{"id":2422,"date":"2017-11-20T20:40:12","date_gmt":"2017-11-20T20:40:12","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/floridareview.cah.ucf.edu\/?post_type=article&p=2422"},"modified":"2017-11-20T20:40:12","modified_gmt":"2017-11-20T20:40:12","slug":"bootleg","status":"publish","type":"article","link":"https:\/\/cah.ucf.edu\/floridareview\/article\/bootleg\/","title":{"rendered":"Bootleg"},"content":{"rendered":"

Just for laughs, me and my cousins grab one of Violet\u2019s wigs and we dress baby Matty up like Elvis Presley. We\u2019re on the back porch\u2014smoking Violet\u2019s dope, drinking beer we bought with Charles\u2019s fake ID\u2014when the B-52\u2019s come on the radio. Everybody gets caught up in Private Idaho<\/em>. We forget all about tiny Elvis. He takes a nosedive out of the porch swing and starts to wail like a wounded bobcat. Charles and his younger brother, Clay, head for the woods at the first sign of trouble.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Matty reaches out and hollers, \u201cBudger, Budger!\u201d It\u2019s Matty\u2019s word for brother, which is what he calls me even though I\u2019m really his uncle. I pick him up. His lip is busted; there\u2019s blood on his face and his Elvis-do is sideways.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Behind us, the screen door opens and slams shut. My big sister, Violet. She\u2019s skin and bones. A red bandanna covers her bald head, and her eyebrows are painted on with a pencil.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cGive him here,\u201d she says.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cI got him,\u201d I say. \u201cGo back in and lie down.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cLet me have my boy.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I hand him over but he\u2019s too heavy for her so I help her sit on the steps.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cRun and get a bottle of Mercurochrome and some cotton balls.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I don\u2019t move. I stare at the tree trunk we use for a table and the ashtray on top. It\u2019s overflowing with butts and roaches. Beside it sits Violet\u2019s medicine bottle. It should be filled with weed, but it\u2019s every bit as empty as the Old Milwaukee cans scattered around the porch.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cGo on. Run.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I go, but for a time I stand on the other side of the screen door watching Violet rock Matty and sing to him. She doesn\u2019t really sing so much as she just hums along with Have You Ever Seen The Rain<\/em>, but it works and Matty stops crying.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I\u2019m rummaging through the medicine cabinet when I hear mini-explosions coming from the woods. Charles and Clay are setting off cherry bombs. They sound like little cannons. I close my eyes and imagine one of those Civil War battles we\u2019re always hearing about in school. Everybody likes to say it was brother against brother. I see Charles and Clay dressed in matching uniforms. Even though they\u2019re on the same side, they still fire their baby cannons at one another because they\u2019re such assholes.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Charles always has a pocket full of fireworks. Black Cats, Silver Foxes, Smoke Grenades and M-80s. Every night when we\u2019re walking out of the woods, he drums up one last bottle rocket\u2014like it\u2019s a big surprise\u2014and hands it to Clay. He hands Clay his lighter, too, and lets him fire off the final one of the night. It\u2019s always the best.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I spot the Mercurochrome. It\u2019s buried in the medicine cabinet. Stuck on a shelf in the middle of Violet\u2019s painkillers. I pull it out and put it in my pocket, then I study Violet\u2019s medicine, picking up one bottle after another, reading the labels and staring at the pills inside. They\u2019re shaped and colored like freaky planets from an alternate universe, and they\u2019ve got outer space names to match: Percocet, Darvon, Elavil. Useless against Violet\u2019s pain. It\u2019s weed she needs.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Charles knows a guy. He sells bootleg and fireworks. Other shit, too. Like weed. His name is Commodore and sometimes this Commodore will make a trade with you if you\u2019re in a bad way. Last year in eighth grade, Tommy Larkin got a box of Roman Candles for a busted-up Zebco rod and reel. I calculate the value of a day spent on Planet Percocet, or an afternoon rolling around in the purple haze of a distant galaxy called Darvon. I come up with one million dollars. I convert that number to an earthly sum fitting an ex-con named Commodore who lives with his one-legged mom in a rusty trailer at the dead end of a dirt road on the other side of Lively Creek. I figure a dime bag, two at the most.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

