This is my story, and it's nothing special. I’m just the stereotypical dirt-poor, white trash people like to scoff at. To them, I am nothing. Honestly, I'd rather be nothing than one of them. People give you hell, they treat you like dogs, they think they can step all over you and push you around. Or maybe that's just how my parents are.
I used to call home a dingy trailer on the west side of the middle of nowhere- a small town on the outskirts of Atlanta. My family, if you could even call them that, was made of three people; my heroine addict mother, my alcoholic, abusive father, and my drug-dealer brother. Then there was me, the only one who hasn't run-in with the law for illegal drugs, or investigated by the FBI, or nearly shot dead by a rival gang, etc.. I was the only one gifted with common sense or decency. It doesn't make me any less of a loser, but that's okay. At least I'm not them.
I spent eighteen goddamn years in that dungeon of a trailer home. As soon as I hit eighteen, when I could run out without those possessive parents calling the cops for a runaway teen, I ditched that place. I wasn’t their kid, I was there property. So I took my property, my dog, and I left. I haven't gone back since.
I don't need them, and they constantly said how they didn't need me. I'm glad I left. A day longer in that hell-hole and I would've grabbed my dear pa's antique revolver; the nice one that he'd drunkenly feed my brother and I crap about how Al Capone himself had owned at one point, put it to my skull, and pull the trigger. Home sweet home.
My name is Jensen Gray, and I'm someone you'd never want to meet. Pass me on the streets, and you'd turn the other way. You'd see me with my dog and immediately think, That boy is should be in the back of a police cruiser. Despite the prejudice, I'm not dangerous. I'm not going to pick a fight, or get drunk and harass you. I'm really just trying to live my life with as little human interaction as possible. I can fend for myself, and I don’t need anybody taking care of me. That’s how I've lived since I was a kid, so it’s nothing new.
----
A long stretch of highway was laid out before us. The gray, cracked pavement looked like it hadn't been maintained in a long time. It was nice. No traffic, no people; just my dog, Abas, and I. It was quiet, save for the roaring of my truck’s engine and the soft sounding cadence of a random rock station in the background.
I look like a mess. I’m tired, but I have a lot ahead of me. A couple of coffees later, and I’ll be fine. My hat overshadows my grungy face and covers my curly brown hair. I really need a shower. There are bags under my eyes, and the color has gone from blue to grey. I need a shave, too; my face is stubbly. As soon as I can get a motel room, I’ll clean up.
The sky was that mix between lilac and a misty blue, and clouds looked as if they were painted across the horizon. Shades of pink and orange busted out from the horizon where the last of the sun shown. The dull pine trees past by us fast and yellow, dead grass lined both sides of the road. The last bit of snow that the previous snow storm brought was just starting to disappear, revealing the plants and grass it had murdered underneath the surface. People think it’s dreary how the winter kills off plant life, but that’s how nature is; it creates, and it destroys.
Create. Destroy. Repeat.
Driving as much as I do would irritate most people, but I kind of find it soothing. It’s therapeutic. You go about from city to city, see the fast-passing nature, you hear the hum of the engine. Well, in my case, more like a violent clunking. This truck’s about to kick the bucket, but that’ll tie in more later.
I looked towards the passenger seat, seeing my dopey dog with its head thrust out the window and his tongue hanging back a mile long. I smirk.
“Look, Abas, it’s your favorite city.” I pat his back to get his attention, and he just gives me that stupid look that says You’re a psychopath, stop talking to your dog.
The truck makes a loud thunk noise. Again.
“It’s Savannah. You remember Savannah, bud?” I say, not expecting anything intelligent back. He ignores me and continues his very important task of letting a trail of drool follow us for miles.
Well, I remember.
Savannah, Georgia might be my dog’s favorite, but I’m only here on obligations. I hate this place. I'm meeting up with my old friend, a mechanic. A guy like me only has so much money, and I am not getting stranded in some random state in the middle of the country. So now I have to go to Charlotte to meet up with Mickey. He's cheap, he's fast, and he's efficient.
The faster I can get out of the south-east coast, the better. I'll get the truck fixed up, get my dog another bag of food, then be on my way to God-knows-where. I'll get another quick job somewhere, maybe a farm, get some money, and continue my life. I'll move out west, far away from Atlanta, and build my own house out near the Rockies where no one can bother me and I can live off the land. Somewhere desolate and bleak, just how I like it.
That was the plan.
