by B. C. Sirrom
The Little Death
By B. C. Sirrom
Introduction
I was born in rural West Virginia. I won’t bother telling you where; there weren’t any towns close by. The name won’t mean anything to you, and you’ll have to pretend you know where it is. There is not much there; I got out as soon as possible. Maybe I should have stayed. Maybe it happened because I left. It’s too late to go back now.
I’m sorry. I’m rambling.
My name is Jon Elvis Walker.
I am going to be completely honest. You deserve that, at least, even if you don’t deserve what will happen after.
My Eighteenth Birthday
“Does everything look ‘normal’, doc?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t see anything...anything weird in my blood work?”
“Did you expect me to?”
I gave a weak laugh, “Nah, not really.” I didn’t tell the army doctor about my fears or about the college professor who studied my family. The professor called us ‘Melungeons’; we call ourselves ‘American’. He was doing research and found us, to use his word, fascinating. Yes, I looked different from the boys I went to school with. They treated me like an outsider, even though my family lived in the county just as long as theirs. Longer, depending on who you asked. I didn’t tell the doctor any of this. I didn’t want to endanger my enlistment.
The doctor mistook my silence for uncertainty. “You sure you want to do this, son? They stopped the draft, you know.”
“Sure. I mean, ‘Yes, Sir’. I want this.” I wanted this more than the old veteran could imagine. I knew lots of guys who joined up. They wanted money for school or just didn’t know what else to do. A few had higher ideals, like patriotism. I was joining to blend in, to be anonymous. Neither popular nor overtly talented in any way, I did well enough in school. I did extremely well considering I had no place to study in a house full of dirty, crying babies. But, I am no scholar. I only wanted out and didn’t care how.
I don’t look like the recruits they show on the posters. The politically correct demographic slice of Americana: one white guy, one black guy and one woman, ethnicity may vary. My features are strikingly European with thin lips and straight narrow nose. But, my hair is reminiscent of a Native American’s. It’s severely straight and unrelenting black. I’ve heard people call me ‘olive-skinned’. I think I just look tan...year-round. Then there are my eyes. My mother called them bedroom eyes, but she was talking about my father. Ghost gray and heavy-lidded, I always look just a little bit sleepy. Individually, my characteristics are ordinarily unremarkable. As a composition, I am a foreigner in my own country. Foreign, but I'm not alone.
My entire family looks like me, or rather me like them. The men are all but identical. My father, uncles, and brothers all share the same bizarre likeness. My mother was fair with freckles and strawberry blonde hair. Her genes must have been erased by my father’s prolific ones. I was the first son by my father’s second wife. He is on number three now. She is pretty and young. Despite being twenty years my father’s junior, she is fading as my mother did. Consecutive pregnancies, rearing a herd of children and menial jobs are wearing her. Soon, she will look like father’s contemporary.
My father. For all his faults, he is a handsome devil. Lazy. Witty. Affectionate. That is my father. When he desires, I have seen him charm the cruelest old battleaxe into a simpering school girl with little more than a wink. My elder brothers are the same. All able to charm their way with women, and each had a child before they gave up on high school. They were content with their predictable lot in life. I wasn’t. I avoided contact with girls. I like girls. I like girls a whole lot. They are beautiful and mysterious. However, my family’s proven fertility kept me in check. I wouldn’t risk an unexpected pregnancy.
The doctor finally finished his exam and made notes on the paperwork. I glanced over, trying to read his writing upside-down. I had left the box by ethnicity unchecked on my form. I couldn’t decipher his comments, but he took the liberty of marking ‘other’ for my cultural background.
Yeah, that’s me...Other.