Inheritance and Other Stories

by Jarod Powell

  To escape the morning heat blasting through the window, he hung his body into the open cab of the refrigerator. His brown knuckles anchored over the top of the freezer, his eyes closed. His paunchy torso bent forward, as if he had given up the ghost and was mistakenly being drawn toward the friendlier light inside the refrigerator. The tetrafluoroethane penetrated his boxer shorts. This was bluntly painful, but kept him from completely wilting and became a familiar sensation after a few seconds.

  He did not sleep the night before because the head of the household caught him in the act. Panicked, he ran home. He thought the old man would come for him—either alone, or with his friends.

  Anyone’s house is easy to find in a small town. His home was especially marked, as he was the only black man to stay in that trailer park past Vietnam.

  His morning meditation--awkwardly leaning into the refrigerator dazed and numb--was an unplanned pose between struggled sleep and a psychic augury, and when the angry beating on the door started moments later, he did not respond.

  He mockingly welcomed them into his home. He let them come in with bruised hands and swollen knuckles.

  He became okay with what would happen. In the midst of his demise, he sought oblivion. He opened his eyes and fixed them on the refrigerator light until the spots took up his whole vision. He saw nothing and felt nothing, and once he was completely blinded, shut his eyes tight so that no light could pass through.

  He imagined where his own body might be found later on, and tried to send the images in signals to his mother back in Mississippi. He took one more moment to fantasize about the old white men’s mug shots on the local news. They were red-faced and scrunched and wrinkled and constipated, aligned in a chart and captioned by their Christian names.

  He opened his eyes when the trailer door swung open. The husbands were breathing like cattle and were tense. He could only smile.

  He turned around to face them. They assessed him with a collective look of physical arousal. Until they met, he figured that they didn’t want to kill him, but they were forced by an obligation to protect their property, or maybe Caucasian peer pressure. He liked to think they wouldn’t enjoy it.

  As they approached him he considered talking his way out of it. Instead he stared up at the ceiling as if to tell them to get it over with, and it was over quickly. Even he thought so.

  When they found his bones in an old silo, no one was able to identify them.

  Decision 2008

  Following is a transcript of the debate between Travis Archer, Sr. and Travis Archer, Jr. at 1139 County Highway 375, Hawthorn, Missouri, as recorded by Henry and Courtney Archer.

  JILL ARCHER: Good evening from the Archer House in Hawthorn, Missouri. I’m the current Mrs. Travis Archer, otherwise known as Jill, the arguable matriarch of this household. Welcome to the first and hopefully last formal debate between Travis Archer, Jr. of Hawthorn, Missouri, and Travis Archer, Sr., of Russelville, Arkansas.

  This is of course not a real debate, but a straw-grasping experiment suggested by our overworked family counselor, Arimedes Rozdzial, who I suppose could be called a sponsor for tonight’s debate. Tonight’s discussion will cover a wide range of topics, including prescription drug abuse and infidelity.

  It will be divided roughly into five-minute segments. Each candidate will have 90 seconds to respond to a direct question and then an additional two minutes for rebuttal and follow-up, or until I inevitably tell them to shut the hell up, because apparently I love to nag. The order has been determined by “rock paper scissors.”

  The specific subjects and questions were chosen by me and have not been shared or cleared with anyone in this house, and well, this is the most control I was able to sanction over anything, ever, in the history of this marriage, so the debaters can stop being such pussies about it.

  The audience here in the house, which really just consists of the other two apparently-neglected younger children who insisted on videotaping this, probably for the Dr. Phil show as a scheme to earn college money that they will surely spend on alcohol and/or give to a religious isolationist cult, has promised to remain very polite, no cheers, applause, no untoward outbursts, against their very nature, except at this minute now, as we welcome Travis Archer, Jr. and Travis Archer, Sr.

  (JEERS)

  TRAVIS ARCHER, JR.: What are we doing? What is this?

  TRAVIS ARCHER, SR.: Shut up, don’t upset your stepmother. Let’s get this over with before Glenn Beck comes on.

  JILL: Welcome, boys. As we have determined by “rock paper scissors,” the first question will go to Travis, Sr., with a 90-second follow-up from Travis, Jr.

  You mentioned yesterday that Travis, Jr.’s grades, to use your word, “suck.” What specifically, Honey, is lacking in Travis Jr.’s school work?

  ARCHER, SR.: Let me begin by saying that Dr. Rozdzial, the sponsor tonight, is grossly overpaid and he should consider the quarter of my monthly income he already receives as the customary “thank you.” I’d also like to add that, the only reason you got to be moderator is because your flower-padded skull thinks no wrong, according to the good doc. Seriously, that Israeli fruitcake has had a boner for you since day one.

  To sum it up, Jr.’s record is mediocre at-best. His whole plan for moving back to our house, for the third time I might add, was centered around the idea that his grades would improve if he was allowed to live with us again. They have improved though, from a 1.0 to a whopping 2.0 GPA in the course of a year.

