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Surf music plays. A male voice says:
Christopher Gronlund presents Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors. Read by me, the author, Christopher Gronlund.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“The Writing on the Wall”
We drove along for a good hour before I summoned the courage to tell Mom what happened to Lucky. I was surprised she didn’t ask where he was before then.
“Mom?” I said, hoping the tone of my voice wouldn’t give me away right from the start.
“What, Michael?” she said.
“Can I tell you something without you getting mad at me?”
“What did you do, now?” she said.
So much for easing my way into things—I cut to the chase. “Mom, I dropped Lucky into an alligator tank by accident and it ate him.” I cringed, expecting her to be one hundred percent serious when she told Dad to turn the car around to Jersey so she could beat me senseless with the sauce ladle. Instead, she was calm.
“You dropped him into an alligator tank and it ate him?” she said.
“Yeah. I’m really sorry—I didn’t mean to. He was fighting with me and slipped. Please don’t be mad.”
“I’m not mad,” she said.
I pinched myself to see if I was dreaming. “You’re not?”
“No,” she said. “But I do think there’s something wrong with you. Lucky’s right here.”
She held the beast up where I could see him. He stared at me and I’ve never been more terrified in my life.
“Lucky was back in the car, waiting for me,” she said. “I don’t know what you let him get into or why you let him loose, but he was fine once I cleaned him up.
I closed my eyes and wondered if I was sane. Everything seemed disjointed, like I was disappearing, or floating in space.
“We should drop Michael into an alligator tank!” I heard Olivia say. She sounded far away, or like I was underwater.
Then Elvis: “Yeah, that would be fun!”
I was going insane—that had to be it! I saw Honky eat Lucky whole; there was no way Lucky could have escaped! I had to know how Lucky got out of the gator, so years later, I returned to Clyde McAllister’s Gator Village and Civil War Memorial. I asked Bonnie and Clyde to tell me their version of the story. This is what Clyde told me:
“Gator Breath called me into the Hall O’ Gators right after y’all pulled out of the parking lot.
‘Grip! Come here, quick!’ she done said.
‘What?!’
‘Just get yer ass in here!’
I went to Honky’s tank to take a look. He was deader’n a doornail. It looked like something chewed its way out his side, through the ribs and everything!
‘Sweet Jesus in Heaven!’ I said. ‘What the hell happened there, ya reckon?’
‘I dunno,’ Bonnie said. ‘You think them folk did it?’
‘I don’t see how they could of. Damn thing woulda bit anyone that got near it.’
‘They been the only ones here, though,’ Bonnie said.
‘Aw, hell. They was good folk,’ I said. ‘Even if they did it…I can always catch another gator and paint it up really good.’” (I was right! Honky was the result of a couple cans of Krylon® Flat White Decorator Paint!).
Had you told me then that Lucky ate his way free from the stomach of a gator, even after all I had seen him do, I wouldn’t have believed you, but that would all change. I still have nightmares about him to this day.
* * *
We were nearing the Oklahoma border when we passed a sign advertising a Stuckey’s ahead, twenty-five miles. With a truck stop complete with facilities, at least there’d be a carwash. Finally cleaning the car was probably one of the last things on my father’s mind, however. To Dad, Stuckey’s was a beacon in the night. To my Mom, it was a cornucopia of crap!
Dad always left Stuckey’s with plenty of proof he spent some time on the open road. He’d gather up paper placemats, buy clear, plastic belt buckles with scorpions inside, and of course, he’d buy pecan rolls. To Dad, a Stuckey’s Pecan Roll wasn’t just a snack—it was eaten with all the love and care of a high-dollar New York cheesecake or fancy tiramisu. He’d buy as many as he could sneak by Mom. Once home, he’d pop them in the freezer in his den. Anytime living with Mom became too much to handle, he could retreat to his lair, thaw one out, and sit back in his chair and pretend he was driving cross country.
We pulled into the Stuckey’s lot and the first thing Mom said was, “Clean this car right now, James! It smells like we’re riding in a toilet.”
“That’s Michael!” Elvis said from the back, causing Olivia to laugh. I let it slide.
“We can clean it after we eat, can’t we?” Dad said. “It doesn’t look that crowded inside and you know how it is: one second a place can be almost empty and the next it’s packed.” He just wanted to get in to buy stuff.
“Okay,” Mom said, “but everyone eat quick!” She shoved Lucky down her shirt and we went inside.
Dad fought the urge to head straight for all the souvenirs. A rude hostess seated us at a booth too small for us all. I was cramped and wanted some room; I was still reeling, wondering how Lucky had survived being eaten by a gator. I excused myself to the bathroom so I could mull things over a bit more in the privacy of a stall.
