My Inheritance

a novel by Joe Flood

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Chapter One
Sing, sing a song, make it happy...
I was pressing my right foot to the gummy asphalt as I slid down the street on my new
skateboard. I had painted the board a riotous pink and had just mounted slick fast wheels to its
bare underside. My imagination raced with thoughts of perpetual motion in the May heat. The
wheels rolled effortlessly, requiring only the tiniest of kicks to send me racing down Hibiscus
Court. I was a demon of motion, aiming for flat-out speed as I hunkered down, knees bent,
surfing the steaming pavement. My bare foot sizzled as I kicked off again. The ranch houses
became a blur as I propelled myself faster and faster toward the end of the cul-de-sac. Best of all,
it was silent running. The wheels were so new and so smooth, they made hardly a sound.
I was in flight, and I knew it. Saturday afternoons were deadly at home as Dad watched
college football and got sloshed on cheap beer. Dad started the day hungover--that's when I liked
him best. He was harmless, unsure of himself, perhaps even a little shame creeping into his black
heart. Once or twice he even asked me about school. In the morning, Dad was only guilty of not-
so-benign neglect, as he rifled through the refrigerator for something to still his churning guts.
Dad spent most of that sunny morning looking lost, wearing only a t-shirt and underwear.
He was a big man, and when he bent over to peer into the empty vegetable bin, he had to
bend way down. As he did, he gave Mom and I a shot of the broad expanse of dirty cotton that
covered his rear. I tried not too laugh, but the image was very funny. This man was a terror, a
monster, yet bent over, with his soiled briefs on display to the world, he looked like a buffoon. He
reminded me of one of those Dads you see in comic strips--the lovable oaf, the Dagwood Dad.
Yet, when he turned toward me, the illusion disappeared. The red-rimmed eyes, the beefy
unshaven face, the sparse copper mustache over his full, feminine lips, evaporated my pleasant
fantasy. All two-hundred pounds of him seemed a threat. Our eyes briefly locked. His gaze was
always an appraisal, sizing me up as if I was a sparring partner. Dad was in the ring with the
world and I was just another opponent. I quickly vacated the kitchen table and he sat down.
Mom hardly glanced up as he joined her for breakfast. Dad was spooning out some
dreadful leftover, a cereal bowl filled with the ice-crusted remains of week-old spaghetti. He was
pretending to read the morning paper which was scattered all over the table, yet I knew he was
doing no such thing. Rather, his mind was roiling with failure and frustration. Every day, another
fight. Soon he was to visit dreadful hell on his family, but that was secondary to the teeming
struggle going on within him. It was difficult to be Dad, the tough guy, the punch-out artist,
reeling from blow after blow. Always lifting himself off the canvas to face another horrible cycle of
the sun across the sky.
Myself, I hardly drank. I had made it to sixteen relatively unsullied by alcohol. My body
was young and fresh, not consumed by the dull pain of dependence Dad must have felt every
morning. I couldn't even imagine what that must be like. As a kid, I had very simple notions.
Why doesn't he just quit? And why does he hit us? Of course, I didn't dare ask. Instead, I usually
fled. I was one of those neighborhood kids who were always around, who were everywhere but
home.
That morning, as I watched Dad push noodles and frozen sauce past his mustache, I
hoped to use Mom's car and go to the library. I had just received my driver's license. But
Mom said she needed her car to go to the mall. Using Dad's truck was, of course, out of the
question. I knew Mom was lying, Dad knew she was lying, but we didn't say anything. Mom was

