At Night She Cries, While He Rides His Steed

by Ross Patterson

  “I will.”

  I throw on my clothes and walk out the front door just in time to see my horse dismount Ron’s horse. We both nod at each other for a job well done. As I’m pulling away, Sheila waves at me from the front porch. With the revenge factor taken care of with Ron, my mind shifts to my gold problem, and killing the rest of the Schläger brothers.

  Per usual, I stop by the river outside my house to wash off my dick and balls. I only wish my dead son was able to be downriver so he could taste this. I dunk my entire body underwater and sit at the bottom of the river. A bright orb of light shines in front of my face in the water. I wipe my eyes and refocus, finally making out the image. It’s Totally Fucking Mexico! He’s staring straight at me, almost looking through me. In a Tree of Life whisper I hear him say the words, “I forgive you, Father . . . I can taste this water.”

  “Fuck. Yeah. That makes me happy.”

  His ghost then high-fives me before vanishing. I smile, at peace with myself and the life decisions I’ve made. I knew he’d understand. Realizing I’ve been underwater for almost eight minutes, I rise to the surface, gasping for air. I see the moon shining down on his dead, gold statue out in the yard, so I throw up an index finger in the air out of respect, like when Kobe left the court after dropping eighty-one on the Raptors.

  Walking out of the river, I air-dry up to the house, where I see Daniel waiting for me on the front porch. He nods at me with a knowing smirk. To answer your question, no, I’m not uncomfortable being buck naked in front of my sons, either. I want them to know what they will look like in adulthood. It’s a lot better than what any of their bullshit female teachers could teach them about puberty and becoming a man. This is the real shit, hanging brains right in his face. Daniel knows this and respects it.

  “I know what you did out at Ron’s farm, Dad.”

  “You do?”

  He nods his head, “Yeah. I just want you to know . . . I shut the windows so Mom wouldn’t hear.”

  “Thank you. That’s what a real man does. I’m proud of you.”

  My dong grazes against his head as I lean in and hug him. Slightly embarrassed, I take a step back, realizing this is the first time I’ve ever hugged him. I take a seat next to him on the porch and grab a small tobacco tin that rests on the step. Shaking the remaining water off my hands, I pull out a couple rolling papers and hand-roll us two cigarettes just like my dad did for me around eight years old. He strikes a match off the porch and lights our smokes.

  With his first inhale, he coughs a little, and I laugh at him and call him a bitch. It’s one of those magical moments in life where you’re able to sit down buck naked on the porch with your son after you’ve just fucked your neighbor’s wife and share a smoke.

  “Look at you trying to puff tough! I love it,” I say to him.

  “Are these things healthy for me?” Daniel asks, as he looks at the cigarette.

  “A lot healthier than that bullshit milk your mom gives you. When’s the last time you were at the doctor’s office and he wasn’t smoking?”

  “Never.”

  “Exactly. Now, when’s the last time you rolled into the doctor’s and he was relaxing, drinking a warm glass of milk? Never. That was knowledge I just gave you.”

  “I guess you’re right. What are you going to do about the Schlägers, Dad? Kill everyone in sight and take their gold?”

  “I have to assess the situation and see how many there are. I don’t want any more of you guys getting offed. I’m a fucking amazing human being, but I’m only one man. But yes, more than likely I’ll start killing everyone real soon.”

  “If you need any help or a human shield or anything, I’m in.”

  “I don’t think that will ever be necessary, but it’s nice to know you’d do something like that for me.”

  “I’m tough, Dad. I will prove myself to you.”

  “You already have. I saw that Schläger you took out in the woods. Nice fucking work. See you tomorrow, cowboy.”

  I stand up and take one last drag off my cigarette before flicking it off into the yard. With the calmness of a rapist, I ease up the stairs of the house and sneak into bed with Louretta. I can still hear her sobbing as she stares out the window at the golden statue of our dead son in the yard.

  “I’m going into town in the morning to make funeral arrangements. Do you want to come with me?” I ask.

  “No. I can’t bear to see those tiny coffins.”

  “Have you thought about cremation? We sure could use the gold right about now.”

  “Don’t you fucking dare! Our son deserves a proper burial!”

