The Life and Times of Innis E. Coxman (5 page)

He
never went
anywhere
without those.

I
crept to the gate flanking the left side of our house. Nothing in the backyard
except our brick storage shed and Fred asleep on his air mattress. I picked up
my Beach Cruiser, rolling the balloon tires along the grass back to the front
yard, peeking around the corner as I did so.

Still,
nothing.

I
heard birds chirping, kids laughing, and the groans of Mrs. Vadgastank’s
husband from next door as she gave him a blowjob beside the pool. Typical,
run-of-the-mill stuff. I gradually began to relax, a warm sense of tranquility
enveloping me like fat titties from a hot shower. Walking through our manicured
lawn to the street, I pondered my father’s reaction. A piece of me began to see
his side of things.

“I
think it’s going to be okay,” I said out loud. “Pops just needs to let his
anger subside. After all, how would I feel if I had gotten a phone call like
that about
my
kid? He was shocked. That’s it.”

The
hunt was over. My life was not going to be snuffed out like a Pall Mall in a
smoky bar. I was going to live and occasionally have women deny my sexual
advances. Everything was looking up.

I
came to the curb and placed two wheels on the street. Grinning with confidence,
I began pedaling to my friend Robbie's house on the other side of the
neighborhood. I wanted to smoke a bowl and I wasn’t going inside to retrieve my
stash. Pops could’ve been in the living room eating a plate of Valium with a
side of bottle. If you think I was going to fuck up
that
tranquilizer,
well you’re just-

CRAAAAAAAAAAASH!

See?
This is why I don’t get happy about shit prematurely.

***

Pops
exploded through the wooden fence on the four-wheeler we kept in the brick shed,
screaming like a madman with his eyes billowing out of his skull and holding a
riding crop. Splintered pickets blew everywhere as he raced toward me like a
rabid jockey on his metal steed.

Where
in the hell he got a riding crop still eludes me to this day.

His
slacks were still in place, but he was wearing only a white undershirt, his
pinstripe dress shirt having been removed and wrapped around his head like a
nomad’s turban in the Mojave. Before he reached the curb, he made a sharp turn
into the middle of the yard and cut donuts the size of crop circles, screaming,
“WOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!” so loud I could hear it over the engine.

I
stood slack-jawed, straddling my bike and unable to discern if what I was
seeing was real or the result of way too much LSD the week before. My father
solved this riddle by yelling, “YOU BETTER RUN, ASSHOLE! THAT SICK FUCK’S
MOTHER JUST CALLED AND TOLD ME I’M RESPONSIBLE FOR THE HOSPITAL BILL, OR HIS
FATHER’S GONNA SUE! YOU BETTER CARRY YO’ ASS WHILE YOU STILL HAVE AN ASS TO CARRY!
WOOOOOOOOOOO!!!”

It
was like a scene from
Full House
if Bob Saget had been a deranged
psychopath.

I
took off down the street as neighbors watched from their doorsteps, nodding to
themselves, saying, “Yep, he’s finally going to kill him.”

Hearing
Pops rev the engine made me pedal faster than I ever had before, pumping my
legs like pistons in a well-oiled machine. He released the brake and shot out
of the yard, laughing sadistically as he jumped the curb and tore into the
street with total disregard for the car he’d ran off the road. He was in hot
pursuit. My heart was beating like a meth head who’d lost his straw.
Occasionally, he'd speed up and close the distance between us, forcing me to
regret that time I passed on helping Mrs. Vadgastank trim her “rug.”

Pops
would accelerate his chariot, blowing the hot winds of death on my neck with
devilish delight, only to retreat at the last instant. He was toying with me in
the same way
jaguars
toy with their antelope, mocking
me, throwing his head back in maniacal laughter when the front winch ground
against my tire with a nauseating
eeeezzzzzzzz
zzzzzz
!

