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Christopher Gronlund presents Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors. Read by me, the author, Christopher Gronlund.
CHAPTER NINE
“Big Dick’s Breakfast Revival”
We started the morning cleaning up broken glass from the window I broke the night before. I don’t know why, but I picked up a piece, put it in my pocket, and still have it to this day. Before leaving, Dad and I wandered over to the owners’ trailer and knocked on the door. The wife opened the door and the scent of wet wildflowers gave way to bacon and eggs.
“Howdy!” she said, obviously wide awake and ready to tackle another day.
Dad fished his wallet from his pocket. He pulled a twenty out and handed it to her.
“I’m so sorry we were such a bother,” he said. “Before leaving, I wanted to give you guys a little more for putting up with us.”
“Hell, you ain’t gotta do that!” she said.
“I do, though. We kept the whole camp awake.”
“Aw, don’t go worryin’ ‘bout that!” she said. “That was the most excitement this place’s seen in a long, long time.”
Just when I was starting to understand what people meant by Southern Hospitality, her husband yelled, “That them damn Yankees?!” He poked his head out the door and looked us up and down; I thought, for some reason that he would kill us and cook us with his bacon.
“Yep, that’s us,” Dad said.
“You gonna stand there all mornin’ long, or come in for breakfast?” he said, surprising me.
“We really need to get moving,” Dad said.
“Hell, Hoss! You ain’t goin’ far without a good breakfast. We got plenty—get the family.“ Right before Dad was about to turn the offer down, the owner added, “It’s the least you can do for keeping the whole camp up all night with your racket.”
He couldn’t say no to that. They gave Dad his twenty back, even though he insisted they take it. Dad sent me to get everyone. When he saw Mom coming, carrying Lucky in her hands and smoking a cigarette, he said, “Dear. You need to put that out and put Lucky in the car.”
“With that broken window, he’ll get out,” she said, tossing her cigarette in the grass. I walked over and snubbed it out before we had a repeat of the side of the road fire.
The twins, who were looking forward to a marshmallow breakfast in the back of the car and not a hot meal at a stranger’s table said, “We’ll watch Lucky for you.”
The owner’s wife spoke up, smashing their hopes. “It’s all right,” she said. “He’s a cute little fella. We don’t turn nothin’ down from the table; don’t matter if it’s man or beast.”
“Beast is a fitting term,” Dad muttered under his breath as he held the door open for Mom.
Introductions were made and it seemed Aunt Margie found a hillbilly home away from home, although I’m sure she missed the succulent taste of fresh squirrel for breakfast, killed and peeled that very morning. Their names were Dick and Dixie (Dixie affectionately called her husband “Big Dick,” and it took everything for Dad and me to keep our composure). Big Dick looked like he could break cinderblocks with his fists and bite nails in half. Dixie was sticky and smelled like a sandbox.
We stood around the table as Dixie set more places. Dad told them where we were heading and why. “That’s a big hole,” Big Dick said when Dad mentioned dumping Grandma’s ashes in the canyon. “Best be careful you don’t go fallin’ in…would put a damper on your vacation.” Dad chuckled, thinking Big Dick was making a joke, but he blushed when he realized Big Dick was being serious. We sat down to eat.
“Before we eat, I’d like you all to bow your heads in prayer,” Big Dick said. “That’s how we do things around here.”
Everyone bowed, except me. Even Lucky looked down, but he wasn’t concerned with prayer—he was eyeing pieces of bacon he knew Mom would cram down his black hole of a throat once the meal started.
“Heavenly Father, we thank you for this meal we’re about to eat,” Big Dick said.
I noticed Lucky writhing in Mom’s hands, struggling for freedom. He didn’t like the prayer.
“Please protect this family as they travel across this great country to scatter the mortal remains of one of your children in one of the prettiest places you ever created…”
Lucky barked out loud, but Mom held his mouth shut between her thumb and forefinger.
“And watch over Little Dick, who never made it from Dixie’s womb, but was still one of your miracles and something we’ll never forget. Watch over him, Heavenly Father and make sure nuthin’ evil ever crosses our paths.”
Lucky bit Mom, startling us all! It was no surprise when Lucky chewed a pair of shoes, furniture, or one of us, but he never bit Mom. She looked hurt.