  JILL: Thank you, douchebag. Jr.?

  ARCHER, JR.: This is stupid.

  JILL: No response to the question presented, Jr.?

  ARCHER, JR.: My response is that if this does end up on Dr. Phil, I will kill all of you, then myself. Also, my grades are fine.

  JILL: Travis, Sr., the point has been made on several occasions that a whole grade-point improvement in one year is very difficult to achieve. Do you believe you should give any credit at all for that achievement, despite the relatively-low overall GPA?

  ARCHER, SR.: I think he’s simply not doing enough to improve them. An entire grade-point is great, if the GPA wasn’t already in the toilet.

  JILL: Jr., you may respond.

  ARCHER, JR.: Oh, I may respond, huh? Jill, I never liked you. You play favorites with me and it’s pathetic. This whole thing is pretty queer.

  (LAUGHTER)

  JILL: Thank you, Jr. We shall come back to your lingering adolescent rage a little bit later. Now, I want to talk about a prevalent sickness in American family – the male adult rage issue. I’ll start with you, Jr. Is your father a chronic self-loather, does he suffer from a persecution complex, or is he simply an insufferable, numb-skulled chauvinist?

  ARCHER, JR.: I’m glad you asked that, Jill. All three, but most notably, the last one. I would like to add, though, that it’s not just prevalent among males.

  ARCHER, SR.: You’re right. You’re a pretty big diva yourself, sweet cheeks.

  ARCHER, JR.: Did you just call me sweet cheeks?

  ARCHER, SR.: See, Jill, this is exactly what I’m talking about. Most normal guys would just laugh off a comment like that. But old Travie Jr. here takes it to heart and scrunches a big, dramatic shocked look on his smooth little face, and pouts like a little girl. You walk around here with your bleeding-heart liberal arts education crap, telling us to stop eating meat and to stop using the “N” word in jokes. They’re just jokes, Son!

  ARCHER, JR.: They show your ignorance. I’m dating a black girl, you know.

  ARCHER, SR.: That’s great, Son! I’m just relieved it’s not a dude. And Jill, you aren’t being very objective.

  ARCHER, JR.: And what if it was a dude? And Glenn Beck isn’t very objective, either. He’s bloated and annoying, like you.

  JILL: Boys, neither one of you answered to my satisfaction. But we must move on. Travis, Sr., there was a huge controversy recently found, in your Nissan 4-door, white residue on the console. You insinuated that it could possibly be
residue from cocaine or some other illegal substance. In fact, you stated, “If I find any more evidence that you are a crackhead, I am kicking your ass and calling the police, you little dweeb.” Do you still believe you were accurate in what you saw? If not, do you think you may have overreacted?

  ARCHER, SR.: Do you really think, Jill, that Travis had his easy bake oven in my thirty-thousand dollar truck, making cookies from scratch? That shit ain’t flour.

  (LAUGHTER FROM COURTNEY AND HENRY)

  JILL: Can I take that as a no, to both parts of the question?

  ARCHER, SR.: That’s correct.

  JILL: Travis, Jr., care to respond?

  ARCHER, JR.: It wasn’t cocaine, it was crushed codeine. And it wasn’t mine. It was Matt’s. He snorts it because it works faster that way. He had a root canal.

  ARCHER, SR.: Oh, Jesus. You’re such rock stars.

  (LAUGHTER)

  JILL: Let’s move on. Travis, Sr., I have washed several loads of laundry over the past couple of weeks –

  ARCHER, SR.: Yes, I think you should wash more often. At least twice a week.

  JILL: That wasn’t my question. And don’t cut me off, Sweetie. Several loads of laundry contained a couple of your work shirts with what appeared to be trace amounts of a woman’s cheap foundation. Of course, I can’t be sure, because it’s a tacky orange color, nothing any respectable woman would wear. My question is, do you really usually work until 8? Or - ?

  ARCHER, JR.: - He’s cheating on you.

  ARCHER, SR.: I’m going to kill you, you little twerp.

  (LAUGHTER)

  JILL: Kids, be quiet. This isn’t a joke.

  ARCHER, SR.: Yes, kids, this is a joke. This is exactly the kind of crap you would see on Dr. Phil. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s where the good doctor got this idea! Which brings me to my only question to you, Jill: Are you fucking the counselor? Because this seems like an idea concocted by that New Age bozo to sabotage our family. Wouldn’t that be convenient. Turn the camera off.

  JILL: Kids, don’t you turn that camera off! This is the point of this experiment! To provide a clear boundary in which to reach out of our comfort zones and discuss what we need to discuss!

  ARCHER, SR.: That makes no fucking sense, Honey!

  JILL: This concludes tonight’s debate. I’d like to thank our sponsor Arimedes for –

  ARCHER, SR.: Oh, stop it, Jill. Courtney, do what Daddy says and turn the camera off.

  JILL: Thank you, everyone, for not humoring me into thinking this could actually work. Goodnight, everyone.