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going to take Becky and go over to Aunt Sharon's in Daytona Beach. Dad thought Sharon was a
whore, a no-good cocktail waitress who had too many boyfriends. I was not welcome. Sharon
thought I was too much like my father. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, she said.
Mom didn't object---she was a survivor. She felt I was old enough to take care of myself
and didn't care what happened to me. I was going to have to spend the entire day in Orange
Estates, our subdivision.
Dad silently took in our conversation, mentally noting that I would be around all day. On
his wife's deceit, he would probably say he wasn't surprised. Inwardly, however, he was pleased.
He was powerful--his wife had to sneak around just to visit her sister. And he forced his wife to
lie, to do something bad. He wasn't the only bad person in the house.
And, he also knew that he could one day discover his wife's lie and punish her for
sneaking around. It was a nice arrangement, confirming to him that he was running the show.
And as a bonus, he got to spend the afternoon hassle-free.
Dad was happy when Mom pulled away in the station wagon, the top of Becky's head
just visible above the dashboard. Dad pulled on a pair of shorts, grabbed a beer, and sank into
the couch. Perfect timing, the game was just beginning. I figured it would be several more beers
before Dad got back to his bad old self, so I screwed on the new wheels for my skateboard. The
garage was warm and I was sweating by the time I finished. I took of my shirt and tucked it into
the back of my shorts.
I kicked and rolled down the driveway, onto the wide empty street. I heard the front door
open. I was too afraid to look back. My wheels rolled and took me away from Dad. I fearfully
pictured him standing in the gloom of the doorway, watching quizzically as I disappeared down
the street, already forgetting why he had came looking for me. I imagined him padding silently
back into the house, the rootless anger dissipating as he grabbed another beer.
And I kicked and I kicked and I kicked toward the end of Hibiscus Court. I had been
aimlessly cruising around the subdivision on my new board, looking for something to do for the
rest of the afternoon. I set out for the other side of the development, where the newer and more
expensive homes were. The distance was far to go on a skateboard but I had many hours to kill.
Speeding down Hibiscus Court, I pictured what a resplendent figure I cut. A bright
board with shiny, silent wheels, and a slender, shirtless pro expertly riding it. You just had to be
impressed as the kid bare-footed it past your house. Self-reliance embodied, wearing only a pair
of summer-faded shorts, the ultimate tan Florida kid. My hair was long and whitish-blonde. I
had lightened it by squeezing a lemon over my head whenever I was out in the sun. And around
my neck was no Jersey jewelry, no gold chains, but rather a braid of red, gold and green rag cloth,
the color of the Jamaican flag.
I showed off a little for the benefit of the suburban saps cutting their lawns in the
afternoon heat. I got down low and swished the board back and forth, cutting from curb to curb,
until I had to move to let a minivan crowded with grade schoolers pass. A not unattractive
married lady looked up from her weeding as I raced by. I leaned back and lifted the front wheels
in a tribute to her but she had gone back to her violets. So, I pushed off with my tar-blackened
feet, feeling sad, pushing toward the big house at the end of the cul-de-sac where Grant Johnson
lived.
Grant and I had cut lawns the previous summer, making a tidy sum. I wondered whether
he wanted to do it again after school let out. He was a senior and about to graduate. He was a
good guy, always splitting the money with me fairly, though he was rather intense for my tastes.

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He ran our lawn business like a business, putting signs up all over the subdivision and even
running an ad in the paper. Frankly, it was a bit more work than I bargained for.
A beat-up orange Chevette was backing out of Grant's driveway. I recognized the car as
belonging to one of Grant's friends. The Chevette stopped, its wide rear bulging out into the
street. The driver was leaning out the window. He was the singer of a band that Grant had
formed. They called themselves the Ratones.
The singer opened his mouth and song did not come out. Instead, he shouted
unmelodiously, "Fuck you!"
"No, fuck you!" was Grant's witty reply, from the garage.
I coasted along the gutter, toward the idling car, approaching almost silently. My wheels
churned loose gravel and shiny grains of glass.
"Listen, Grant, I don't give a shit--"
"If you can't take advice--"
"Advice?" His voice nearly cracked. The singer gulped saliva and said with disdain,
"Who are you to give me advice?"
"I certainly know what works and doesn't work! Fucking singing teen romance tunes,
fucking Bon Jovi!" Grant screamed, the thought of the Top 40 band reducing him to paroxysms
of rage.
"People like it."
"I don't and it's my damn band!"
"Fuck you! You can have the damn Ratones!"
"Hey," Grant said, as if the thought just occurred to him, "why don't you get the fuck out
of here?"
"You think you're some hot shit but you don't know anything as usual. As usual!"
"I know a talentless ballad crooner itching to sell-out when I see one," Grant concluded.
"You're a damn egomaniac. Go fuck yourself!"
The Chevette darted into the street. The singer shoved the car into Drive and the car
roated away, enveloping me in an oily cloud of smoke. Grant stepped out of the garage, an
electric guitar around his neck, and rattled off several paragraphs of obscenities at the departing
singer. He looked at me blankly, then went into the garage.
"Hey, Grant!"
As I skated up the driveway, I heard Grant angrily slicing at the strings of his guitar,
sending peals of discordant noise bouncing off the mute estate homes lining the cul-de-sac. The
bassist and the drummer just watched. Grant ripped at the strings, his back to me, as if entranced
by the rakes and shovels that hung neatly from hooks on the far wall. I picked up my board and
raised a hand to the other Ratones. They were seniors and friends of Grant. Grant stopped
abruptly, sound echoing around Orange Estates.
"Billy, what's the deal?"
"I was bored, you know, thought I'd come by."
"That's cool." Grant said, distractedly. His mind was on his singer who was driving away.
"We're practicing right now. Trying to get the band in shape. We were doing well until that guy,
that guy..." he mumbled, cocking a finger in the direction of the street. "What a fuck-up!" Grant
regained his composure. "We're practicing--trying to get some more gigs. We've done some
proms and some teen dance shit. We did the middle school, too."
"Cool," I shrugged. I had no great interest in music.
"Fucking Bon Jovi," Grant said in disbelief. "That guy wanted to do Bon Jovi"

