Strange Fruit

Huntsville, Tennessee, my home-town. The place that has kept me, grounded me yet driven me to run away only to circle right back to it. It is my sanctity and my haven; yet, these old dirt roads with no stop lights hold such terrible, swarming memories within my heart and my soul.

The middle of the town has the only paved street where the river rock Jail house is. My grandfather, on my pa's side, helped build it. There has never been anyone to escape from it yet.

Right behind the jail house in the town, there's a water fall and the swimming hole. And yes, we all went swimming there. It's surrounded by hills and mountains and many, many trees. The old courthouse is where all the towns’ older men gather in the mornings to sit and twiddle all day and maybe gossip a little, according to my pa.

Ma was pretty. With her long, thick black hair, tanned skin, her powerfully demure posture, the way she spoke. It's nothing like my pa. I always wondered why she moved to such a small, nosy town, falling for him. Pa was too rough around the edges. Not like my ma.

She helped me move on with life …. But she ever move on with hers? I wonder.

When I left that so called sun shiny perfect home, I had this gut feeling that there was something I was missing. Something left unsaid, something left undone.

Ma frowned slightly while her cool palms pushed away my unruly hair, kissing my forehead. Billie Holiday played softly in her room down the hall. She always had Billie on. I told her I loved her, and she smiled so brightly, I felt sick.

"Make sure to get a good city haircut, Jack, dear," She reminded me with a wink. I chuckled in this low shy way I hated. But she was the only one who could ever make me laugh at the drop of a hat.

But that wasn’t entirely true, either.

I took the last of my bags to the front porch, letting the clang of the screen door crash behind me, and from the corner of my eye, I saw my pa working on the pickup. I wanted to say something, I mean, who knew when I would be back? But no words came. He didn't even look up.

I looked behind me at my childhood home. A Victorian style, cozy two story house set around our small horse and mare breeding farm. I hated it. Always so white and pristine, the dark green shutters and the green door.

There was an old barn near our house that we hadn’t renovated yet. It was very old, scary looking and had holes and broken boards all over it. The roof was a open sky light for birds and animals to climb into.

Still, as I was about to leave everything, I saw that barn in a new way. It didn’t scare me. It made me feel hopeful.

People can want things, yearn to things. People dream to a disgustingly obscene extent, but never want to go through with the necessary steps or take the risks to get there, to accomplish said will or goal. It’s more than laziness; it’s the casual stink of mankind. Of course, there are always exceptions, but it is impossibility that becomes their excuse. The impossible nature of their dream hinders their actual will to take the next step. Fulfilling these dreams, these goals, these mind blowing adventures, ha-ha, takes steps, little steps, brain work, careful planning, and the right kind of will and attitude.

What I want to do, however outlandish it sounds, is to share the word of God, and beauty and pure plain truth in art; even though the latter is a big reason my father degrades me. I want to set up a kind of museum where anyone that has the same mindset can showcase and share their artistic and religious intonation. And within that, I can offer my own skills and master my own ability. But for now I just work.

Some city folk like to go to the country, feel more in touch with the earth and nature. They say, "Oh, I'd love to live here." Some country folk say the same about the city. But we never make that push to really leave. No one likes to go out of their comfort zone.

I do. Cause for me, life is about getting the hell outta your old shoes and stepping into that icy, strange river of unpredictability. Just the opposite of my father’s teachings, who’s relied upon a solid book, a book I longed to understand one day, the Holy Book. I pictured him in his large sitting chair, the soft glow of the fire lighting his profile, burning His images into my mind, and me in the shadow sitting on the floor, listening to him read. He had such a commanding voice, and for a second I thought I could hear him call out to me. Before my feet took the necessary steps to ma’s old car, I had this aching, knotting feeling rest in my shoulders, settling into my chest.

Something about her smile got to me.

Something left unsaid.

--

I guess I got my practicality from my pa. The only attribute I will say I got from him. I like things neat, compact and organized, like him. I don't like wide open space. It leaves room for junk, and things that clutter your mind. I can't have that.

I like when things are cramped and tightly packed. And my ma wonders why I like the city. She couldn't stand it.

She would say to me, "Only certain creatures God made can stand such little breathin' room."

