I did that because

[CaliforniaNow]

Fill in the blanks:  the first time I _____________________, it was because _________________.

[officerripley]

The first time I got married, it was because I was stupid.

[Johnnieboy]

Went to work.....I needed money for college.

[Lifesighs]

Hate to admit it but the first time I had sex it was because I had too much to drink. I was already 20 so it was past time, I just wish the circumstances were better for the first time.

[imaginethat]

sewed a dress, it was because I was in home economics and it was a school project. I learned to sew early on and made alot of my own clothes. There were 8 kids in my family and It really helped that I could do that. I made two of my own prom dresses way back then.

[CaliforniaNow]

Geez Louise!  The most I ever learned to make were cotton dresses and baby clothes.  You must be quite the seamstress.  You could quit your day job.

[flippr 2.0]

the first time i spent the night in jail,it was because the speed limit wasn't posted.

[CaliforniaNow]

The first time I ever got my hair cut short, it was because Paul McCartney got his hair cut short. 

[imaginethat]

I don't have a sewing machine any more. It is something I just thought everyone did...lol. Wouldn't you just know?...

Yes Rose, that's a thought.....

[Johnnieboy]

Awwww,how touching.

[Ladysilverbird]

rode a big roller coaster-because it was a dare...

[flippr 2.0]

you got guts Lady.

how are you my friend?

they finally took this thing away.

[TeeBubbaDee]

I wrote a short story because I was encouraged by several members of the original TBD. (9 or possibly 10 years ago) I had never written anything other than book reports in high school, but had  posted a couple of poems that seemed to get more attention than I expected. I was encouraged to "let go" and see what happened. It's pretty short, so if you have 4 or 5 minutes...

The Old Man Didn’t Give A Shit

 

We’re not on any map, but this is Cumberland Furnace Tennessee. Population? Hell I don’t know. Maybe a little over a hunnert or so in "town", but I don’t think even the Good Lord knows how manys up in the hills. All I know for sure is population’s one short of what it was two days ago. Yep, one less tired old man in this tired old place. Everybody knew the old man that lived at the edge of town. Everybody knew Johnny. But, let me back up a couple days, and maybe you’ll see why the old man didn’t give a shit, and maybe why not many gave a shit when he died.

Cumberland Furnace is tiny, tucked way back in the hills, and practically cut off from the world. Yeah, everybody in town has indoor plumbing, but if ya take a look behind some of those houses, you'll still see outhouses. Some are leanin’ a little, but most are still standin‘.

Course "town" is just a small piece of Cumberland Furnace. The rest is a hilly, sprawling tangle of dirt roads, most entirely dead ends. If you care, or dare, travel them roads, you can see a tired trailer here, and a tumble down shack there. But in the hills, lots of places ain’t visible from the road. Out there those outhouses are still in use. Out there are the kinda folks who keep to themselves for the most part. They’ll come inta town to stock up, that is if they’re lucky enough for the truck to start.

Most all the good old boys get together around that still they have hidden in a small valley, away from prying eyes. They got one of them tumble down shacks to hold up in if the turns weathers bad. Sometimes they build a big fire, throw a goat on a spit, and make a night of it. If they’re in the mood, they’ll make it a two nighter. Hell, the worst of ‘em have been known to camp out there for a week at a time. And the old man was one of the worst that ever come along.

You just have to watch out for them damned cottonmouths, which is kinda hard to do after that jar of shine gets passed around enough times. Night time, them snakes want somthin’ warm to curl up next to. The old man learned his lesson the hard way. Musta been 30 years ago, and one of them two nighters. He was just sittin’ round, sippin‘ shine, and waitin’ for goat dinner. That’s when one of them damned cottonmouths bit his ankle. From what I heard, it pert near killed him. Also heard them ol’ boys skinned that snake and roasted it over the fire too.

Town ain’t much. A tiny church, with the town cemetery snuggled right up close. Three or four dozen houses, most needin‘ repairs of one kind or another. A one pump gas station, and a small general store

I own the store so I get the daily, hell, sometimes hourly scoop on all the dirty laundry hangin’ around. Since everybody shows up here sooner or later, I guess you’d call my store the heart of this ol’ place. Can’t say heart and soul. Nope, if this place ever had a soul, it dried up and blowed away when the iron works closed in 1923.

Feed and grain are big sellers. I move a few guns, and lots of ammo. I got some clothes, just the basics, which includes a fair amount of bib overalls, and heavy work boots. I got a grocery section, but nothing fancy. There’s a tired deli counter that’s never quite fully stocked. Bread, all of it white, and maybe a day old. There is an assortment of snacks, mostly chips, nachos, pork rinds and cookies. Better check the date on them too. Some penny candy for the kiddies. I got a wheezing old cooler in the corner. It’s rustin’ up round the bottom, but still chuggin’ along. That’s where I keep the milk, eggs, butter, a half dozen different kinds of sodas, even some Gatorade.

