by Drew Blank
Memoirs Of An Antihero
Drew Blank
Drew Blank (2009)
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Rating: ★★★★☆
Tags: General, Fiction, Literary, Romance
Generalttt Fictionttt Literaryttt Romancettt
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Product Description
Memoirs of an Antihero tells the violent, emotional & darkly comedic tale of a single father fighting to keep his daughter alive at any cost. When Drew Blank learns his daughter, Moxie, may be dying from a terminal illness, he is overwhelmed by the enormity of the situation and the hospital bills to follow. Living in the forgotten city of Cross, Drew's desperation drives him to get the money from the only people in town that have it: the criminals. He is initially introduced to the field of entrepreneurial vigilantism by sheer luck, being in the right place at the right time. After hospitalizing his targets and making off with a few thousand dollars, Drew realizes if he wants to continue to redistribute Cross' wealth from the drug dealers' pockets into his own, he will need a plan.
MEMOIRS OF AN ANTIHERO
by Drew Blank
For my girls.
You inspire me
to turn my crazy
into words.
CHAPTER ONE
I learned many years ago that sometimes it takes just a few words to blur the line between right and wrong. For me, that line was obliterated by six simple words.
“Daddy, am I going to die?”
Those words form a question no father should ever have to hear his child ask. When I heard them from my own daughter, the world around me sank. ‘Leukemia’ was another word that never should have meant more to me than something I heard on telethons or read on the side of collection cups at the counter of the 7-11. Until we got the results of Moxie’s blood work in, and then that one word made me want to crumble to the ground and weep as if I was about to lose everything. But I couldn’t do that. I needed to be strong. As she clutched the chains to the swing and dug her feet in the sand, she looked at me.
My eyes had welled up with tears. I was afraid to look at her and reveal my weakness. Instead, I looked down at my shoes, hanging my head low, pulling back on the chains, faking an attempt to start a swing. A feeble attempt to avoid eye contact.
“Of course not, sweetie,” I reassured her. “If you die, who’s gonna be around to take care of me when I’m old?” Humor has always been my defense and her smile has always been my drug. “I’ll need someone to change my crappy pants. It would only be fair, cuz I changed plenty of yours.”
“Daaad,” she responded, obviously grossed out, but laughing and distracted.
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that, by the way. You’re what now, seven? Eight? You really need to stop crapping your pants.”
“Daddy, you know I’m only six,” she squealed, “and I am potty trained!”
“Really? You coulda’ fooled me,” I said as I scrunched up my nose and waved my hand in front of my face.
“Meanie pants.” She fake pouted while kicking her feet into the sand.
This was our park. Run down and dilapidated, it was ours. A five minute walk from her mother’s apartment made it far enough away that I knew we were alone and not being watched, but not so far that we spent our entire visit walking. Most of the park was completely useless. The monkey bars had rusted through. More than half of the bars were missing, making it virtually impossible for a child’s tiny arms to make it all the way across. The twenty foot slide towering over the park had sheets of metal peeling skyward, warning off anyone at the top who might consider sliding down. As opposed to enjoying a breezy free-fall to the ground, any child adventurous enough to ignore the slide’s cautioning would be instead rushed to the emergency room for stitches and a tetanus shot, I’m sure.
This was a park built before lawsuits and advocacy groups took away all the fun. No one had told the city council that this metal monstrosity was surely a death trap. No one was picketing Cross, Illinois’ town hall to get the jungle gym torn down and replaced by weatherproofed safety plastic see-saws because no one cared. All that was left for us were the swings. The metal frame was oranged and corroding, swaying back and forth to the slightest breeze. When we sat in the swings you could feel the top bar sag as it moaned, begging us to leave it alone to die. It wasn’t much, but it was enough for us.
