The legend of Durt McGurten chap 2

The Legend of Durt McGurten
as told by B.Z. Whiddum

Chapter 2

Fred set down his beer. It was cool, not ice cold anymore. He could tell it had been sitting there for a while by the rings of water it left on the table. The rings were slowly pooling together to make a puddle. Fred couldn't help but get lost in thought while drinking beer. He thought about all the lost friends. Those who had gone on to the other side of life, and those who had just drifted away.
It was a hot Saturday afternoon. Fred had been working all day, and now he wanted to just sit and have a beer. Like he used to do with UNC and Durty. As if on cue, the screen door screeched open and then slammed shut. Jellybean had come outside. But not without consequence, Fred could hear Jellybean's Granny yelling out of the house, "Don't be slamming my doors, boy! I'll tan your hide!"
Fred snorted to himself, she liked saying that, but not doing it. By now, the threat had worn off. Jellybean made his way over to his uncle Fred. "Whatcha doing uncle Fred?" The child was insatiably curious. Fred couldn't stop himself from messing with the boy.
"Sitting here trying to figure where to hide your dead body." Fred replied deadpan. The boy froze. He knew his uncle teased him, but he wasn't sure if that was a threat or joke. Fred chuckled and continued before Jellybean could run off in fear. "Because if you keep slamming that door, your granny is going to kill you." The boy breathed a sigh of relief and sat down across from his uncle at the picnic table.
Fred looked at the mischievous boy across from him. Jellybean looked more and more like his dad every day. The resemblance was incredible. "You look more and more like your daddy every day.", Fred remarked. Jellybean squirmed a little, he didn't always like the comparison.
"Will you tell me a story, uncle Fred?" Jellybean pleaded with his whole body, looking as innocent and wistful as possible. Taking a swallow of his rapidly warming beer, Fred looked at boy. Knowing full well what kind of story the boy wanted to hear, Fred decided to play along. "What kind of story do you want to hear?"
Jellybean was quiet for a moment, then he asked, "Why do they call you Fred?" Fred looked at the boy for a long minute, the boy fidgeted with the scrutiny. "Now that is a good question, and a decent story to go with it." Fred took another swallow of his beer. "A very good story indeed.

