His house was really quiet and I knocked on the door a couple times and there was no answer. I finally went in and there were some beer bottles rolling around on the floor. Not too unusual, really, but I went in the living room and Dale was sitting totally still with his eyes shut in his easy chair. He had the bible I got for him on his knee and between his fingers was a cigarette burned down to the filter. He looked peaceful sitting there with the morning light coming in the window and I didn’t want to disturb him, but for some reason I started to freak out.
I felt sure he was dead because let’s face it he’s old, so I shouted his name. He didn’t move so I shouted it louder.
He screamed and jumped out of his chair and started doing martial art moves, some sort of Redneck Fu, or something like that. It startled me and I screamed back. It was all very disturbing. I thought he might over exert himself and really have a heart attack, so I got him to sit back down. I told him about the baptism and he listened to me, but he’s not Mormon and I’m not sure how much he understood really. After I was done though, he grunted and said, “Your heart’s in the right place.” Then there was like a five minute pause and Dale told me he was moving. He’d been getting back in touch with his son and his son wanted Dale to go live with him. Dale doesn’t even like his son. He told me so. I thought he loved his crappy little farm too much to leave it. His wife died there. His cow’s buried in the backyard. I can’t explain it to you, but it bothered me. It upset me. You’re probably like why are you talking about your neighbor so much. He was the only friend I had the whole time I’ve lived here. I mean how pathetic is it that I can only make friends with an old fart farmer?
Four days later Sister Harris brought your note, which made me realize what a sick bastard I am, and then the day after that Dale’s son came to pick him up. What a prick he turned out to be! Wait. I just used the word prick, and bastard before that, and you’re a return missionary. Can you forgive me for that too?
When they were cleaning out Dale’s place the son came over to give the bible I gave Dale back. He said something like, “Thank you, but we don’t need your Mormon bible.” Something snapped inside me. I wanted to shout, “It’s the King James Version!” in his face as I crushed his trachea with my bare hands, but instead I just smiled and shook his hand. It’s one of the few times where I was glad I have clammy hands. I was trying to sweat through my palms more than usual.
When Dale came over to say good-bye he apologized for his son. Sort of. “He don’t know nothing,” was what he said, but I noticed he didn’t want the bible back. Instead he gave me things. I guess old people like to give their crap away. My grandpa was like that. Dale gave me a bunch of left over kool-aid, three country Western shirts, a bolo tie which he said he could tell was my favorite, okay, whatever, and a Johnny Cash CD which he said he didn’t like because he likes old Cash and this one, he told me, had too much of Cash singing rock songs of other people. “You might like it,” he said.
I don’t know what I was expecting. Dale’s not exactly in touch with his emotions. He didn’t hug me good-bye or anything. He just put his hand on his shoulder and said, “Don’t stick around too long, son. A young man like you, it’s no way to live.” Once he left I realized he was just an old ignorant hick the whole time. I heard him drive off in his son’s gigantic SUV. After the sound faded away it was so quiet and I felt so alone. That’s why I’m telling you about Dale leaving because I’ve spent most of the last three years of my life alone, but I’ve never felt that alone like that in all my life. It just kept coming at me like waves.
I can’t explain why, but I became pathetic. Over the next few days I moved into my couch. I’d get up to go to the bathroom, sometimes to get a drink of water, but that’s about it. I put my laptop, a stack of paperback books, and all the food that didn’t need to be refrigerated in easy reach. I stopped showering and shaving and kept the same bathrobe and sweatpants on the whole time. It was disgusting. I’m sorry.
I started doing things over and over. I read things over and over. I read the note from you over and over. I read this letter from my mother-in-law over and over. I knew it was over. I knew I wouldn’t make it back to Katie. I kept listening to that Johnny Cash album over and over and over. The second song is called “Hurt” and it’s about me Sister Tidwell. It was written for me. I listened to it over and over.
I hurt myself today
to see if I still feel
I focus on the pain
the only thing that’s real
the needle tears a hole
the old familiar sting
try to kill it all away
but I remember everythingwhat have I become?
my sweetest friend
everyone I know
goes away in the end
and you could have it all
my empire of dirt
I will let you down
I will make you hurtI wear this crown of thorns
upon my liar’s chair
full of broken thoughts
I cannot repair
beneath the stains of time
the feeling disappears
you are someone else
I am still right herewhat have I become?
my sweetest friend
everyone I know
goes away in the end
and you could have it all
my empire of dirt
I will let you down
I will make you hurtif I could start again
a million miles away
I would keep myself
I would find a way
And I started thinking horrible things, Sister Tidwell. Very bad things.
TO BE CONTINUED…
