ALL NOVEL A Sociological Study Into The Psychology And Actions Of The Common American “Loser”
Danny flipped the sign on the door to closed and let out a sigh that could only come from a miner tasting fresh air for the first time after being trapped for weeks... Only to find out that there had been a coup d'etat in his country while he was underground. Thankfully no other farmer or townie showed up to give him a hard time about church or the new folks or anything. He was free to do the other emotionally draining part in the karmic wheel of suffering that was his life. After making sure everything was secured for the night, he turned toward the foreboding staircase that jutted out from the wall behind the counter. In his mind it was radiating dark energy like a scene in J-horror, he could almost hear the creepy Koto music as he ascended step by step.
Its not that Danny feared his father. He was more terrified of talking to the man who single-handedly sunk his ambitions through no fault of his own. Hiding his resentment for Pops involved a huge amount of emotional energy. They were of two long separate generations, and it showed terribly. Joe would read a chapter of the Bible every day, while Danny in his free time would waste it away online. Neither Danny nor his father knew how to talk to the other, and thus both were left alone in their own personal hells.
Danny reached the top of the stairs. His hand shook as if he were under an immense amount of pressure. He carefully opened the door as if he was defusing a bomb, trying to make as little sound as humanly possible. As the door slowly swung wide bit by bit, it revealed something Danny would describe as “objectively horrific”.
Inside the flat that the family called home was a sprawling mess. It was about as filthy and jumbled as you would expect of two depressed men who only talked about the weather and the inner workings of a small town small business. In the center of it all, of course, was Joe Kenton, siting in his office chair with his oxygen tank mounted on the side, looking for all intents and purposed like the hobo king of the trash mountain around him.
As he did everyday, he wore his Vietnam Veteran Official Army Ballcap™. Bought and paid for by the Common American Taxpayer. Also paid for by the American public was a chemical known as agent orange which his platoon was, unfortunately due to a scheduling error in bombing raids, gassed with during the war.
Not paid for was compensation to the victims of that event, nor were the medical bills from the resulting lung cancer that the VA refused to cover based on a “dishonorable discharge” and a “lack of evidence of exposure”.
Apparently the Sargent had refused to report it out of patriotism. Thus, lacking a paper trail, the cogs of the pentagon case assessors denied compensation. Later on, when Joe and his squad had attempted to frag said Sargent for this and other indignities, they were caught, and summarily discharged with dishonor.
He was the last survivor of that squad. His buddies, with a such a stain on their records were stuck with no job prospects, and one by one they ended up gone, on the street from cold, swinging in his room, inexplicably found dead in Miami, the list went on. The Sargent, at least, died in his bed surrounded by loved ones and clutching an American flag. Truly the arc of history bent toward justice.
Joe was an old and bitter man. He had hate deep within his hart that he felt he could only suppress by strict adherence to the bible. He had told Danny as much on one of his drunken benders.
Danny, on the other hand, had recently begun to feel that it was right to hate the people who fucked you over. When he allowed himself the thought that turning the other cheek really just made things worse, it unleashed a torrent of understanding. His Pop was right to be angry, and the suppression of it had broken him as a human being. It wasn’t like he could argue that point, though. Rocking the boat would just make things worse.
“Hey Pops!” Danny chirped in his best customer service voice.
“Son.” Joe said in a flat raspy tone finally acknowledging Danny’s presence. “How was business today?” He had been waiting for this question of course, the first move in his chess game planed and rehearsed in his head over the day. It was time to undo some of the damage Darrow had already done. “Well, some folks who bought out McDaniel's old farm dropped 1000 on concrete.” Joe whistled. “maybe we oughta keep ‘em in town if they’re dumb enough to buy bag concrete from a small local retailer.” Danny let out a practiced sigh. “Darrow tell you?”
“Yeah. Crazy fool thinks we can just run ‘em out with guns drawn, like he’s a gosh darn cowboy or something.” He exhaled raggedly. “Who the hell does he think he is? As if it wouldn't result in another Bundy-style standoff. And that’s not good for anyone!” He shook his head. “The man has never internalized love thy neighbor.” Joe had seen enough shit that “love the sinner hate the sin” might as well have been carved into his heart. Didn’t make him a good person in Danny’s estimation, but his bigotry was easier to ignore.
Danny nodded in accent. He had what he wanted: his father wouldn’t go after the ecovillage.
After several moments of interminable awkward silence, Danny began to inch toward the kitchen, desperate to begin to cook dinner. Anything but deal with the lingering stench of multi-generational failure. He was born of losers, he was a loser, and if the bible had anything to say about it his children would be losers too.
Still, he prided himself on knowing his way around a kitchen. He had been cooking since he was ten to “make things easier ‘till Mommy comes back”. Since then he had memorized a couple tasty signature dishes that he rotated between.
Today he was making one of his favorites since it was the first thing he learned how to make- pesto pasta with cherry tomato and pork. As he worked he hummed a tune from the local country station that had gotten suck in his head. He began to dance a bit to the tune he was thinking of as he poured oil into a skillet to cook the blade chop of pork and put on a pot of boiling water. He had always loved dancing, but hated doing it in pubic. His moves to the average observer would be described as ‘insanely feminine’ and ‘gay as fuck’, and he had long learned the proper ways to dodge that type of scrutiny.
