I Hide My Scars With Booze and Cars (Published in IUPUI’s Genesis 2011)
I Hide My Scars With Booze and Cars
Anderson Hood had a secret. He often wished he were dead. He drank, drove fast, smoked cigars, and gambled all in hopes of tempting Death. He wanted to die, but did not have the strength to take Death’s hand voluntarily. Even though they call suicide the coward’s way out, it takes a powerful man to take his own life. Especially if he’s already been fighting with all his might to simply live.
Anderson loved to party, or in other words, drink himself into a stupor, which he had spent the last few months, an entire summer’s worth, doing. He was drinking to forget lost love and have fun, but mostly he drank in order to break social barriers, as he was quite shy. He also drank as a way to keep his mind off of the issues that constantly ate away at his nerves.
You see, Anderson Hood was a young man who cared too much. Even the smallest inconvenience would send him into a spiral of self-pity and misery for days. No matter how much he tried to turn his thoughts to positive subjects, his mind was constantly stinging with what was wrong in his life, which in his case, was everything.
Tonight there would be a party at his friend Matthew’s apartment. The music would be loud as the whiskey flowed free like the Mississippi. As soon as Anderson heard of this party, he began to prepare himself. He showered and shaved and dressed in his Friday night best. While most kids his age dressed in casual button-ups or polos, Anderson preferred to look as dapper as possible to at least attempt to please himself. Tonight, he dressed in black, pinstripe slacks and a matching vest over a black, silk button-up and black tie. For comfort, he wore polished loafers that were also, of course, black. To top off the ensemble, he wore his standard black fedora, which also had pinstripes, and his favorite aviator sunglasses. The fedora and the glasses were his trademark. If you ever saw this guy, he’d probably have a cigar in his hand and that old fedora on his head. He looked like one of those bootleggers straight out of the moving pictures. He was now dressed and ready to get tight.
He drove his old, crappy car to Matthew’s place. It’s possible that he demeaned himself with this decrepit jalopy because he spent all his money on clothes and booze and cigars. Maybe he figured an old car was more likely to explode and blow him into a million pieces. Who knows? Probably, he just didn’t give a damn. He passed row after row of corn stalks as he drove. Anderson wanted more than anything to get out of this Midwest hell, but his car was evidence enough to show that he didn’t have the money to do so. He had always wanted to live in some place like Chicago or New York. Granted, he did live in an urban area, but it seemed that corn even grew through the cracks in the sidewalks. When he arrived at Matthew’s, he saw he was the first person there, as usual.
“Hiya, Andy!” Matthew said as he let Anderson inside. “Whaddya hear?”
“Nothin’ much, Matty Boy. Where is everyone?”
“Well obviously they ain’t here yet. You’re always gettin’ here quick as a blink.”
“Say, ya got one of your famous poems tonight? Ya know everyone’s gonna wanna hear one.”
Besides being a sharp dresser, Anderson was also a poet, and a damn good one at that. At almost every party, he was coaxed into reciting his latest poem against his will. He had to drink plenty before he was willing to actually read it, though. The crowd always loved his verse, even if he didn’t. He didn’t find them to be particularly interesting or skillfully crafted. This is one reason he hated reciting them. Mostly, he just hated people.
“How’s about givin’ me a little preview, huh?” Matthew asked with a sly grin. “Whaddya say?”
“I don’t even wanna read for everyone else, let alone just you. No.”
“Well fine. How bouta drink then?”
“Now you’re speakin’ my language,” he said. “Don’t mind if I do.”
The two friends sat and talked over a whiskey as they waited for the rest to arrive. Perhaps “friends” isn’t the best word to use. Anderson Hood was a young man with few true friends. This is not because no one liked him. On the contrary, most people found him quite endearing and humorous. He just wasn’t very trusting or good at socializing. He mostly kept to himself, even in a room full of people, drinking, smoking, brooding. To Anderson, Matthew was an acquaintance, but not much of a friend, though the others seemed to love him for some reason despite the fact that he was quite a bit younger than them. Anderson found him to be good company when no one else was around, but he could become irritating. His voice was high like a hummingbird’s, and he dressed like a child. He was one of those center-of-attention types. But he always had a drink for Anderson, and Anderson could respect that.