“Lucky, no!” she said. She realized she was interrupting Big Dick and said, “Sorry.”
“No problem, Ma’am.” He returned to his prayer.
“Thank you for all you’ve given us, Heavenly Father. But most of all—even more than giving us Little Dick—thank you for loving us enough to send your only son, Jesus Christ, to die on the cross for all us sinners. We pray in Jesus’ name. Amen.”
With those words, Lucky started howling, his head thrown back and his tiny snout turned skyward like a wolf as he cried and yipped in doggie agony.
“Lucky, stop!” Mom said. She looked at Big Dick. “I’m so sorry—he usually behaves. I don’t know what’s getting into him.”
“Maybe he’s been touched by the Lord,” Dixie said. Lucky stopped baying and looked directly at her, startling everyone at the table. They’d all see it with their own eyes—I was sure of it. His eyes would glare red and I’d be vindicated, but before he could bark some more or show what evil lurked within, Mom gently pressed in on his molera, freezing him. When everyone started filling their plates and Mom let go of his soft spot, Lucky looked directly at me and licked his jowls.
When the twins heard we were eating with Dixie and Big Dick, they returned to the Inferno for a bag of marshmallows; they shoved handfuls into their mouths, while everyone else dug into their food. I pushed a piece of bacon around with my fork and pierced a fried egg, watching the yellow yolk spill over and consume the edge of a biscuit like the Blob. Dad noticed I wasn’t eating.
“Not hungry?” he said. I didn’t know if it was genuine concern about my appetite, or if it was his say of saying, “Please be polite and eat.” I picked up a piece of bacon and took a bite.
“I’m fine, thanks.”
I was hungry, but I was more concerned and lost in my thoughts—about Lucky and about something Big Dick said during his prayer that didn’t seem to bother anyone else: the mention of “Little Dick,” the boy that never was. I wanted to ask about him, but figured it wasn’t the best topic for breakfast.
“I’m sorry if the talk of Little Dick set you folks on edge,” Big Dick said with a mouthful of bacon, eggs, and biscuits and gravy. It was like he was reading my mind. “Dixie here carried him a little over two months, we reckon, but it wasn’t meant to be. He’s the closest thing to a child we ever had, so we always include him in our prayers.”
“I understand,” Dad said. Before thinking, he added, “Have you two thought about trying again?” Mom kicked Dad beneath the table, but talking about Little Dick seemed almost therapeutic for Dixie and Big Dick.
“We tried,” Dixie said, “ but Big Dick, here, had an accident with a circular saw and ain’t got the goods to be siring children no more.” Guess he wasn’t “Big Dick” after all!
I felt bad for the Dixie and Big Dick, but it was probably for the best Little Dick didn’t make it. No one should have to endure such a nickname throughout life. “Big Dick,” most guys could happily live with, but “Little Dick?” Perhaps he heard the name he was destined for while still in the womb and decided to make a break while he could!
Eating with Dixie and Big Dick was more uncomfortable than eating breakfast at home. There, I was at least used to things: Dad talking to me, the twins talking to each other, and Mom talking with Lucky. There was order in our dysfunction. But eating with Dixie and Big Dick made me tense for some reason, and that tension grew when a huge Saint Bernard entered the room. It walked right up to me and put it’s wet jowls in my lap, soaking my shorts in drool.
“Oh, that’s Susan,” Dixie said. “Don’t mind her.”
“Susan. That’s an interesting name for a dog,” Dad said.
“Yeah, I named her after my sister,” Dixie said. “She’s a big bitch, too!” Gravy was collecting in the corners of Dixie’s mouth—I’m guessing she never grasped the concept of napkins.
I was used to Lucky being around the table, but he was always in Mom’s lap, not mine. Susan’s head alone weighed more than several Luckys put together. She kept drooling in my lap and I figured she wanted some food.
“Is it okay if I give her a piece of bacon?” I said.
“You can if you want,” Big Dick said, “but I don’t think that’s what she’s after.
I noticed Susan rubbing the base of her tail against the leg of the table—she was in heat! Lucky could tell she was in heat, too—he began squirming in Mom’s hands even harder than during the prayer. He was never neutered and the thought of nailing something thirty times his weight was too much for Mom to handle; he broke free from her grip and mounted Susan right there at the breakfast table!
