The Rebel

In the fall of 2003, my freshman year, Sunderland first floor, which was all boys, was called “LOOSE HOUSE”; because the girls were sluts and well—the boys liked that.

The campus rang with the wild call of the duck. The duck would sound loudest sometime around two or three in the morning, when it could be guaranteed that most of the campus was sleeping. If you stood at Schafer, you could amazingly, still hear the sounds of the duck, which came from the third story fire escape of Sunderland.

It was there, bridge-side that you could find Johnny Rebel, a legend of a man, blowing lovingly into his duck whistles.

Once someone stole Johnny’s duck whistles from his unlocked room. That sent him on a crazed, headlong investigation. Like any real man would do, Johnny posted dozens of Public Service Announcements all over Sunderland and the surrounding area. The announcements stated that he, Johnny Rebel, would buy a giant case of Pabst for anyone that returned his beloved duck calls.

The next night, at midnight, the wild call of the duck could be heard all across campus.

The only thing Johnny loved more than his duck calls was Pabst. Pabst was not only his beer of choice, but also his pet squirrel. Someone had found Pabst, nearly dead on the lawn of Sunderland and it was Johnny who had stepped forward to care for it. Johnny kept Pabst wrapped in a piece of cloth, warm in his inner coat pocket, to keep the cold out. Once, in the trash, a Recycling Crew member found one of Johnny Rebel’s written warnings from public safety. It seems that Johnny had been found in possession of 250 cans of beer and one squirrel.

It’s almost unnecessary to say that Johnny stole the show at the very first Bubba. Of course, all I can remember of the night was helping my friend carry an inebriated Johnny Rebel, supported by our shoulders, home to Sunderland from Dogwood. We didn’t think the night would ever end.

Johnny Rebel: he got blamed for many things that year, because he was an alcoholic, Republican redneck. Not the most popular combination on this campus. I like to think that he went out with a bang though… or rather a WHOOSH. One night, in a drunken stupor, Johnny used all of his pissed off might and kicked the water fountain on the first story floor of Sunderland. God—I wish I could have seen the expression on his face when the whole damn thing came off the wall and erupted like an opened fire hydrant. According to sources, the water surged out of the wall and into the lobby; it tumbled down the stairs, soaked the carpet and collapsed most of the basement ceiling.

Needless to say, Johnny didn’t get invited back the following year.

It’s now been three years since Johnny’s set foot on campus; and I often wonder what has happened to him. Sometimes, when the stars shine bright on the fields of Dogwood and the leaves rustle gently in the woods, I hear the cry of a lonesome duck and then I know… he’s probably doing just fine.

Wednesday's Past

Wednesday night is margarita night. The liquor stores close at 9 pm in the bible belt, so we roll up to Ingles around 10 and buy a bottle of cheap wine: Market Vines strawberry. You can get a big ole jug for only $7.00. And that is how we do Wednesday night, making extra floozy margaritas because they have more sugar in them than alcohol but we both get real drunk and go outside and look for boys to hook up with. Lori’s wearing a bikini top and a skirt and I just have on my hoodie and some jeans. Lori is a lightweight though and they call her Stumbly outside and talk bad shit about her. I can’t get nearly as drunk as her on our half assed margaritas and deep down I know I’ll never be able to pick up boys like she can but I go outside with her anyways because I can’t sleep and she can’t walk. No one is outside though, because it’s a Wednesday night and everyone is doing homework for Thursday. The only kids that are out are the drunks and the druggies and the insomniacs.

We stay out a couple hours; we finish our drinks, Lori and I. I don’t say much of anything because Lori is talking about everything on her mind. Where is the ocean now? Why isn’t it nearby? She just wants to see the waves—she needs her comfort zone. My comfort zone is with people who understand me and that’s why I’m drinking with Lori. Those boys though they break her down inside; they call her a ho. They don’t know how it is though. I tell those boys, why you all gotta be so mean? She’s not crazy… she’s from California and that’s why she needs to see the ocean. They don’t understand though. They think all girls that sleep around are whores. They don’t understand what it means for us.

Lori’s told me. At first, I thought that she just liked to sleep around too. It took some time, but I learned the truth. She’s just like how I used to be. She thinks she’s ugly. She’s been in a lot of shitty situations with men too and she thinks that she is no good. I tell her, Lori, you are beautiful. You just need to be careful. Someone out there is right for you, but these sketchies on this campus, are not right. Don’t let them get to you.

Lori thinks I’m talking out of my ass, but I know how it is. I know how it is to feel completely alone. I say Lori, listen to me. I am not a whore. You are not a whore, you listen to me. When I was 18, I used to sleep around; but it wasn’t sleeping around. No one called me or found me in school and said hey beautiful, you are so sexy, let’s go screw around in the gym room. That wasn’t me at all. I was so lonely; so damn lonely and I didn’t care about my body. I’d sit up late on the internet. That’s right, I’m one of the sketchies you were worried that I would get abducted by. The thing is though, I wanted to be abducted. I wanted someone to want me, I wanted someone to want my body; and they did. They wanted my body so much that they would meet me anywhere. Those sketchies met me in the backs of parking lots after work or in the middle of the day, they met me at my house when I got good at it. I drove to those sketchies houses and they showed me how sketchy they could be all over my body. One time Lori, one time I met a sketchy at a McDonalds and he took me home in his sketchy white work van and we did sketchy things at his sisters house, in his nephews bed, because he didn’t have a house, but he did have a daughter but she was in school; she was in grade school. And Lori, this one time I drove to a sketchies house and he made me cry.

