Outrun

Daddy raised me in back alleys, abandoned hovels, and the backseat of a variety of junkers on their last breath of exhaust. I didn’t know Mama. Daddy said she’s probably dead, of a venereal disease or overdose is anyone’s guess. I like to believe that’s not true, even as youthful naiveté gave way to the more bitter world views of adulthood. Maybe she’s somewhere nice, pretty, living a healthy and picturesque life with a different family set. Maybe she’s in San Francisco, or Aspen. Maybe she skis, or crochets. That’s what I like to believe.

Daddy was a good man with bad luck. He never raised a hand to me, or even raised his voice, really. He likes to drink, but it doesn’t bring any violence out of him, just sadness. He’s always been poor, though I didn’t realize what that meant until I had money of my own. I always had clothes on my back and something in my stomach, and a parent who made sure of it. He did bad things for money on occasion, hurt some people, though never laid a soul to rest for it. That must count for something.

When I was fifteen, Daddy moved us midwest. He knew a man - and isn’t it funny how grown folk just seem to ‘know a man’? It was curious to me, at the time, as Daddy could never give a clear picture of how he knew said man, from where or when. He just knew him. He was a farmer, a self-proclaimed societal recluse who grew his own crops, collected rain for drinking and bathing, and raised all sorts of animals. I don’t like words like cattle or livestock, it tastes bad to say. Daddy moved us into his shed, outfitted to be our living quarters. I know what city lights look like, and I slept through car horns, gunfire, and the thunderous rattle of subway cars since Mama first laid me in a broken, second hand cradle. Living by firelight, amidst the soft sounds of animals - hooves kicking up dirt, grunts and whinnies, a barn owl slicing air in chase of a field mouse - it felt like settling back in time. I loved everything about it.

We lived on that farm for two years, and worked the skin off our hands to earn our keep. We ate like peasant kings, with food we sowed and slaughtered ourselves, and slept long and dreamless and content. The farmer, Jon, was an old man. He was old when I met him, and even older when he died. We found him on a Sunday morning, in his rickety rocker on his front porch. He was frozen stiff and nearly stuck to the creaky wood, having sat out all night in mid January. He was gray and blue, and the serene look on his face clashed with the macabre of it all. A mug of milk, also frozen to a solid chunk, was snug in his stiff fingers. It was probably warmed in the kettle when he initially came to sit, I remember thinking. Jon was religious about warm milk before bed.

Daddy and I were at a loss. We rarely ventured to town, some forty miles out. Jon’s pickup didn’t have the heart for a great many trips. It was cold, heavy snow was imminent, and Jon didn’t keep a working phone or means of communication. Did he have family to inherit this land? Did he even own it, or did he just stumble upon it and lay claim to its potential? He must’ve been here before deeds and ownership of land were all too serious matters. I remember, the night before finding Jon, I caught the eyes of that barn owl where it perched in the rafters. It held a small, limp rabbit in its talons, for later feasting. We stared at each other for several minutes, as I felt it might take me next as its prey were I to show any weakness or cowardice. Eventually, I did look away from it. Did I lose? Did I kill Jon, at that moment?

Six months after burying Jon, Daddy stepped on a rusty nail while walking barefoot in the garden. He assured me it was fine, no big deal, though it hurt like a son of a gun. He yanked it from the arch of his calloused foot, treated it with some old balm Jon kept handy, and wrapped it with a clean cloth. As the weeks crept by, Daddy complained of lockjaw and body aches that kept him bedridden some days. Eventually, he couldn’t breathe well, then at all. The barn owl was there again, as I held Daddy close to my breast and screamed my throat raw and bloody. I could make out the glare of his large, pitch eyes through the front window, where he sat in the trees. He watched as I cried, and cried. He watched as I lost all that I had, and surely his feathers must be ruffled with pride. Surely, this was his curse on me.

I left the farm, I left the midwest entirely. With nothing but my wits and determination to outlive a hell-sent barn owl’s condemnation, I hitched to California. Maybe Mama might be waiting for me on a beachfront property in sunny San Fran. That’s what I wanted to believe.