by Chad Norton
Johnson felt like crap and took a rare sick day from work to find himself doped up on the couch clicking through the wasteland of daytime TV when channel 3 suddenly made him want to puke – his family was on the Springer show.
The last time he’d seen his family was almost 6 years ago as they disappeared in a cloud of dust through the gun-racked back window of Ben Decker’s pick up. That day Johnson’s dad had made a wobbly chase after his only son out into the dirt drive of the time-beaten craftsman style house, but the older man’s bowed legs and drunken muscles worked against him. Johnson could still remember the sight of his poor excuse for a father all pissed and pissed off, his arms and legs jutting out at odd angles around his big, soft gut, barely moving forward at all. His dad’s retarded ape stride didn’t let him catch what he was after and it gave his son extra minutes for a tearful goodbye from his aunt and little sister and a disapproving hug from his mom.
“Don’t know what ya think you’ll find in the city, that we don’t have here,” his mom said. “Jus’ a bunch of crack heads and crim’nals, that’s all.”
Then she handed him a plastic grocery bag, empty except for 2 jelly sandwiches and a bruised apple. “And don’t you be callin’ wantin’ money or nuthin’. Once ya leave this house, yer on yer own.”
His aunt had held his face and kissed him on the cheek.
“You keep in touch, ya hear,” she said. “I’m sure gonna miss you Eugene.”
She dabbed at her eyes with a dishtowel, wiped some of the damp streaks from her face and pressed an old, crumpled handkerchief into his hand and closed his fingers around it. Then she smiled and said, “Go on now, make yer ol’ auntie proud.”
His little sister had been crying the whole time and wrapped her arms and legs around his shin. Ellen was just 4 the day he left and only seemed to understand that her big brother was going somewhere she couldn’t. He bent down and picked her up for a quick hug.
“See ya butthead,” he said and grinned.
“See ya turdface,” she replied with a wet smile between hiccups of breath.
That was when a beer bottle shattered on the side of the truck’s rusty front bumper. Ben Decker swung open the passenger’s door from the inside and yelled to his friend.
“Damn it, Johnson, get the hell in here! That sonofabitch is gettin’ close.”
Johnson set Ellen down and slung his battered duffel bag up, over and into the bed of the truck.
“Don’t worry ‘bout that fat bastard,” Johnson said. “He’s too drunk and too stupid to catch us.”
Then, as he climbed into the truck and slammed the door shut, he yelled out to his dad, “Hear that ya fat bastard?! You couldn’t catch cold in a snowstorm!”
His dad was almost to the truck but had doubled over, his hands on his knees, gasping for air. He filled his lungs with a big, fresh gulp and wheezed out, “Get back here boy, I ain’t finished wit you yet!”
The old man spat and started to cackle. “How’s that head?! Next time I’m gonna break it in two!”
Inside the cab, Johnson absently put his hand to his forehead where the blood was still fresh enough to drip from the chair leg’s gash. When he saw his red and shiny fingers, he raised the crumpled handkerchief up to stop the bleeding.
“You alright?” Ben Decker said. “The bastard got ya good.”
“This is nothin’,” Johnson scoffed and then smiled. “His record collection looks a lot worse ‘n me.”
But as his old man reached out to grab the truck’s tailgate, Ben Decker had had enough. He threw the engine into gear, sending dirt and rocks and dust all over the angry drunk who fell face first onto the driveway.
Johnson’s aunt and little sister waved through the dust as the truck barreled away while his mom helped her husband out of the dirt. When he could no longer see his family through the brown distance, he turned forward in the cab and lowered the handkerchief from his head. That was when he saw the sticky bills through the thin, wet and reddened material. It was 83 dollars, a lifetime of savings from his aunt.
Johnson leaned his head out the window, closed his eyes and let the hard, fast wind wash his face with the smell of summer trees and warm fields. Ben Decker tuned the radio to a Kid Rock song and began to sing along, slapping his knee and howling to the chorus like an idiot and that made Johnson laugh. He pulled himself back into the truck and said with a chuckle, “Geezus, yer a piece a work.”
Ben Decker just gave him a sideways glance with a shit-eatin’ grin and started to sing even louder. His passenger shook his head and laughed some more as he looked out at the road ahead.
That was the day Eugene Johnson turned 16.
The TV screen blinked, flipping colorful lines up and down the stolen cable picture until Johnson gave a warning kick to the side of the Sanyo. The set obeyed. The lines settled back out of sight and he jabbed at the remote to increase the volume. Springer was just getting going.
“Please welcome Ellen and her mom, Sharon to the show.”