The sand under our feet was always soft and fresh. Years of neglect had turned most of the park’s ground into a hard, rock-like surface cracking under the footsteps of anyone bothering to walk there. But the sand beneath the swings was always soft. We were constantly turning and kicking it up. We never had to wait for the swings, so I suspect we were the only ones preserving this tiny corner of the park. That day we did very little swinging. I knew something was up when she just sat in the swing and dug her tattered Converse All-Stars into our private sand.
“You are going to be fine, baby,” I said as I reached over to stroke her hair.
She leaned her swing towards me and rested her head on my shoulder. I ran my fingers through her dirty blond locks and wrapped my arm around her. In one fluid motion she slid from her rubber seat into my lap, leaving the swing to fly freely behind her, clanging against the support. I nestled my nose into her hair as she buried her face into my sweater.
“I love how you smell,” she admitted to me.
“You mean with my nose?” I asked tauntingly.
“You know what I mean, Daddy.”
“I know what you mean,” I relented. I loved how she smelled too. Her hair certainly had a unique scent. A mixture of sweat and sand; coconut from the dollar store shampoo she insisted on using because there was a cartoon monkey on the label; all mixed with a faint trace of smoke from her mother’s house. If someone offered this smell as a bottled fragrance at a fancy department store, I assure you they would be bankrupt in a week. Honestly, if it were on anything else it might even make me wretch. But that is what happens when you have a child. All of a sudden poops are cute, you lose any aversion to drool and you aren’t too bothered when this little creature spits up in your mouth while playing an overly aggressive round of airplane. You not only get used to these and other disgusting traits, you relish them.
The park was almost a daily ritual for us. I worked nights at a seafood place called Tully’s, so my days were always free and Moxie was just a bicycle ride away. I would sometimes try to convince people I rode a bike everywhere because I was environmentally conscious and didn’t want to further pollute our already dying planet. In reality, I would drive a semi truck to the McDonald’s up the street just to pick up a bacon double cheeseburger in the old school styrofoam container and throw the garbage out the window on the side of the road, if I could afford it. However, paying the beast that bore my angel almost seventy-five percent of my earnings, just in the hope that after she partied and drank most of it away there would be some left over to clothe my daughter, a car was not a luxury I could afford. My financial situation had certainly not improved when the doctors informed us that Moxie’s constant fevers and frequent near paralyzing stomach cramps were symptoms of a cancer ravaging her bones and extensive treatments were needed.
Nobody had any problem picking up on the animosity I harbored for Reggie, Moxie’s mother. I would hate to give anyone the impression that it had something to do with unrequited love or a broken heart, because love was certainly not a factor of my hatred. In no simpler terms, Reggie was an awful person. I would not try to mislead anyone into believing that I lived my life as an angel, but I have a few human qualities that can make me likable to some. Reggie, on the other hand, had none of those qualities. To describe Reggie would be difficult because her ugliness on the inside seeped out so strongly that yo
u saw it in her appearance. She was plain. Pale skin. Stringy blond hair. Not fat. Not skinny. She wasn’t tall. She wasn’t short. Simply forgettable. Just as Reggie was forgettable, so is the way we met.
I was the singer in a punk band called Hire Fydrant. We were not very good, but we had a pretty decent following. My job as singer was to get up on stage, take off my shirt, yell, scream and more or less work the crowd up into a fervor that either the bouncers or the police had to break up. To say we were not very good does not do the band justice. I did make sure to surround myself with some very talented musicians, all of whom have gone on to do some pretty great things. Unfortunately, I could not, nor can I currently, sing. I was the face and spirit of the band, but hidden behind distortion pedals and synthesizers, I had no discernible musical talent. My lack of ability was no secret to the guys in the band, either. They accepted my vocal shortcomings as long as I kept our following strong. What I lacked in musical prowess, I made up for in pure ego. With six pack abs, a full head of mussed brunette hair and gorgeous hazel eyes that often solicited the question from flirty young girls “are you wearing eye liner?”, I had no problem supplying the ego. Rebellious teenage girls may not have been the demographic we were shooting for, but with me as the front man, that is what we got.