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 The bassist spoke up eagerly. "We did the Skate-O-Rama, too," he said, smiling.
Evidently an inside joke. I didn't think Grant was the type to have a band. He and his
friends were borderline nerds, types with college definitely on their collective minds. They wore
long-sleeve Oxfords and loafers to school and got good grades. They effortlessly slid through
high school, with nary an incident of trouble. Grant and his friends were the solid backbone of
Vista Creek High, the type that picked up all the academic honors and made the rest of us look
like fuck-ups.
"What kind of music do you play?"
Grant returned from his trance. "Some classic rock. Stones, Byrds, Eagles, some old
Aerosmith. We attempt a little Zeppelin when we're in the mood."
I laughed. "And you do proms?"
"Nah, then it's more mellow shit. Beatles, pop tunes, et cetera. Our fuckhead singer
wanted to do some fucked-up power ballad from Bon Jovi! When I formed this band I drew the
line at that Jersey band. We'll do a lot of other pop crap but no fucking poster- boy blow-dried
Jon New Jersey Bon Jovi! You have to take a stand somewhere or you end up playing happy hour
at a Ramada Inn."
After warily glancing at Grant, the bassist added, "See we're trying to extend our range.
Pick up some progressive tracks and play colleges. Move away from that pop stuff and become
legit. The singer thought we were going to be the next New Kids."
"Hence, he's gone."
"Progressive is where it's at now. We've been listening to a lot of college radio and trying
to pick up some of the tunes they play. We've been working and practicing on some new
grooves." A thought occurred to the earnest and nerdy bassist. "Hey, let's do that Nine Inch
Nails song for Billy, the one we were trying to get our late singer to sing." I could tell that he was
the type that loved to perform, even to an audience of one person.
"We have no singer!"
"Acoustically!"
The bassist plugged in. Grant picked at a chord while the drummer settled in behind his
snares and cymbals. Then they jumped into it. I knew the song and they did a very passable
version of it. I'm no music expert, but it sounded good.
Certainly, it would fool most people. Their sound was rough, with idle notes drifting
around the garage and the drum beat occasionally getting ahead of the rest of the band. The
bassist happily thumped the bass, making the garden tools in the garage vibrate with a similar
frequency. Grant dutifully picked out the notes on the electric guitar. I could tell he was still
bothered by the departure of his singer. He played his instrument almost by rote. The song
seemed a little lost without a vocal.
"What'd you think?" the bassist asked seriously.
"Jamming tune, dudes. Most impressive. I had no idea that you guys were this good--I
thought you were just some cheesy band that played Sadie Hawkin's dances."
Grant nodded and went inside to get us something to drink. The bassist and the
drummer introduced themselves. Skip was the name of the bassist. That wasn't his real name but
he insisted that I call him that. He was a tall goof with stringy blonde hair and tortoise shell
glasses. The drummer stepped out from behind his drums and I saw why he chose percussion.
He was a big fat Italian guy, solidly rotund, with black freckles littering his face. Fred
DiSomething-or-Other. Fatty Freddy, I thought, theorizing that I was probably the millionth
person who had thought that. Eventually, I called him Fredo, which he seemed to like, because it

