Vernon God Little by Tanya Ronder, D. B. C. Pierre Page A
Authors: Tanya Ronder, D. B. C. Pierre
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buzz, I have to say, that and the spicy smell of their clothes.
It makes me picture my new beach-house, with Taylor's laundry hung out on palm trees to dry, her panties and all. She's probably naked in the house because her panties are all out to dry. Bikinis in the sun. Or tangas. Probably bikinis.
I chase some spit with my tongue, and watch an ole man at the back of the room flick through the Martirio Clarion, our so-called paper. The skin of his face hangs down in pockets, like he has lead implants. Character, they call it. It ain't character, though; you know it's feelings. Erosion from waves of disappointment and sadness. One thing I learned from watching folk these last days is that waves are mostly one-way; you collect them over a lifetime, until finally the least fucken thing makes you bawl.
I get quite comfortable, standing in line with my musings. Then the man's paper flops open to a picture of me. 'Guilty?' asks the headline. The room turns icy. My eyes bounce, and I swear I see a flash of Jesus' casket being wheeled in to catch the San Antonio bus. I shut my eyes, and when I open them there's no casket. But I expect it, back in my soul. That, or some fucken shit. You know Fate.
Inch by inch, I shuffle behind the Mexican ladies toward check-in. My bravery has ebbed away.
I decide to try my New York accent on the man at the ticket counter, just ask him some question; that way, if anybody comes looking for me later, he'll say, 'Nah, I only saw some kid from The Apple.' The ladies finish and move away. The clerk stops tapping at his keyboard, and looks up. My mouth opens, but he doesn't look at me, his eyes shoot over my shoulder.
'Howdy Palmyra,' he says.
Pam's shadow falls over me. 'Hell, Vernie, what're you doing down here?'
'Uh - looking for work.'
'Lord, a boy can't work on an empty belly - c'mon now, I'm on my way past the Barn to your place …'
Fuck. Everybody in the place looks up to watch Pam drag me out by the hand, like a goddam kid. The man with the newspaper nudges somebody next to him, and points. I feel the noose of this fucken town tighten around my throat.
nine
'The dogs will also uncover firearms, and other devices,' says the sheriff on TV. 'So if a weapon is found, it'll just be a matter of matching the fingerprints.'
'And if you get a match - case closed?' asks the reporter.
'You bet.'
Mom switches off the TV on her scurry back to the kitchen. 'Lord, Vernon, please don't go to the Tragedy Sale in those shoes, you heard what everybody thinks. Please. I can't believe there isn't a pair of Tumbledowns in your size around town.'
'Timberlands, Ma.'
'Whatever. Look, here's the pastor now. I know it's not much of a job, but, as Lally says, it's important to show the community you're making good.'
'But I didn't do anything - damn!'
'Vernon Gregory!' says Lally. 'Don't argue with your mother.'
He wears this fancy suit today, with a tie and all. Suddenly this fancy fucken suit appeared.
I just want to fucken die, go back to jail, to the warmth of Barry and his crew of madcap funsters. Last night was a long night at home, real fucken long. To cap it off, Kurt started barking again. I swear the barking circuit that orbits town every night starts and ends with fucken Kurt. For such a nerdy dog, I don't see how he got to be president of the barking circuit. It ain't like he's a fucken rat-wheeler or anything.
Lally sucks down a ginseng, and nuzzles Mom. 'Hey,' he grunts, 'remember what we talked about? If I get the series, we'll fill this house with Special Edition fridges.'
Her lips tighten. 'Well I don't know what happened to that order, now it looks like Nancie got one. Anyway, if you saw her old refrigerator you'd know why. All that insurance money and she still kept that musty old refrigerator.'
'Shhh,' whispers Lally. 'We got a new speakerphone, didn't we? Now you don't even have to hold the receiver!'
I get waves about it all. My ole lady was never Honey Bear like this with my
It makes me picture my new beach-house, with Taylor's laundry hung out on palm trees to dry, her panties and all. She's probably naked in the house because her panties are all out to dry. Bikinis in the sun. Or tangas. Probably bikinis.
I chase some spit with my tongue, and watch an ole man at the back of the room flick through the Martirio Clarion, our so-called paper. The skin of his face hangs down in pockets, like he has lead implants. Character, they call it. It ain't character, though; you know it's feelings. Erosion from waves of disappointment and sadness. One thing I learned from watching folk these last days is that waves are mostly one-way; you collect them over a lifetime, until finally the least fucken thing makes you bawl.
I get quite comfortable, standing in line with my musings. Then the man's paper flops open to a picture of me. 'Guilty?' asks the headline. The room turns icy. My eyes bounce, and I swear I see a flash of Jesus' casket being wheeled in to catch the San Antonio bus. I shut my eyes, and when I open them there's no casket. But I expect it, back in my soul. That, or some fucken shit. You know Fate.
Inch by inch, I shuffle behind the Mexican ladies toward check-in. My bravery has ebbed away.
I decide to try my New York accent on the man at the ticket counter, just ask him some question; that way, if anybody comes looking for me later, he'll say, 'Nah, I only saw some kid from The Apple.' The ladies finish and move away. The clerk stops tapping at his keyboard, and looks up. My mouth opens, but he doesn't look at me, his eyes shoot over my shoulder.
'Howdy Palmyra,' he says.
Pam's shadow falls over me. 'Hell, Vernie, what're you doing down here?'
'Uh - looking for work.'
'Lord, a boy can't work on an empty belly - c'mon now, I'm on my way past the Barn to your place …'
Fuck. Everybody in the place looks up to watch Pam drag me out by the hand, like a goddam kid. The man with the newspaper nudges somebody next to him, and points. I feel the noose of this fucken town tighten around my throat.
nine
'The dogs will also uncover firearms, and other devices,' says the sheriff on TV. 'So if a weapon is found, it'll just be a matter of matching the fingerprints.'
'And if you get a match - case closed?' asks the reporter.
'You bet.'
Mom switches off the TV on her scurry back to the kitchen. 'Lord, Vernon, please don't go to the Tragedy Sale in those shoes, you heard what everybody thinks. Please. I can't believe there isn't a pair of Tumbledowns in your size around town.'
'Timberlands, Ma.'
'Whatever. Look, here's the pastor now. I know it's not much of a job, but, as Lally says, it's important to show the community you're making good.'
'But I didn't do anything - damn!'
'Vernon Gregory!' says Lally. 'Don't argue with your mother.'
He wears this fancy suit today, with a tie and all. Suddenly this fancy fucken suit appeared.
I just want to fucken die, go back to jail, to the warmth of Barry and his crew of madcap funsters. Last night was a long night at home, real fucken long. To cap it off, Kurt started barking again. I swear the barking circuit that orbits town every night starts and ends with fucken Kurt. For such a nerdy dog, I don't see how he got to be president of the barking circuit. It ain't like he's a fucken rat-wheeler or anything.
Lally sucks down a ginseng, and nuzzles Mom. 'Hey,' he grunts, 'remember what we talked about? If I get the series, we'll fill this house with Special Edition fridges.'
Her lips tighten. 'Well I don't know what happened to that order, now it looks like Nancie got one. Anyway, if you saw her old refrigerator you'd know why. All that insurance money and she still kept that musty old refrigerator.'
'Shhh,' whispers Lally. 'We got a new speakerphone, didn't we? Now you don't even have to hold the receiver!'
I get waves about it all. My ole lady was never Honey Bear like this with my
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