The bathroom was cleaner than most truckstop johns, but the scent of human waste was still beating the smell of cleaning supplies to the finish line. I didn’t have to go to the bathroom—I just needed some time to reflect on things, but got sidetracked with bathroom wall graffiti. On the condom machine, someone had written THIS IS THE WORST GUM I’VE EVER TASTED, and above one of the urinals, YOU’VE GOT THE WHOLE WORLD IN YOUR HANDS. If the graffiti was that good in the open room, the stalls would surely contain a mix of wisdom and humor worthy of a Pulitzer Prize for Potty Prose.
I found the stall with the best balance of graffiti and cleanliness and sat down to read. There were all the old standbys, sayings like:
THEY PAINT THE STALLS TO COVER MY PEN, BUT THE SHITHOUSE POET STRIKES YET AGAIN!
IF YOU CAN PISS ABOVE THIS LINE, THE FIRE DEPARTMENT WANTS TO SEE YOU
And that timeless classic: HERE I SIT ALL BROKEN HEARTED…TRIED TO SHIT BUT I ONLY FARTED…LATER ON I TOOK A CHANCE…TRIED TO FART, BUT SHIT MY PANTS!
There were also some clever pieces of graffiti I had never seen before:
ROSES ARE RED, VIOLETS ARE BLUE, MOST POEMS RHYME, BUT THIS ONE DOESN’T
STOP GRAFFITI!
PATRONS ARE REQUESTED TO REMAIN SEATED FOR ENTIRE PERFORMANCE
GOD IS LOVE…LOVE IS BLIND…RAY CHARLES IS BLIND…RAY CHARLES IS GOD!
URINE TROUBLE!
and IF YOU DON’T CARE WHERE YOU ARE, YOU’RE NEVER LOST
(I thought about how much Dad would have liked that one).
There were also gross ones:
EAT SHIT! 1.9 TRILLION FLIES CAN’T BE WRONG!
THE HANDS THAT CLEAN THIS TOILET ALSO PREPARE YOUR FOOD—SO KEEP IT CLEAN!
And the grossest one of them all: someone had smeared feces on the wall of the stall with their finger and written LAST NIGHT’S DINNER! beneath it.
I closed my eyes and just relaxed; I don’t know for how long. I thought about all the bad things that were happening and had a feeling things would have to get worse, before they got better. I wanted to know what would happen next, I wanted to know what I needed to do to stop the Inferno.
I opened my eyes and just before leaving the stall I noticed a piece of graffiti I had somehow overlooked. Right in front of me were the words: AND WAR BROKE OUT IN HEAVEN: MICHAEL AND HIS ANGELS FOUGHT WITH THE DRAGON; AND THE DRAGON AND HIS ANGELS FOUGHT. REV. 12:7.
When I returned to the table, Mom was trying to figure out if it was Elvis, or Olivia (or both), who put marshmallows in her Tab while she turned away. After eating, Dad could hardly hold himself back from cheap trinkets and pecan rolls. The waitress returned to our table and said, “Can I get y’all anything else?”
“No, just the check, please,” Dad said. He had his eye on a cheesy Indian headdress that read “Stuckey’s” in plastic beads.
Mom noticed and said, “You already have one of those stupid things, James.”
“Yeah,” Dad said, “but not that color!”
The waitress slid the check onto the table and told us to be safe.
“Ready?” Dad said, reaching for his wallet, but wasn’t there. Mom knew there was something wrong.
“What?”
“Did I hand you my wallet?” he said.
“No.”
“I must have left it in the car, then. I’ll be right back.” He left and returned a couple minutes later.
“You’re sure I didn’t hand you my wallet?” he said to Mom.
“I’m positive. Don’t tell me you lost it!”
“I’m sure I just misplaced it. Maybe it slid out of my back pocket, through the seat, and is on the floor.”
“Or maybe it fell out of your back pocket, was lying on the seat, and someone grabbed it through the busted window,” Mom said, probably right. “When was the last time you had it?”
“Earlier, at the alligator farm,” he said. “I bought a few things in the gift store.”
“Well maybe the car ate it, then,” Mom said sarcastically, but it set off alarm bells in my head—what she said reminded me how much I wanted to be as far away from the Inferno as possible.
“Do you have any money on you?” Dad said to Mom.
“All I have is a five.”
“That won’t cover it.” He turned to my aunt. “How ‘bout you, Margie?”
“I ain’t got nuthin’,” she said.
“Kids?” He was desperate. We all shook our heads “no.”
“What are we going to do?” Elvis and Olivia said. Dad handed Mom the keys.
“Why don’t you all go out to the car and wait for me. Leave the engine running.”
“What are you doing, James?” Mom said.
“Just follow my lead. Please, just this once—go along with me.”
We all headed toward the door and Dad said, “I’ll catch up with you guys in a minute. Gotta go to the bathroom and pay the bill!” He was talking loudly enough for the staff to hear, so they wouldn’t catch onto his plan.
In the Inferno, Olivia said, “Mommy, is Daddy going to do something bad?”
“I don’t know. Probably.”