Her emerald eyes would twinkle a little and flash, as though the words were constricting her, as though she's lived them. "People need room to breathe and stretch out their toes, Jack, its impulse. The earth and the sun and all gods’ creation ain't a stranger to even the palest of creatures. The city, well, it’s crowded and smoky, and cruel sometimes. No real air. No real anything. Only shadows of it."

--

He's the phantom that enters my dreams and shadows my existence, and yet, he doesn't know who I am. It’s really that I shadow him.

I was taking a walk last Thursday evening, when I stumbled upon a small cafe.

I decided it would be nice to get some coffee, since I was planning on working late that night on my newest painting. My pa never liked that. If he ever saw my apartment, rows of paint, brushes of all sizes, canvases and papers along my desk and workbench, he'd have another coronary.

"Bunch a fruity fairies, the whole bunch of em." He said at me during dinner once. I looked up and shook my head. Ma kept her nose out of the conversation, she was never much for talking out right unless she had to.

"There's art in everythin', pa, just gotta know where ta look." I said quietly, my eyes looking anywhere but his dark blue ones.

"Well, there ain't any art in the manure piles in the horse stables, but maybe knowing you, you could find it. Jack, after dinner, you clean it up." He wrapped his hand around his fork decidedly and dug in. I said no more after that, only a meek, "Yessir."

I guess I am what pa says.

But once I entered the place, I saw it was more than a regular coffee house. It was also a night club, a jazz set up, and a band playing.

There,

The most breathtaking sight captured my senses, and I do not know him, nor can I possibly hope to.

And yet, he became instant inspiration.

My newest painting.

--

11/28/2009

I wanted each stroke of color to be a single atom of his being, and every single twitch of my hand to be a part of his soul, resting solely upon the dependence of the way my head and hands communicated with the paint brush. But, I knew it was more than that. My heart shared a part in this just as much as my hands and fingers and paintbrushes.

--

When I saw him the second time, it was quiet, save for the regulars idle chat, toned in hushed whispers, excitement laced in their words, bouncing in jittery waves. Whether it was from their conversation or the ensuing performance, I didn't know. The small stage in front was still and dark.

There was me, almost detached from my body as I waited; my breath soft and shallow, my hands trembling, as my body sunk into the chair. I nursed my warm coffee, waiting for the moment when existence stopped and all I would see and hear and feel would be him. I couldn't wait to see his whole act.

After a few minutes, there was a tapping, first slow and soft, then soon, more rhythmic and louder, faster. My heart seemed to follow the beats as though that's all it ever knew, like that was how it pumped and flowed in my body. But even if it was only my second time here, I felt a kinship with him, something I don’t think I could ever fully explain.

Most started tapping along by this point. He then appeared on the stage. Light applause goes around the cloudy room, then silenced as he pulled out his Theremin from its case. Soft lights bounced off of him.

He first nodded to the crowd, bowed with a slight turn of his head. He then graced the Theremin and played it as though he was caressing a lover, then slowly, he built up the intensity, stroking faster and faster until it played like a million vibrating voices synchronizing in perfect harmony.

His playing reminds me strongly of Clara Rockmore. Both have the gift to make their music almost reachable, tangible. Like a good photograph. If it catches your eye, you're hooked, and all you want is to know more about it; like, why was it taken at that angle? How did the photographer capture the light so perfectly? When you start to question it and think about it, then the picture works. Her music makes you do that. Wonder, dream, and feel. Just like he does to me.

I'm breathless by this point in time, still sunk deeply into my chair, my eyes in such a trance that the whole scene plays like a movie. The music trembles and slows, to a gasping whisper as it ended, but it still transpired.

The way his clothing clung to him in some areas and were loose in other areas made my mouth go dry, as he languidly swayed and half twirled his body, sweating and clinging. I felt embarrassed to be enjoying this so much, with at least ten other sets of eyes watching, and I mean, I was confused in a lot of ways. I didn’t have time to think because it suddenly became so quiet, not even a damn cricket would chirp, and it almost hurt to breathe.

Then, in a flicker, his eyes opened, and he was at that second, that very second, the most gorgeous creature God ever made. He has the most expressive eyes, the coolest shade of blue. It was almost yellow, gold in some areas of his iris.

The lights illuminated. And then, it seemed his voice was the only instrument as he began to sing.