But I need Charles to get to Commodore, and King Charles doesn\u2019t need anything from me. What stands between us now is a bicycle, beat up something awful with most of the green paint flaked off and a chain that won\u2019t stay on. But it might as well be a brand new Cadillac for all the weight it carries between me and Charles.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cYou two will be just like brothers.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

That\u2019s what Violet said the day she told me Charles and Clay were moving in.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I said, \u201cHe\u2019s already got a brother, thank you very much. And so do you.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cNow, don\u2019t be that way, honey. You\u2019ll see, you two will be just like Dad and Uncle Willis.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

We keep a picture over the mantel, of Dad and Uncle Willis with their arms around each other. They\u2019re both wearing mirrored aviators, t-shirts and dog tags. It\u2019s the day they shipped out. A Pall Mall hangs from Uncle Willis\u2019s lips. Dad is smiling.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Uncle Willis did all right. He made it out. He came home. Dad didn\u2019t. After Uncle Willis got back he started drinking and running around with married women. He finally got himself shot and killed by Tanya Clark\u2019s husband, Hoyt. Charles and Clay shuffled around a lot after that. They went up north and lived with our old lady aunt who was rumored to be a Catholic. Then down to Mississippi to a foster family who raised baby goats. Last year they came back to Georgia and moved in with me and Violet.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Charles showed up wearing Uncle Willis\u2019s aviators and his dog tags. \u201cYou\u2019re every bit the spitting image,\u201d Violet said. Then she said it again, \u201cEvery bit.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I decided I didn\u2019t much care for the looks of him. What right did he have? Showing up looking like that and talking like that? Telling his stories about that fishing trip on Nickajack Lake when Uncle Willis let him drive the boat, or that one time when they went to Atlanta to see the Braves play and spent the night in a Howard Johnson’s with a swimming pool. And Violet hanging on every word. I never said anything about it, but that\u2019s what I thought. What right did he have?<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I cram Violet\u2019s pills in my pocket and head back to the porch. Matty grins and reaches out. Violet\u2019s taken off his wig and fixed his hair so he looks like Matty again. She hands him over. I doctor his lip and he starts to wail. But I walk him around the yard, and we count the lightning bugs that are starting to shine.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

In the woods, Charles fires off the first bottle rocket of the night. It barely makes it above the treetops, and it\u2019s nothing more than a flicker against a sky that\u2019s just beginning to fade. But when I point it out to Matty, he laughs and he claps, then he reaches for the empty sky and hollers for more.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u2014<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The next morning we\u2019re sitting there in our underwear eating Pop-Tarts when Clay starts in. \u201cHow come I can\u2019t go?\u201d he wants to know. \u201cI\u2019ll mind you. I won\u2019t talk back.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Charles ignores him. He licks his saucer clean, then walks over to the sink and tosses it in. I get up and follow him.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Clay won\u2019t let it go. \u201cIs it because I sassed you yesterday? Is it because I sassed you in front of Hub Grant and all them?\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Charles still doesn\u2019t answer. He turns on the water and goes to town on last night\u2019s supper dishes. I cooked\u2014Beanee Weenees and Tater Tots\u2014so Charles is supposed to clean. That\u2019s our deal. But he barely finishes his own saucer before he shuts the water off and turns to look at me.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Wearing those aviators, and with that smirk on his face, he\u2019s every bit the spitting image. All that\u2019s missing is the Pall Mall.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cExplain your brilliant plan to me one more time, Einstein.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I say, \u201cI reckon we could trade the pills to that guy you know. We could get a couple of dime bags for Violet. We could trade our goods to Commodore. We could do it for Violet.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cOur goods<\/em>? You\u2019ve been watching too much Starsky & Hutch<\/em>.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