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reminded him of "The Godfather". The name reminded me of Frodo from The Hobbit, and I so
I sometimes referred to him (behind his back) as the Italian Hobbit.
I asked them about the guy leaving earlier. Fredo and Skip basically agreed with Grant,
because all the singer wanted to sing was ballads.
"We agree with the end-result--the guy had to go--but we diverge on the means. Grant
didn't have to confront him and humiliate him," Skip said.
"Yea, I think eventually he would've gotten the hint," Fredo added.
"And we could've used the time to find a new singer, too. Grant tends to push things too
hard."
Grant returned with canning jars filled with sweet tea. We dropped the subject of the
departed singer and talked about music, taking long, cool drinks from our glasses. The garage
smelled of gasoline and machines. Outside, the afternoon sun baked the empty cul- de-sac. The
canning jars were slick with condensation. Grant walked over and picked up my skateboard.
"This a new board?" he asked, hefting it in his hands. He flipped the board over and spun
its shiny wheels.
"Sort of. It's got new paint, new wheels. It flies now."
"Looks hot."
Grant set his tea down on a tool box and hopped onto the board. He coasted down the
driveway, his tall frame hunched over the rolling wheels. He made a clumsy U-turn in the street,
then came racing back. He hit the driveway hard, using it as a ramp. Both sets of wheels just
barely got off the ground but he landed smoothly.
"It's good," he nodded, seriously.
I took the board back from him. I didn't like him abusing my new board. The band
played a few more songs as the afternoon waned. The singer's mike stood alone in the center of
the warm garage as they practiced. They were playing songs from Hot Rocks, a Stones album I
knew well. Skip had a suggestion: "Let's do 'Wild Horses.'" 'Wild Horses' was a sad, bluesy tune
that sometimes haunted me. It was one of the first songs I can ever remember hearing. My mom
had Hot Rocks and I played the double- album set often. I could hear Mick singing the song in
the back of my head sometimes. When I say that the song meant something to me, I mean it in a
way beyond its simple lyrics. I had heard it an untold number of times, but the song still moved
me in an elemental way. They began. Grant dutifully picked away at Keith Richards' part, yet
without a vocal, the song seemed even lonelier. When Skip, Fredo, and Grant began creating the
magic of drums, bass, and guitar, I had to get up and add my scared voice to the spell. Grant
looked at me skeptically as I approached the mike but then my back was to him and I was
singing.
"That was good," Grant said when we finished.
"I didn't know you could sing!" Skip exclaimed.
"Me either," I said. I couldn't remember what my voice sounded like--the moment passed
so quickly. Yet, I knew what it was that they heard--pain. In the silence, I knew they all regarded
me differently, all giving me space and all acknowledging my suffering. None were curious-- but
they wanted me to sing more. I knew many of the songs from Hot Rocks, so we did them. I
stood behind Grant and sang the lyrics from the sheet music. It was easier than I suspected--I
just sang as it came naturally. The Ratones were very impressed. They told me that it usually
takes a vocalist a lot of practice to get a song right, but I seemed to know how to put the words in
the correct spots. The garage cooled as night filtered in among the buttoned-up homes lining the
cul-de-sac.

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 I sang as the sky grew dark, hurling my words into the shadowy evening.

