But, Celebrity Homecoming is supposed to save the fucking day. And even if I hadn’t fucked up, I might’ve done the show anyway. Building a fan base is always a positive. And I would love to win an Oscar.
What is it with that little, shiny man that makes all of us want to take a ride on his tiny, golden cock?
I step up into the bus, and Thug Two closes the door. Every pair of eyes turns to me. The crew’s been cooling their heels while I hashed things out with Bob.
I run my fingers through my hair. “Fine. I’ll show you guys where I grew up until I was eight. But you have to promise I don’t come out of this looking pathetic.”
Trudi salutes. “Yes, sir. No worries. You’ll come out looking like the champ you are.”
An image of Lou pops into my head.
Champ or chump?
* * *
The closer we get to the sad excuse for a neighborhood where I lived until my dad ran off, the more my chest tightens and the memories of that time flood back.
It’s late afternoon by the time we pull up at the crumbling curb in front of the small house. A screen slaps the peeling siding, barely hanging on by a piece of baling wire. Overgrown weeds swallow the lawn and the stepping stones that lead to the sagging front porch.
Trudi wrinkles her nose. “Needs a bit of sprucing up, eh?”
I expel the breath trapped in my over-tight lungs. “It needs a case of TNT.”
My gaze lands on the area under the massive pecan tree at the side of the house. The swing set Nan and Pops gave me for my fifth birthday used to sit under those limbs. But it’s long gone; Dad sold it only a month or so before he dropped me at their house with the ridiculous excuse that he was going grocery shopping—he never returned.
The camera crew dons their gear and follows me as I make my way through the dilapidated house, stripped of all furniture and devoid of the remnants of occupation. My footsteps echo off the buckling wood floor and scarred walls.
Trudi asks, “So, tell us what you remember about this place, Buck.”
I stand in the doorway of what used to be my dad’s room. The black sheet he kept nailed over the window is gone, letting light into a place that was as dark and frightening as a dungeon to the five-year-old me.
I swallow hard and force open the hall closet’s door. “This was my hiding place. I kept a pillow in the corner, under my dad’s old duffle bag from when he was in the Army.”
What I don’t say out loud is that I hid only when dad got drunk and wanted to beat his frustrations out on someone—that someone being me, since I was the only one in close enough proximity to his fists.
The kitchen appliances have all been torn from their proper places. It also looks like someone’s torn out the sheetrock to get to the copper pipes that were probably in the walls, but are now missing. Not sure it renders this space any less useful than it was when I lived here. Dad wasn’t much of a cook. Shit; at six years old, I cooked more than he did. Mac and cheese was my specialty. Hell, I even learned to make it without milk or butter.
My fingers drag through my hair for the fifteenth time since I got off the bus. The words Trudi wants—the words that would tell my story—they just aren’t there. I can’t begin to explain how seeing this place affects me sixteen years after I last saw it. Last saw my dad.
I stop in front of the bathroom door. My stomach turns as, in my memory, the tile and walls are suddenly clean again.
I was barely five years old, and Mom was on the floor, her head lolled to the side. Blank eyes stared at me. A brown bottle lay next to her limp hand.
I turn from the scene in my mind. Trudi jumps out of my way as I bolt out of the house, almost tearing the back door from its rusty hinges. My racing heart sends a roar of blood through my ears as I lean forward, hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath.
A palm lands on my back. I jump away.
Trudi twists her fingers in front of her. “Sorry—so sorry. I didn’t know you’d have such a strong reaction.”
I rub my face and wipe my stinging eyes. “Neither did I.”
When I raise my head, two cameras point in my direction.
Shit. All of that on film.
I stalk away. “Fuck this. I’m outta here.”
I wait it out on the bus with a tumbler of whiskey while the crew finishes whatever the fuck they’re doing. I’ve had enough of Memory Lane for the day. Time to do something else. Get out of my own head.
SIX
Job hunting in rural Louisiana is a fucking joke. The temp agency has exactly zero positions available right now. Fucking waste of time and gas money. Why the hell the woman couldn’t have said that before I came down, I don’t know. Of course, she told me they’d keep me on file. As if being on file will make a difference in the here and now.