That was the only time I felt like a whore… the only time. I started crying and I got up and left and I drove home and I showered for like two hours. I don’t even know how many sketchies I’ve slept with… at one point it was sixty something; sixty something moments that I sought affection. Sixty something moments when no one was around to love me back; sixty something moments that I had to convince myself that what I was doing did not make me a whore.

Do you understand what I’m saying Lori? We are not whores. We’re just lonely and we need to be loved, but no one will love us because we are sad and people don’t like to love sad people because they have sketchy problems. And that’s why I’m out here tonight Lori, with this shitty margarita, on this cold April night. I just don’t want you to be alone.

I just don’t want to be alone.

A Mother's Bond

Clouds of dust drift upward on the Savanna;

a male hyena waits impatiently in the brush.

A lioness licks her cub,

The air is sharp, like her gaze.

Tumbling playfully in the wild grasses,

the cub wanders after a dung beetle;

While the hyena rushes in for the kill,

The lioness, sensing danger, roars in disbelief,

Pounces, and lands on the side of the hyena

digging her claws into his rump.

The hyena flees, concluding that

mothers are no laughing matter.

The NAMES Quilt

Cloudless day;

Sewing inside.

“Each memorial panel,

must be three feet by six feet”.

The same size as a cemetery plot.

No one ever thinks about the dimensions.

The pattern will fail,

if the shapes don’t fit together.

Our quilt was flawless,

Until a thread got pulled.

Knit One…Pearl Two?

Can hardly sew a button.

My hands tremble,

I cut the wedding tux you wore,

And line it with the skirt of my gown.

My Yang for your Yin.

Your tender folds caress me back,

As I wrap myself in you one last time.

Faith?

It’s time to look for

God when three thousand people

die daily from AIDS.

Positive Actions: In Haiku

An older sibling,

moved to California

to straighten his life.

Three letters stalked him,

Stole his opportunities;

Left him Positive.

They took his license,

job, insurance, apartment;

left him with welfare.

Ailing; three thousand

miles from his home. Struggling

to prolong his time.

Sobbing and heaving

Brother and sister; on the phone.

Alone... he’s dying.

Mother takes the blame;

She must have done something wrong,

Her son is a fag.

“Sister…I need Mom.

I need her to love me too.

Help me convince her”.

She needs exposure.

She must find you on her own;

I cannot force her.

Stuck in between a

homophobic mess; my love

alone is not enough.

Home

Home is where spent my childhood.

It’s where I learned to flat foot and buck dance

and turn sorghum into molasses.

At home all the locals know your name and

what year you won the spelling bee.

Home is where gossip spreads faster than a 5-year-old on a pogo stick.

South of the Mason-Dixon line,

home is where the Blue Ridge Mountains speak to me in tongues.

It’s where I have lived for eighty-nine years.

Home is where my heart will always rest.

Aqua Butterfly: In Haiku

Small aquarium

Filled with marbles: blue, green, clear,

Bubbler soothes my sleep.

I tap on the glass

And you surface to the top.

Feeding time is nigh.

Beautiful Beta

Glub your way into my heart.

You’re my birthday pet.

Pampered little fish.

Once a week I clean your tank.

Gladly, you accept.

George is your name but

You could be a female

For all I know of fish.

Aqua Butterfly

You make me happy even

Though we can’t cuddle.

Southern Comfort

Polished belt buckles and boots,
Collared shirts and floral skirts;
Hell, even the preacher had a new cowboy hat.

I saw her step onto the longest aisle.
Red bouquet to match her Chevy.
Magnificent; just like the night we met.

I saw her there swinging on the rodeo gate.
Tossing her long curly hair back.
Waving that bright red ten gallon hat
Makin’ such a hoot an’ hollerin’.

I knew she was meant to be mine.

I walked on over to her, trying to contain my nervousness.
Put my boot up on the fence, crossed my arms on the top rung and said the only thing I could think of.

“Well hi thar' purty lady.”

Her smile could have lit a firecracker.
My heart sputtered like a chainsaw on the first pull.

The music began. All eyes were on her.
That aisle would never end.

Eight months of NASCAR races, bull ridin’, comparin, pick ups and gun collections.
Our love was like fried chicken; good every night but especially with a cold beer.

I’ll never forget our first date. Those cows didn’t know what hit em’.
The look on her face when that farmer fired his gun was just perfect.

I proposed at the Daytona 500.
Nothin’ says romancin’ like havin’ “Loretta…Will You Marry Me” flash across the
Jumbo Tron in letters bigger than a John Deer tractor.

Her smile was sweeter than any tea north or south of the Mason Dixon.


By God, people ask me if that was the best county fair of my life. Well, I say...

I do.