Page 39 of The Trailer Park Twink
Medical emergency, my ass. She was she-bopping herself in the driver’s seat like a fucking madman, one hand on the wheel, the other exploring her secret garden, rolling her hips, crying out, “Pa-rum-pum-pum-pum,” like some busted-up porn version of Anne Murray. It was a sight to be seen, but that doesn't mean I wanted to fucking see it.
“I don't understand," I said, shaking my head. “And I have an endless number of questions."
“Don’t ever flash your vaginal mound at my son again,” Dallas shouted at her, and there was so much raw emotion in his voice, it left me speechless. And because Daddy is a gentleman through and through, he tipped his cowboy hat and said, “Evening, Ma'am.” He picked me up, placed me onhis hip, and carried me back to the truck, putting his trust in me as he set me back behind the wheel again. Thankfully, our interaction with the roadway mastabateur gained me a bit of his trust back, and he apologized for not having faith in me. Since then, we haven’t pulled over for longer than an hour at a time. He spends the days driving while I sleep, my hand holding his, right where it belongs. Then it’s my turn at night, and he rests at my side, fingers weaved together, hearts fluttering, I'm sure. When we're awake, it's mostly quiet, but our hands stay welded together like the steel drums he welds at the machine shop in Tallulah. Every now and then he gives me a squeeze. A gentle reassurance when he can’t get his words out.
“This is the place?” I ask as he pulls up to the cabin. I can’t lie, it's fucking gorgeous. Ahead of us, there’s a log cabin that looks like something out of a Hallmark movie. It’s got a wrap-around porch that’s made of that really pretty red-looking wood. I’d love to tell you what kind of wood it’s called, but I’m hardly an arborist, and I can't be expected to know these things. To my right, there’s a small lake with more cabins spread around, forming what almost looks to be the world’s largest cul-de-sac. It’s picturesque.
Dallas nods. “Aussie, I know I ain’t been the best company these last couple of days. It’s just . . . I think everything’s finally starting to sink in.” The admission makes my stomach twistinto knots, because if our newly found romance hasn’t sunk in already, there’s still a chance he might change his mind. I thought he was all-in. If he decides I’m not worth all the effort, it will absolutely demolish me. Put a fork in me, because I’ll be done. I'm feeling more than a little scared, and I need some form of connection with him, so I place my finger on the brim of his hat and trace it left to right.
“Dallas?” I whisper, and he must see the nervousness in my eyes, because he quickly shakes his head.
“It’s Daddy,” he assures me, removing his hat and placing it on my head. I love the way his hair gets matted down each time he pulls it off. He usually just hangs it on the nail he banged halfway into the wall in our living room, and there have been several times I'm snuck in there at night, placed the hat over my face, and inhaled Daddy as hard as I could, needing a whiff of the man I love. “It's Daddy forever, Austin.”
My lip trembles a little. “Yeah?”
“You have my word.” He nods and takes my hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. Stepping out of the truck, he walks around and opens my door. He doesn’t set me down, thank God, just places me on his hip and walks me toward the shore.
The property is right on the water, so it’s not a terribly far journey, and I cling to him the whole way, my face buried in his neck, breathing him.
“We lived here when I was little,” he says, stroking my back. “Momma, Daddy, and me. It feels right to have you here with me. It’s almost like I’m introducing you to them. They always wanted a grandson. I think they would have been proud to call you theirs.” I feel his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. “I think that’s what I’m struggling with. You’re my son, Aussie. That’s how you’ve always felt, and now things are changing. Feelings are changing, and I’m just feeling a little scared.”
I pull back and look into his eyes. “Scared of being with me?”
“Never. Scared of how people are going to see us. I’m your stepdad, and there’s no telling what Shelly’s going to tell everybody when she finds out we left.”
As for being scared about what my mother tells the rest of the trailer park, I’m not. At all. Not in the slightest. In fact, I feel about ninety-eight pounds lighter than I did before we left, mainly because I am.
