Week Eleven - 7 or 8 Things

Week Eleven – Journal 2

7 or 8 Things I Know about Him – A Stolen Biography

His Wife's Scars
After his death, his wife found that she had become less ashamed of the scars that he had awarded her in the lottery that was her life. She began to count them nightly before bed; the one across her forehead from the butt of his pistol, the one just above her right eye from the the glass ashtray that he'd clipped her with, and the long thin one that went from the her left temple down to her chin. She seemed to wear them almost with a sense of pride; pride in the fact that she was still here, wearing those scars and he was not.

The Dog
He was always running around as a child and throwing things and teasing people. One sunny day as he ran around in the front yard with his cut-off shorts and dingy white t-shirt both caked with dirt, his father sitting up on the porch with a beer in his hand, he spotted a pitiful looking dog limping across the street. He picked up a rock and threw it, hitting the dog in his hindquarters. When he heard his father laugh, it seemed to spur him on. He ran over to the dog, lifted his ashy little leg and kicked him as hard as he could in his belly. The dog gave a horrible yelp and fell over. He ran back over to his father, laughing like he had just heard the funniest joke in the world. The next day the dog was found dead in the exact same spot.

The Sneakers
Gambling was something that he couldn't give up, but he had been horrible at it. His friends knew that when they saw him coming, they should just go ahead and pull out the dice because it was time to start shooting craps. His reputation as a sore loser was notorious. He would be quick to threaten one of them if they so much as accused him of taking too long to roll. Once he lost and wouldn't pay up, and he wouldn't pay up because he'd been gambling with his mother's money and he had no intention of getting put out. He didn't think it was right to have to walk the streets, especially with his brand new sneakers on. He broke a bottle over one of the guys' heads and they all jumped him. When he finally made it home a little later that evening, bloody-nosed and bruised, he wouldn't answer his mother's question about why he was barefoot.

First Criticism
He is about 4 years old and is standing against the wall, banging his head into the sheet rock over and over again. He's been at his mother's apartment, which she shares with a female friend, for four hours now, and he's already ready to get back to his father. The G.I. Joe figure his mother gave him is broken into three pieces at angry little feet. The young women are taking turns puffing from a marijuana cigarette, sitting on the couch and watching him. The mother's friend looks at her, shakes her head and says “Girl, that boy gone be trouble. He is so bad!”

Listening In
This is overheard while he is in the bathroom getting ready to go out to a bar: “Damn, you's a pretty nigga!”

Self-Criticism
“Hell, I guess I must have been as dumb as my momma kept saying I was. I couldn't never hold a decent conversation with a woman. They was always laughing at me or talking about they was “busy” whenever I called or came around. I was so dumb, it took me a little while to realize I could get what I wanted if I took it.”

Fantasies
Recurring fantasy: To have four voluptuous women, 2 white, 1 black and 1 mexican, all trying their best to fulfill his every desire while he sits like a king in the middle of his bed and throws hundred dollar bills in the air around them.