The audience made nice with their applause. Johnson’s little sister sat on one of three chairs on the stage in a new-looking outfit. She was showing all of her teeth and swinging her legs, which had grown enough for her toes to scrape the carpet. His mom was seated next to her in a clean if not new dress. Her hair was pulled back tight in a bun and she smiled like it hurt her face. She wasn’t nearly as excited to be there as her daughter. Then Springer started up again.
“So, tell us Ellen, why are you here today?”
“Cause of my daddy,” she said wide-eyed as the camera came in close.
“And what about your daddy?”
“My daddy looks a mess.”
She paused and grew more confident. “He’s always wearin’ the same clothes.”
And then she giggled, “Plus... he smells.”
The audience laughed at that and the other camera found Johnson’s mom who pursed her lips and gave Ellen a reprimanding rap on the shoulder. His little sister kept giggling.
“So your dad doesn’t dress too well and he’s, uh, kinda smelly. Is that it? Think he needs a makeover?”
Ellen put her hands to her mouth and nodded her head up and down with big, bright eyes. Then Springer turned toward Johnson’s mom.
“Is this true Sharon? Is Ellen’s dad, your husband, a bit of a... train wreck when it comes to how he dresses and, um, personal hygiene?”
The audience got a snicker out of that too, but Johnson’s mom played it cool.
“My husband is a busy man. He don’t have time to always be thinkin’ about what shirt he’s wearin’ or if his trousers are clean,” she said. “And he showers regular enough – maybe not every day. But, like I say, he’s a busy man.”
“What’s he busy doing Sharon? What’s he do for a living?”
Johnson’s mom straightened in her chair and smoothed her dress over her knees.
“He works around the house mostly. You know, there’s always somethin’ to be fixed, somethin’ to be done.”
Ellen popped her head in front of the camera that was focused on her mom.
“And he sits in his chair. A lot.” The little girl grinned for America.
Then the camera changed to show the audience laughing again as a few people called out their disapproval.
“Booo!”
“He’s a bum!”
“Looooser!”
But control came back to Springer.
“Alright. Alright. You’ll get your chance.” He walked toward the audience. “Sharon where’s your husband’s sister?”
He read from a blue card in his hand. “Arlene. Where’s Arlene?!”
Johnson saw his aunt stand up at the end of a front row. She looked pretty in a pink sweater and nervously patted her hair as Springer reached out and shook her hand.
“Hi Arlene. Thanks for being here.”
“Thank you, Mr. Springer!”
“Just Jerry,” he said.
“Alright, Jerry,” she said blushing.
“So what about your brother? Is this true? Is he as much of a “mess” as Ellen says?’
Johnson’s aunt cleared her throat of a tickle.
“Well, he’s no fashion model or anythin’ that’s for sure.” She smiled at her joke and then guiltily looked to Johnson’s mom on stage. “And as far as washin’ regular... I guess, well, some men just smell a little more than others maybe.”
Again she looked to the stage for approval, biting her lip. “That’s all I’d say. Maybe he just smells – more.”
The people behind her were growing restless with laughter and jeers.
“Well, you want to meet this guy?!” the host cheered.
The audience roared their answer.
“Alright, well let’s get him out here!”
Springer glanced at his blue card just as the camera cut to a door on the stage where a spotlight appeared.
“Ellen here’s your daddy... Harry! Come on out here Harry!”
When the door slammed open, the “boos” and “hisses” from the crowd rose up to greet Johnson’s dad. He looked to be wearing the same wife-beater ‘T’ he’d worn in the driveway years ago, it was dusty and marked with the same kind of dirt but now covered even less of his avalanching gut. He wore an equally dirty baseball hat and a pair of low-riding jeans that seemed moldy with something and, as he did his cartoony walk past the camera, everyone got to see that his belt wasn’t doing its job. His ass crack peeked a half moon at least above his rear waistband.
“Have a seat Harry,” Springer directed over the din of the audience.
Johnson’s dad maneuvered his way onto the raised platform to the empty chair next to his daughter and wife. Before he sat down, he spat at the audience and waved them away with a dismissive, flabby arm. The hecklers gave it back to him in spades.
“Sit down you bum!”
“You’re pathetic!”
“Lard ass!”
Johnson’s dad puffed out his chest, taking on all bidders.
“Who wants a piece of this?! Come on. I’ll kick yer ass.”
Then Springer raised his hand.
“Now, now, give Harry a chance folks. Give him a chance.”
“Pantywaists,” Johnson's dad growled as he lowered his wide frame into the chair beside Ellen. “Pantywaists.”
“Well Harry, welcome,” Springer grinned and the crowd did the same.
Then another camera framed Johnson’s dad with the host.
“So, you always dress like that Harry?”
“Like whut?”
“That... casually?”
“Daddy’s been in those clothes fer a week!” Ellen piped in.
Her dad spun is large head around and gave her a look that made her shrink into her chair. Her smart smile vanished.