You want anything else, anything but the bare necessities, you have to go to the city. Well Dickson is 30 miles away, and not really a city, that’s just what folks call it. If you’re goin‘, you’re goin’ to the city.

I don’t sell no beer. No booze either. Nope, not in Cumberland Furnace. We’re sittin’ smack dab in the middle of a dry county. Course if you had a hankerin’, everybody knew who you had ta go see. Just go see Jonnny. Course everybody also knows he's die'n. This tiny, back woods, ass hole of the world, is a hell of a place to die. But if your born in these parts, you’ll just as likely to die here. The old man knew he was a die‘n, but he didn't give a shit.

When he was young, he had been a real lady killer. Just knocked them women right back on their heels. And if he got lucky, knocked em outta those heels, if you know what I mean. Good lookin‘. Coal black eyes, coal black hair, compact and wiry body. Dazzling smile under a straight narrow nose and high cheekbones. He got those cheekbones from his Cherokee ancestors. He’s not full blooded, but enough of that Indian blood was left so that his skin was kinda reddish gold. Most women just loved that damned, tanned all the time look.

Course he ain‘t young no more. The eyes haven’t changed, but everything else has. His hair's the color of dirty slate, that wiry body, now a bag of bones. The smile's long gone. The teeth that are left, have the stains of a life time of unfiltered Pall Malls. His skin is dusky gray. But he still has those eyes. Those piercing, penetrating eyes that can look right through a man. Yep. still has those coal black eyes, but that’s the only real color left in him as he sits on the stoop of the place he calls home.

Yeah, in his day, he had been a lady killer all right. Got himself hitched several times, Hell, even fathered a couple whelps with them bitches before his drinkin’ and whorin’ put a crimp in those brief mistakes. Sometimes he‘d just get tired of the whining’ and naggin‘. Sometimes he’d just get tired of beatin’ the same woman over and over, and need a new punchin’ bag. Sooner or later though, he’d just light out. Light out like his hair was on fire and his ass was a catchin‘. Yeah, they always cried about alimony and child support, but he didn’t give a shit then, and didn‘t give a shit now.

He sits on a beat up old rocker on his stoop. He built that stoop out of cheap pine many years ago. Now the stoop is like him, saggin‘, grayin‘, and on it‘s last legs. A yeller dog lays at his feet, chained to the post at the top of the steps. He loves that old dog, well, at least what passes for love in that stone cold heart of his. And he only feels this when he’s sober. If not, then he’d be just as likely to give that dog a kick if he was in the mood.

But he hasn’t kicked that dog in years. The last couple times he tried, he was too slow, and the dog too fast. And the last time he’d ended up on his ass to boot. He knows his kicking days are long gone.

He’s kinda like that yellar dog now too, chained up that is. Only stead of steel links, his chain is a thin plastic tube. It runs from his nose to the big oxygen tank standin’ next to the rocker. He has another big one in the house for when he’s inside, but when the weathers decent, he likes it out here on the stoop. There’s only three thing he cares about anymore. Sittin’ on his stoop. Smokin’ one more of them damn coffin nails, if he can catch a good breath. And of course, a little sip outta that pint jar every now and then. Yep, that’s all he cares about anymore. Everything else, he just doesn’t give a shit.

He likes it best on the stoop now, cause when he’s inside, Roussie drives him crazy. Just plain old bat shit crazy!

20 years ago it had seemed like a good idea to go up inta them hills and fetch back a woman to cook and clean. And maybe a little hanky panky if he wasn’t too drunk. And back then she kept her eyes down and her mouth shut. If he said "Jump", she didn’t ask how high. She just jumped as high, as fast, and as long he wanted. When he was drunk and on the war path, she’d always run and hide. But Roussie wasn’t too bright and the old man could always find her. It was real easy, the only place to hide in the house was in the cupboard under the sink, and she hid there every time. He’d just drag her out and give her the beatin’ he knew she deserved.

It had been like the dog, if he was in the mood, she was goin’ to get it one way or the other. But also like the dog, now she was faster than he was. As long as she stayed outta reach of his cane, he couldn’t beat her with anything but his sharp tongue.

But it’s been 20 long years since he‘d brought that girl outta them hills. Now it seemed like Roussie’s jaw is unhinged most of the time, always yappin’ and flappin’ about somethin‘. All that jawin’ just grates on him. Feels like 80 grit sandpaper rubbin’ inside of his head. And just lately, he sometimes catches a sly look in her faded blue eyes. Not often, but every now and again, there seems to be a tiny glint in those eyes that are usually flat and dead. He doesn’t like that glint, but he’s really to the point that he doesn’t give a shit.

