by Josie Wright
***
The motel room is as dingy as the outside promised, with faded wallpaper and a stained carpet. It looks like nothing has been changed since the 70s.
I kick off my Converse and unscrew the bottle, taking a swig. Leaning against the headboard, I run my hand through my short hair. Out of nowhere, the memory of Frankie tugging it when I rocked into her hits me. I let out a ragged breath and take another swig of the whiskey, letting it burn away the memories. One third of the bottle later, I set it down on the bedside table before I slide down the bed fully clothed and fall into a coma-like sleep.
After sleeping for nearly twenty hours, I wake up the next morning with a major headache. I guess my road diet of energy drinks and chips followed by whiskey isn’t agreeing with me.
Realizing I smell like death, I head for the shower. The bathroom is just as bad as the rest of the room, but I’m not planning to stay here longer than necessary. I ignore the mold that should have its own zip code and the ball of hair in the drain, as well as the grime on the tiles.
Instead, I look at myself in the mirror and see a guy I don’t recognize. Unshaven, dark circles under his brown eyes with a haunted look in them.
When I start to turn toward the shower, red lines running down my back jump out at me. It takes a moment to realize Frankie must’ve scratched me. Exhaling slowly, I close my eyes and allow myself to remember. Frankie underneath me, looking at me like I’m the fucking prize she’s wanted her whole life.
One thought about her and my cock is hard. You’d think with all the shit going on in my life I wouldn’t even be able to get it up. I slam my hand against the sink before I turn and step into the shower, letting the hot water wash over me.
My hand goes to my cock of its own accord, and before I realize it, I start jerking off to the memory of Frankie. The way she moved underneath me, the way her mouth felt on mine, and how I felt when I was inside her—home. It doesn’t take long until I come with a groan and shudder.
Still breathing hard, I grab the complimentary, cheap soap and wash off the past two days as best as I can. After drying off and getting dressed, I leave the motel and throw my bag into the truck before I head to last night’s diner for breakfast. Sometime between waking up from my stupor and getting out of the shower, I realized if I want to make it to Tucson alive, I need to eat real food once in a while.
I’m one of maybe ten guests and looking around this time, I see that the diner has seen better days. The seat covers are cracked, revealing the padding underneath, and the tables are scratched to hell. I chuckle, realizing that anything I currently come into contact with is just as fucked-up as my life. My truck, the motel, and now, the diner.
After some scrambled eggs, bacon, and sausage, I hit the road, angry music roaring through the truck. I try not to think, not to analyze what happened. I try not to remember moments from my childhood with my mother and the man I thought to be my father, but I don’t succeed.
Memories hit me out of nowhere, reminding me of the good times. Looking back, there were many. There were the yearly father and son trips with Ron. We went to the U.P. and camped out in the woods, cooking beans and sausages over the fire we made, talking about man stuff.
My heart squeezes in my chest when I think back to the camping trip when I was twelve and puberty was raging.
I was a little shit, talking back, getting into trouble at school. I didn’t even want to go on the trip, but he didn’t take no for an answer. We were sitting around the fire that night while the beans cooked. I’d been sulking for hours after he’d taken my MP3 player away. I was pissed off and instead of talking to him, I stared off into the darkness, not seeing much beyond the trees surrounding us, the crackling of the flames filling the silence. Ron interrupted my pity party, his deep voice carrying through the night.
“You know, Son, you can behave like a little shit all you want, I still love you. Always will. You’re going through a tough time, but we’ll get through it.” He paused for a moment, most likely allowing the words to sink in, before he added, “That is, if I don’t leave your sorry ass out in the woods.” He chuckled at his own joke, and no matter how cool I wanted to be, I couldn’t help the corner of my mouth lifting into a grin. I covered it up quickly.
“You suck, Dad.”
“I know and yet, you love me.” He grabbed me, pulling me to his side, and gave me a noogie.
I grip the steering wheel tighter, the knuckles on my hands turning white. My jaw is clenched as I relive one of the many moments that were a fucking lie. He isn’t my father, never was. My father is someone I don’t even know. Someone that hasn’t cared enough about me to look for me in all these years.
“Fuck.” I hit the steering wheel before turning up the music to the point it hurts my ears. Anything to distract me from my thoughts. Ironically, the next song to come on is Papa Roach’s “Broken Home” and I can’t bear it. The lyrics hit too close to home. I skip the song, choosing “Getting Away With Murder” instead.
The rest of the trip is pretty much the same. I stop for gas and food once before I make it to some small town in New Mexico by evening. I decide to look for a motel again and end up in another dingy shithole. I’ll be surprised if I don’t end this trip with a case of bed bugs or fleas.
I drop my stuff off in my room and decide to head out. There is a dive bar close to the motel. The inside pretty much resembles the outside. Washed-out truckers and local girls vying for their attention.
It’s quite pathetic.
Somehow, I feel right at home.
I sit down at the bar and order a whiskey. I’ve downed the first glass and order another when I’m suddenly encased in a cloud of cheap perfume. From the corner of my eye I see a girl, probably my age, but with all the makeup she looks ten years older.
