Thursday, February 2, 2012



The Road from Ruin
by
Jaye Beldo

Part V

We heard the blast while sitting at the kitchen table. One of the kids emerged from the garage, clutching his head. The previous night I had warned he and his brother that the seals probably wouldn't hold but that did't stop them. The two young ladies sitting near the workbench constantly eyeing the duo as they sawed the PVC may have been the reason for them bumptiously venturing forth with their ballistic project.


"The older you get, the more you think about the consequences of your actions." I sage imparted to the younger brother when he showed me all the drunken driving dents in the car, proud like a tribal warrior is of his initiatory facial scars.


"That's what alchohol is for." He sneered and then ventured to brag about taking on a high school football player at a party and ending up beaten unconscious in a cacti ridden wash the previous fourth of July.  


"The ringing isn't stopping." The blast victim said, walking in circles, ears still cupped in his hands, one of his eyes swollen shut. His brother showed me the chillingly deep dent the pipe cap made in his car door. It had pneumatically richocheted several hundred feet across the street. 


A reluctant parent phone call to California to check up on insurance coverage as an ER visit seemed inevitable revealed that there was none for the imperiled lad.  My friend started doing energy work on him. Intermittant doses of homeopathic Arnica and Ledum Palustre seemed to calm him down even more and he was able to get off the massage table and walk around with more stability after she did some accu-pressure points.


Maybe it was all the Homeland Security amidst the wrought iron crucifixes and framed and quilted bible quotes adorning the stucco walls throughout the home that made the family photos dispersed throughout the palatial spread seem so patently sad and lacking.  There were even door monitors that registered the quota of openings and closings that the parents could check on their computers from their luxury digs four hours away.  One would assume that such monitoring constriction would be anomalous amidst the peaceful, expansive desert views of the Mojave mountains beyond the swimming pool out back here. Sadly,the infiltraton of domestic reconaissance apparently has become commonplace amongst the rich, a policing that has infiltrated into the intricate matrices of familly relationships in very insidious and undermining ways.  None of it however managed to hamper the full bore partying in the absent dad's man cave that weekend though, 80 proof debauchery censored via electrician's tape plastered over the camera lens according to the brothers who pleaded with us not to tell.


The blast victim, his sad silhoutte crowned by a shadow of palm fronds outside the sliding door,  blurted in subdued fashion:  "I doubt my mother even loves me." The spud gun memento mori having unmoored this confession deep from his heart somehow. One locked in for a very long time considering how pained, remote and removed his words sounded to us prior to him leaving for home later that day.


TBC


(C)2012-Jaye Beldo

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