by Jarod Powell
DISCURSIVE
MEDIA
P U B L I S H E D BY A R C A N A P R E S S
St. Louis, MO
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 Arcana Press.
All rights reserved.
Printed in the United States of America
May 2015
Kindle Edition
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Praise For
I N H E R I T A N C E
A N D O T H E R S T O R I E S
“Inheritance and Other Stories is a collection of short stories that features the struggles and victories of men from all walks of life.” – joeypinkney.com
“[Powell’s] tone, detail and characters are something reminiscent of small press magazine[s]. His work is honest and lacks pretension. This all allows the readers to connect, and experience the world through [his] point of view.” – Standard Democrat
“[Inheritance and Other Stories is] a lurid but ensnaring trip through many lives.” – Stephanie Nelson
“[His] work is smart and filled with characters that are really showcased in the mainstream. He’s able to show complex characters and place them in engaging situations, all of which creates something smart and rich for the reader to enjoy.” – David M. Taylor, Currents Magazine
“This is a book you should definitely add to your collection! “ -Sarah Cook
Praise for
B O Y S I N G I L D E D C A G E S
“Powell's haunted prose skillfully indicts the hypocrisy of religion and small time life. Educate yourself about a growing epidemic of hopelessness and read this powerful piece of literature.”
-Jason Latshaw, author of The Threat Below
“Not afraid to perplex or shock, which makes [this novel] a must-read…rips the heart out of the Young Adult genre.”
-News Denver
“Catcher in the Rye, 70 years later.”
-Gerald Patterson.
Other Books By Jarod Powell
Poor Man’s Imaginary Friend
Boys In Gilded Cages
Foreword
It’s been over six years since Inheritance was first published. Age has a way of both eroding and enhancing your creative sensibilities. You become more cynical as a writer; you think to yourself, there are many other more talented people in the world who do what you do. Fran Lebowitz would hate you. And that’s probably true. But that same mindset is also what makes you strive to improve – we’re athletes, except we mostly sit on our asses all day and get carpal tunnel syndrome.
So with that in mind, I’ve revised some stories – which later became chapters in my novel, Boys In Gilded Cages. There are some stories here which I would not write, enjoy, or even approve of today, but I’ve mostly left them alone, so you can see them crystallized in their sophomoric glory. Consider this edition a snapshot in time. (You could also consider it a sampler for my novel, since many characters appear in that book, too.)
As a writer of any sort, you have to create your own universe. I perhaps took that a little too literally, in that my short stories could serve as interconnected chapters with one very short family tree.
This book was first published when I was 23 years old. I’m 30 now, and I hope that shows – whatever that means.
Telling Time
“Sam,” Jenny called him from the other side of their bed. He barely heard her.
“Yeah, Honey,” he slurred.
“Are you asleep?” She asked timidly, through the black of the room.
“Not yet,” he lied.
“Let’s talk.”
“Okay.”
“What should I know before she comes? You’ve barely mentioned it. I feel like this is a bigger deal than you’re letting on.” There was an uncharacteristic quiver in her voice. The drunkenness of semi-sleep, she must have figured, would be the best time to ask, relying on the weak defenses of the bleary. And on the eve of a visit from his mom, she must have thought, or hoped, he’d be eager to cry on a shoulder. Weird timing, but he could tell he wasn’t sleeping until it was settled. So he huffed and sat up.
“You know about as much about her as I do,” he said. This was untrue.
“Yeah,” she said, unsure of how many more questions would still be appropriate at this hour. Her eyes were heavy, but she was forcing them open.
“I don’t think I could forgive my mom for leaving, if I were you,” she said, stealthily prodding.
“Can we talk about this some other time?”
“Sure,” she said, “as long as you promise that we will talk about it.”
“Why?”
“Because you need to.”
“Okay,” he said, defeated. “Goodnight.”
“’Night.”
He had barely gotten the door open. Not even enough time to exhale properly.
“Look at how skinny you’ve gotten!” She was perched on the love seat, avocado-slacked legs crossed, long red fingernails serving as a makeshift cigarette holder.
“Hey...Hey, Wilma,” he said. She approached him with a steady stroll and careful observation. She suddenly latched onto his torso with a clumsy tightness.
“You need to eat, Honey!” She loosened her grip so she could make eye contact.
“He’s been working outside this Summer,” Jenny said, in line behind mom. “He’s just more toned.”