We
lapped around the neighborhood. Whenever I thought I’d shaken him, he would
resume his previous position five feet from my rear tire. We'd ridden passed Robbie's
house twice. On the third revolution, he was standing outside shouting words of
encouragement:

“Ditch
the bike, Innis! Let him graze you! He just wants to cripple you, not kill
you!” (I ask you, good people, what kind of fucking advice was that?)

At
least Robbie was rooting for me. Every time I passed Walford, he just stood
there with a stupid look on his face and his retarded dick in his hand. That
unhelpful little bastard!

It
became evident that this would be a homicide if I continued relying on a Beach
Cruiser for survival; I was on a horse carriage and Pops was driving a rocket.
Had I made him battle for that beating anymore, my life would surely be in
question. I began to entertain Robbie’s advice of doing a tuck-and-roll. Pops
would beat me unrecognizable, but at that point, anything was better than dying
without life’s milestones under my belt.

I
flinched as I envisioned being killed without ever fishing inside of a girl’s
vagina for the elusive “lost condom.” That’s an induction to manhood that every
boy needs and I was
not
going to be stripped of it.

As
we came to the same intersection for the fourth time at breakneck speed, I
decided to lay the bike down and take my punishment. My legs were turning to
rubber. No matter how close to empty the gas tank was in the ATV, it was more
than enough to ensnare me. I swiveled my head ninety degrees to the right to
catch a glimpse of him out of my peripheral vision and gauge the distance
between us-

TWANG-ANG-ANG-ANG-ANG-ANG-ANG!!!

Robbie
told me he was going to steal that thing and mount it on his bedroom wall.
Obviously, he never got around to it.

I
was so preoccupied with surrender that I didn’t see the stop sign. It deflected
my watermelon head and I landed in the corner of a neighbor’s yard with a loud
doomth!
There was so much blood it looked like I’d used an old maxi pad as a washcloth.

Fighting
through the tears and mucus was hard enough.

Fighting
Pops was out of the question.

I
gave up, lying there vulnerable, waiting for retribution while mumbling
profanity and telling Death to go fuck himself. My snazzy Beach Cruiser rolled
another twenty yards on its own with Casper at the handlebars, hitting the curb
in front of a driveway and finally toppling over with a mournful
clank.

A
pitiful reminder of the freedom that almost was.

As
I laid there looking up at the blue sky for what I thought was the last time, I
made my peace with God. Then a dove flew overhead and shit in my eye. It’s
inconsequential to the story, really, but I felt you should know because fuck
me.

My
father parked next to me with the tail pipe aimed at my face. I inhaled the
poisonous fumes. For a moment, I thought he was going to kill me painlessly
with carbon monoxide. But alas, that would deliver no joy to his mania. My
point of view from the grass put him upside down as he lumbered toward me.
Though my vision was cloudy from defeat and body fluids, I could see him
shaking his head shamefully as he raised his leather belt with the
brass-knuckle buckle. I was beginning to lose consciousness from my meeting
with the stop sign. Everything was fading. Before it went dark, I heard my
father’s deep roar:

“You
should’ve slammed his dick with a toilet lid like I taught you, Innis!”  

***

I
awoke on my stomach and thought I was in Hell.

It
was pitch black all around. Not a shred of light was to be seen. The demonic
tones of Billy Ocean screeching “Caribbean Queen” in the recesses of some fiery
pit made me brace for the sting of pitchforks in my scrote from horned little
monsters. I relaxed when I realized it was just Labianna’s horrible music
emanating from another room. I was lying on my own bed.

The
pain from getting smashed in the face with a road sign had diminished, but
there was still an uncomfortable sensation pulsating through me. I tried to
move and
sonofaBITCH!!
No, no moving. Groggily, I felt around and
realized that the blazing spasms surging over my body originated from my ass. I
placed my hands on my backside and felt wetness.

“Ah!
You’re awake. I didn’t know if you were dead or not.”