“Didn’t he want you to start the car?” I said. I was always looking out for my old man, even though his plans were often weak at best. Mom shook her head and turned the ignition. Nothing!
“Oh, what the Christ?!” She tried again, but had no luck.
“Here he comes!” the twins shouted. Dad was sneaking out the door, carrying a handful of paper placemats.
“Mom—“ I said.
“I’m trying, Michael!” she yelled. The car wasn’t turning over.
A busboy came rushing out from the restaurant, right behind Dad.
“Hey! Hey! Come back here!” Dad picked up the pace to a full-blown run for the car. I reached over his seat and opened the door for him.
As Dad slid into the front seat, Mom turned the ignition one last time and the Inferno roared to a start. Dad floored it, leaving the busboy reeling in the car’s stench!
Dad zipped onto the highway and drove like he was fleeing a bank robbery—we were in Oklahoma in no time. He kept looking in the rearview mirror. When the coast was finally clear, Mom said, “I can’t believe this crap! How could you lose your wallet?” She was trolling for a fight.
“I had it with me earlier,” Dad said.
“You’re always losing things. When are you going to stop losing things, James?”
Dad ignored her. We were now well down the highway from Stuckey’s and I’m sure he was thinking of all the jackalope postcards and fake Indian jewelry he could have scored, had he not lost his wallet. Mom wasn’t about to give up, though.
“You can be such a child, I swear.”
Dad wasn’t biting, but I could tell he was about to lose it. Something just felt wrong in the car. There was always stress when Mom and Dad got into it, but on that trip, it seemed amplified by the Inferno.
“James, I’m talking to you!” she said.
“I hear you!”
His reply even startled Mom. He began accelerating and sweating. Mom knew she was getting to him, though, and she lived for getting under people’s skin. She was like a bad tattoo.
“You need to slow it down, James,” she said. “And tell me, how could you lose your wallet?”
Dad lost it. “I don’t know! Maybe because—for once—you weren’t hen-pecking me and treating me like a child! Would you just let it rest, for once?! I’m sick of it!!!” he yelled.
We were all shocked. Sweat rolled from his brow and a slight odor of sulfur filled the car. Olivia began crying.
“Mommy and Daddy are going to get divorced!” she cried.
“We’re not getting divorced!” Dad shouted.
“Yes you are!” Olivia said. I told her to shut up.
“You shut up!” Elvis said. Mom spun around.
“Both of youse, shut up!”
Dad couldn’t take it anymore. “ALL OF YOU, SHUT THE HELL UP!!!”
The Inferno’s engine made a grinding, popping noise—steam shot from beneath its hood. Dad pulled over near a billboard, rested his head on the steering wheel. He began crying. His shirt was soaked in sweat, but it wasn’t that hot in the car.
“Damnit! Is it too much to ask for us to go on a trip and all get along?” he said. “Is it expecting too much from a brand new car not to keep breaking down all the time?” He punched the dashboard in frustration. “I’m sick of this crap. Just sick of it!”
I reached over his seat and slapped him in the face. If Dad’s outburst shocked everyone, me slapping Dad gave them all heart attacks.
“What the hell?!” Mom said.
“Yeah, what the hell?” Dad said.
The twins saw an opportunity for a dig. “You’re in trouble now, Michael!”
Dad ran his fingers over the part of his face I slapped. It was red and growing redder; my fingers throbbed in pain I hit him so hard.
“What the hell are you doing?” he said.
“Remember back at the rest stop when Lucky bit me? You said if you ever acted weird again to slap some sense into you. Well, I just did.”
I could tell, in a roundabout way, he was proud of me. He started laughing. “Yeah, I guess you did, Buddy.” He looked at us all and wiped the tears from his eyes.
“Look, I’m sorry, everyone. I just wanted this trip to go off without a hitch,” he said. “I shouldn’t have lost me temper like that.”
“Same here,” Mom said, looking ashamed. She was still a little stunned from Dad standing up to her. “Sorry.”
Steam from the engine rolled into the open windows; it seemed to make the outhouse stench even more vile.
We all got out of the car and stepped to the side of the highway as Dad looked under the hood. I made sure Mom and Aunt Margie’s cigarettes didn’t start another fire, while Elvis and Olivia finished off their last bag of marshmallows.
“What’s wrong?” Mom said.
“It’s just a hose,” Dad said. “If we had some money, I could get a new one and have us back on the road in no time. But we’re broke.”
Mom looked at the billboard, smiled, and said, “Not for long. I’ve got five dollars”
“Huh?” Dad said.
She pointed to the billboard: “CHOCTAW BINGO – NEXT EXIT! $5/CARD – $5000 JACKPOT, THREE TIMES A DAY!
* * *
Surf music plays. A male voice says:
Thank you so much for listening to Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors–it really means a lot to me.
Theme music is provided by Belgium’s best surf band, Pirato Ketchup.
And if you want to know a little bit more about me and the other things I do, check out ChristopherGronlund.com.
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