Ain't His Story

“Deeper now, gotta’ go deeper if we wanna’ get anywhere”

The first layer was home, at least a slice of it. Comfy blankets, a delicious mint peanut candy. Warm bed, quiet night, a delicious mint peanut candy. “A delicious… candy, Mint -”

“Can’t stop here Red, you gotta’ job to do t’night”

Two layers down, three four and five. For a blessing, Charles only became aware of the nausea once it began to fade.

Five and six, seven and eight. Charles didn’t realize he was falling until he hit the ground.

Nine.

“Hold the ‘ell on… you ain’t Red”

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Charlie Furmo was a rambunctious and unkempt rogue, with a heart of gold and temper like dynamite.

Even amongst the wild personalities of Shrinktown, whose denizens staffed the I -20 truckstop leaving Shreveport, he held the reputation of a boisterous young lad. But the town took care of him, and he was loved. After all, the community's cherished Road Pizza Parlor had been his idea.

“Pa! Ey Pa, come check’it out!” He shouted one sweltering July morning, slamming into the sliding glass doors of the Orenda Mega-station. A group of bikers ranging from dreadfully skinny to morbidly obese turned from their self-checkout, distracted by the young boy's abrupt collision.

“Oh for the love a- Hot Mic!” Uncle Ivory shot from his sleepy slump against the wall, tilting up the wide brimmed leather hat that draped over his eyes, “How many times I gotta’ tell ya not to come screechin’ in here like that? It frightens the customers!”.

Charlie rubbed his head with a groan, rising to his feet as the electric doors attempted to close fruitlessly, opening again at his presence. “About as many times I've told YOU not to call me that-” He growled. The bikers chuckled at the boy, until Uncle Ivory shooed them on with a weak nod and hand wave, “Until you learn to control that yappa’ o yours, you’re Hot Mic.”

Charlie rolled his eyes as the tall dark and skinny man corralled him out of the poor confused doorway and down a brightly lit fluorescent hall. “Your daddy's out back checking the gauges, go tell him to ground your sorry lil’ butt yeah?” Uncle Ivory gave him a playful kick in the behind with his suede purple shoes.

“Maybe after I tell him about you sleeping on the job!” Charlie ran off, raising a parting hand back at the slender man. “You little….It’s called incognito monitoring!”

Charlie snickered to himself, hopping across packed boxes of all shapes and sizes, weaving through the dark corridors of the station backrooms with practiced agility. His eyes had barely adjusted from the stark white sunlight to the cold dimness of the labyrinth, but his heart knew the way, as all his family did.

Between the humming coolers and roaring air units, harsh light forced its way into the cool gloom beneath the back door, accompanied by the conversely artificial crimson glow of the exit sign above. Charlie burst through the egress, closing his eyes tight from the blinding wave of sun and warm pulse of air that swiftly filled the industrial void.

“Pa!” The little whelp slammed into his father with enough force to knock the breath out of even a sturdy man like himself.

“Gah!” his wide sunburnt frame hunched over the boy in a big hug, though in truth he had also crumpled over from the impact. How-” he wheezed out, picking up his kid, “How many times I gotta’ tell ya not to call me Pa? It makes us sound like backwood hicks son.”

Charlie threw his arms around the broad neck of his Father, giggling to himself as he stifled out his words. “Uncle Ivory says we are hicks Pa”.

His Father tossed him down when Charlie began climbing up like a spider-monkey , dropping to his feet with the catlike balance of youth. “A freakin’ oyster would know more about class than Ivory’s every gunna.” He ruffled the boys already tossed about hair, pale red like a tumbleweed in the driest desert.

“Oh oh right!” Charlie shook his hair in a hound-like fashion, a fruitless attempt to return whatever previous mess of a hairstyle he had preferred. “Pa get this, I found a whole horde a’ cats living in that old drybox on lot twelve! I was thinkin’ we oughta make em’ the mascots of the station!” He leapt forward and back like a psychotic frog with each word that left his lips, casting a spell of dizziness over the Parent.

A huge but gentle hand placed itself firmly on Charlie's skull, ceasing the jounce, “Ey Ey, what did we say about taking in animals onto station property? It ain’t sanitary to have wild critters running around-”

“But Pa!” Charlie interrupted, breaking free from the grounding and continuing on in his jubilant jaunt, “These ain’t mangy mewlers, I think they’re some sort’a burrow breads.” The hands caught him again, this time getting a grip on each arm and hefting the boy over his fathers shoulders, "That 's thorough breed, little dude, and I find myself sceptical”.

Charlie didn’t expect himself to be able to wiggle free from his Dads grip, but that didn’t stop the little insect from trying. A thick wall of dark clouds cast their shadow over the lot, extinguishing the waves that rose from sweltering asphalt like the drifting soul of conquered land. All who resided on that land were grateful to be hid from such a furious summer sun, one that seemed to wish to conquer them itself.

When the duo finally came upon the shipping crate, which had held its last shipment over a year ago at this point, Charlie's Father released the grip on his child. Charlie erratically launched himself down once again, an air of satisfaction on his face as if the newfound freedom had been gained through his own efforts.

Wiping his nose with a handkerchief, as the man had taken to doing in an effort to come across as somewhat sophisticated, Charlie's dad pushed open the container. Along with the metallic wail the rusted box squawked in protest, a chorus of falsetto hisses shot from the darkness, “Ga-good lord boy! These ain’t no cats, they’re possums!”. A backwater twang in his voice took advantage of the surprise to reintroduce itself .

Charlie peaked around his Father at the pile of creatures, large white opossums that huddled together in the back corners of the shipping container. Their beady eyes reflected the trickle of light that beamed in like black pearls stained with red. “Possums?” Charlie looked back at his Dad, whose face fought to disguise his disgust, “ but these ain’t flat Pa, they’re fat and fluffy”.

The boy and his father came upon roadkill quite often, ‘Road Pizza’ as his Pa’ had called it. The first time Charlie came into the store swinging around a sun baked possum he’d scraped off the lot, Uncle Ivory swore this time he’d really quit and move to Memphis. Charlie's father took the boy out back and explained to him the ways of death, meanwhile going through a whole tub of soap to scrub his hands clean.

“That’s cause these ones are alive, man. Poor fellas don't tend to last long out on the highway, guess this lot were smart enough to find a home.” He ushered his son out from the crate, the hissing song ceasing as the door closed. “I’ll call up Big Po, he’ll get em’ outta there before the day’s up I bet-” A loud clang rattled behind Charlie's father, who nearly dropped his cell phone from the jolt. Charlie had spread his body across the crates' closed doors, like a starfish clinging to shore rocks, “Get em’ out? Nah Pa’ you cant! They’re through way breads, they can't become road pizza!”

His dad stared back, exasperated, “That’s thorough breed dude, and they’re not even-” He didn’t know where to even begin correcting his child. But the man saw conviction in the child's eyes, eyes he'd become accustomed to see holding the basic emotions of childhood. Fear, happiness, sadness, he knew his son’s looks by heart, but this was something new. A mature determination shone in Charlie's grey iris, and the decision had been made.