My time on stage was spent running around in baggy cargo shorts that barely clung to my pelvis, wrapping myself up in microphone cable and babbling on about irrelevant issues; all the while trying to look as sexy as can be. One night on stage, prancing around like the arrogant prick I was, I caught the eye of one Regina Sullivan. It wasn’t that Regina was the prettiest girl at the show, because she wasn’t. It wasn’t because Regina was one of the few girls of legal age at the show, although she was. It was simply that Regina was the most easily accessible to me after a particularly grueling performance. I admit, and never gave any pretense otherwise, that I was in a band solely for the purpose of having sex with as many girls as possible, with as little effort as possible. What else is there for a handsome teenage punk to do?
After this particular show at the local VFW hall, I climbed off the stage and worked my way through the typical throng of stupid adolescent girls, each and every one of them promising me anything I wanted, along with a lengthy jail sentence. As tempting as many of these girls were, the idea of a large sweaty man recreating the many acts of depravity I would commit upon their nubile young bodies on my own body every night for five to seven years was less appealing. I worked my way to the bar, hoping to find a girl that had had something more than a learner’s permit in her wallet. That’s when I got the offer.
“Is it corny to ask if I can buy you a drink?”
“No, it’s not corny. Futile, but not corny.” I declined with as much sarcastic charm as I could muster.
“I see. I’m glad it’s not corny. But why futile?” She inquired.
“Well, if you are offering me a drink simply to be polite, I would decline because I do not drink,” I answered truthfully. “However, if you are offering me a drink in an attempt to spark conversation that would ultimately lead to us having sex, I would rather skip the drink.”
We skipped the drink.
CHAPTER TWO
“So, no alcohol at all, huh?” She lay on her side, propping her head up on her palm. In hindsight, I guess she wasn’t horrible looking. Admittedly, she was infinitely more attractive before I had sex with her, but I could at least look at her and have a conversation. That’s just good manners. We were both lying on a double mattress that seemed to have been thrown upon the floor as an afterthought. The sheets were well worn and tie-dyed, making it virtually impossible to determine just how clean they were, or more accurately, were not. Above me were various posters and magazine clippings. Some of it was random crap torn from fashion mags or gossip rags and pinned to the wall collage-style. There were concert posters from underground punk shows, even a few fliers promoting my own band’s gigs. This was the typical alternative girl dwelling. I have seen plenty in my time. Sometimes the furniture changes, but the random collection of eclectic, vintage crap is all the same.
“I had heard you were kind of a goodie-goodie,” she continued.
“Obviously, I’m not that good,” I responded, referring to the tremendous amount of sinning we had just committed.
“Well, sex doesn’t count,” she countered, “but I heard no drinking, no drugs, no nothing. How come?”
“Wow. You really did your research,” I chuckled.
“No. But people talk.”
“Well, it’s not like I am embarrassed by it. Honestly, I just never saw the appeal,” I confessed. “People usually drink to lower their inhibitions. I really have very few inhibitions already. If I were to lower mine any further, I’d end up in jail… best case scenario.” This was true. I wasn’t about to get on my high horse with a relative stranger about how I really thought I was superior to all those kids out there who felt they needed the support of drugs or alcohol to feel better about their shallow, empty lives. The Dazed and Confused poster hanging on the wall across the room under a handmade sign written in permanent marker on a flattened cardboard box that read LEGALIZE IT led me to believe this was a subject best left untouched.
“To each his or her own,” I conceded. “It just isn’t for me.”
“That’s cool,” she said. I knew this girl wasn’t looking to spark a debate, so I relaxed and hoped to end that line of questioning.
“I love your tattoos,” she purred as she ran her hands up my arms, tracing out the indelible tribal designs on my skin. The combination of post coital touching and use of the word “love” in any form made me wince and pull away. “I’m sorry?” Her apology came out more as a question, as if she were saying “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Look, I’m not trying to weird you out,” she explained, taking my gesture as an obvious lack of interest. “I think you’re really cool but it’s not like I want this to be anything more than it is. Promise.” She crossed her heart with the hand that wasn’t propping up her head.