  “Okay, we’ll table that convo for the night.”

  The following morning we eat our breakfast in silence, and for the first time in forever, it does not consist of gold. Have you ever eaten eggs or pancakes without gold on them? Let me tell you, it sucks. This is my first taste of poverty in a few years, and I am not fucking happy about it. I throw down my fork and head out, stopping only to rub the golden statue of my dead son for good luck.

  Riding through the town street, I notice more people staring at me than usual. I look down to see if I have forgotten to place my cock inside my jeans, which happens more often than you think. This time we’re all clear. Upon closer examination, I see everyone holding the morning newspaper. The headline reads, “Four-Year-Old Boy Killed from Being Dipped into Scalding Hot Gold,” and the article is by Ron Paulson. See what deep-dicking someone’s wife will get you? Respect. Men tip their hats toward me in silence as I pull up in front of Curly’s Funeral Parlor.

  When I walk inside, I’m immediately greeted by the owner, Curly, a burly sixty-five-year-old man who sports a large, gray handlebar mustache. His name is ironic, because he doesn’t have a single hair on his head. This son of a bitch is also way too fucking chipper about owning a funeral parlor.

  “How are you today, sir?” he asks with pep.

  “Well, I’m at a goddamn funeral parlor. You?”

  “Are you looking for something for you, or someone else?”

  “No, it’s not for me. I’m probably going to live forever. My four-year-old son passed away.”

  Curly shoots a look over to a newspaper laid out next to the register. He nods and looks down, wringing his hands nervously.

  “Yeah, I’m real sorry to hear about that. I read about it in the paper this morning. We have some nice coffins along the wall over here.”

  I point to a small-sized one in the corner. “How much for that one?”

  “One hundred dollars. That’s an excellent choice for your child.”

  “Oh, that one isn’t for my child. That one is in case my dick and balls get detached or just fall off my body from too much usage. I want my package to have a proper burial as well.”

  “Um, okay.”

  “No, my boy is going to need an adult-sized coffin. The gold has obviously added a lot of extra height and width to him.”

  “I understand. The adult ones are fifty dollars more.”

  I go to pull some gold from my pockets, when it suddenly dawns on me that I don’t have any more. Nothing. Not even a little nugget hiding in my boot. Shit, I totally forgot that I threw the rest of it on the ground at the deed office. Panic sets in as my eyes dart around the room.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t have any gold on me right now; it’s all on my son. Wow, I feel really embarrassed. This is like being bald and having a name like Curly, am I right?”

  Curly laughs loudly and wipes his bald head with a handkerchief, trying to make me laugh. It’s totally fake and canned. Following up that gem, he does a shitty little dance like he’s a tiny monkey, which is also awkward and forced. As I’m watching this charade unfold, that’s when two sacked plums smack me square in the chin: Holy shit, this is what polite people do to the poor to make them feel comfortable. This is the kind of shit that used to happen to me before I was rich.

  My heart starts racing, and I blurt out, “I’ll be back, sir. Just let me go ba
ck home and get some more gold. I definitely have a lot more of it. Gold, that is. Stacks of it. I’m just grieving. I’m going to grab a drink and get my mind right.”

  Curly takes a silver dollar out of his pocket and flips it to me. “Here. The first one is on me. I can’t imagine what you’re going through right now.”

  I snatch the coin out of the air and stare at it, lost in thought. Not only did someone try to cheer me up for being poor, but now he’s giving me money. That’s my thing; I throw money at people. Usually it’s followed by laughter and the phrase “Here you go, broke dick” or “Thanks, whore.” Now this bald son of a bitch is treating me like a shoeshine boy. I debate throwing the coin back in his face and then pissing my surname all over the coffins, but the sad truth is, I can’t because I really want a fucking drink. Feeling completely out of my element, I catch myself bowing to him like a grateful butler, before turning and quickly leaving.

  As I walk down Main Street, the townspeople’s looks toward me seem more prevalent. Instead of thinking that everyone is looking at me for having the dead child dipped in gold, I begin to wonder if they pity me because I’m poor. Paranoia has set in, and I pull my hat down over my eyes as I walk toward the saloon, trying not to make eye contact with anyone.

