Punker Notes [Original Novel]

in #fiction6 years ago (edited)


Part Two: Road Trip

Note #13

Me and Jenkins stumble into Louise’s house about eleven at night after partying with Monroe and his son, my cousin Marty. My uncle had opened his liquor cabinet to us, and also his beer-fridge out in his four-car garage.

“Oh...,” Louise, a teetotaler, gives us a scornful look. “Been hoochin’ it up with Monroe huh...? That’ll catch up with ya... Yer Grandpa Sturm was a wino himself... Drank a couple bottles of his fancy French wine every day... Said it helped ‘im with writin’ his highfalutin’ piano music... Then ‘e just dropped dead one night... Yeah...,” Louise now digresses,” that was a couple years after leavin’ yer grandma for that little Hollander tramp—musta been young enough to be his granddaughter... Got up from his grand piano over there on Woodcrest..., fell flat on his face... Died right there on his floor...! He was only fifty-four years old... Monroe’ll end up the same way... And so will you unless yer smart like yer daddy and leave that stuff alone.”

In the extra bedroom I squeeze my way along a wall and fall into a twin size bed. It barely fits between a giant bookcase full of my grandfather’s literature collection on one side, and a little four-octave piano on the other. My Grandpa Sturm had been an avid reader. My father, Jim Sturm, actually James Fennimore Sturm, had been named after James Fennimore Cooper. Also, my grandpa, in his youth had aspired to be a classical pianist. With his literary and musically interests, it’s quite mystifying to me as to how in the hell my grandfather had wound up in the middle of all this Egelston Township white trash stuff. He had died three years before I was born and I know little of him.

The compact bedroom I’m in is just off the living room where Jenkins lies out on the couch dozing off in a drunken stupor.

“They got robbed and those worthless bastards went to the Rose Bowl instead,” I can hear Louise’s voice coming through an entryway from her bedroom. Her room is directly next to where I’m drifting off to sleep. She sounds pissed though her voice is barely audible. I’m a little concerned about my aunt wondering if the rest of the Sturms are aware that her sanity appears to be slipping. Also, the shit she’s mumbling, along with the little rant she went on while taking her meds seems familiar, but I can’t quite place it. Then she’s snoring, and it’s so loud I can’t get to sleep.

Photo by CirrosisAguda

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