Cooking though? This was Danny time. The kitchen of the flat was small and cramped, but it was also his space. Joe had never learned to cook and so the kitchen, which had a door from the original 19th century design, had become a second room for him. The one true space where he could eke out the illusion of control over this life. He added the tomatoes to the skillet and swirled them around making sure the absorbed a good amount of the pig-fat. The pasta finally met the boiling water. So in the zone was he that he didn’t hear his father galumph over to the door and open it.
“Dang it, Daniel!” Danny stopped dead. He hated being called that. Pops was standing propped against the doorway giving him a befuddled stare. “You look like Freddie Mercury!” He felt his stomach drop. Coming from his dad this was not a complement.
Joe’s Voice dropped low into a stage rasp “Do you want to end up like him! Huh? Is it so hard to be a Man?” His face darkened with sadness. “I’d never forgive myself if you also went to hell.”
As always with these lectures Danny didn’t know what to say to this. “Pops...” He remembered he was still cooking and went back to work. Over his shoulder he said “Pops I’m not gay!” It would be so much easier if he was, at least then he would know WHAT was wrong with him. “What happened with Evelyn wasn’t because I’m gay! Alright?” The pasta had fused together from lack of siring, he sighed exasperatedly as he tried desperately to separate it. “I know its been 3 years and you still hold it over my head, but come on!”
He began stabbing into the half cooked pasta with his wooden spoon. “It’s not like I meet too many new girls in this dump!” Grabbing the skillet, he tossed the Chop expertly. The oily hunk of meat remembered the joy of bounding across grassy meadows as it leaped up nearly touching the ceiling. It landed perfectly on its other side in the skillet. The cut of meat seemed almost sad that its freedom was cut short letting out a defeated sizzle.
Danny turned and stared into his fathers eyes desperately trying to get him off his back. Pops just shook his head like Danny just didn’t get something. “You act like a queer, son, its a wonder you got girls at all.”
Danny frowned that was a line. “Get out of the kitchen Pops.”
“Is a man not allowed to give his son advice?” Joe asked in a wounded voice.
“Out!” Danny screamed unable to contain his emotions any longer.
“Daniel Kenton, I’m trying to help you!” Joe tried to yell back but his respiratory system fought him all the way, the last syllable devolving into a hiss followed by a coughing fit.
“OUT!” Danny’s voice cracked with pain. He would not be cowed by an act of weakness.
The old man finally turned and began to drag his oxygen tank out of the kitchen continuing to hack to himself, but not wanting to lose the last word he wheezed “What is the world coming to?” under his breath as he shut the door behind him. With that Danny turned off the stove top and broke down in tears. He had long learned how to cry silently. And so, as he went through the motions of cutting up the meat and draining the pasta, he sobbed without sound.
While he mixed the pasta with the pesto, he played the game of “try not to get tears in the food”, and contemplated his situation. So, what if he burst into tears whenever he thought about his one sexual encounter? Its not like he was gay! There wasn’t a single fiber of his being that could even consider being with guys, they were hairy and smelly and hard. Girls were soft and elegant and round in ways made him envious.
He began to plate the dish, the pasta was a little lumpy but he made sure that his father got most of it. How could he be gay if he liked girls so much he felt desperately jealous of them? Ridiculous.
Danny needed a drink. He had been drinking since he was 14. It was a party of some sort, he didn’t remember. It was the same party he was introduced to Evelyn, and then he was back to crying. He stumbled over to the fridge, bringing out a Yingling and box of pre-grated Parmesan analogue as he sprinkled the cheese over the glistening tomatoes, slightly over cooked meat, and chunky pasta, he one hand popped the name brand beer.
Pops only drank Yingling. He said it was a habit he picked up from the war, but Danny was skeptical. It might just be because it was the cheapest beer that didn’t taste entirely like piss. They went through a lot of beer in their household. Buying crap kept the medical bills paid on time, and that was the best either of them could hope for. He took a swig.
-
Dinner was uneventful. They said grace with a couple of Pop’s special barbs thrown in for show, but Joe didn’t push it. Danny hoped he realized he had made a mistake going after him like that. He knew it was far more likely the old dog was just biding his time, waiting for another chance to nip at his heels and bite off his head. Danny stared hard into the old oak table as they ate, hoping not to make eye contact to start another strained conversation.
It was a quiet life, being a loser. There were no expectations he had to live up to, no records to break, no friends to pick you up when your down, just the contemplative silence of being a failure, As he washed the dishes he thought of the Verse “And if anyone wants to sue you and take your shirt, hand over your coat as well.” It had always struck him how freeing it must have been to strip naked showing that you were competently broke. In the same way being fully aware of his own powerlessness was somewhat of a relief. If his father thought him a failure, and his community only really saw him through his fathers eyes, then he was to a certain degree, the freest he’d ever been in his sorry life.
When he was done he went into his room to shit the night away on his crappy laptop. He felt happy, or perhaps just the absence of pain that masquerades as happiness to people so ground into the dirt that they can no longer see the sky. His drunken haze hid his growing fever, as he browsed through memes on the J-horror discord he was a part of, giggling in the wholehearted way that the inebriated favor.
The blue glare of the LCD screen illuminated his flushed face as his eyes began to flutter. He passed out on the keyboard, unable to resist the pull of oncoming darkness. Darkness brought on by a tick born illness in his bloodstream reaching the population point where it switched itself on.
His last thoughts as a healthy man were only “Oh dang. I forgot to brush my teeth.”