Posted: Jan 6, 08 10:58am

Hi Guys, KenWriteZ, and Marilyndevine wanted me to turn Wounds and Scars, into a story. I really don’t know how I could possibly do that. It had started in my head as a poem, not as a story, and I just did not know how to make that transition. Well, I woke up this morning with this one in my head as a story. As always, critiques are needed and appreciated. Peace, Dean

Cumberland Furnace Tennessee. Tiny, tucked away, practically isolated from the world. Yes, everybody in “town” has indoor plumbing now, but if you look behind those houses you can still find an occasional outhouse, most of them leaning a little in one direction or another. Course “town” was just a small piece of Cumberland Furnace. The rest was a sprawling tangle of dirt roads, almost entirely dead ends. Scattered along those roads you would see a tired trailer here, a shack there. But out here, a lot of the places are not visible from the roads. Out here, lots of the outhouses were still in use. These were the kind of folks that kept to themselves for the most part. Venturing out when absolutely necessary, and only then if the pick up would start. Course some of the good old boys would still get together around that still they had hidden in a small valley, away from prying eyes. Hell sometimes they would even throw a goat on a spit and make a night of it. You just had to watch out for them damned cottonmouths, which was kinda hard to do after that jar of shine was passed around a couple times. But the old man had learned that lesson the hard way. It musta been 30 years ago, sittin round the fire waitin for the goat to get done, when one of them cottonmouths bit him on the ankle. Damned near killed him too.

Town itself consisted of a tiny church, with the town cemetery snuggled right up close. Three or four dozen houses in varying states of decline. A one pump gas station. And small general store that carried a supply of just about anything these folks needed. Clothing, nothing fancy of course, just the basics which included a fair amount of bib overalls. Guns and ammo sold well. There was also a small grocery section, again, nothing fancy, just the basics. A small selection of meats, next to the deli counter that was never quite fully stocked. Bread, all of it white, and maybe a day old. There was also a small assortment of snacks, mostly chips, nachos, pork rinds and cookies. There was wheezing cooler in one corner, a little rusty around the bottom, but that was where you would find the milk, butter, couple different kinds of sodas, even Gatorade. But no beer. You wanted beer or anything other than the basics, you had to go to the city. Well Dickson was 30 miles away, and not really a city, that’s just what folks called it. If you was goin, you was goin to the city. But no beer, nope not in Cumberland Furnace, it sat smack dab in the middle of a dry county. One hell of a place to die, and the old man knew he was dyin, but he didn’t give a shit.

In his youth, he had been a lady killer, just knocked them women right back on their heels. Good lookin, coal black eyes, coal black hair, compact and wiry body, a dazzling white smile right under that narrow nose and those high cheekbones that came from his Cherokee heritage. Not full blooded, but enough left to give his skin that slightly reddish gold, tanned all the time, look. Course youth was a long time ago. The hair now the color of dirty slate, the flesh had started sagging years ago. The smile was gone and his teeth had the stains of a life time of unfiltered Pall Malls. The skin now a dusky grey. But he still had those coal black eyes. Those piercing, penetrating eyes that could look right through a man. Yep. still had the eyes, but they were only real color left in him as he sat on the stoop of the place he called home.

Yea, a real lady killer, even married a couple of them, Hell even fathered a couple of whelps with those bitches before his drinkin and whorin put a crimp in those brief relationships. Sometimes he‘d get tired of the whining and screamin. Sometimes he would just get tired of beating the same person over and over, and need a new punchin bag. Sooner or later he would just light out, like his hair was on fire and his ass was a catchin. Yea, they always cried about alimony and child support, but he really didn’t give a shit.

He sat on an old beat up rocker on the stoop. He had built that stoop out of yellow pine many years ago. Now the stoop was like him, starting to sag, going grey, and generally just falling apart. The yeller dog lay at his feet, chained to the post at the top of the steps. He loved that old dog, at least when he was sober. If not, then he was just as likely to give that dog a kick if he was in the mood. But he was slowing down, and the last three or four times he had tried it, the dog had been too quick for him. And the final time he had ended up on his ass for his efforts. Maybe his kicking days were over at last. He was kinda like the dog now too, chained up that is. Only his chain was a thin plastic tube that ran from his nose to the big oxygen tank standing next to the rocker. He had another big one in the house for when he was inside, but weather permitting, he preferred it out here on the stoop. That was about the only thing he cared about anymore, sittin outside. Well that, and smoking them damn coffin nails, when he could catch a good breath. And of course a little sip of shine every once in a while. Yep, those were just about the only things he cared about anymore. Everything else, he just didn’t give a shit.

He liked it outside cause when he was inside, Roussie just plain drove him crazy. It had seemed a good idea 10 years ago to go up into them hills and bring him back a woman to clean and cook. Back then she kept her eyes down and her mouth shut. When he was drunk and on a rampage, she would always run and hide. But Roussie wasn’t too bright and the old man always found her. It was pretty easy, the only place to hide in the house was in the cupboard under the sink, and she hid there every time. He’d drag her out and give her the beatin he believed she deserved. It was kinda like the dog all over, if he was in the mood, you were goin to get it one way or the other. But that was then, now it seemed like her jaw was unhinged most of the time, always flappin about somethin. And just lately he sometimes caught a sly look in those eyes. She had never stepped foot in a school house in her life, but living with the old man had taught her a lesson or two. Still not smart enough to find a new place to hide, but sly enough to know where he kept his money. She figured it would be her payback for the abuse, black eyes, and bruises, and that broken finger that never healed straight. And she was pretty sure she wouldn’t have to wait much longer..

He used to have a pretty steady income by selling beer, booze, shine, cigarettes, and sometimes a little dope out his front door. Yea, I know Cumberland Furnace was right in the middle of that dry county, but once a week he would fire up his old Ford Galaxie, and head for the city. He would pack that old Ford as full as he could get it with booze and beer from the liquor store, and he knew a fella that always seemed to have access to untaxed cigarettes, marijuana and an wide assortment of little pills. He’d take the load back to his place and just sit and wait. He did almost all of his business after dark. Sooner or later there would be a couple of fellas bangin on his door yellin JOHNNNNYYY!! This generally went almost all night long. He made a little on the cigarettes, doubled his prices on the alcohol, and made a killing on the dope. The drunks and stoners didn’t seem to care. If you could have asked the old man why these idiots didn’t make their own trip to the city instead of payin him double in greasy bills, his reply would have been: “Well, I figure they’r just plain ignorant.” Either that or his patented, “Don’t give a shit.”

Well Rousie had been right about one thing. Without a sound the old man just keeled over, rolled right out of that rocker and landed face up next to that yeller dog of his. The dog gave him a long stare, got up and gave the old man one little lick across the stubble on his chin and laid back down.

The funeral was small, Roussie was there, a couple of sisters, and most of the good old boys came down out of the hills. Come to see the good old Johnny one last time. Hell hadn’t they drank shine, and eaten a couple of goats together? There was one young fella there no one seemed to know. He kinda sat in the back and kept to himself until after the service. Once the church had cleared, he slowly walked over to the cluster of old timers. They had gathered under a tall oak tree, and were smoking cigarettes and shootin the shit about the old days. And good old Johnny. The stranger finally asked one of them if he had known the old man well. “Hell yea, he was hard ass, but most of us here liked him.” The young fella said, “Just wondered, I just came out of curiosity. You see I really didn’t know him, but he was my father.” “Hey guys! Hey!! this here is Johnny’s son!” Well most of old timers walked over and gave the stranger a slap on the back, and told him what a damned fine man his dad had been.

But somehow, the stranger didn’t really give a shit.