthly pleasures? 

          I often went to a bar well out of town called the Cabin Inn. This huge bar was a marvel in architecture, it was an old log cabin that served as the Fish and Game club once that unbelievably my dad owned and ran for years, my dad if he was sober was the greatest skeet shooter in the state. When I was young I watched dad win tournament after tournament even once when some old bar fly tried to take advantage of my dad when he was loaded and really too drunk to even stand up much less hold a gun and aim it at thrown objects in the air. But, I somehow was drawn into this contest of marksmanship and I was the one who threw little old coke-cola bottles up in the air, while my inebriated dad blew them to kingdom come, the man took advantage of the wrong sop, dad gave me twenty bucks from this gambit. 

         The Cabin Inn now introduced the greatest Rock and Roll bands in the state, and the price of admission was your ticket to hours of hard Rock and Roll, the ambience and music in that log-filled hall echoed all over those hills and hollers, the bar itself was over 100 feet long with every whiskey bottle label ever made embossed in an inch of polyurethane lacquer that was a phenomenon to even gaze at much less drink a shot bourbon off of; one great eccentric bar that satisfied many Rock and Roll enthusiasts. 

The Race Home(short story-page 4)

          I usually followed my path home but decided for some uncertain reason to cut through an opening in a damaged fence row that was obviously a path for other critters too, a pretty beaten down pathway was laid down so into the gauntlet I meandered without much fanfare. The field of fescue was huge and high as my chest and ready for hay harvesting, I could literally barely see in front of me as the fescue swayed in the wind with its heavy laden buds that moved to and fro with each wind shift like some beautiful symphony in perfect unison, then I stepped on what I thought was a stick, but suddenly it moved and reared up to greet me eye to eye and immediately I thought it was some huge mamba snake. It was a blue racer snake and it was mad as hell, it sniped at me and hissed, I backed away and ran for the fence row across the two acre field, now, I’m a quick runner, ran a 5:32 mile once in high school and was clocked, but this snake was faster than me it seemed, I was terrified, I stopped for a second and thought I lost it in the middle of the field, looked back and I saw it reared its head above the tall fescue like some king cobra, and in a split second started at me again, I still had to sprint another hundred yards until the fence row, but I could hear him gaining on me, and dare not look back again, this snake was from hell, I suddenly came to the fence and thought if I stop to straddle this fence he’ll get me, so I hurdled it with my gun and all which was a five-foot fence, barely made it because it was difficult while grasping my gun-quite strenuous. I landed on the other side and stopped to look back and there he was but he couldn’t maneuver quick enough through the woven fence and briars that impeded his pathway. I gasped for a moment and took a long sigh of relief, I was quite drained and I still had to clean those squirrels too. But, that was quite a morning to contend with, one mad snake bigger than me. The blue racer was over 15 feet long, I’ve never seen one that big in my life, still haven’t. 

          I cleaned those squirrels and placed them in our basement refrigerator. I sat down on the couch with my baby Tara, my beloved beagle hound, she never went hunting with me though, I just loved her too much to lose her. We snuggled and watched the morning news. My Tara was a great dog, rarely nothing got by her, she was acutely aware of everything and anything that came near our home. She barked endlessly when she saw something out of line. Tara was one of my best dogs I’ve ever had in my life. 

The Race Home(short story page-3)

 

          The addendums of banality seized me nearly every day, and off to the woods I’d traipsed to find that selfish contentment that I longed for because my dad was dying right before my eyes and the freedom to get away was my only release from this melancholic meltdown. My dad eventually died and not on any day but on New Year’s Eve. We buried him 3 days later on the coldest day on record, I literally shivered and my tears froze before they dropped down from my face. Prior to my dad’s death I lost my dearest and best friend Rusty Bradley that very same year and it was the saddest year up till this point in my life. The gloom still enraptured me and the only thing that gave me relief was a stiff drink from time to time. The haunts of one’s lifetime is the purest Hell one can relive over a million times and still have the same outcome of misery each time, the reflection of despair is often a blank mirror of emptiness that is an achromatic black hole of regret, life’s payback is an unfortunate overload and overkill of conscience and memory. 