He\u2019s leaning against the sink with his arms folded and his legs crossed. The pills are on the table.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Clay picks up a bottle and gives it a shake, but Charles snaps his fingers and points to the table so Clay puts the pills back. Then Charles tosses him the dishtowel and Clay heads to the sink. He lays into the supper dishes while Charles crosses to the table and sits down. He opens up each bottle, dumps out the pills and runs his hand over them like they\u2019re a pile of rock candy.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I take a seat across from him.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cYou don\u2019t know the first thing about it,\u201d he says. \u201cCommodore sells fireworks and bootleg. What makes you think he\u2019d be interested in this big load of bullshit?\u201d He picks up a hand full of pills and lets one or two spill through his fingers. He looks at me, but all I see is my own twisted face reflected in his aviators.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Then I think about that bicycle. Lately, I\u2019ve been thinking about that bicycle a lot. Every time I look at Charles, that\u2019s what I see.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The fight was over a year ago, soon after Charles and Clay moved in. At the time, I walked away from it feeling good about things. After a while, it hardly ever crossed my mind anymore, and when it did, I was convinced that I got the best of Charles. Then Violet got sick, and I found myself recollecting on a regular basis. Me and Charles rolling down the stone steps on the back porch, the pain in my wrist when I fell on it and broke it. The feeling of satisfaction, even joy you might say, when I jumped up and swung my other arm and made contact with Charles\u2019s lip. His aviators flew off and in the middle of it all I stood there trying to remember if I\u2019d actually ever seen his eyes before. I was sure I had but I just couldn\u2019t recall. That pause gave Charles the upper hand and he was on me again, then we were both on the ground once more. I was on my back, and Charles, the same age as me but a lot bigger, was on top of me with his fist pulled back ready to do some damage. But he didn\u2019t slug me. Instead he started to cry. He put both fists against my chest, and I couldn\u2019t move. He held me there, dripping tears and blood all over my face.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I push my chair back and get up from the table. I walk over to the sink where Clay is almost finished with the dishes. Then I walk back to the table and sit down.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cWhat makes you think Commodore wouldn\u2019t be interested?\u201d I say, \u201cYou don\u2019t know. Bootleg\u2019s no better than pills. Especially to some loser shacked up with his mom in a rusty doublewide. You don\u2019t have to be an Einstein to figure that one out, Einstein.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cWhat about me,\u201d Clay hollers from the sink. \u201cI\u2019m part of it. Don\u2019t forget about me.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

We ignore him.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Charles says, \u201cAnd tell me this, what do you plan on saying to Commodore? Howdy Commodore, pleased to meet you, would you like to buy some dope off me and my cousin<\/em>?\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

We sit there cussing and trading Einsteins while Clay finishes the dishes.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Soon as he turns off the water, we hear it. It sounds like the dishwater leaving the sink, but it\u2019s not. It\u2019s Violet breathing in the other room, low and gurgly. It keeps going long after the dirty dishwater has gone down the drain, and Clay is standing by the table with the dishtowel in his hand, waiting for a word or a look or anything from Charles.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Nobody says anything.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Violet sucks in a fast and deep breath like she\u2019s been under water, then she coughs.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cYuck,\u201d Clay says.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t be a dick,\u201d Charles tells him. Then he says to me, \u201cWell, put your shoes on, asshole, unless you plan on going to see Commodore in your bare feet.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I go to my room and throw on yesterday\u2019s smelly t-shirt and a pair of tennis shoes, then I sit on the bed.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I guess you could say the fight was my fault. Like I said, Charles and Clay had just moved in. It was summer. We were on the back porch. Clay was playing Superman. Or maybe it was Batman. I just remember he was wearing a towel like it was a cape, and he would jump off the side of the porch, again and again, with his ratty-ass cape flapping behind him.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I was shelling corn for the chickens. Charles had wandered off someplace. He was supposed to help with the corn. That was the deal. The last thing Violet told us when she left for the flower shop that morning was to shell all the corn in the crib. \u201cAll of it,\u201d she said. \u201cI mean it, boys. Don\u2019t burn down the house. Don\u2019t kill each other. And finish shelling the corn. Besides that, I don\u2019t really care. Is that too much to ask?\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