“Aw, he’s never eaten properly a day in his life!” Mom scoffed.
“You’ve got to baby him,” she instructed. “You don’t put good food right in front of his face, he don’t eat.”
He sometimes got the impression that Mom only said certain things because she heard television
moms say them, so that must be what moms are supposed to say. She stroked his face with her empty hand and kissed him on the cheek. Jenny crept between them and kissed him on the mouth.
“All he does is eat,” Jenny said, nervously laughing her off as she ambled back to her seat.
“That reminds me!” Mom said excitedly, reaching behind her to crush her cigarette out. “I’ve got these coupons! Let’s go to Ruby Tuesday’s right now! My treat.” She reached into her purse and then waved her coupons for a second like party streamers, dashing to the front door.
“Come on, Y’all!” She whined, looking back at them. “I’m serious! Get in the van.”
Based on little available comparison, Mom’s acting peculiar.
About five months before Sam turned eighteen, Mom searched him out as part of her 12-step program. He’s actually known her a lot longer.
He came out of his dealer’s house in a neighborhood everybody calls Sunset one day, and she was pacing the sidewalk in an oversized army surplus jacket.
“Hey man, wanna Rolex on the cheap? I’ve got Bulova here too,” She chattered, jerking her left arm, which was strapped with watches, into the air. Her deteriorated teeth were chomping like it was freezing, and she had some bald spots on her scalp. “Real cheap,” she repeated.
“No,” he said.
“C’mon man! What’s the matter, you don’t know how to tell time?” She squalled with a twisted grin. “Twenty for the Rolex, Thirty for the Bulova. Real cheap.”
He kept walking, making sure his eyes stayed on his truck, which was parked on the opposite side of the street. She followed him clear into the street.
“What about head, Man,” she said, lowering her voice to a gravelly, ghastly groan. “Throw in the Rolex,
man,” she said, speaking quickly and getting more desperate. “Thirty bucks, man. You don’t want me, I know a girl over yonder.”
He reached down to the front pocket of his jeans, and she seemed leery at first, unsure of what he was doing. He removed his hand from the pocket, in the shape of a fist. He removed his eye contact from the
pickup, and towards her. He threw a quarter at her.
“Go buy yourself some fuckin’ soap,” he said, diverting his attention away again. He got into his truck and drove past her.
“Hey, mother fucker! I know your dealers, asshole! All of ‘em! Better keep your door locked at night, ya’ queer!” She spit at his truck as it drove off.
“You will see me again!” He heard her screech faintly, from several blocks away.
“Bend this fuckin’ corner, again, bitch! You will see me!”
Two months later, she showed up at his door.
“You Samuel Kirkpatrick?” She said, one foot edged in the doorway.
“Uh,” he hesitated. “What do you want?”
“Are you Samuel, or not?” She growled.
“Yeah, Lady. What do you want?”
“Um...I’m,” she hemmed and hawed, rolling her eyes and neck around. “I’m your mother. Nice to meet you.”
She comes and visits him every so often. It was weird at first. Weirder now that Jenny’s moved in. For one thing, what is he supposed to call her?
“Mom” seems a stretch. “Wilma” seems strange too. She is in fact his mother, but she’s also someone he’s only been acquainted with for a year and two months. For a while on her visits, she would stay for about half an hour shooting the shit. Then, she’d ask him to take her to the Cue ‘n Brew, the dive her old boyfriend Billy Joe owns, and where she can always drink for free. Then she’d leave with Billy Joe. Since Jenny’s been living there though, she plays it straight. No bars. Her “Southern” colloquialism has gotten thicker and a little hard to handle, and she has erased all profanities from her vocabulary. Sam noticed, as he was looking at her on the way to the restaurant, her appearance has even improved. Her skin’s cleared up, leaving only the aftermath of her invisible bug infestation, and her hair and teeth are bleached. She’s lost about fifteen pounds since the last time she visited.
“Now, Jenny, what have you been up to, Gal?”
“Oh, nothing much, really. Same old,” Jenny replied softly from the back seat, acting bored.
“Sam, where is my grand-baby at tonight?”
“He’s with Tammy tonight. She said she’d watch her while we went out.”
Mom let out a sigh meant for the world to hear, and turned her head toward her passenger-side window. “Looks like it’s tryin’ to rain,” she said.