“Hey, handsome.” She flashes me a smile and I notice some tacky gem stuck on her tooth. I can’t help but snort. The girl could be really pretty, but she looks cheap, trying too hard to get noticed.
I down the next shot and wait for a refill while desperately trying not to give her any ideas. Apparently, I fail as her hand suddenly trails down my shoulder.
“Sorry, not interested.” I’m trying to be polite, but there’s no point in getting her hopes up. Huffing, she slides off the stool. I hear her mutter “Asshole” under her breath as she passes me.
Yeah, that would be me. And I’m sure Frankie would agree. Fuck, here I go again thinking about Frankie. If I’m not thinking about how fucked-up my life is, or wondering how I’m going to find my real father, I’m thinking about her—how she felt, how she smelled and sounded, and how she probably hates my guts by now.
Just when I think it couldn’t get worse, some asshole decides to pick a song on the jukebox. Of all the songs in the fucking world, someone has to pick Kenny Rogers’s version of “Ain’t No Sunshine.” Someone should just shoot me and put me out of my misery.
This song gives me flashbacks to the night with Frankie. It only happened two nights ago, but it feels like a different life. I’m relieved when the song ends and some country tune comes on. To celebrate, I order another drink.
Thankfully, no more chicks try to gain my attention. After a few more shots, I stumble back to my motel, falling face first onto the bed that emanates a weird smell, but I’m too drunk to care. I fall into a dreamless sleep, and I’m fucking thankful for it.
The next morning I go through the same regimen as last time. I shower, jerk off thinking about Frankie, and head out to a small diner for breakfast. There I realize something—no matter how far I go, what state I’m in, everything repeats itself. The cheap motels, the diners with the middle-aged waitresses who seem to have lost every ounce of happiness, the washed-out truckers everywhere. It’s depressing.
Welcome to the American Dream.
After finishing my breakfast, I check out of the motel, get gas, and hit the road. I should make it to Tucson by evening. I only hope the lawyer will still be in his office by the time I ge
t there.
When I stop to fill up the gas tank again, the heat is suffocating. Being from the north, I’m not used to this kind of temperature, and it feels like it might singe my hair right off. I wouldn’t be surprised if smoke started to rise from my forearms. A few minutes out of the car and sweat is trickling down my forehead. Why does my grandmother have to have a house in Arizona? Alaska would have been a much nicer, and cooler, option.
Then again, I suppose hell rarely is a cool and breezy place; it is pretty fucking fitting I feel like I’m boiling alive since I’m in my own kind of hell.
Chapter 4
Home Sweet Fucking Home
It’s around six p.m. when I finally pull into the parking lot of Neale & Murphy. Only a handful of cars are still parked there. When I look toward the building, I see movement in some of the offices. I get out of the car and make my way to the three story building. Although it’s evening, the heat hasn’t lessened, making it hard to breathe.
I let out a sigh. “Here we go.”
I enter the building and take a deep breath, enjoying the air conditioned chill. There is a reception desk right across from me; a young woman in a business suit with her blond hair in a stern bun typing away on her computer. She only seems to notice me when I stand right in front of her desk. She takes stock of my appearance, her eyes quickly scanning over me. Her lips pull down in a frown in response, a look of disdain on her pretty face.
My first reaction is to tell her to go fuck herself before I realize how I must look to her. I haven’t shaved in days, and despite showering this morning,I’ve been on the road for nearly ten hours today. I look anything but fresh, my hair disheveled from my hands continuously running through it. My torn jeans and faded black shirt are wrinkled and probably smell to heaven and back. I wouldn’t be surprised if she called the cops to pick up the homeless guy who just walked into her building.
The disgusted look is quickly replaced with a professional and polite one as she flashes me a fake smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
“How can I help you, sir?”
I clear my throat. “I got a letter from Mr. Murphy about an inheritance from my grandmother. Is there a way I could see him tonight about it?”
“You’ll need to make an appointment, sir.” She still gives me the fake smile, but I can see the disapproval in her eyes when her gaze travels up and down my less-than-stellar appearance.
Unfortunately for her, I’m currently out of patience.
“Listen, lady. I drove here all the way from Michigan. I’ve been on the road for longer than I care to think about. I’ve slept in motels that should be closed down by the CDC. And, I would like to take care of this shit now, not tomorrow. Let me speak to Mr. Murphy. Then you’ll never have to see my face again.” My voice has risen, and my breathing is coming out in hard bursts. I’m exhausted and pissed off.
Her mouth is in a hard line when she grabs the phone, and I’m convinced she’s calling the cops or security.
“Mr. Murphy, there is someone to see you. Apparently it’s urgent.”
She pauses for a moment, looking up at me. “What’s your name?”
“Benjamin Gibson. I’m here about Margret Andrews’ will.”
She repeats the information, then proceeds to say “Okay” a number of times before hanging up.
“Third floor, straight ahead once you step out of the elevator.” With that, she turns back to her computer, ignoring me completely. Fine by me.
“Thanks,” I say before taking off in the direction she pointed out.