Eventually, Jack and Thad arrived. These two were best friends and could always be found together. Jack was one tall son-of-a-bitch, so most people called him “The Tree.” He was good with the ladies. They all loved him, but he barely ever returned the favor. Anderson, who had trouble talking to women – talking to anyone for that matter - was pretty envious of old Jack, and never understood why he didn’t engage any of these broads who clearly wanted him. Thad, on the other hand, could usually be found hidden in some room with a girl, doing the business. Anderson thought Thad was a real swell guy. He was very calm and always pointed out how “nice” a moment was. Anderson loved both of these fellas. He considered them good friends, but he was envious of the bond they shared. He knew that they thought of him as friend in return, but he’d probably never get into their inner circle.
“Look what the cat dragged in,” Matthew said as Jack and Thad entered.
“There he is,” Thad said and he shook Anderson’s hand. Jack did the same, then they both shook Matthew’s hand. “You got one of your poems tonight?”
“You betcher ass he does,” Matthew answered for him.
“Well let’s hear it then,” said Jack.
“Not yet, Jackie Boy,” Anderson replied. He smiled and reached up to pat Jack on the back. “Get me another drink, and I’ll see what I can do.”
They all sat and drank for a while and shot the shit and played a few rounds of poker. Anderson began to feel lonely. The others were all talking about baseball as that night’s game played out on the radio. Anderson didn’t follow sports. In fact, besides drinking and smoking, he didn’t do much of anything most guys do. He didn’t chase skirt. He didn’t play sports. Hell, he didn’t even read the morning paper. He wrote poetry and sang songs to himself, all alone in his mother’s home. And now he felt all alone in this home. He’d make little jokes and comments here and there, but the others would just look at him, then continue on with their own conversations. Some friends.
Eventually, Stacy and Amber showed up. These broads were like Jack and Thad, always together. Stacy was a slender blonde, pretty in the face with a not too shabby body to boot. There’s not much to say about Stacy besides her hair wasn’t the only blonde thing about her, for she was quite air-headed. Amber was much more sound of mind, but a little chubby. Anderson still liked her more than Stacy, though. She was much more trustworthy and a hell of a lot more intelligent. For the most part, she was a good girl.
“Hey there, boys,” Amber said. “What’s a girl gotta do to get a drink around here?”
Thad perked up and said, “She’s gotta take a seat on this lap here.”
He patted his knee and winked at her. She rolled her eyes and made her way to the kitchen where the drinks were clearly displayed. Stacy loyally followed. They all sat down for another round of poker. The girls quit early in and just watched. The room was filled with a haze of cigarette and cigar smoke.
“This is nice, ya know?” Thad stated. He was sitting out a few rounds. “All of us here, havin’ a good time and all.”
Anderson nodded at him and raised his glass. Thad smiled and took a long drag from his cigarette. The girls were starting to get bored.
“This is such a stupid, male game,” Amber complained.
“What are you, one ‘a them feminists?” Jack asked jokingly.
“Yeah, don’t be mad just ‘cause you don’t know how to play right,” Thad threw in.
Jack laughed, and Matt said, “Yeah, you just have a little woman brain. Did you hear me, Andy?” he slapped Anderson’s arm. “I said she has a little woman brain.” Anderson smiled, but didn’t say anything. “Did you hear me?” Matthew repeated.
“Yeah, I heard you,” Anderson finally answered in annoyance.
Stacy laughed and piped in, “Didn’t ya know, Matty? Andy never talks. He just sits by himself and smokes and pouts.”
The whole group laughed. This was a very accurate depiction of Anderson Hood. While everyone else was howling with ridiculing laugher, Anderson just sat and took it. His face became red as a tomato, but he showed no other evidence of being bothered by the comment. Inside, however, he was mortified. He knew this is exactly how he usually acted, and he hated it. Beyond the embarrassing misery he felt in this moment, he wanted to strangle this Stacy whore. He went against his usual, subdued nature and decided to act. He looked her straight in the eye and said, “And what the hell do you know about it, huh?”
Everyone got very quiet. Stacy was taken aback. She didn’t say anything and looked pretty embarrassed. Anderson stood up and walked to the bathroom to relieve himself of urine and of the other’s presence. He felt a blackening rage that didn’t come around very often. He was quite an un-confrontational person. He splashed some water on his face to mentally and physically cool down. He rejoined the party.