         One half of a year elapsed from my dad’s death, I was still living at home and partying with my friends quite often now, trying to drink my sorrows away, and putting time between the pain seem to heal my troubled soul. When you lose your best friend and dad in one year you soon find yourself with an enormous guilt of “what if’s and what ifs.” Then try to find the answer in a bottle of cheap whiskey and reliving the same problem again the very next day. This carelessly went on for several years if not decades. 

          I got up one morning and grabbed my shotgun and headed out to a secluded spot in the woods where I found a couple of days prior where several squirrels were cutting on some hickory trees, and you could get your limit in one hour easily. The fox squirrels generally rose late in the mornings and usually late in the evenings but gray squirrels only came out in the early mornings most of the time. I shot three squirrels that morning and it was near noon before I decided to call it a day with my limit, yes, I was short of the 6 allowed daily limit but I wasn’t a greedy hunter. 

The Race Home(short story- page 2)

 

          I recall my days on those long yellow sombre buses commuting to school and staring out those windows-if I was lucky enough to get a window seat- that gave me some relief from the chores of studies. My life was so slow back then and my growth of becoming a man was like a human evolutionary chart that transitioned from each year at an infinite snail or sloth pace. My life was remarkably unremarkable! 

          My life at home was a blundering mess too, I seldom pleased my dad who was an epileptic and alcoholic. He wanted me to be a doctor today. He was very hard on me mentally and sometimes physically but that’s the way our generations grew up, wasn’t the namby-pamby age of innocence of nowadays. We were men at 13 years of age back then, I shot my very first gun at 10 years old and I loved it, hunted in the woods at 12 years old and killed my very first squirrel too, though now I feel an overwhelming guilt of killing such a helpless creature. 

          My days were an occupational hazard of boredom, but I received several blessings to spend my weekends time to time with my cousins and dear friends, and the mischief we ascertained in those defining moments of adventure were memorial if not dangerous, I loved rock climbing and I  would put myself in the most dire predicaments, nearly many times costing my own life, I guess in the end God takes care of his ignorant and careless children. I was a daredevil and loved that rush that came with each risk and the reward was an infamous trophy of bragging rights, even though I was never a braggart because I despised one. 

          But, ninety percent of my ennui circumvented at home and I had to find adventure on my own many times. I was 20 when my mom told me to move back home to care for my ailing dad whom taken a turn for the worse, he drank so much he would urinate and defecate in his own bed that was set up in the basement away from my sisters. I was laid off from work drawing a pittance of an unemployment’s check, but I was grateful for it. Hard times came in bunches back then, you either survived or gave up, and I was too young for the latter. 

The Race Home(short story-page 1)

          I was a free Kentucky boy who had the expanse of fertile knobs, meadows, and endless hollers at my exposure. I hunted and fished every inch of these pardoned woods and fields, never trespassed because I was reared a Christian. I grew tired of these parochial studies and jammed philosophical tutors of strict laws and rules that coveted my chained soul at St. Thomas school, I wanted freedom, so my escape was nature, and the great Rolling Fork River gave me my infinite refuge. I generally travelled alone, and saw great beauty in so many birds, deer, and other game. I always toted a shotgun with a half a box of shells but never wasted any because shells were a quarter a piece. I will assure you these were simple and gentle times where life slowed down to a crawl and you learned how to survive very quickly on your own.

          I was an average student and was told I was quite witty and sarcastic by the head nun of our school. I recalled they-nuns-loved incorporating fear and discipline at a bare minimum with a savaged beating from a ruler to the back of your hands, my fist are now calloused like some prized fighter. But, no regrets and I still have many great memories from my education at St. Thomas, and still love all my teachers regardless of how they punished me. The school and church are still hidden away in their captivity of Romanesque stronghold of sacred tenets and unblemished precepts. Their ghosts still linger there in the empty classrooms and hallways trying to reach some escaped demon that rules their conscience.