Roussie had never stepped foot in a school house, but livin’ with the old man taught her a lesson or two. She wasn’t smart enough to find a new hidey hole, but she was sly enough to know where he kept his money. He had a pretty good stash, and she figured it would be her payback. Payback for the all the abuse, black eyes, and bruises. And that broken pinkey finger that never healed straight. And she was pretty sure she wouldn’t have to wait much longer..

He still got his Social Security check, not that it amounted to much. And before the oxygen chained him down, he used to have a steady income from selling beer, booze, shine, cigarettes, and sometimes a little dope out his front door. Yeah, I know Cumberland Furnace is right in the middle of a dry county. But once a week he would fire up his old Ford Galaxie, and head for the city.

He would pack that old Ford as full as he could with booze and beer from the liquor store, and he knew a fella that always seemed to have access to untaxed cigarettes, marijuana and some little pills. He’d take the load back to his place and just sit and wait. He never had to wait long, and did most of his business after dark. Sooner or later they’d be a couple of fella’s bangin’ on the door, hollerin’ JOHNNNYYY!!

This went on most all night. He made a little on the cigarettes, doubled his money on the beer n' booze, and made a killin’ on the dope. The alkies and stoners didn’t seem to care. If you asked the old man why these folks didn’t make their own trip to the city instead of payin’ him double in greasy bills, his reply was, "Well, I figure they’re just plain ignorant". Either that, or his patented, "Don’t give a shit."

But that was then. Now he’s got two choices. Sittin’ inside with Roussie, makin’ him crazy with that flappin’ jaw of hers. Or sittin’ out here on the stoop, chained up like a dog, smoking’ and sippin‘ shine.

These days the old man’s in bad shape. He’s been in and outta that V.A. hospital a dozen times. Let’s just say a life of drinkn‘, brawlin‘, and rough livin’ takes a toll on a man.

Like most old folks, he’s got the arthritis. Emphysema from them Pall Malls. Course cirrhosis from all that drinkin. He’s got more broken bones than most folks get in two lifetimes, hell maybe three. Took a beatin’ in a pool hall years back, and has killer headaches from a steel plate in his head. Prostates so bad he can hardly pee. Two knee replacements. A hernia that’s been fixed four times and is busted loose again. Now of course there’s the cancer. The radiation was bad, but the chemo’s what drained mosta the life right outta him.

Like I said, Roussie wasn't real smart, but she was finally right about one thing at least. Two days ago the old man took his last gasp of oxygen, and keeled over. Rolled right out of that rocker and landed face up next to that yeller dog of his. The only sound was the back of his head hittin’ the saggin’ stoop. The dog gave him a long stare, but didn’t whine, he knew the old man didn’t like no whining‘. He finally got up, and gave the old man one little lick across the stubble on his chin, and laid back down.

The funeral is small, Most of the "town" people stay away. It’s one thing to bang on the old man’s door at three in the morning, but another to let folks know how well you’d know’d him. Course Roussie is here, along with the old man’s two remaining sisters. And most of the good old boys have come down out of the hills. Come to see good ol’ Johnny one last time. Hell hadn’t they drank shine, and ate goat together?

There is one young fella here no one seems to know. Tall, with long hair tied in a pony tail. He has the look of a guy that ain’t never learned to smile. He sits in the back, and keeps to himself until after the service.

Once the church clears, he slowly walks over to the cluster of old timers. They’re gathered up under the tall oak tree next to the cemetery. They’re smokin’ cigarettes, havin a sip, and shootin’ the shit about the good ol’ days. And good ol’ Johnny.

The stranger hangs back for a while, but finally asks one of them if he had known the old man well. "Hell yea, he was hard ass, but most of us here liked him." The stranger says, "Just wondered, I just came out of curiosity. You see I really didn’t know him, but he was my father." "Hey Fellas! Hey!! This here’s Johnny’s son!" Well most of old timers walked over and gave the stranger a slap on the back, and told him what a damned fine man his Pa had been.

Somehow, I don’t think that son of his really gives a shit.

Author's Note:

This short story Is based on Alan Johnson Rector, my father. Much of this story is based on fact. Cumberland Furnace exists, and I did go to his funeral. Roussie is a real person. She really never went to school, and she did hide in the cupboard under the sink. He did sell booze out of his house, but as far as I know he did not sell drugs, although he did have a healthy supply of pain killers for a bad back. I exagerated some of his medical problems, even to the point of giving him my hernias and my cancer. I know he was not what most people would call a nice man. He was an abusive (physically and mentally) drunk. He never sent my mother a dime of support. He may have been my biological father, but he was never my dad. Still, the last line of the story is a lie. For some reason, I did give a shit.