"Like all stories, this one started with a party, it seems. Well, more than one party in this case. You see, Jelly, your dad and I grew up in different worlds, even though we went to the same school. My parents set a hard line between what they considered "right" and what they considered "wrong". So after I graduated high school and started hanging out and partying, I realized that I really didn't want to let word get back to my parents of what I was doing. So at this time, I was constantly using an alias. I typically used a simple name like Bob." Fred was in full blown storyteller mode. He was relaxed from the bet, and the words just flowed.
Continuing, Fred said, "So the story of my nickname began before I started hanging out with your pops. At the time, I was hanging out with my friend, Judd. He was throwing a party at his house, and I was there, just having fun when I ran into an old friend, David. He and I were shooting the shit, catching up, when some random girl came up to me and said, "I know you, what's your name?""
Jellybean was on the edge of his seat, enthralled, imagining this world that his uncle was describing. Fred took another swallow of beer. It was almost gone. He needed another, but was caught up in his own story and wanted to finish it first.
"Now, I didn't know this girl, and I wasn't sure what she thought she knew about me. And well, I just didn't want to find out either. So before I knew it, my drunken mind was responding. " You don't know me, because I don't know who you are. " My logic was sound. She replied with saying what my real name was. I freaked, maybe she really did know me, but I definitely couldn't remember her. But before I could say anything, she turned to my friend and told him she knew him too. Then she called him by his real name. All I could think of was, who was this person and why were they here. My friend saved me though. He responded right quickly with, "no, you don't know us. My name is Fred and his name is Bob." Whew, I was saved. I quickly seconded this notion. We spent the next hour messing with this girl, denying our true identities. It was a great party."
Fred looked down at his empty beer. He then looked at his rapt audience, and decided that no labor was better than child labor. Laughing to himself about all the things that was wrong with that thought, Fred spoke to Jelly, "Go over to that fridge and get your uncle a beer, and get yourself a coke. But be quiet so your granny doesn't hear you and get us in trouble." Jelly nodded his head and jumped right up. "Yup, you gotta train them young to mind." Fred thought to himself. While he was waiting on the boy to get back, Fred pulled out his one hitter, and took a few pulls. Just getting his head right. Exhaling, Fred saw Jellybean walking back to him with a beer and a come. Fred grinned, the boy even walked like his daddy. "I guess some things are genetic," Fred mused.
Taking the beer from Jelly, the boy seated himself and took a pull from his coke. Fred popped the top, and looked at Jelly. "That was your grandpa's favorite sound. Yeah, UNC liked to drink, but he was a good man." Fred paused, getting lost in the memories. Jelly sat patiently for a minute, but only a minute, he was a young boy after all. The fidgeting brought Fred back to the present. Remembering the story, but not sure where he was at, he asked Jelly just that. "So, where was I?" He queried Jelly. Jelly responded, "you were at the party." Jelly was fully involved in the story.
Fred paused, then spoke. "The first party or the second?" He asked Jelly. The confused look on the boy's face was answer enough for Fred. "So, we left that party confusing that poor girl. The next weekend, your pops threw a party. I'm outside the apartment where your dad, Durty, lived at the time with your grandpa, UNC, his girlfriend, Shells, and their chiwawa, killer b, just having a beer talking with some friends of your pops when these girls came up. I later learned their names, Booty and Mex, but this was the first time I had met them so I didn't know their names yet. So these two don't know me either, and they wanted to know my name. I thought to myself, " here we go again. Another group of broads that wanted to know my name." Of course I didn't want to tell them my real name, so I said my name was "Bob". The guys I was talking to laughed as they knew that wasn't my real name. The girls weren't stupid and quickly picked up that this wasn't my name." Fred took another swallow of beer. He was drunk now. He looked at his phone. It was almost his bed time. He knew it was fixing to be the boy's bed time. Time to wrap this story up.
Speaking again, Fred picked up the pace of the story. "The girls immediately started to argue that this wasn't my name. Then Booty said I looked like a Fred. Then Mex chimed in with the fact I looked like sponge Bob, a popular cartoon character of the time, and boom! They started calling me " Fred Bob Squarepants". Your aunt Booty still calls me that. But Durty came to my rescue, walking up saying that they couldn't call me that, that my name was Fred Bob, Jr. And it stuck. A few months later, your pops convinced me to get it takes on my arm, but that's a story for another day." Fred swallowed the last of his beer. He looked over at Jellybean, the boy hadn't hardly had any of his coke, and his head was nodding on his chest. Fred smiled and picked the boy up. Jelly stirred, waking up slightly. To reassure him, Fred spoke calmly, "It's time for bed." Jelly nodded sleepily.
Fred carried the boy inside and put him into bed. As he was tucking in Jelly, the boy asked a sleepy question. "Where did my nickname come from?" Fred started laughing. "That's a quick story," he replied, "the first time your granny saw you, she said you were so cute she just eat you up like a jellybean. And it stuck." Fred kept on chuckling, teasing the boy slightly, "You had just better be glad your granny doesn't eat human."
Jelly was silent for a moment, then came his sleepy reply. "I wouldn't taste very good, I didn't bathe today." Fred threw back his head in amusement, laughing loudly. "Sleep well, boy. Tomorrow, if you're good we can go fishing at the pond." Jelly smiled and curled into his blankets drifting off into slumber. Fred walked out  of the room, turning out the lights, still chuckling to himself. "That boy was every bit his father."