---
After getting lost twice and a stop at a gas station, Abas and I reached our destination. Mickey's station was a beat-up, run-down garage on the outskirts of the city. The air smelt like gas and pollution, and the ground was tainted with oil stains and terribly cracked. It was a kind of day where the clouds made the sky look white and everything else had a gray hue. The early morning was still cool and crisp.
A boney man in ripped, stained jeans and a red plaid shirt lifted the door to the garage and swung his arms open. Abas barked, and his tail wagged uncontrollably.
"Jensen Gray, how are ya, buddy?" he came up to me as I got out of my dying truck. "Glad to see yer alive! I got your call, and I couldn‘t wait to see ya!"
"Been awhile, hasn't it, Mick?" I smile enthusiastically.
He pats me on the shoulder and I shake his other hand. He laughs and bends down, outstretching his grease-ridden hands to pet Abas on the head. He barks happily.
"See you still got the pit bull. I got my lil' girl a dog a while ago myself. Ah, but enough of that. What brings ya here? Big Red over there givin' you trouble?" he gestures to my truck.
"It's more useful as a doghouse than a truck.” I say, “I don’t know what’s wrong, but I’ve gotta get on the road and I can’t afford anywhere else.”
“I gotcha, pal.” he limps over to my truck and opens the hood, “Shouldn’t be too much. The usual rate, I reckon.”
“That shouldn’t be too bad on my wallet…” I ponder on how far I can go with the amount I have now, taking into account food and gas.
Mickey wobbles back over to his garage and gets his tool box. It’s rusted and falling apart, but he’s always had it. I remember when he told me that it was his father’s. The only thing my father ever gave me was head-aches and anxiety. Mickey comes back to my truck and gets to work. He used to say how he liked working on my truck because he knew it inside and out. He said, I could take it all apart and put it together again in a day. I know he could, but that doesn’t mean I’ll let him.
“Ah, hell! I forgot! Jensen, you ‘member yer brother?” he yells out. He’s already started on the truck; working his mechanic magic. I lean against the side idly and Abas is sitting in the passenger seat again.
Yes, I remember my brother. Just because I haven’t been home in seven years doesn’t mean I forgot about the person I hate most on the planet. That’s what I’d like to say, but Mickey probably doesn’t want to hear that. He’s been a friend to my family ever since we were kids. He’s gotten me out of a lot of bad situations due to my brother’s lack of intelligence before, and I could already tell that moron probably managed to drag me into something again just by the way Mickey brought him up. I would think that not seeing him for this long would get him out of my life for good by now, but I guess I’m doomed to always bailing him out every time he gets busted with drugs, drunk driving, getting into fights, flipping off a cop; take your pick. He’s done it all.
“What ‘bout him?” I say, monotonous.
“I think he may have gotten into some trouble,” he picks up a wrench from his kit and stops to look at me, “He went n’ got into a bar fight the other night n’ got taken away.”
“And this is news, how?” I scoff.
I’m not surprised at all. This is typical. This is a classic ‘Dustin Gray’ situation. I was expecting something more along the lines of a potential homicide. I wouldn’t be surprised at that, either.
“Well,” he continued, “He’s gon’ need someone to pick ‘em up at the station. He asked me for the bail money, but I can’t get ‘em ‘cuz I’m tied up here.”
“Mick, you’re not honestly asking me to go get my brother out of jail, are you?” I almost laugh. I start to wonder who put him up to this. Maybe it was Dustin, or possibly my father.
“It’s been seven years, Jensen. Dontcha miss your older brother even a lil’ bit?” he asks me.
“Mickey, we’re talking about the kid who would come home high every day and beat me up. The same guy who’d try to frame me so he wouldn’t have to ride in a police cruiser. The guy who stole my identity and bought a shipment of crack.” I rant, “So no, I don’t miss him the slightest bit.”
Mickey finishes up my truck and closes the hood. Abas is fast asleep, and I’m anxious to get out of here and on the road so Mickey doesn’t persist on this. Mick grabs the rag in his pocket and cleans off his hands.
“He needs his brother, Jensen.” he says, “Tell ya what, if you go get ‘em, I’ll let ya off the hook with paying for this.”
I groan. This sucks. I need all the money I can save, but I really don’t want to have to see Dustin. I try to mull over the pro’s and con’s of this. Unfortunately, money is more important at the moment than maintaining a grudge.
“God damn it, Mick.” I curse, “Why you keep looking out for that kid; I’ll never know.”