Realizing she was being earnest in her admission, I relaxed again.
“I’m Reggie, by the way.” Now her heart crossing hand was outstretched to me, awaiting a more formal handshake to a rather poorly timed introduction.
“I’m Drew,” I completed my half of the greeting.
“I know who you are. Remember? People talk.”
“Can I consider you a fan then?” I asked.
“As a musician? No. In other avenues… maybe.” She eyed me up and down as the last statement rolled off her tongue. In a sharp tone change she quipped, “as a musician, you are pretty awful, but something tells me you already know that.” I did.
That was how I met Reggie.
A few weeks later I received the call.
I’m pregnant. I’m pretty sure it’s yours.
I still to this day cannot answer why I didn’t question her. There was nothing special about me the night she offered to buy me that drink. I was just one of what I could only imagine was a pretty long line of guys. But I never questioned her. I simply agreed to be a good father and help in any way I could. Seven months later this ugly beast introduced herself to us, covered in blood and some sort of slime I had only seen in horror movies, screaming in a manner I thought only possible for less evolved mammals. The moment I laid eyes on that disgusting beast I was in love. I had never felt that way before, for anybody.
Reggie named her Michaela Luann Sullivan. In all honesty, she could have named her Shitty McDung Heap and I wouldn’t have cared. This small creature had immediately consumed me and my life had forever changed. I modified the name more to my liking and Moxie stuck. Moxie Loo, if I need to add a middle name for emphasis.
Very quickly, I had abandoned my irresponsible rock star life and slid into full time Daddy mode. Hire Fydrant played a farewell show where I gracefully ducked out of the spotlight and into a job waiting tables. My schedule revolved around Moxie. Although she didn’t live with m
e, she was a ten minute bike ride away from my little apartment over Mama Mema’s Italian cuisine.
Working nights allowed me to dedicate the majority of my days to her. The mornings I would be there bright and early with McDonald’s flapjacks or Dunkin’ Donuts crullers or Burger King french toast sticks or, on special days, I would grab a baked apple waffle from Roscoe’s to-go. Every morning that bright shiny face would be peering out from underneath the thrift store-bought Rainbow Brite bed sheets Reggie had hung in the front bay window as curtains, just waiting for my arrival. Using the key Reggie had given me so she wouldn’t have to crawl out of bed when I came over, I would unlock the door and my precious little angel would run from the front window directly into my arms. We would spend the morning talking about all the exciting things that had happened in her dreams the night before.
After helping Moxie with her lunch and loading her backpack with all her books and folders, we would walk to the bus stop together. There were even days when she would come home and I would be standing in the same spot she left me, waiting for her bus to pull back up.
“Daddy, have you been there all day?” She would ask, her eyes wide with amazement.
“Of course. You never told me I could leave,” was my canned response. This would always elicit huge laughter from her. We would then walk hand in hand to the park to see what adventures lay ahead for us.
Sadly, Moxie’s mother made very little effort to stimulate her child’s mind. After the birth, Reggie found she could only face each day with a belly full of liquor and a mind wiped clean by whatever drugs her dealer was peddling that week in return for god-knows-what kind of favors. Working all night, I was always afraid to leave Moxie alone with Reggie. I even tried, on several occasions, to take Moxie home with me and get her out of that squalor, once and for all. Each time, Reggie would scream and cry and punch and scratch and throw and threaten. Guttural screeches would escape her windows onto the streets below her apartment as she yelped, “Help! Someone is trying to steal my baby! Help!” Refusing to leave my side, Moxie would ball up at my feet, her face hot and red with tears practically sizzling down her plump cheeks as she bawled and gasped, “no Mommy no!” We were not a happy family. Reggie was an outsider to our twosome and she loathed me for that.