My
father had cracked open the door to my room. He was checking to see if I was
alive. When he saw me shifting around in the semi-dark, he flipped on the
overhead light. When he did, I looked in the dresser mirror that stood across
from my bed. In the reflection, I could see my ass wrapped with coarse
bandaging all the way to mid-thigh. Blood was seeping through. My cheeks were
staring at me
scornfully.
The jeans were off and the bandages conformed
to their dimpled consistency. They looked like two misshapen Jell-O molds.

Pops
leaned against the door jamb. “Well, I’m glad you’re alive, at least. I called
Douglas’ parents, spoke to ‘em about everything. They decided not to press any
charges once they realized their kid was watching baldies in the bathroom. His
father seemed to realize that if they pushed the issue, the whole story would
come out as to why Douglas was on that ladder in the first place. They agreed
to take care of the medical bills if we agreed to keep our mouths shut about
it.” His eyes drilled into mine. “You
do
want to keep this between us,
don’t you, Innis?”

I
couldn’t crane my head up anymore due to the unspeakable pain. I replied with
my face muffled in the bedspread. “Yes, sir.”

“Good.
Now that all that talk of ‘suing’ is over, I don’t have to worry about this
affecting
me.
As for you, I’m not gonna punish you anymore. I figure
beating you bloody and getting knocked unconscious by a stop sign is enough.
Okay, Son?”

Muffling,
“Okay, Pops. And, you know, thanks for not killing me and stuff. I really
appreciate it.”

He
gave a laugh from somewhere deep in his throat and walked over to the bed,
rumpling my hair as I laid in panging misery. I could tell he wanted to be
sentimental but was looking for the right words. He spoke straight from the
heart.

“Aw
hell, Innis. I still wonder if you’re mine sometimes.”

“Mrs. Hamfist!
Oh, Mrs. Hamfist!”

God—not this product of cheap wine again.
“Yes,
Innis?”

“Can
I go to the bathroom, please? I promise I’ll leave the lotion this time.”

“Only
if you can say the alphabet, Innis.”

“Yes,
ma’am: A, b, c, d, e, f, g, h, i, j, k, l, m, n, o.....q, r, s, t, u, v, w, x,
y, and z. How’s that, Mrs. Hamfist?”

“You
forgot the ‘p,’ Innis.”

“No
I didn’t. It ran down my leg ‘cause you made me say the alphabet first,
Hagatha.”

“Well!
I
never!
You march straight to Sister Virginia Lee for telling an off-color
joke to a teacher!”

Great. Another trip to the principal.

I
grabbed my shit and started out for Sister Virgeneral Lee’s office.

Again.

When
I got to the door, I turned and asked, “Mrs. Hamfist, what the fuck does
‘off-color’ mean, anyway?”

After
a heated conversation between the nuns and my parents, it was mutually decided
that I would leave Our Lady of Grope and Pucker to pursue my instruction in the
wellspring of public education.

***

When
my kid came home today, she said that her Science teacher had given her a
failing grade on a homework assignment. I inquired about her teacher’s name as
I had misplaced it in my font of memory banks.

“It’s
a man named Chunky Hamfist. He looked at my last name and asked who my daddy is.
He said he remembers you from when y’all went to school together a long time
ago. Then he frowned and gave me a zero on my homework. Did something happen
with you two, Daddy? Huh? Did it? Did it?”

I
don’t even live in Louisiana anymore, as I’ve stated.

What
are the odds that Mrs. Hamfist’s son not only became a teacher, but lives in
the same state we do, in the same area code, the same city, works at the same
school my child attends, and—on top of all that shit—winds up as her fucking
Science instructor?.....

It’s
going to be a long year.

Something tells me you have a penis or a vagina.
If you have
both, that’s fine. I’m not here to judge or call you a drain on our nation’s
medical resources.

I
simply find you
greedy
.

Whatever.
You’re a human being with feelings that make up the human condition, running
the gamut from love and forgiveness to savage brutality.