Here’s the thing . . . I will abide by many things in this life. What I cannot—will not—abide is the violence. Trust and believe, abuse is nothing new to me. Mom has dug her nails into my skin more times than I remember. She’s taken a belt to my backside even more. I could forgive all that, because if push comes to shove, I know how to defend myself. But then she hit Dallas, and Dallas Johnson would never, ever hit a lady. When I saw the red mark on his porcelain cheek, it took everything I had to hold myself back. I wanted to launch myself intotheir bedroom and ram her like a bull. Instead, I settled for sedation and forced seclusion. After she hit him, while Daddy was showering away the soda I poured on him, I was packing a syringe and carrying it to Mom’s room.
Mom’s on her own journey now with twenty bucks in her pocket—if it hasn’t been used for meth already—as she tries to navigate the wilds of Oklahoma, confused, and probably a little antsy.
Don’t. Don’t even think of judging me, because I’m not sorry. It’s not like I pumped her full of heroin, for God’s sake, I just injected a bit of liquid Benadryl into her system, tucked her inside the extremely long toolbox in the bed of Daddy’s truck, and then I set her free outside the IHOP in Oklahoma. It’s basically catch and release, and the ASPCA fully supports it.
As Daddy ordered unnecessarily carb-heavy pancakes, I opened the toolbox and stared down at my mom resting on the plush pallet I made for her before we left. I handed her twenty bucks and said there was a meth house down the street, and they were having a lovely little BOGO sale.
Joyfully, she skipped down the road, away from the IHOP and out of my life. Preferably permanently. Daddy doesn’t know yet, and I have a feeling he’s gonna be really mad at me when I tell him, so I don’t plan on telling him. Not yet, at least.
My mother, my choice.
We don’t say much for a while. Daddy just holds me against him as we drink in the scenery. I’m so used to our dirt-road trailer park, it’s hard for me to believe we’re staying somewhere so pretty. I feel out of my depth, because places like this aren’t meant for people like me. I’m just poor white trash with a missing moral compass. That’s all I’ve ever been, and it’s probably all I’m ever going to be. I’m okay with it. I came to terms with it long ago. As long as I’ve got Dallas, I’m perfectly fine leading a mediocre life. I’d sacrifice luxury for a love story any day.
“Do you want to go see the cabin?”
“Yeah.”
He carries me up the porch steps and sets me down so he can fish the keys out of his pocket. Once the door is unlocked, Dallas switches the lights on, and I’m met with gloriously glossy wooden walls, the same red hue as outside. I mean, I guess they would have to be considering it’s a log cabin. It’s not as if they’re going to cut two trees in half and glue the mismatched parts together, just so the scenery would change inside.
There’s a layer of dust on most of the surface areas, and it gets me a little giddy, because I love to polish wood. Not just cocks, obvi, though I hope I get the chance to polish Dallas’ wood tonight, but that’s hardly the point I’m trying to make. I just love dusting. It makes my heart happy. Fucking sue me.
“It’s always a little dirty when we first get here. I like to give it a good scrub-down right off the bat, just to get it out the way.”
I have to steel my expression so he doesn’t see my scowl. I’m very happy to be here with him this year, but the comment is just another reminder of the two weeks he would leave me alone each year, bringing Mom up here while I sat sobbing into his pillow, missing him like crazy.
“Ah.” I should probably say more, but how can I? The initial joy I felt about cleaning the place up is gone, replaced by deep-seated bitterness. I know he’s choosing me, but he chose her for years. He chose to bring her here without me.
“I’m sorry, baby,” he says, kissing my forehead, reading me like a book, apparently. “I didn’t know how much you cared, or how deep your feelings ran.” When I look up at him, he’s blushing. “I didn’t know how deep mine ran either. I never meant to hurt you.”
Sniffling, I wipe my eyes so he doesn't see the tears slipping out. “It's okay,” I say, trying to put a bit of cheer in my voice. “I'm here now. That's what counts.”