Mom and Dad were sniping at each other when I got home, low-intensity warfare that
threatened to blow up into something larger. My arrival added a new element to the conflict.
Dad caught me with a shout before I could sneak into my room. "Where have you been,
boy? Your mother held up dinner, hoping that you'd make it home. Well, we went ahead and ate
without you so I hope you're not hungry. You have to learn to be more reliable."
Mom was loading the dishes into the dishwasher. She wasn't going to interfere.
"Sorry ... I just lost track of time."
"You got a watch, don't you?"
"I wasn't wearing it."
"You mean that fancy watch you wanted last month for your birthday-and you don't even
wear it?"
"It's not that fancy."
"What? It was damn expensive."
"It was just a Swatch! I--"
"'Just a Swatch!' You had to have that fancy watch for your birthday and now you don't
wear it!"
"I wear it to school."
"Why don't you wear it all the time? That's what watches are for! To tell time--so you
won't be late!"
I couldn't tell him about singing--that would just give him another topic to thrash me
with and prolong the misery. As sheepishly as possible, I offered, "Sorry."
"You bet you're sorry, not wearing that damn watch we got for you. What's your
problem?"
It was a question without an answer. Or many answers. I looked to Mom, my eyes an
appeal. She shut the dishwasher and turned it on.
"Shut that thing off!" Dad said over the humming machine. "I'm talking to this stupid
kid."
Mom hurriedly switched it off and went into the living room. Dad turned back to me. He
shifted his weight on the kitchen chair. The wood creaked. Dad leaned forward and asked,
"Now, what's your problem?"
"I don't know," I said, impatience creeping into my voice.
"Don't get short with me!" Dad said, getting up from the kitchen table. His face was
flushed with anger and booze. Rage and desperation flared in his eyes. "Don't get fucking short
with me!"
I retreated a little, hoping that Dad would let me go. I backed out of the kitchen and into
the hall. Dad followed, shouting, "Don't fuck with me, Billy! I know your type, you pot- smoking
surf Punk! You long-haired drug addict! Damn juvenile delinquent!"
Dad was backing me down the hall, his hands becoming fists which trembled at his sides.
I wasn't scared, this scene had been replayed countless times over the past few years. I knew the
worst Dad could dish out, which was bad, yet didn't require hospitalization. Contusions and
bruises heal. Blood clots. I was a kid. who could take a punch.
I was a fuck-up sure, a kid who got C's and D's and got detention a few times a year.
Teachers called my parents in for conferences about my disruptive behavior. But I never got
suspended or got hauled in by Youth Intervention. A lot of other kids couldn't say that. With

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everything forbidden to sixteen-year olds, it's very easy to get in trouble. I had long hair, even an
ear ring once in a while. I smoked a little pot, drank a little, once tried some Ludes. But I was no
drug addict or serious troublemaker.
So when Dad was backing me down the hall, his rage peaking, chanting his mantra
against me: "Juvenile delinquent! Fucking addict! Pot smoker! Long-haired brat! No-good
punk!" I had to smile. I don't know what got into me. The scene was funny, this old man yelling
at me, unaware of all the ironies of his angry soliloquy. Dad paused, then his face went deep red,
and his big hand came down, an open slap that caught me unaware on the side of the head. my
skateboard flew from my grasp, rolling away on the carpet. I staggered against a wall, raising my
arms around my head, giving Dad only my bare back to hit. He slapped at the hands shielding
my face, catching me on the ear with a glancing blow. Then, tiring of the effort, Dad gave me a
shove that put me on my ass. He stalked off, then returned, remembering what the "purpose" of
this "lesson" was.
"Next time wear your goddam watch!"
I spent the rest of the evening in my room. I was very hungry and my stomach growled
continuously. I hoped Mom would sneak a plate of leftovers to me but she never appeared. I
listened to tapes and read some F. Scott Fitzgerald. There was a plastic wrapper holding a few
stale cheese crackers at the bottom of my backpack so I ate those. I sat by my door until I heard
the TV go off.
I snuck out. The house was dark. It was after midnight. I went into the kitchen and fixed
myself a sandwich. As I was spreading the mayonnaise, I heard breathing. My heart raced. I
looked into the living room. Dad had fallen asleep on the couch. His mouth was open. His legs
were sprawled in unconscious abandon across the slick coffee table. In the pale light, I could see
the shimmer of a beer can on the table next to him. Holding the knife, I had a perverse thought:
this is the time to kill him. Dad was so vulnerable, his head tilted back, his veiny neck exposed. A
simple operation. I chewed and watched my father. Even asleep he dominated the room. A
presence that could not be ignored. My thoughts intoxicated me as I wondered what the world
would be like without him.