By now, Anderson was a little less than sober. He wasn’t angry anymore, but he was done playing with the rest of these fools. He sat on the couch with a whiskey, away from the crowd, and chomped on his fat cigar, listening to the latest big band tune on the radio next to him. He was basking in solidarity. He watched all three of his fellow males try their luck with Amber and Stacy. They’d all drunk less than Anderson, but were acting as if they were far drunker. The girls stumbled around, spilling drinks, while the guys took advantage of them. This was a shit show. Eventually, Matthew tumbled over to where Anderson was sitting and fell down next to him.
“Shit, Andy, I forget you was here,” he said. “The famous Anderson Hood. Robert Frost be damned!”
He began laughing hysterically. Anderson didn’t say anything
Amber approached, Stacy in tow, and said, “Did someone say Robert Frost? I absolutely love Frobert Rost.” She looked at Matthew. “What the hell is he laughing about?”
“Beats me,” Anderson said.
She sat down on the floor in front of the couch. Now Thad and Jack had arrived to see what the commotion was about.
“Is Andy gonna read a poem?” Thad excitedly asked, or mumbled, to be more accurate.
“Yeah, read us a poem, Andyson!” Stacy yelled drunkenly.
She plopped down on his lap and threw her arms around him. Anderson grimaced. Her breath smelled like vomit. She had probably already embraced the toilet, just as she was embracing Anderson now. He pried her arms off his neck. She fell sideways off of his lap, but didn’t seem to mind his rejection. She probably didn’t even know where she was. She sat up and waited patiently for the poem recitation to begin.
“Gee, I dunno, guys,” Anderson said. “Dontcha ever get tired of hearing ‘em sometimes?”
Jack thrust his drink in the air and bellowed, “Hell no! Poem!” Stacy laughed and jumped into his arms. The rest of the crowd followed Jack and yelled out “Poem!” several times in unison, or as close to unison as they could get. Jack sat down next to Amber and put his arm around her, as Thad leaned against the nearby wall. Stacy fell back onto the couch next to Matthew. Anderson Hood’s audience was eagerly waiting.
Anderson let out a deep sigh and downed his eighth, ninth, or tenth whiskey of the night. “Christ, why the hell not?” he said with a crooked grin. They all cheered. He pulled a crumpled up piece of paper out of his back pocket and read it over one time in his head before he began.
“Read the damn thing already!” Matthew said and slapped Anderson on the back. Anderson turned towards Matthew and gave him a piercing look. Matthew knew why, and he quickly apologized.
Anderson sighed again and said, “Alright, this one’s called I Hide My Scars With Booze and Cars.”
The whole crowd sat up real straight, eager to hear. A few were already applauding for the name alone, though it’s doubtful that the name really moved them in any way. They were just excited to hear Anderson speak. He began:
But it’s all just to cover the real strife.
And I might drive real fast,
But only ‘cause I want to outrun my own ass.
And I might drink and smoke to excess,
But it’s only to forget that my life is a mess.
And I might smile and follow it up with a joke,
But you have to realize, folks, I feel nothing but broke.
Because I’m not what you think I am.
I am a male, but much less than a man.
I don’t have much, but tears and complaints.
I’m a just a victim of this life and all its restraints.
So I hide my scars with booze and cars.
I wish my body to the grave while I keep my head in the stars.
But I can’t see myself as the deceiver much longer.
I hope someone saves me, ‘cause I can’t see myself getting any stronger.
Anderson folded the paper and returned it to his pocket. He looked out over the crowd. Their eyes were wide. They were totally immersed. Though Anderson hated performing, he loved the feeling of a successful performance, even if none of his audience could understand a word of what had just clumsily fell from his lips. But even if he had been speaking coherently, none of them would understand. Nobody could ever understand. They applauded, and for a moment, Anderson was happy.
But Anderson’s bliss was suddenly replaced with confusion. For the next thing he knew, everyone was back to the shit show they were in before the poem, laughing and tripping over one another, and he was wrapped up in Stacy’s arms, kissing her hard. They stopped kissing, and he held her close, whispering, “Don’t worry, baby, I’ll take care of you. I’ll take care of you.” Then, he suddenly found himself in the bathroom vomiting his brains out. He would remember none of what happened next, but the others would tell him in the morning.