“Now Harry I know for a fact that our stylists didn’t work on you. You came here just like that. Isn’t that right?”
“Hell yes it is.”
“So you like the way you look, is that it?”
“What’re you sayin’? What’s wrong with the way I look?”
His eyes went past Ellen to his wife. Johnson’s mom reached across to soothe his arm. ‘He don’t mean nuthin’. Now you jus’ be nice for Mr. Springer.”
“Mr. Springer my ass! I wanna know what’s wrong with the way I look!”
He glared at Springer.
“Are you gon’ tell me? Or not?”
“Well, Harry, I just think you could use a little fixing up, you agreed to a makeover...”
“So where’s my money?! Sharon you said we wus gettin’ paid for this!”
Johnson’s dad stood up in front of Springer.
“What kinda BLEEEP is this?! What’re you BLEEEPers tryin’ to pull here?”
He threw his chair off the platform and three 300-pound bouncers rushed the stage to tackle him. With the struggle as a backdrop, the camera went close on Springer while the audience began to grunt, “JER-RY! JER-RY! JER-RY!”
Then the program went to a commercial for a fabric softener.
Johnson blew his nose into a tissue until he honked all clear. The ad with the little, white bear ended and a man came on the screen and started spraying his bald spot black. But Johnson wasn’t paying much attention. He was looking around his apartment.
It was easy to see how much better his life was since he left his family. He had a bedroom, bathroom, living room and kitchen all to himself. He paid the rent on time every month with the paychecks he brought home as assistant manager of the Garden Center at Wal-Mart. And he usually had enough money left over after bills and food to put something away in his savings and take his girlfriend to the movies.
With the help of Ben Decker he smuggled letters and cash to his aunt a couple times a year. She used the money where it was needed and kept it out of the bars his dad visited daily. Johnson sometimes got letters back where his sister would write to thank him for whatever it was his money had purchased for her and his aunt wrote about relatives and neighborhood gossip, but never about stories from under her own roof. His mom’s only replies were infrequent and short.
Hope you are well. We are fine. Mom.
Johnson’s aunt had called him from the payphone at the market a few times, collect and mainly on Christmas or his birthday. Even if the phone at the house was working, she thought his dad might overhear and get angry. So she acted like the walk to the payphone did her good, like it was no bother at all. Those calls gave her a pretty good idea of what Johnson had been up to, and she seemed pleased to hear how his life was going.
“You got yer high school diploma?! That’s wonderful Eugene. Just wonderful!”
“What’s her name? Is she pretty? I bet she’s the sweetest thing in the whole world...”
“Happy birthday to youu... happy birthday to youu... happy birthday dear Eugeeene...”
“Remember yer ol’ auntie loves you. Promise me you’ll always remember that...”
“Buh-bye now Eugene. Buh-bye.”
Johnson missed his family after those calls. Not his dad or the yelling or the beatings or the filth or the stench – he missed being a family, being part of something bigger than himself. There was something to be said for having people in his life that cared about him because they had too much in common to ignore. People he was comfortable with because they were one and the same. They were blood. Sometimes that really seemed to matter. Other times it repulsed him so much it gave him the shivers.
Johnson was shaking as he sat on the couch. And it wasn’t because of his cold.
After the commercial break, what he saw on the TV made him want to uproot his entire family tree, bust it into kindling and torch every possible genetic link to the familiar mutant who was broadcast into his living room.
“We’re back!”
The audience praised the fact with cheers and clapping.
“Now Harry’s calmed down back stage and agreed to go on with the show...”
“Who needs ‘em...”
“Send his fat ass home!”
“Booo...”
“Be nice.” Springer raised his hands and the crowd mellowed.
“We got him all dolled up. He’s gonna be terrific.”
Then the host looked toward Ellen on stage.
“You ready, Ellen? Ready mom? Believe me, you’re not gonna recognize him.”
“Alright...” The camera followed Springer’s pointed finger to the door on stage as a drum roll started.
“Harry? Let’s see the new, improved you... get out here Harry!”
The door slammed open. Johnson’s dad was drunk.
His grand entrance broke the door and caused it to hang lopsided behind him as he stood and swayed in the bright lights. He wore a beige suit that was too expensive and too snug to fit him properly. It covered him like cheap plastic wrap. He put his hand up to shield his eyes as the audience half laughed and half groaned at the sight of him.
The camera found Johnson’s aunt with her head in her hands and then cut back to the action.
“Harry! What happened?” Springer called.
“None a yer BLEEEPin b’nesss!”
“Language Harry. Language.”
The drunk waved away his host’s criticism and shuffled toward center stage as the bouncers took to the wings.
“Daddy yer drunk!”