Electric rhymes engulf my cries... And send me to the deep...

He sang in a very sleek, masculine tone, and it chilled me.

Murmurs, voices, coos...

Crawl around me and creep...

Gasping and sinking...

This sorrowful echo I am bound,

Carries the murder,

The murder I surround...

She wanders in my music...

She echoes in the sound.

The lights faded, and so did I.

--

I'm 22 years old, and I feel 30. I have coarse, dirty blond hair, longer than I can manage.

I have quick thoughts, too fast to catch as they fly away before I even get the chance to ponder them.

I have no siblings, but I had a dog once. He ran away, and he was even faster.

I have no true love, except for music.

Except for?

--

January 12, 2010

As I sit here, glancing at my 'masterpiece', the needle gliding roughly along my Glenn Miller record, I wonder why writing things out is so much easier than just saying it.

I guess it’s because I'm superstitious.

'Pennsylvania 65 O, O, O!' The chorus exclaimed. I love this song. Glenn Miller is always a treat. But, I'm digressing.

I mean, when you first meet someone, you think you like them.

You think you like them, so you start talking. They get to know you.

You get to know them.

Then you notice something. A twitch, an annoying habit, or just the tone or way they talk. Something may seem a little off.

Parts you don't like.

I'm wary about what I say. I'm even more wary of what I do. People can just give off immediate vibes.

Cause sometimes you may not end up liking any parts at all.

And besides, once you’re done, you wished you had never said anything at all, too. As was the case of the Snake Lady. The moment I entered the smoke filled atmosphere of the club, I saw her eyes dancing and sizing me up. It always makes you wary when you know someone is watching you. Not only that, but when they know you know this.

"Hey you've been here a few times, haven't you? You like Tegan, eh?" An auburn haired woman said, with this thin, pencil thin smile, the type of smile that reminded me of when I was a kid, rolling Play-Doh, with her rolling hips and long legs, walking over to my table.

And the man has a name… My thoughts were on full blast. Tegan... I immediately liked it, unlike this woman and her snake like grin. Play-Doh.

Every kid's done it. You roll it into little snakes, and sometimes parts would get so thin it would crack and break off.

That's what her smile looked like to me; like it would crumble any moment.

I smiled back at her, cause, well, ma always told me to be polite to the ladies. "Yup." I said in a low voice, and it sort of squeaked. My heart was still racing from the performance, my body language as clenched as my words.

She laughed, twirling her wavy hair between her fingers.

I never understood why some people laugh just for the sake of laughing. I didn't see anything funny. "You're cute. What's your name?"

I stood up, placing my coffee mug on the rustic black table. "Jack. Jack Moore. And you?" I offered her my hand. She took it, lingering a little too long for my taste.

"Renate Dawson." She eyed me and then looked at the stage. It was near closing. "You’re not from around here, are ya?"

"Naw, I'm not. Tennessee's my home. How'd ya guess?"

"Well, I could tell from your accent, though you hide it well. I'm a Kansas girl, myself." You could see her eyes well up with pride as she said it. Gross. And her implicating that I ‘hide’ things in my voice was quite strange.

"This is my first time in the city." I kept my eyes downcast as I spoke.

"How do you like it?" She seemed to moving closer with every word she spoke. Carnivorous.

"I do." I said simply, taking a swig of my coffee. It was cold now.

She nodded in agreement. "Care to join me for a drink? There's this bar my friends and I go to, down the road." She pointed to a table across the room full of women giggling like little school girls. I looked away quickly. “Your coffee looks a little stale anyway,” She laughed, probably noticing the sour look I gave when I drank my coffee.

"Well, uh, ma'am, I gotta be getting home. I have work to do." I said softly, and I knew I was blushing. I've never been much of a ladies’ man, but the ladies seem to like me anyhow.

She nodded. "Well, nice to have met you. And call me Renee; I'm not old enough to be a ma'am yet." She winked.

I nodded in return. Before she left, she slipped me a folded piece of paper. I put it in my pocket.

Her long legs and auburn hair trailed behind her, and maybe it was good that her smile didn't crumble after all.

--

There's this thought.

That I can't shake.

There's this thought.

His hips sway, my heart quakes.

There's this thought.

I want to break.

There's this thought.

And once it flies away, it crawls on the white spots I need to fill.