Since
you hold yourself in such high regard with your even-keeled emotions, you’ve
probably been in a relationship. I’ll even bet you’ve had intercourse (it
counts if she was inflatable). While sailing this sea of love, perhaps you’ve
wished your boat would capsize, leaving you perched in a lifeboat and your
lover to flummox against the tides, a look of abject terror on their face as
you gleefully reel in the rescue float, quietly humming “Another One Bites the
Dust.”

Those
dimples in your cheeks tell me you know that fuzzy feeling, good people.

Come,
let us venture into the void of bloody valentines together and I will show you
the way. Anything to help you put down that gun.

Jesus
Christ, man, do
not
redecorate your garage while reading this! When they
find my book next to your bloated body it’ll come back on me and I want
nothing
to do with your poor decision making!

Have
a drink and relax. I promise the first divorce is the hardest. After that it’s
rice pudding.  

***

Women
have always
fascinated
me. The curvature of their bodies; the way a pair
of breasts jiggle under a blouse, a t-shirt, or the dim glow of my forty-watt
bedroom lamp; their ability to transform the most sagacious Joe into a
stuttering pile of ignorance; and the enticing manner of thick, beautiful
thighs beckoning a man to dive betwixt their cavernous mounds of flesh,
enveloping his ogreish head like balloons coated with vinegar and sweat.

In
different stages of my life, it’s made me question why I was born with a dick,
for I would’ve been one hell of a lesbian.

I’ve
never been what you would call a “lady’s man.” There were many years when I
couldn’t have gotten laid in a morgue with a Benjamin hanging from my zipper. I
suppose it had a lot to do with being a rotund, socially-repellant douche,
although most of it was my wobbly conversational skills, attempting to draw the
petticoats into topics ranging from the new Run-DMC album to the differences
between homemade biscuits and the Pillsbury brand.

Thank
maturity, times change.

As
I grew to become more fluent with my tongue—insert double entendre
now
—I
was slapped with the truth that’s plagued scared little boys since the
beginning of time: women are just as scared, nervous, and unsure of themselves
as men are. For all the young men reading, it
does
get better, sirs. If
no one’s ever told you this, then let me be the Wizard to your Cowardly
Lion.....

Chicks
are clueless, too, okay?

***

We
all need love. It’s right there on your computer. The internet has shown us
what a healthy, meaningful relationship is supposed to emulate and obviously it’s
a Bill Clinton imitator bending a Lewinski look-alike over a couch before
coating her teeth.

But
that is the rarest of crap shoots.

The
emotional dice you throw on the table will likely roll snake eyes, culminating
with psychotic stares shooting across the room as one of you wraps your
lacerated forearm with a towel after the other has ripped it to shreds with the
nearest kitchen knife (tattoos have obscured the scars).

You’re
about to get slapped with a bitter shitsack filled with some of the women I’ve
known and one relationship in particular I was fortunate enough to drop like an
infected rubber. Just so you’re aware, your tongue may wither from the salt
being poured on your ice cream.

And
your head will explode.

***

One
disclaimer I must bring to your attention before we go any further: I’m not a
misogynist, no matter how this may appear. I was much different when I was
younger, and I acknowledge that some of the hens who rode my rooster had good
souls. I’ve been with some really cool women in my life who had my best
interests at heart and only wanted to see me succeed. I just fucked them over
so bad that the damage had been irrevocably done. I’ll also cede that some of
this happened with flighty little girls and we’ve all matured since then and
blah
blah
blah
you owe me
therapy money blah
blah
fuckity
blah.
 

But
for the womenfolk who
were
good to me, who truly
did
want better
for me and who truly
did
help me in various ways—I’m forever sorry. I’ll
always hope you can find it in your hearts to forgive me. I suppose we weren’t
ready for each other. Then again, maybe it was me who wasn’t ready.

As
for the rest of you bitches, find some shelter.

Because
it’s open season on
all of you.