  Luckily, it’s so early in the morning that there are not many patrons inside, and I’m able to take a seat at the bar alone. I could really use a good whore sesh right now, but I’ll be goddamned if I’m going to end up as one of those poor bastards who’s getting an HJ underneath a table out in the open for a quarter. Manuel comes over and greets me warmly. I notice an open newspaper on the bar, and I know what’s coming.

  “Sorry about your son, Saint James.”

  “It’s fine. I have six more and probably one on the way after last night. Just get me a shot of whiskey.”

  He grabs a bottle under the bar and pours me a shot. Without looking at him, I take the silver dollar out and slide it across the bar. From behind me, a hand slams down on top of the coin. I immediately grab my gun and turn to see the eldest Schläger brother, Sven, standing over me with a shit-eating grin.I He looks down at the silver dollar and laughs.

  “Well, the famous Saint James Street James is paying in silver? Ain’t that a sight? Something happen to all your gold?”

  “Gold is overrated these days. People act like they’re made out of it.”

  Knowing I would I run into the Schlägers, I came prepared. I pull out a small glass jar that I tucked inside my boot and slam it on top of the bar. A set of two testicles wobble around inside the jar. Sven looks at me curiously.

  “What the fuck are those?”

  “Those are your brother’s nuts. I’d ask him if he wants them back, but he’s dead.”

  Sven turns around toward a table in the back and starts counting his brothers on his fingers. He seems confused. Finally he just yells out, “Hey, did we lose another brother?”

  All of his brothers start counting one another. It’s a shit show. By my estimate, there are somehow seventeen Schlägers. The brothers have almost doubled from yesterday.

  “Jesus, man, how many brothers do you have?”

  “As fast as our sisters can make ’em.”

  “Is that supposed to be menacing? Because it sounds fucking disgusting!”

  “Disgusting for you. We don’t die, we multiply. That’s what West Virginia does all up in your butthole.”

  I quick-draw my gun and put it under his chin. “There has never been a man up in my butthole. Understand?”

  All at once I can hear the sounds of guns being drawn. I turn slowly and see a wide variety of different guns pointed at me: pistols, shotguns, even a few muskets. One of the brothers is holding what appears to be a sharpened tree branch. Manuel pulls out a shotgun from underneath the bar and fires it into the ceiling.

  “Hey, boys, I don’t want any more blood spilled in my bar.”

  I nod and put my gun away, as do the Schlägers. The one guy with the sharpened tree branch throws it on the ground.

  “Out of respect for you and your beautiful whorehouse establishment, I’ll go, Manny,” I say as I take the shot of whiskey and slam the glass down on the bar. On the way out, I eye-fuck the shit out of Sven.

  “I’ll see you soon,” I say, holding up seven fingers in his face.

  “Do you want us to come to your son’s funeral?”

  “That’s sweet, but you guys would probably be disappointed. My wife isn’t serving shit for food afterward.”

  “I was thinking we could just bring fourteen carrots,” he says.

  Sven and his brothers laugh like it’s the funniest thing they’ve ever heard. I stop at the double doors, briefly thinking about turning and killing him right then and there. Better judgment gets the best of me, and I keep walking toward my steed.

  The ride home feels like an acid trip. All I can see in front of me is Sven’s shit-eating grin and Curly’s look of surprise when I reached into my empty pockets, unable to pay for my kid’s funeral. My world is crumbling. I don’t want to go back to being a farmer, or a guy who has to get HJs out in the middle of the bar in front of everyone.

  The glow of the sun from my kid’s dead, golden statue hits me in the face and brings me back to life as I pull up in front of my house. I wonder if Louretta would be pissed if I just chopped off a pinky? That would pay for the funeral, and at least five or six whorehouse sessions—that’s all I keep thinking as she hugs me when I walk into the house.

  “How did it go? Did you pick out a nice casket?”

  “Well, the good news is that it doesn’t cost an arm and a leg, but it will probably cost a pinky.”

  “No! Absolutely not!”

  “They took all of our gold and melted it onto our child. We have nothing left. How do you expect me to pay for it?”

  “I don’t know. You’re the man of the house, figure it out. Dinner is ready.”

