Vernon God Little by D. B. C. Pierre

Author:D. B. C. Pierre
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Canongate Books
Published: 2011-08-21T04:00:00+00:00

Act III

Against all odds

fourteen

Martirio twinkles like a nest of fireflies from the land above Keeter’s. You can see the new sign at the Seldome Motel, and one corner of Bar-B-Chew Barn is visible, alongside the radio mast. If you squint, you can see the working spine of town, a centipede’s legs of pumpjacks lit up along Gurie Street – fuck, fuck, fuck. I trace the spine as far as I can, down to Liberty Drive, at least. My town is beautiful from up here. It’s as if a star shines for every creature in the constellation of Martirio, and a few more shine besides. There’s just one tiny black spot at the northern edge of town, where no star shines at all. That’ll be home.

Waves are coming. My survival instinct wore off when I left the Johnson road. Now, stamping Lally’s video into the fucken ground, I can taste the salt of waves. They come with pictures of Mom in her darkened kitchen, scraping up any ole crumb of hope, to parlay into pie. But all she scrapes is bullshit. It slays me. She’ll be muttering, ‘Well at least he has a job, and we still have his birthday to look forward to.’ But I’m halfway to the escarpment, on my way to goddam Mexico. Probably forever.

It’s a little before ten. I can reach the highway in a couple of hours, then maybe hitch a ride, or catch a bus or something, down to San Antone. I take a last look at Martirio sparkling across the flats, my universe for all these long years. Then I set off toward the hills, all crusty and alone. My coping mechanisms open up to some cream pie. Remember that ole movie, with the beach-house? Plenty of folks must do that, for real. Nothing says you have to be a particular kind of person to do that. I imagine Mom coming down, after things blow over. I buy her some souvenirs. Maybe I send a maid back with her; she can jam that up Leona’s fat ass. A learning: deep shit sweetens your plans like crazy.

It’s midnight when the first headlights flicker through the branches by the highway. To be honest, I don’t even know which way is south. My ole man thought Scouts was for sissies, so I don’t even know which fucken way is south in life. Instead of trying to figure it out, I call some Glen Campbell to mind, to help me lope along, crusty and lonesome, older than my years. ‘Wichita Lineman’ is the song I call up, not ‘Galveston’. I would’ve conjured Shania Twain or something a little more sassy, but that might boost me up too much. What happens with sassy music is you get floated away from yourself, then snap back to reality too hard. I hate that. The only antidote is to just stay depressed.

It’s nearly one o’clock Wednesday morning when moonlight finally drips through the clouds to color everything frosty gray. Texas is so fucken beautiful.

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