You know how they are.
Try to take everything from you. They start with small things.
Then the expectations come.
Don’t turn into one of those girls.
Every time you agree to do something, they take it from you.
Every time you do it their way.
It’s not yours anymore.
Sometimes you get so mad you want to tear it all out, make it go away forever.
But you can’t. One way or another, they keep you from doing it.
That’s what they did to me.
They think I’m better, but I’m just pretending.
“See?” she said. “Winter’s not so bad. I bet they’re selling cider at those stands. Want some cider, Randy?”
“He’s bored, Jeannie. Rather be in his room playing that goddamned game. Am I right?” He hugged the boy’s shoulder in a fatherly way. “Man up, Randy. You don’t get to do what you want every single moment of the day.”
“You say that every single moment of the day,” Randy said. “I don’t know why you can’t let me do my own thing.”
“Family time,” said his mother. “You and me and Dad.”
“He’s not my fucking dad,” said Randy.
In some ways, it was better than if I had stayed in the states. Good food and plenty of tourists to work. But in some ways, it was harder. The French cops were smart fuckers, and usually it only took them a day or two to catch on to me. The language was another problem, but that usually worked to my advantage when I ran my scam. The best thing was how Americans were off-guard while in another country. One guy I hustled was a New York lawyer, and you bet I’d never have gotten away with it at home.
I got a good feeling about low places. Wells, tunnels, holes in the ground. They my power places. When I’m down there I get stronger. All the other people stay the same or even get weaker.
I don’t mean no harm to them, but things do happen. Way I see it, all them violences ain’t really me. If a tornado picked you up and slammed you into a person and knocked them down or even killed them, would it be your fault or the tornado’s? That’s how I feel about it.
I never feel no pleasure at them violences. None.
Cadillac Ranch. Yeah. Dad used to drive us out to that fucking place almost every Saturday. It was the only day we had with him, too. Mom worked two jobs and in between she was either sleeping or bitching about how she never got child support. I guess we were starved for attention.
After Dad got sent up to Clements for good, Davey and me kept going out there. We’d fill water bottles, pack sandwiches, ride our bikes. Not much to do in Amarillo for a couple kids anyway.
After Davey was killed, I went by myself.
You say it’s still there? Funny.