An Untucked, Unbuttoned, Almost True Story
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THE LONG ROAD HOME: AN UNTUCKED, UNBUTTONED, ALMOST TRUE STORY A written creative work submitted to the faculty of San Francisco State University In partial fulfillment of the requirements for the Degree 3(r E N (a £[<] Master of Arts ’ In English: Creative Writing by Riley Harkins Rant San Francisco, California May 2015 Copyright by Riley Harkins Rant 2015 CERTIFICATION OF APPROVAL I certify that I have read The Long Road Home by Riley Harkins Rant, and that in my opinion this work meets the criteria for approving a thesis submitted in partial fulfillment of the requirement for the degree Master of Arts in English: Creative Writing at San Francisco State University. Nona^aspers Professor of Creative Writing THE LONG ROAD HOME: AN UNTUCKED, UNBUTTONED, ALMOST TRUE STORY Riley Harkins Rant San Francisco, California 2015 This novella explores the experience of loneliness across three different characters, the dysfunction of addiction in families, and whether or not anyone actually knows what happiness looks or feels like—for themselves or for others. The main narrator and protagonist, Riley, recognizes her father Jon’s flaws, but wants to understand him in order to help him find love again after a painful divorce. After years of judgment and rejection, Jon only wants to be accepted for who he is. Maria, an abused addict who survived years on the streets, wants nothing more than to have a home. Each of these characters gets what they want in relation to one another, but does anyone win in the end? What and who are we willing to sacrifice to get what we want? I certify that the abstract is a correct representation of the content of this written creative Date PREFACE AND/OR ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS For my old man. And Maria. v TABLE OF CONTENTS We Are Blind............................................................................................................................. 1 Small Red Pills...........................................................................................................................4 Got to Get Out Fast................................................................................................................... 7 King in Exile............................................................................................................................ 10 Open All N ight........................................................................................................................14 You Like It...............................................................................................................................21 Loaded Guns............................................................................................................................24 Santa Doesn’t Come Here.......................................................................................................30 Watch Out for the Undertow.................................................................................................. 34 Missing Person.........................................................................................................................40 Black Eyes Black Hair............................................................................................................48 Fireworks.................................................................................................................................58 Running with the Thoroughbreds..........................................................................................62 Filling in the Hollow............................................................................................................... 67 Sit Back Down ........................................................................................................................69 We Were an Institution...........................................................................................................72 Do Not Pass Go........................................................................................................................76 The Inside................................................................................................................................. 81 The Long Road Home............................................................................................................. 84 1 We Are Blind, September 2006 I come-to with a tongue in my mouth and a dick in my hand. Like his boner’s a crutch, the rail by the stairs, the gutter that snags me as I roll off the roof and my whole life depends on it. He groans or growls. I forget to kiss back. The sun barely bums through the blinds. I’m on a scratchy rug in a room full of people—four passed out in one double bed, three slouched in chairs, a few propped against walls, empty cans in every corner. Smells like beer and feet. If we weren’t so goddamn good-looking, well-dressed, and fat-cheeked someone would think we were squatters or runaways, drug addicts, or dirt bags. Sometimes we’re all of these things. We’re 20 years old and we’re alright, but somehow it always feels like we’re moving underwater. Someone is shrieking and stomping above us. The shrieking gets louder. Down the stairs. Outside the door we didn’t lock last night. “OUT!” a woman bursts into the room. “Get OUT!” She’s a French woman, older. “Outoutoutoutout!” It’s my friend’s mom, her black dress much too tight. “Stupid girls!” She chucks an empty can against a wall, which ricochets and hits my head. “Abort!” I yell. “Abort!” I laugh. It’s 6am. And I am drunk. 2 I chugged from a bottle of vodka at 5 that morning. Friends chanting, cheering, laughing, grabbing. “Shit girl, save some for us!” Snatching, like children, straining for love. The sun roars behind this woman, this mother, blasting the room in a fiery white. She’s cursing in French, in a pitch saved for rape, and she’s waving her arms, and there have to be six of them—hurling pieces of clothes she’s found on the floor so fast and furious, we try to catch them but can’t. We throw on our shirts and stuff our sweaters in bags. Scurry like rats, barefoot through the door. The sunlight cuts through the early morning fog, and we are blind. I shove on my heels. Fall down the driveway toward my dusty grey car. I’m an old dog trying to keep up with the kids, feet barely catching each step. “Unlock it.” My friends jerk at the doors. “Riley—the doors.” “I can’t driiiive.” The keys are a jumble of metal. I’m scratching the paint. They’re kicking the tires. I see how easy it is to wreck the world if you want to. “We can’t stay here,” they look back up the driveway. Ashley’s got an essay for summer school. Lauren has to walk her dog. Sarah’s talking some kinda shit and I swear to God, if it’s not one pushing, it’s the other. They don’t want the boys to see them like this. They don’t want to wake up the neighbors. They don’t want the French mom to call the police, or even worse, our parents. I laugh. What parents? Look down for the curb. Best to give up now. 3 Ashley grabs the keys and the locks pop. They’re in with their seatbelts, blowing their hands like bums, saying go go go now now now. And I’m strapped in my seat, but I’m not moving. The leather is cold on my thighs from the night air. Smells like dampness and cigarettes, french fries left in the paper bag too long. I look in the mirror. Wipe off last night’s mascara. No wonder dad never liked me much—I’m my mom, but thinner, blonder, louder, drunker. Same big eyes, hers green, mine blue. Same small face, weak chins, high cheekbones. She’s ruddy, I’m white. I never called her last night. “Go!” I turn the key in the ignition, but I’m mad cause I know better. “I can’t drive,” I mumble. “Riley, we can’t stay here!” I put the gear in reverse, can’t gauge the weight of my foot. I step on the pedal and the car flies back. I ram the parked car behind me and we all jolt forward. Fuck! They choke the back of my chair with their hands, shaking the headrest. Go. Drive. Run. They’re screaming to scare me, pushing cause they know I’ll break. They’re trying to make me feel small, drowning me out with their voices, piling higher and higher. My friends are bad people, and I’m just their way out. They’re always there for the party, but never there for me. 4 “FINE!” I scream, and put it in drive. But watch what I can do, bitches. I gas hard and grasp the wheel, take control, might slip outside it. But that’s ok, I boost the speed and blow the stop sign—cause that’s how I like it. Small Red Pills, May 1979 “Maria’s not a bad girl,” her father said, watching her skip across the front lawn in her cropped white top and ripped jean shorts, hopping into Bob Taylee’s fast black car without looking back. “Well she’s not good either,” her mother shook her head, drying the plates with an old green cloth. “You spoil her, Carl.” “She’s the baby,” he sang, taking her by the hips, trying to sway. “She’s not a baby anymore,” she knocked him from her neck with her shoulder. “She’s 15 years old, staying out til God knows when. And what’s he?” She turned to face him. “20?” “She’ll always be my baby girl,” he said. “She’s your only girl.” She tucked the rag into the oven bar and left him standing in the kitchen, watching Bob Taylee’s car blow the stop sign, wheels squealing to the right. 5 Maria had been awake for months. She’d get the speed from the fat girls at school for a buck a pop and stay up for a whole week straight stealing and drinking and smoking and fucking. She’d meet Maura at the mall and they’d swipe bras and lip gloss from Penny’s, nail polish and