On the canvas.

--

It has been awhile since I wrote in this dusty old book. The time is 5:42, and tonight all I want to do is write. I don't want to see anyone. Not even Tegan. Cause today's Thursday, when he performs.

Work went well, but I think that painting other people's homes is a bore. Like that one summer I had to paint with my dad, and guess what I was painting? That green and white house.

I liked it before. It was a creamy yellow and this dark emerald blue.

But the paint was chipping and peeling.

So pa wanted him and me to spend some 'quality' time together.

"Work builds character, son. The sweat is the reward. Remember that."

Well, pa, there ya go. I remembered it. And now I live it.

Too bad for you, I'd rather remember anything, and I mean anything, just to

Forget.

--

September 11

This painting is never going to be finished.

Maybe I'll call ma. See how she is.

--

Oh my god oh my god god god

I finally met him

This time

And we shook hands

He didn't linger like the Snake Lady

But I wanted him to

What's your name, he says

I says Jack, and you're Tegan,

And he smiled and nodded

And I sound like a girl but I don't care

Because his eyes saw only me

And I saw only him

Then we talked for what seemed only seconds

Was probably less than an hour,

He asked me, where did you get that accent?

And I asked him in reply, Where did you get ... I motioned in a crazy way all around his body, and he laughs a little.

I felt like a wasp encircling its prey, and I felt a little crazy, a little out of character.

He makes me want to be crazy.

But I talked more than

I ever have

In

My

Life

--

"Hello?" A tired voice answered.

"Hey ma."

"Oh. Oh Jack it's you…” Her voice sounded relieved and calm and I smiled. "How's my boy?"

"Fine. You?" I trailed lightly over the new paint, fully dried, on the canvas.

"I'm... well, I was sleeping. But I'm fine too, I guess." She said.

"I met someone." I blurted out.

I could hear her smiling as she spoke. "Oh, that's great!"

I laughed a little and there was a brief silence.

“I’d like to meet her…” And when she said that I thought of Renee, the Snake Lady, and I reached into my pocket, and took out that little piece I paper I apparently left in my pocket. It was her number.

“Yeah.” I said slowly.

“How’s it going with your plans?” Ma asked, and I realized how much I let other things distract me from my dream so much.

“I… well; I haven’t been working on it just yet. But when it comes down to it, I am still looking forward to setting up a little art sanctuary.” I paused. “I want to help people understand life’s beauty, and its richness, its fullness. I hope I can do that, one day.”

“In art. And I think with your idea of a common artist’s ideal of spreading truth and in the fallacy in decadence and sin to be quite admirable. Have Nina Simone play on the sound systems.” I laughed a little.

“Maybe.” I said. “I just need the funds and I want to go to college maybe. It depends.”

“Well maybe we can help out.” I heard her say ‘we’ and she sighed, a sad sound I could feel.

“Naw. It was my choice to leave and… so how are you two anyway?”

She laughed a little, but it sounded stressed, under pressure.

Like snakes.

"Yeah, we’re fine. He’s home tonight.”

“How is he?” I ask her tentatively.

“He’s doing alright. He’s outside.” I could hear her voice tighten. And I could almost see her tan hand reach for the vodka.

“Don’t go drinking now. You know how you get in the morning.”

“I know hon. Do you want to talk to him?"

"I really don't think he wants to talk to me."

"Well, that's OK. I know you don't want to either." Her voice cracked a little as she said it, and soon after, we said goodbye. I promised one day I'd go back and visit her. I hope I can keep that promise.

--

Back to that green and white house, through the screen door and the thick wood, into the small picturesque living room, past that, down to the hall to the right, across from the tiny kitchen, is my mother and father's room. Upstairs, my room. Left as it was. Down the hall of my room is the pure white bathroom. Down from that, is an empty, vacant room. Once, not vacant.

It's a cool summer day. I'm nine years old.

I'm in my room, looking out the window, watching our horses graze on the tall grass a few acres away.

But my eyes are blurry. I see nothing but blotches of brown and white and gray. Mostly gray.

Parents fight; it’s a fact of life. That's what I kept on telling myself, anyway.

Gasp. Choke. Less than a gasp.