  I throw my cowboy hat against the wall in frustration. Women never fully realize that shit costs money. On the kitchen table I notice a giant bowl of cabbage stew. I’m now officially living in Poverty, USA.

  Staring at my stew, I glance up at the now-empty gold shaker and see Sven’s fat face pop up inside of it. He begins laughing at me again with that shit-eating grin. Just as I hit my breaking point, the worst thought I’ve ever had enters my mind.

  Look, I’ve done a lot of fucked up things in my life, but this may be the worst. Shocked that I’m even considering this, I push my bowl of stew away from me and excuse myself from the table.

  “I’m gonna go outside and have a smoke,” I mumble.

  Louretta doesn’t even look at me as I leave. Grabbing my tin on the front porch, I roll myself a heater and stare straight ahead, directly at the outhouse. As I smoke, I think about how much gold we’ve all consumed as a family over time and how many times collectively we’ve all gone to the bathroom out there. There has to be a small fortune underneath that crapper. I take a long, deep drag on the cigarette and exhale knowingly. Fuck me.

  Sometimes a man has to do what the fuck he has to do in order to survive. I light a lantern with my cigarette before taking one last drag. Unenthusiastically, I take off my shirt and tie it around my face, taking in one last deep breath before walking toward the outhouse. Let it be known that today is the day I take shit into my own hands.

  * * *

  I. I’m not kidding, there is actual human shit in his teeth. People eat their own shit for fun in West Virginia, which is where that phrase originated.

  Chapter Seven

  THE STRENGTH OF A MAN CAN ONLY BE MEASURED BY HOW MUCH HE CAN LIFT

  The following morning I’m awakened by the sound of flies swarming inside a metal bucket next to me, as I lay sprawled out in the barn. The stench is so raw that I throw up within seconds. I cover my nose and look inside the bucket, seeing a stack of little chunks of gold covered in my family’s shit. Sweet fucking Jesus, that wasn’t a nightmare; I actually did this.

  I stagger do
wn to the river, grab a bucket of water, and rinse the remaining shit off with my fingers. There aren’t a whole lot of words to express how vile and disgusting this is. When the gold is finally separated, I put the chunks inside a small leather pouch and tuck it in the pocket of my jeans. I bump into Louretta as she walks out of the house with a large basket full of laundry.

  “Why did you sleep in the barn last night?” she asks.

  “I had some shit to sort out. I’m going into town to go get the casket and post an obituary after I wash up.”

  She stares at me suspiciously. “How are you going to pay for the casket?”

  “Don’t worry. I’m a man, I figured it out. Go tell Daniel I want him to come with me after I take a bath, will you?”

  She looks at me, surprised, and says, “Okay.”

  After I wash the shit off me, I head over to the barn to tie a covered wagon to my steed. Daniel runs out of the house excitedly. He’s wearing jeans and cowboy boots, and holding his shirt, like a young motherfucking me.

  “You wanted me to come with you, Dad?”

  “Yeah, on three conditions. One, let’s not be so fucking excited. We’re going to pick out a casket for your dead brother, so let’s ease up on the smiles. Two, start working out your pecs. Seven years old is the proper age to start getting ripped, so you should probably start an aggressive push-up routine as early as tomorrow. Three, do you know how to fire a gun? If not, it’s time you learned. Get in.”

  I throw him down a holster with two pistols in it. He tries to suppress his excitement as he hops up into the wagon. Normally, I wouldn’t take my kid with me into town, but this time I might need an extra man on the trigger.

  An hour later, our wagon rolls down Main Street, and the first thing I see is a couple drunken Schläger brothers stumbling around. They point up at me and laugh. I stop the wagon and stand up, revealing my two pearl-handled pistols.

  “Are we fucking doing this? Who wants to get wet?”

  The two drunken brothers immediately back down. Daniel looks shaken, but I notice his right hand tapping one of his guns. This little fucker is clutch, and I like his heart. Someone like Ron, his first instinct would have been to hide in the covered wagon, throw a scarf around his face, and fake a British accent in a woman’s voice like Mrs. Doubtfire to avoid the sitch. Not my boy. I snap the reins on my steed, and we continue riding to Curly’s Funeral Parlor. Daniel looks up at me as we pull in.