“Lucky, no!” Dad said.
“Oh, let the little fella have his fun!” Big Dick said. “He ain’t hurtin’ nothin’ and if his aim is true, we could end up with some of the funniest looking puppies this side of the South.”
Mom and Dixie didn’t want to watch doggie porn while eating breakfast, though; Mom grabbed Lucky off the rear of Susan and shoved a piece of bacon in his face to get his attention. Dixie was thinking along the same lines—she took her plate, said, “Here, Susan!” and tossed the food out the front door. The big dog charged outside and ate bacon and eggs in the grass—Dixie kept her biscuits, though.
“Well, that takes care of that,” Dixie said. “Sorry ‘bout that.”
“It’s all right,” Dad said. He was mopping up the crumbs of his breakfast with a piece of a biscuit, already.
It wasn’t all right with me, though. Before our very eyes, a dog the size of rolled up socks fornicated with a beast the size of a garbage can while we were eating breakfast, and no one but me seemed bothered by it, but me. I had to get away, if only for a minute. “Excuse me,” I said looking at Dixie. “Where is your bathroom?”
She pointed beyond the living room. “Just go down that hall and you’ll see it on the left, sweetie.” There was something about the way she called me sweetie, as though—in her mind—I was filling in for the son she would never have.
I had found in my thirteen years that the only place one could truly get any privacy and be alone with their thoughts was the bathroom. It’s that one place where no one wants your attention, that one place where you can catch your breath and engage in something universally natural. Most times I went to the bathroom at home, I didn’t have to relieve myself…I just sat on the toilet with my pants still up and thought about things, but that morning I really had to go. I dropped my pants, sat down, and let loose. When I looked up, I saw Jesus.
Dixie and Big Dick’s trailer was full of Jesus art. Jesus on clocks, painted on wood, and Dixie was obviously a big fan of Jesus paint-by-numbers kits. Situated on the wall directly across from the toilet—at eye level as you sat there on the throne—was one of the most bloody, pained Jesus images I ever saw! I think it was another paint by numbers, but Dixie was obviously struck by an artistic urge while painting it, or perhaps she just needed to finish off a tube of red paint. It was a close up of him on the cross, head cocked to the side in anguish, his eyes rolling back in his head. Even though his eyes were rolled back and looking skyward, they stared right at me. I leaned as far to the right as I could, then as far to the left and his eyes followed me. There was no way I could finish crapping with Christ watching me!
I had a thing about going to the bathroom with pictures around. I couldn’t stand it when Mom left one of her fashion magazines on the bathroom floor at home and I’d lean forward to wipe my butt and see Brooke Shields staring up at me from the cover of Vogue, or Isabella Rossellini watching me from a Cosmopolitan. It was bad enough having models staring at you in that most vulnerable position, but the Son of God in agony was even worse! I closed my eyes, but just knowing the picture was there, I still couldn’t go. All I could do was wipe and ask Dad to stop when we hit the road, so I could finish what I had started.
When I reached for the toilet paper, all I felt was an empty cardboard roll! Either Dixie or Big Dick—I’m guessing Big Dick—didn’t restock after their last drop. The cabinets where I guessed they stored the toilet paper were out of immediate reach, so I rummaged through the garbage can beside the toilet, hoping to find a clean tissue. All I found were pieces of tissue someone had blow their nose into, so I had to make it to the cabinets (I wasn’t about to call out, asking for another roll in a stranger’s house).
I clenched my cheeks together and scuffled over to the sink with my pants down around my ankles. When I opened the cabinet beneath the sink, I stumbled upon something that froze me in my tracks. There, beneath the bathroom sink, was Little Dick!
He was in a jar. To the uninitiated, identifying the jar’s contents would have been impossible, but after years of attending sideshows with Dad, I was an expert at identifying things in jars full of murky fluid: from pickled alligator fetuses, to two-headed babies, I had seen it all. Little Dick wasn’t that big, maybe three inches long, or so. He was shaped more like a question mark than the usual fetal comma shape, and true, I couldn’t make out any discernable features—no eyes, little fingers, or even limbs—but with Big Dick and Dixie, a genetic mistake was bound to happen.