“Ellen shush! Leave yer daddy be,” Johnson's mom ordered.
“But he’s ruinin’ everything!! Like always!”
Ellen began to cry.
“I hate him! I hate him!” she bawled.
Her dad stepped up onto the platform.
“Sshut yer mouth little girl ‘er I’ll shut it for ya.”
Her mom grabbed Ellen by the shoulders and pulled her out of her chair as Johnson’s dad took a swing from just out of reach.
“Have a seat Harry! Right now!” Springer motioned to the bouncers.
The crowd yelled and taunted as the unruly guest was stuffed into his chair.
Johnson’s mom and sister stood off to one side.
“What the heck are you doing Harry?”
Springer was pacing with a hand to his forehead.
“Your little girl brings you on the show to get you some new clothes, clean you up a bit, and this is how you act?!”
The camera changed to Ellen’s still tearing face.
“Don’t you care at all about her feelings? What kind of monster are you?”
Then the camera switched to Johnson’s dad for a reaction.
“Monssster?!” he snarled and slurred. Televisions across the country framed the bloated, red face and its angry eyes. “I’ll show ya a monster!”
Johnson’s dad began pawing at his suit.
When his jacket was removed, he somehow broke free of the beefy hands on his shoulders, rose out of his chair, yanked down his pants and pulled his shirt above his belly. Naked from the waist down, he twisted side to side, flopping his genitals against his thighs with an agility no viewer could have expected.
“That’s a monster!”
Immediately, the audience was on its feet at full volume.
Springer covered his eyes with his blue card but the cameras continued to roll – the scene was sure to appear on an uncensored outtake video, preserved in all its glory for generations to come.
“Stop it! Just stop it!” One voice cried out louder than the rest, picked up by Springer’s microphone.
The camera panned around to find Johnson’s aunt crying and standing next to Springer who put a hand on her shoulder.
“Arlene. Hey...” Then he raised a hand. “Shh...”
The audience quieted slightly as the bouncers moved in and raised the large pair of pants from around Johnson’s dad’s ankles and secured them around his waist with a tight tug of his belt before forcing him back in his chair.
“You can ruin yer own life!” Johnson's aunt continued. “But don’t you dare ruin the life of that little girl! Don’t you dare!”
“Shut yer yap woman! I’ll do whatever the BLEEP I please.”
The cameras ping-ponged between the two of them. Springer just listened.
“Don’t you make her leave," Johnson's aunt fumed. "Not like Eugene!”
“That boy was a waste a my seed! That’s whut he was!”
“He was the best thing in my life! As horrible and ugly as you were to me – What you did!!” Her words held venom and she paused to collect herself. “But Eugene, he still turned out beautiful. He’s so right and good... you can’t stand it!”
Johnson’s dad went from red to purple and then he blew.
“Well, BLEEP Eugene! I shoulda killed him when I had the chance.”
“Don’t say that! Don’t you ever say that about our son!”
Springer popped to life.
“Wait-wait-wait... Arlene, our son?” he said.
Johnson’s aunt wiped tears from her puffy, red eyes.
“Eugene. He’s our son.”
She put her hand to her chest and started to cry again.
“He’s my boy.”
The audience sent groans of shock and then shouts of vengeance toward the stage. Johnson’s mom dragged Ellen by the hand through a side door, leaving his dad and the bouncers alone to face the crowd.
Amid the ruckus, the camera cut to Springer who was comforting the woman Johnson had always known as his aunt.
“We’ll be right back.”
Johnson’s head tingled and then went numb. He fumbled with the remote to power off the TV, but even after the set flashed to black his eyes continued to stare.
Inside the darkened depths of the screen, images appeared to him. Childhood memories he’d misplaced on purpose came back demanding attention. They screamed at him for abandoning them, for ignoring them for so long. They were things he didn’t want to see, things he didn’t want to remember. Without them he was just another kid from a horrible home, and that had felt better to him. So, for 21 years, his remedy was to play thick-headed, he convinced himself he didn’t understand.
Johnson told himself he didn’t understand why his dad hated him so much, why his own father gave out beatings in place of smiles and hugs.
“I just don’t understand,” he thought.
He didn’t understand why his mom used a switch on his hands when he spilled his milk or cursed him if his shoelace was untied or his socks didn’t match or his bike tire was flat or his sister fell down or the mail didn’t come or the weatherman was wrong or she lost at the lottery again.
Johnson simply cried, “I don’t understand.”
And when his aunt came to his rescue all those times, when she stopped his dad’s attacks and took blows to her own body, when she got ice for his bumps and bruises, washed his cuts and scrapes, dried his tears and held him until the sobbing ended, when she had done all that for him, her nephew had always said the same thing.
“Thanks auntie. But I don’t understand.”