Rowboat of life

The oars creaked as he rowed. It was the only sound beside the slap of the waves against his boat. It was a small boat, just a rowboat really. A small boat that had no business being this far out at sea. One rogue Wave and that was the end of this little adventure and possibly him.
He could see the town in the distance. He still wasn't far enough, but then nothing was ever far enough to get away from the torture in his soul. That was the reality that confronted him every single day, no matter how far he ran, or how quickly he tried to escape, he always failed. You can't run from your own nature is what he finally realized.
That was the conclusion he had come too. You can't outrun what and who you are. You can't outrun your heart or your desires. They are part of you and what makes you unique.
He didn't want to be a unique snowflake. He wanted anonymity, he wanted to go through the day without desiring her. Without missing her company. Her charm, her wit. He just wanted a day of peace.
Pulling the oars into the boat, he sat back and listened. This far out to sea, only the sounds of the ocean were present. The current was pulling him deeper to sea. He was OK with this, just letting nature dictate his path.
The fog was thickening, and with it muffling sounds. Soon he was floating in a foggy void. He could no longer see the town, no longer hear the waves. It was silent.
Silence that was broken as he moved his foot. The chain tired around his ankle clinked as it drug along the bottom of the boat. His eyes moved you the chain in the dim light of his lantern, eventually resting upon the weight tied to the other end. All he had to was pick up the weight and jump. Nature would take care of the rest. He wondered if he would feel much. He assumed it would hurt to die, but now he wondered.
He knew these were other alternatives. He knew this wasn't the only path available to him. He knew lots of things. He knew he loved her. He knew she only cared for him. The distinction was huge. But inconsequential. For no matter how much she cared for him, she didn't want to be with him. And that hurt the worst.
He lifted the weight, it was heavy. He hoped it would be heavy enough to pull him down. He wasn't sure of the math, it wasn't like this is something you could practice. He just needed enough weight to pull him down under the water. Nature would do the rest.
He sat down in the boat. He knew it was almost time. At least this way, she could live a normal life. One that didn't involve him. He was diseased and cursed, no one was safe around him. He knew he wouldn't be missed for long, maybe not even at all. He looked over the side of the boat. It was time.

Aches and pains

It was raining again. The rain made his bones hurt. His joints swelled, and the bones ground together. Walking hurt, moving hurt, hell even breathing hurt sometimes.
Rain or no rain, his heart hurt. It had hurt for so long that it had become part of him. He couldn't imagine life without the constant pain reminding him of what he lost. He hated the rain. Ironic that he lived in such a rainy place.
He slowly picked up the bottle of ibuprofen. His hands hurt, they also shook slightly. He gazed at the wrinkled, sun spotted hand before him. The skin frail and hanging away from the bone. He had left youth long behind. The hands were of a man who had seen too many harsh winters and sweated through too many of a summer.
They were the hands that had held lovers hands in their own, caressed many a small of a back, held countless children, and yet only have known sorrow. He had accomplished so many things with these hands only to find them useless in accomplishing the one thing he desired. They couldn't keep her with him. They couldn't hold her back. His hands, his love, himself, they just weren't enough for her.
He could feel the tears leaking down his face. His skin was that of parchment, he could almost feel it cracking from the weight of the sweat.
He laid his heart at her feet, and she ground it into dust. And although this was all ancient history, he had nothing left in his old age but regret. He had never expected to live this long, he thought would have died years ago in the 40's. But he survived. He survived the wars, the purges and everything else. He had survived, but of her he never learned. Did she survive, did she escape, did she miss him? They were the questions that burned his soul.
The rain was gushing now, a torrential downpour. The ibuprofen was kicking in and his joints were loosening up. Soon he would be able to attain a resemblance of his former self. But for now, he just silently wept. As he did every time he thought of her.

Relief

The rain was coming down heavy now.  He could hear it beating on the tin roof of the cabin.  His home now.  He had escaped to his refuge.  He was finally free. 
It hadn't been easy escaping the trappings of life. It was hard to walk away from everything.  The instantaneous gratification of answering the telephone,  or turning on a lamp.  Driving across town to go eat somewhere.  Now,  he had to work for his food. He had to hunt to find meat, or fish.  There were no grocery markets around the corner.  Self sufficient. 
But it was much simpler.  Easier to forget the outside world . He had the opportunity to live a simple existence.  And he needed simplicity. 
He couldn't get over her,  he couldn't function in normal society.  All he could think about was her. Drawn to her like a moth to flames. And she wanted nothing to do with him.  Her actions were slight and sinuous. Completely entrancing. 
Even now,  when she was nowhere around,  she was disturbing him.  His desire was incendiary.  He wanted to burn the world to the ground.
Taking a deep breath,  he slowly exhaled listening to the rain fall.  This was why he ran away.  Why he left.  He loved her so much that it was destroying him.  So he ran,  isolation.  To the end of his days.  It was better this way. 

