Tuesday, November 15, 2005

Chapter 15 Part 2 (22,383 words out of 50,000)


My mom just questioned Agatha for about a half hour. Asked about her family, her job, her future – all with a smile stretched across her fat cheeks and low-fat muffin clenched within her sweaty, meaty paws. She’s put on more weight, I’ve never seen her this fat – this is muumuu fat – it’s the kind of fat when I just look at my dad and wonder when was the last time he got some pussy. He’d have to be hung like a fucking horse to even get near that pussy, I’d imagine – I wonder how far his religious beliefs go. I wonder if he’s just like the rest of them – judging and preaching but fucking an 18-year-old (or younger) prostitute. I could see that, I could see my dad cruising around Wycoff looking for a whore, picking up some black chick and taking her to an alley, having her suck him off or ride his cock – then he kicks them out, throws the money at them, calls her a temptress while crying to his lord for forgiveness, begging his lord to strike this girl dead, to punish her for existing – for tempting him – for giving herself so freely to his lustful desires.

She doesn’t even listen anymore – she hears it every night.

Agatha holds the eyes sometimes. Quick extra glimpses at the fat under the arms, the quadruple chins, the folds of the stomach, the puffed out cheeks, the dinosaur thighs. My mother catches every glance and painfully goes on with the conversation as if she didn’t notice it, as if the embarrassment isn’t hanging thick over the room, as if she’s not thinking about that Junior’s Fucking Cheesecake that would put her into a diabetic coma, as if Agatha isn’t picking up on this and feeling guilty because she’s a fucking amateur and she’s messing with shit that she can’t fucking handle.

As if my father isn’t picking up on this guilt, letting his eyes wander from the TV set – let it move away from King of Queens or Everybody Loves Raymond or Two and a Half Fucking men or whatever the fuck dumbed down piece of crap network TV show righteous men watch when they’re not watching the 700 Club, when they’re not watching pornography and fantasizing that their wives would look one-tenth as good as these sluts who will do anything for a couple of bucks – these sluts who haunt their dreams, slithering about like serpents, offering an apple placed firmly between their legs, pressed against their diseased cunts.

If my father had something to give me, something worth working towards, he would be so easy to play. As a kid I never understood it – I thought the way to my father’s heart was by fearing him. He likes the fear, sure, but what my father needs is someone to save. That’s what all these religious nuts need. Because none of us are perfect. We all have our little sins, some of us have rather big ones, and for a religious man – those sins drive you fucking nuts. My father wanted people to fear him because he thought they feared his righteousness – his connection with God – his ability to sniff out your sins was Jesus working through him – their fear of him being a validation of the perceived holiness within them. And this fear allowed him to expose people – allowed him to save them instead of his own soul, hoping that by saving other people his sins would be pardoned – he’d be as holy as he felt. If I knew this then, I would simply let him save me. I’d lose God every Monday, find him every Friday and get permission to hang out as late as I fucking want with whomever I fucking want, blame them on Monday for my lack of faith and repeat.

Agatha is already getting worn down, my mom is doing what she does best – making people feel awkward. My father is stating to circle, you know he wants to say something, wants to find this opening, wants to measure up this agnostic woman – a woman with faith buried in her but no direction – and discover her sins, discover why she needs saving and take it upon himself to do it. Jesus is coming soon, coming in glory to judge the living and the dead and his kingdom will have no end – are you ready, Agatha? Is your soul prepared for the rapture? My father’s asking these questions in his head right now, reminding himself that for every soul he can save before the rapture means that there’s one more sin he can commit. If he can save Agatha tonight he’ll be forgiven for calling the new neighbors a nigger, even if it was only in his head. If he can save her – the Good Lord will forget about the fact that he hit a parked car today – only a little dent – but he still turned tail and got the fuck out. If he can save her, everything he did to me as a child can be forgiven. The belt. The verbal lashings. Everything else. Calling me lazy. shiftless. Stupid.

But look at me now, father. Your stupid little boy that hasn’t been beaten by anybody in over seven years – this little boy is now using you to get the best of this Agatha bitch and you’re fucking falling for it. You’re only what I want you to be, not what you think God wants you to do.

Who’s stupid now?


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