Rugged Mann

Chapter 3: Chess Road-3

Flynn sets another hamburger and a second bottle of water next the homeless man. Greg huffs, pulls up his pants, and smiles in the shadows.

Flynn leaves the homeless man behind after their connection; he always does this. Always. There’s no reason to stick around. The ritual he carries out is simple: he tosses the used condom in the river and it floats downstream; he walks back to his Taurus with the knapsack and climbs behind its wheel; he starts the vehicle’s engine and heads home, smiling the entire way, happy.

He drives one mile east.

He drives two miles east.

It’s almost eleven at night. When he gets home, staying in the attic room and a twin-size bed that smells like soiled socks and dried semen, Flynn is asked by his momma, “Where have you been, honey?” She sits in a battered recliner with a bag of Doritos open between her thick legs. She’s watching a rerun of Wheel of Fortune again, her favorite show, one that she feels she can never get bored with. “You’ve been gone for two hours, Flynn. Tell me where you’ve been.”

Fuck! He needs to get a shower. Wipe the s**t stink off him. Clean up his own burst from f*****g the homeless guy. Unfortunately, momma’s always asking him s**t like this. In his business. Bothering him. The woman can’t mind her manners. Never will. Maybe she should worry about losing some weight: the thick flab under her arms, her wide ass that’s the size of a monster truck’s massive tire, and the four chins she’s currently sporting. f**k her. Just f**k her. Maybe he should go live along the river with his f**k-buddies. The idea doesn’t sound half bad. No, it doesn’t

He doesn’t do this, though. Jigger will be a witness to the crime. Jigger’s only twelve, Flynn’s little brother, but he’s smart as f**k and has some hawk-like vision. Jigger knows right from wrong. Jigger always keeps an eye on Flynn. Never fails.

Flynn becomes a storyteller when momma asks him about his evenings away from Sottner Street. His tales are full of life, whimsical, and somewhat sweet. He’s always making up s**t on the spot to appease her:

I drove Mrs. Wattenaught to the all-night Wal-Mart. She needed to get a few things.

Had to stop at Vivian’s. She left her cell phone in my car. Time got away from me.

Read to Mr. Hopper again. It’s a Fannie Flagg book and he loves it. Gets a kick out of it.

Dropped Jigger’s books off at the library, or they’ll be late tomorrow. There’s a chute out front and…

The great and extraordinary storyteller at work: Flynn Murdock. He should win an award for such strong tales. Almost as excelled as Mark Twain.

Everyone stand and show your respect.

Everyone applaud.

Everyone smile.

If…if momma calls up Mrs. Wattenaught and asks her if Flynn has taken her to Wal-Mart, the old bag will become confused and won’t know what momma is talking about. Momma will think it’s her Alzheimer’s again.

If…if momma runs into Vivian, just one of a dozen friends of Flynn’s, near the Pitt campus and says to her, “Flynn told me he dropped off your cell phone to you last night,” Vivian will be clueless about the detail: mouth agape, tilted head to the left, squinting eyes—total confusion. Momma will scratch her head, bewildered.

If…if momma bumps into Mr. Hopper and asks him what Fannie Flagg book he is currently enjoying, Mr. Hopper will probably say something like, “Flynn? Flynn Murdock? He hasn’t read to me in weeks.” Momma will begin to learn of her son’s lies.

If…if momma will walk her fat ass outside, down the three steps of the stoop out front, and peer inside the backseat of Flynn’s Taurus, she’ll see Jigger’s three library books staring up at her. Plain as day. f**k yes. Momma’s about as clueless as a rat in a field filled with hawks. Poor thing.

* * * *

Flynn’s a strong storyteller, though. Always talking his way out of s**t. Always making the Friday or Saturday night drives down by the river and…

“Nothing,” he tells her tonight. “I haven’t been doing nothing, momma. Nothing at all.” And he climbs the stairs to his attic room, distancing himself from her, Jigger, and Chess Road, smiling.

* * * *

Jason writes in his notes: compulsive lying again; an untrue tale of his park adventure; he desires attention from me. Flynn lives in a false world. His imagination runs away from him and…

“Are we done here?” the kid asks.

Jason nods. “Until next time.”

Flynn stands. He’s taller than Jason. Jason has perceived during their previous sessions. He’s almost as tall as Dillon, who stands at six-four. They shake hands and Flynn says, “You think I’m f****d, huh? You think all my furniture isn’t in place, don’t you?”

“I think we have some work to do together. Don’t forget to do your instructed task this week.”

“To think about not lying. To tell the truth at least three times. To stop making up stories.”

“I prefer you tell the truth five times. But if you can only muster three, then that’s fine.”

Flynn leaves his office.

* * * *

Jason shouldn’t write the urge to get away inside Flynn’s patient file, but he does. How unprofessional. How needy and selfish on his part. How insecure as a therapist.

The winter holidays are over. And Memorial Day celebrations feel a million days off. All he can think about is getting out of Redder and taking a trip, with Dillon, of course. Just the two of them. Somewhere warm. Somewhere with sand. Florida, maybe. Costa Rica. Or Spain. The Andalucía area would be nice this time of year. Dillon’s never been there, and Jason thinks he would love the culture, food, and people. Doesn’t matter where they will go or end up. They just need a break from life. Right now.