"Get your son's inhaler…" As ma’s voice seemed to be teetering closer and closer off the edge, my pa’s grumbling became louder and more breathy. "Where… did it go? We always keep in the same place…” I could already picture her strumming a lazy trail through her hair, her eyes shiny and trembling, and pa, well I bet he was stone faced. I could hear a frantic pacing, a stomping. It was ma.

Wheezing. "I... I.. I left it…” A cough, sounded wet, like blood was in it. “Bath…room.”

I may have lied.

I did have a sibling.

A brother.

I don’t think anyone heard him.

“Just keep him on the couch. We’ll find it. Hold on.” My pa said.

"No! Our son…" My mother stamped on the floor, unable to finish her thought. "I'm calling 9-1-1!" I heard her stumbling to the phone. “We have no time for this!”

This is where my pa roared, and I remember jumping up, almost falling off the bed. “THEY WON’T GET HERE IN TIME EITHER! NO, YOU'RE NOT!”

Poor Alex.

I'm sure it’s harder to breathe when all you hear is screaming, resting on top of an massive asthma attack.

"WHAT ARE YOU TALKIN' ABOUT!" My ma countered. None of their arguments seemed to make much sense.

I heard my mother dialing, then- SLAM! On the receiver it went.

"I told you NOT to call! We don't need anyone knowin' about this!" My pa whispered loudly with his conspiratorial tone. This was a very close knit town. Close to…

Gasp. Wheeze.

Crash! Of a frail body. Once strong. Once cool and smart. My older brother, only 14 years young. I didn't understand it.

"Oh, oh my poor baby... oh Alex..." My mother soothed. I wanted so badly to scream at my father, but I felt locked in the position on my bed, with my eyes looking past our sunny little farm, away past the hills, trying to drone out the cries and screams, but defiant, my ears stayed locked downstairs. I felt heavy with an almost adult like load, thinking, 'I should help him!' I shook my head. 'No, no, no. Daddy said stay in your room.'

What could I do?

I just wanted to fade into the hills, to feel like a kid again. Something other than this feeling.

"Well, what are you waitin' for?" She whispered harshly. A few moments of aching quiet then a final plea:

"Go ...find it." Her words were broken, lost. “Find it.”

Ten minutes later, there was an ambulance outside. Sirens. Ma's attempt to call an ambulance weren't entirely in vain. She went to call when pa went upstairs again to look for the inhaler. I heard her whispering like it was some dirty little secret.

Every other word was "Shit!" or "Dammit Alex!" Like it was his fault. I don't even know anymore.

But it was too late, Alan could not be revived. It took all I had to not go down there, hearing my mother's horrible screams.

All parents fight. It’s a fact of life.

--

After that, pa went deep into his religious studies. He preached to us, and said Alan was taken for a reason.

I bit my tongue, thinking, "Yeah, and that reason is you."

--

Even sooner, Alex dissipated in my own memories, and his pictures were taken down, slowly but surely, all trace of him, gone.

He wanted to disappear.

Just not like that.

--

I feel sick today. Called in for work.

On my desk, there's a piece of folded paper fluttering lightly from the soft wind from my open window.

I didn’t like the smell of the paper, it was of a certain perfume that was a little too sweet.

I looked at the painting. It glared at me.

I got up from my bed and crumbled it up.

--

‘Southern trees bear strange fruit,’

Billie's on my mind.

‘Blood on the leaves and blood at the root,’

All the time.

‘Black bodies swinging in the southern breeze,

Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees.’

Her soulful drawl, twisting around my mind.

‘Pastoral scene of the gallant south,

The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth,’

All the time.

‘Scent of magnolias, sweet and fresh,

Then the sudden smell of burning flesh.’

Ma reaches for that bottle, pouring lies down her throat.

‘Here is fruit for the crows to pluck,

Paint splatters in dotted pain.

For the rain to gather, for the wind to suck,’

As my ma's pretty eyes dilate and her hands clench 'round the perspiring bottle.

‘For the sun to rot, for the trees to drop,

Billie's on my mind.

Here is a strange

All.

And bitter

The.

Crop...’

Time.

--

---------------

Here is part one of my family drama/romance story.

Hope you liked it.

-Melissa

My amazing teacher Melissa Winchester gave the description of her own hometown in Huntsville, Tennessee. She gave me permission to use it. Thanks, Melissa