Confusion

He sat up in the bed, slowly turning to the side and placing his feet on the floor. He was doing his utmost to be quiet. He didn't want to wake her up. He turned to look at her sleeping form beside him. She wouldn't wake if he was careful. He had made sure she was worn out. Good sex does that to a woman. He knew that.
The moonlight came in softly through the window, accentuating her curves. It gave relief to the peaks and valleys on the sheet, making her seem more voluptuous than she really was. He felt a slight twinge of sadness for her. He knew she really liked him, but he couldn't say the same. Sex had just been a means of relief, one he needed. But that was all he wanted.
He wished he could feel something more than sexual attraction for someone other than his goddess. But She had taken his heart, and there was no room for anyone else. His flesh still had needs, so he allowed himself dalliances such as this one. But they always ended badly. No one ever believed him when he said that he just wanted to have fun.
Slowly, he pulled his pants up his legs. Just halfway though, so he could tie his shoes. This wasn't his first time, he had learned his lessons well. The first thing to put on was always the shoes. You never knew when you had to run. Shoes tied, he pulled up his pants, inch by inch, standing in the process. He was almost home free. Just a few more articles of clothing and then he was out.
She moaned in her sleep and rolled towards where he should be slumbering. A crucial moment has arisen. If she didn't feel him laying beside her, she might wake and catch him half gone. This would be bad. Quickly thinking on his feet, he moved a pillow into the place where he should be laying. Not a moment too soon, as her hand came in contact with the pillow and she just snuggled into the covers deeper.
Whew, he breathed a sigh of relief. He had his shoes on, he would have ran, but better not to be faced with that decision. Slowly bending down, he picked up his shirt and pulled it on. Usually this sort of thing wouldn't matter. He normally tried to find the type of woman that didn't care if you fucked and fled, but sometimes plans go awry. Fully dressed, he looked down at her face. She wasn't ugly, but she wasn't the one he loved. However, she could suck a dick.
Knowing if he hesitated any longer, he would be fucking her again, he left. He left knowing she would be hurt and angry. He left knowing she would carry a grudge and do her best to ruin him. He left. Because she wasn't the one he desired.

Pieces

He stared at his reflection in the mirror. Was this what other people saw? He scrutinized the face staring back at him. The curves of the nose, flaring in frustration. The eyes sunken and bloodshot, the dark circles underneath emphasizing the lost hours of sleep. The eyes were that of a madman. Did people see the monster inside? Momentarily, he fought for control; the monster wanted to burn this world to the ground. Regaining control, he knew that one day he wouldn't, and god help us all then.
Back to the stranger that presented itself to him as his reflection, he couldn't help but realize that he looked like a criminal. Was that the reason that people turned from him in fright? He hated the looks he got, he wasn't a bad person. Just haunted.
He looked down at his hands in the sink, resting on the edge. They were the hands of an old man. Wrinkled and broken, the knuckles swollen and bruised. Too many years doing hard labor will destroy a man. It only took his hands.
Eyes losing focus, he thought about his life. The choices he had made, the people lost. Those gone but never forgotten, he wished he could forget. Ghosts haunted him, memories tormenting. Having found heaven, he found himself wandering alone in hell. He choked back a sob. He wasn't going to think about her, he missed her so much. But she didn't want to be with him, there was something wrong with him, something diseased. He knew it, they all knew it. That's why no one wanted to be with him. He was diseased.
He looked back up at the face in the mirror, distorted now into a million reflections. The glass was shattered, like his soul. He loved only to be cast aside. He gave his all only to be found lacking.
He looked down at his hand in the sink. The blood pouring from the gash in his hand was crimson red against the white porcelain. Diseased. You could see it in the blood, he could feel it on his bones. He looked back at the monster in the mirror. He was the monster, and everyone saw it.
Blood pouring from his wound, he knew there was no hiding it anymore.