Anderson spent the next three hours stumbling around and gruffly informing everyone of how good a poet he was and how bad he wanted to read again. Eventually, he ended up in the bathroom again, singing his new poem to himself loudly and puking every so often. “I hide my scars – bluuuugh! – with booze – uuuuuugh! – and cars – bleeeeeck!” He sporadically shouted out random obscenities, cursing everyone, but especially his own pathetic self, and laughed uncontrollably for irregular lengths of time. He punched the walls and bashed his head against the door and slammed his chest into the toilet bowl as he rid himself of booze and pain. When Amber finally took the initiative and went into the bathroom to check on him, she found him passed out on the toilet, bent over forward, and almost completely naked. After showing everyone else the spectacle and nearly dying of laughter, she woke Anderson up and helped him get dressed. They sat down against the wall.
“You’ve been putting on quite a show in here,” she said. She spoke very gently. She had sobered up a bit by now.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m not gonna hurt nobody. Honest. Tell everyone I ain’t gonna hurt ‘em.”
He laughed again. He was still pretty trashed.
“What are you talkin’ about, Anderson?”
“I know they all are afraida me. I seen the way they all look at me. They think I’m strange or somethin’. They always say I look angry, like I’m bouta hurt someone. Just ‘cause I dress like a gangster don’t me I am one. Just ‘cause I smile don’t mean I’m happy, ya know?”
“Well, you do look pretty rough…but no one’s afraid of you. We all love you, Andy. You’re just different than us, that’s all. But we don’t hold it against you. Hell, I think little Mattie’s even jealous you write so well.”
He smiled and said, “Honest to God?”
“I don’t write well. I just whine, is all. That’s all my poems are. A buncha whining.”
“Andy, you just spent an hour telling everyone how good you are.”
Without warning, Anderson began crying. Amber put her arm around him. It all only lasted a moment.
“When am I allowed to be happy and have fun like you guys?” Anderson asked after composing himself.
“Well, I think you can be happy whenever you damn well please.”
“I wish. Sometimes I think I’m gonna die bitter, ya know? All alone.”
“Don’t even think about that. You got a lot of years left in you.”
“Maybe, maybe not. A cyclone could rip through this house right now. Or those Red bastards could drop a bomb on us at any moment. With the bad energy I carry around with me, I wouldn’t be surprised if somethin’ like that happened.”
Amber didn’t say anything. They didn’t speak for a moment.
“I’m sorry,” Anderson said to break the silence.
“I know men aren’t supposed to cry. But I can’t help it. I cry all the time.”
“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with a guy crying. Besides, you’re an artist. And who ever heard of an artist who didn’t cry?”
“You don’t think I’m a girl for it or nothin’?”
“That’s nice. You’re a good girl.”
Anderson laid his head down on her lap. Before he fell asleep, he whispered, “I hide my scars with booze and cars,” and laughed again. After he fell asleep, she quietly left him.
When Anderson awoke, it was about nine in the morning. His right fist was split and bloody, as were the walls. His chest was bruised from slamming into the toilet as he vomited uncontrollably. There was a bump on his forehead. He had really done a number on that bathroom and himself.
On top of everything, I can’t even hold my liquor, he thought.
As he left the destroyed bathroom, he noticed that everyone had already left except Amber, Stacy, and of course Matthew. Stacy was asleep, sprawled out on top of the kitchen table, but Amber and Matthew, who were sitting on the couch smoking dope, howled with laughter as Anderson entered the room.
“There he is,” Matthew said. “We didn’t know you was a poet and a singer.”
“What in the hell are you talking about?” Anderson replied as he sat down on the floor in front of the couch.
They explained to him how he had spent his time after he’d finished reciting his poem. Amber didn’t mention their talk. When the explanation was finished, Anderson put his head in his hands and sighed. Though it was quite humorous to picture himself passed out on the toilet, he mostly felt shame for the way he had acted. But really, he had nothing to be ashamed of. He had practically told them all how he felt about life through his words and his actions, and they were completely oblivious. They were too busy enjoying themselves. Not even Amber knew his secret. Nothing had changed, for better or for worse. He was still alive, despite his best efforts. He was still alive to continue living on the edge and trudge through the wasteland of this life until Death finally took pity on him and showed mercy. He stood up and walked to kitchen to make a whiskey, then returned to the living room with it.
“Quite a night, huh, Andy?” Matthew said. “Real funny night.”
“Yeah,” Anderson responded. “A real riot.”
He sighed and took his first drink of the day.
andulkaphoto
gracieabrams
areudirty
2087
germansingergirl
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