As soon as I step out of the elevator on the third floor, the door across from me opens and a middle-aged man with grey hair and beard walks toward me. Unlike his receptionist, he doesn’t bat an eye at my appearance. He even shakes my hand.
“Mr. Gibson. Nice to meet you. I’m Daniel Murphy. Please, follow me.”
We step into his office and he offers me a seat before sitting down behind his desk.
“Would you like something to drink?” he asks and points to the side table with an assortment of beverages.
I eye the whiskey for a second, but then shake my head. “No, thanks.”
“I’m sure you’re here about my letter concerning your grandmother’s will. I didn’t expect to see you here and definitely not this soon.”
I don’t want to make small talk, but right now this guy is the only person who can give me any information about my father.
“I thought it’d be a nice road trip.”
“Forgive me if I say that you don’t look like you enjoyed it very much.”
Yeah, no shit, is what I want to say, but instead I go with, “It was a bit tiring.” I leave it at that, not going into any detail.
He seems to sense my hesitance and sits up straighter.
“It wasn’t easy to get ahold of you, young man. It took us a few months to figure out where you live now since your last name has changed and we weren’t aware. It’s been a bit of a challenge, I must say. But that’s what your grandmother paid us for, I suppose.”
He smiles at me. “Well, why don’t we get down to business so you can catch up on some sleep?”
I’m sure he also thinks I should catch up on a shower and shaving. Can’t say I really blame him.
“That’d be great.”
“Your grandmother has left you everything. Her house, which is old, but should still be worth something. Her car. Some money. I’ll just need you to sign some papers and then I can hand over the keys.”
“Wow. Why would she leave it to me?” I ask, feeling a bit confused. I’ve never met that woman, didn’t even know she existed. She never tried to contact me and now she just leaves me everything she has.
“From what I understand, you’re her only family.”
I feel like he punched me in the stomach; my breath leaves my lungs in a whoosh. Does that mean my father is dead? Will I never meet him?
“What about my father?” I inquire, my voice strained.
For the first time, Mr. Murphy looks a bit uncomfortable, shifting in his chair, clearing his throat a few times.
“Mr. Gibson…may I call you Benjamin?”
Great, he wants to build a foundation of trust.
“Ben,” I reply.
“From what I understand, you haven’t met your father. Is that correct?”
I don’t want to rehash my fucked-up life with this stranger, but I want answers.
“I didn’t even know he existed,” I reply, my teeth clenched. I notice I’m bouncing my leg.
“Sorry. Listen, Ben, I don’t know the details. But your father, he’s not well. He’s been in a mental health institution for many years now. He’s in no place to take over your grandmother’s house. The only person left is you.”
I don’t move for a moment, except for blinking frantically. The relief that washes over me when I hear my father is alive is quickly replaced by the shock over what Mr. Murphy just told me. My father, a man I never met, never knew existed, is in a mental hospital. My mind is spinning and for a moment, everything goes out of focus. Is he basically telling me my father is crazy?
When I look back at him, sympathy is clearly written all over his face.
“Do you know where my father is? What…” I pause. “What institution?”
“Yes. It’s in the file. I’ll be right back. My secretary has already gone home, so I’ll have to fetch it myself.” He gives me an apologetic smile. As he walks past me, he gives me a pat on the shoulder.
Once he’s out of the room, I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees and running my hands over my face. Fuck. How did I get into this nightmare? For a second I wish I’d gone out with Dave right after class and spent the night partying. By the time I would have gotten home, I’m sure the letter would have disappeared.
A few minutes later, Mr. Murphy comes back, and I sit up straight.
“Okay Ben, first I’ll need you to sign the papers here and here.” He points to the lines I’m supposed to put my signature
on. I know the smart thing would be to read what I’m signing, but I just don’t give a fuck. As soon as the papers are signed, he hands me an envelope.
“Everything you’ll need is in there. Papers, keys, and the name of the institution where your father is.” He hands it to me and follows it up with his business card. “If you need anything, don’t hesitate to call me.”
I nod at him and shake his hand. “Thanks.” Making my way out of the office, I head toward the stairs instead of the elevator, hoping the exercise will lessen the anxiety I feel.
I step out into the hot air, leaving the coolness of the office building behind. Sitting in my truck, I open the envelope. I look through the papers, put the keys for the house in my pocket, and then stare at the neatly handwritten note. It’s the address and phone number of St. Michael’s Hospital.
So, this is where I can find my father. Locked away in God-knows-what kind of state. Visions of straightjackets and padded cells swirl in my mind.
I start the truck and make my way through Tucson to find my new home. It takes me a while, especially since I don’t have my phone to search the address. I stop twice to ask for directions, not wanting to spend the night driving through the city.
Two hours after arriving at the lawyer’s office, I pull onto a quiet street. It’s nothing fancy. Just a nice, middle-class neighborhood. There are kids riding their bikes outside, and I see people sitting on their porches. It’s so idyllic I want to barf.
I see a father playing football with his son in the front yard and it makes my heart ache. Shaking my head, I continue down the street in search of my grandmother’s house. I have no idea what it looks like, so I have to rely on scanning the house numbers. Halfway down the street, I spot it and pull into the driveway.