Mickey gives his classic goofy smile and pats my shoulder, “It means ‘lot, Jensen.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I mumble, “I’m only doing it because you asked. After this, I’m not helping him out again.”
I thank him for his work, and for always helping me out. Abas says his good-byes through barks, and I get back in my truck. I turn the key and it comes to life, but this time it sounds much less rickety. I roll down the window to talk to Mickey one last time.
“If you never hear from me again, you’ll know why.” I say, sarcastically.
“Remember, Jensen, family first!” he laughs, “You’re all he’s got. He’ll be happy to see ya.”
“I doubt that.” I say.
I wave and pull out of the parking lot. I don’t plan on coming back to Georgia after this, so Dustin better not think I’m here to take care of him again. I’m done with those days. Mickey always wanted Dustin and I to get along, but there’s no way that’s happening. I’m going to go get him, drop him off wherever, and go back to sticking to the plan. I want to be on my way to Colorado by nightfall. Family can’t come first in my life, because I don’t have a family that would be worth it.
---
“Your name?” a burly cop asks me from behind the desk of the police station. His mustache falls over his top lip. He looks and sounds more tired than I do. A plaque behind him says Dedicated and proud. Eager to help the community. GAPD. The fluorescent lighting of the station is giving me a headache, and the whole place is grey and dismal.
“Jensen Gray.”
The hollers of rowdy inmates sound from the hallway in front of me. Thankfully, I don’t hear my brother. The officer searches through papers sprawled across the desk and picks one out of the bunch. I keep my hands in my pockets, one protecting the wad of cash Mickey gave me so I could pay bail.
“I assume you’re here for Dustin, then?” he takes a sip of his coffee.
It’s kind of funny how my brother and the Savannah Police Department are on a first name basis.
“Unfortunately.” I check my watch. I just want to get this over with.
“It’s gonna be five-hundred dollars.” he says.
The cop gestures to another officer, and the other guy unlocks the bars to get into the hallway where the invalids were being kept and disappears. I feel sick.
I hand the officer the money Mickey gave me and he counts it. I’m listening to the hallway, and I hear another door unlock. A key chain is rattling and echoing down that mysterious hallway. There are two sets of footsteps, both going very slow. I’m shaking a bit, but mostly because of rage. Every time I see his stupid face, I want to punch it.
I’ve got to remember, I’m only doing this because Mickey asked. It’ll be worth it. I’ll get farther west with the money I saved. Closer Colorado, closer to building my own house and making my own farm, closer to being far away from Georgia; away from Dustin.
The other officer from before pushed Dustin out of the hallway, and Dustin turned to face him. He hasn’t seen me yet.
“Ay, be gentle.” He’s smiling.
“Stop showing up here, Dustin. I don’t care who you beat up, and for whatever reason, stop getting yourself in here.”
“You know you love seein’ my face, Paul.”
Dustin was still giving a toothy, stupid grin to the officer. I was completely unamused. My face was slowly turning into a grimace. I tapped my foot impatiently. He still had a shaved head and dirty skin. He probably hasn’t showered since the last time I saw him. His tattoos of various words, vulgar pictures, and symbols were discolored and had turned a bluish-black; just like a bruise. He’s wearing a grubby green colored T-shirt, his steel-toe black boots, and jeans that are two sizes too big. He finally turns and sees me. His stupid smile turns into a shocked stupor.
“Son of a bitch.”
He makes a reunion so tear-jerking. This hillbilly has such an eloquent way with words. I, however, stay silent. Instead, I let my emotionless expression talk for me.
“Jensen.” he states.
Wow, he actually remembers my name.
“What are the hell are you doin’ here?” his smile returns.
Mickey probably planned this stupid reunion all along. I stay quiet. Maybe if I ignore it, it’ll go away.
“Come on, let’s get out of here and chat.” he says enthusiastically leading the way out of the station.
Nice to see you again, too.
---
Dustin’s already at my truck by the time I follow him out of the station. He’s trying to communicate with Abas through the window, but he’s just growling and barking and snarling. Good dog.
Dustin turns around to see me, “What’re you doin’ in Georgia, Jensen? Thought you disowned us?”
“You’re welcome.” I open the driver’s side door, get in and slam it shut. I’m so pissed off. Dustin opens the passenger side door, and I have to hold onto Abas’s collar to try and keep him from tackling Dustin. I should’ve just let him.