The cabinet beneath the sink was a shrine to their “only son.” There were glass, Jesus prayer candles all around the jar. The rims of the candles were blackened by soot, a clear sign they were used regularly. Mom owned similar candles; only she lit them before playing bingo, for luck. It gave me the creeps, thinking about Dixie and Big Dick keeping a fetus in a jar in their bathroom. I could see them putting a ceremonial bath mat on the floor, kneeling before the cabinet, and communing with Little Dick in a candlelit bathroom. It was too much. Maybe Dixie’s miscarriage occurred in that very room, maybe right in the very toilet I sat on minutes before! Maybe that bathroom was all Little Dick ever knew.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Someone was knocking on the door! They must have somehow known I was looking at their only son!
“Hey, partner!” I heard Big Dick say. “I just remembered there ain’t no buttwipe in there.” The door opened and I saw Big Dick’s hand poke through the opening, holding a bunch of paper towels.
“This’ll have to do. Don’t use a mess, or the commode’ll overflow.”
I quietly made my way back toward the toilet. If he poked his head in and saw me looking at Little Dick—if he saw I had found their little secret—there’s no telling what he’d have done. I’d never live it down from Mom, hearing about going through other people’s stuff, even though she was the queen of the bathroom cabinet peek, seeing what kinds of toothpastes, shaving creams, and medicines friends and relatives used.
“You okay?” Big Dick said. The door started opening.
“Fine,” I said when I got closer to the toilet. I grabbed the paper towels from his hand and pushed the door shut. “Thank you.”
After sitting back down on the toilet and wiping, I went to the sink and washed my hands. I took one last look at Little Dick in the jar before closing the cabinet doors and letting him rest in peace.
When I made it back to the table, Dad was drinking coffee and talking with Big Dick and Dixie. “So what other big stops you have planned ‘sides the canyon?” Big Dick said to Dad.
“We’re going to Mammoth Cave and Graceland.”
“Nice places,” Big Dick said, picking his teeth with his fork. “Graceland—ya don’t say? So you’ll be going through Arkansas on your way to the canyon, huh?”
“Yes,” Dad said, wondering what Big Dick was getting at. Was he going to ask for some strange favor to make up for us keeping the campsite awake all night? “Why?” Dad added.
“I got a stop I think y’all’ll love: Clyde McAllister’s Gator Village and Civil War Memorial,” he said, proudly. “My brother owns it—he’ll give you a discount if you tell him I sentcha.”
Dad’s eyes lit up—he lived for side of the road reptile farms. He knew he’d be able to score alligator skin belts, T-shirts with cartoon alligators on them, and maybe even get a picture of me petting one of the scaly beasts.
“Where’s your brother’s place?”
“You head west outta Memphis after hitting Graceland…hour or so down the road. Can’t miss the signs. You don’t wanna miss it—he’s got quite a show going. He’s got a gator that leaps clear outta its tank and snatches broiler chickens off a stick! Betcha don’t get to see that back home, huh?”
“No, we sure don’t!” Dad said. Leaping gators were far better than diving horses in my old man’s order of cheesy attractions.
Mom was ready to hit the road. She looked at Dad and said, “Well, we really appreciate breakfast, but we better get moving.” Big Dick and Dixie stood up and started heading for the door. Dad lagged behind a moment and I noticed him slide a twenty beneath his plate.
When we all went out front, Lucky caught a whiff of Susan and started fighting again, but Mom wasn’t about to let him sire puppies with a “hillbilly bitch-dog,” as she put it. She pressed the molera button and made her way to the car. Dad stopped and stretched, arching his back in an ecstatic moment brought on by a big country breakfast. It was so good, he let loose a loud belch.
“Excuse me!” he said, embarrassed
“No problem,” Big Dick said, patting his belly. “Better just hope it’s indigestion and not something worse, though.”
Dad looked at him, knowing he was going to say something more.
“I had me some stomach distress a year ago and thought it was nuthin’. Next
thing you know, I’m flat on my back in the hospital getting my appendix cut out.” He pulled up his shirt, revealing a scar on the right side of his gut. “Got it in a jar under the sink in the bathroom if you wanna see it?”
Mom heard Big Dick’s offer and piped in with, “No thank you—that’s okay!” before Dad could say “yes!” and ask if he could take a picture. We said our final thank yous and goodbyes, climbed into the Inferno, and were on the road again.
* * *
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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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