“Whoa, easy boy.” Dustin laughs. This is the part where I would’ve punched the stupid out of him, if I could get away with it. He gets comfortable in the seat and takes out a cigarette.
“Did the ice melt off your heart? Why’d you get me out?” he talks out of the side of his mouth as he cups a hand around his cigarette and lights it, the putrid smell permeating the still air of my truck. The orange light coming from the burning stick is twice as bright in the dark December night.
“Just tell me what hell-hole your staying in these days so I can get rid of you.” I snap back. I’d kill to be anywhere but here. I start up the truck and put it in drive.
“Come on, who put you up to it?” he keeps persisting. He’s like the ringing in your ears that you can’t get to go away. He’s the guy who keeps tailgating you on the highway. He’s the scum of the earth, and I just want him to shut up already.
“Mickey. Now either give me an address, or get out and walk. I agreed to bail you out, not to chauffeur you around.” My patience is wearing thin. I pull out of the station and turn down the street. He’s probably still living with our parents, so I’ll just kick him out at the trailer park.
“Good ol’ Mickey. He’s always takin’ care of me.” he blows a puff of smoke, and takes another drag of his cigarette.
I’m ready to repeatedly slam my head against the steering wheel and end it right here and now. My debt to Mickey has been paid, I’m not sitting around and playing games with this ass; I’m getting back on track and going to Colorado.
“He always was teachin’ us about family bein’ first.” Dustin smirked, “Guess you’re stuck with me.”
---
It’s a short drive to the trailer park, but it seems to be an eternity by the time we finally got there. He wouldn’t shut up about the people he’s fought, all the girls he’s gotten with, or the stupid things he’s done since my absence. He talked about dad and how he was about to kick the bucket, and mom with her ongoing drug experimentation. I didn’t want to hear any of it, but I didn’t really have a choice. I tried to tune it out by thinking about how great my little cabin is going to look. I’m going to have it right by a river.
I stop the truck right outside the park‘s entrance, feeling relieved.
“Get out.” I demand. “Leave. I’m done. I did what Mickey asked, and now I’m leaving.”
Dustin is halfway done with his third cigarette. He’s resting his head on his hand, and he’s just looking at me with such a calm expression.
I really hate this guy.
“Come on, lil’ bro.” he sighed. “Why dontcha come see your family for once?” he gave me that stupid smile. I don’t know why he could have the audacity to ask me to go back in there. I wouldn’t enter this place even if Mickey asked me to.
“No,” I open the door, I need some air, “I’m not seeing them. And this is the last I’ll see of you. I’m leaving today, and I don’t plan on ever coming back to Georgia.”
I let Abas out of the truck on his leash. He keeps pulling on it, wanting to run around, but I’m just stretching my legs before the trip.
“Never ever?” Dustin asks with insincere lament, still inside the truck.
Mickey did a wonderful job; the engine sounds brand-new.
“Good-bye, Dustin.” I say, turning around to face him for the last time.
Except, I wasn’t facing him. Not directly. I was face-to-face with the bad end of a 9mm pistol. I didn’t focus on his face, but I could tell that stupid grin was planted across it again.
“G’bye, Jensen.” he mimicked me.
Abas was barking rabidly and Dustin, and I was having a staring contest with the barrel of a gun. I knew I shouldn’t have come back to Georgia.
Dustin readied his finger on the trigger.
“Sorry, bro. I need yer truck. And yer cash.” He held up the bag where I kept my money. “I’m gettin’ out of Georgia and joining another gang up North.”
In that moment, I knew my little cabin on the side of the Rockies wouldn’t get built. I knew that I wasn’t going to get away from Georgia. I’d be stuck here. Eternally. Born, raised, and murdered here. At least one of us would live out our dreams.
That was the day I died. I was shot dead by my loser brother outside of the trailer park I detested in the state I hated most of all. I spent seven years avoiding the thing that ended up killed me; my family. I was left in a pool of my own blood on the gravel of a makeshift parking lot. My truck, along with the rest of my things, were stolen and I was dead.
I spent so much time planning my future, even more time working small jobs to make it happen, and I got nothing in return. Well, that’s not entirely true. I did get a bullet in my brain. I saved up enough to finally about to build that cabin on the mountains like I wanted to.
My story just goes to show, we have no control over our future. Nothing will ever go as planned. No matter how carefully you plot, no matter how much money you save, and no matter how much you dream, nothing will ever be as good as you can imagine it.