But soon as Violet left so did Charles, and I sat there shelling corn by myself. The kernels were hard and dried. Perfect for shelling. By noon I\u2019d half way filled the oil drum at the end of the porch. I got up to walk to the corncrib for another bushel, that\u2019s when I saw Charles. He carried a greasy chain in one hand; with the other he was pushing a piece-of-shit bike up the drive. It used to be green, now it was mostly rust. I figured that\u2019s why whoever owned it had tossed it, or why they wouldn\u2019t much care that Charles had come in and stole it right out from under their noses. He wheeled it up to the porch and stopped, held out his arms in a big, showy gesture, with a shitty grin on his face that said, N<\/em>ow I\u2019ve got a bike and you don\u2019t<\/em>.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I went to the barn, filled up my basket and hauled it back to the porch. Charles occupied himself with the bike chain, Clay kept jumping, and I shelled my way through the rest of the corn.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

By dark, the oil drum was finally full. I got up to go to the kitchen for a glass of tea when Charles said, \u201cHey man, while you\u2019re up, how about bringing me a Coke?\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I stood there watching Clay jump and watching Charles mess with the bike chain. I bent down and picked a kernel up off the floor. It was shriveled to the size of a BB. \u201cHey man,\u201d I said, \u201cWhy don\u2019t you go fuck yourself?\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

It wasn\u2019t planned. I\u2019d never thought of it or practiced it. The words just came out in a perfect imitation of Charles\u2019s voice.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

He stood. He didn\u2019t come at me. Not at first. It wasn\u2019t exactly a smile that played around his lips. It wasn\u2019t a smirk either. He wasn\u2019t the spitting image anymore.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

He shrugged and started to turn away.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

It came as natural to me as baiting a hook or wringing a chicken\u2019s neck. The kernel flew from my fingertips like it had been fired from a slingshot. It hit Uncle Willis\u2019s aviators on the upper right side by Charles\u2019s nose, and it barely made a sound. One small speck of mirror is all. Damage the size of a fruit fly. It was nothing. But to Charles it was something.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

A few days after it happened, Hub Grant came by to pick up the oil drum full of corn. He works at the Co-Op. He grinds the corn into chicken feed for us.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Violet was at the flower shop. It was hot, so Clay was trying to work up a breeze in the porch swing, fanning himself with a Frisbee. Charles had wandered off again. I helped Hub load the drum into the back of his truck as best I could with my messed up wrist. He asked me what happened to it. I told him I fell. He didn\u2019t ask me anything else about it. He got in his truck to leave and stuck his head out the window.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cHey buddy, I meant to ask you, how\u2019d you like that bicycle?\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I was standing on the steps; the truck was parked a couple of feet away.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cYou know \u2026 the one your cousin fixed up for you. It used to belong to one of my boys. Charles found it in the shed behind the Co-Op. Said he wanted you to have something nice. We made a trade. I\u2019m gonna raise some hogs on that piece of land I own behind the post office. I need a fence. Charles is over there right now, creosoting the fence posts and laying them in the ground. Lordy, can you imagine? In this heat? You ask me, I sure got the better end of that deal.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I still didn\u2019t say anything.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cWell, you boys stay out of jail now.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cWe\u2019ll try,\u201d Clay said from the porch swing. \u201cCome back and see us.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cI surely will.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

He drove off.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

It wasn\u2019t in the tool shed, or in the corncrib, or anywhere else in the barn. I walked across the pasture and down to the little holler where everybody dumps their broken shit. It wasn\u2019t there either. I stopped at Tommy Larkin\u2019s house. They weren\u2019t home but I looked in their carport anyway. Tommy\u2019s older brother Hank steals stuff. Even from people he likes. Tommy calls it a friendly five-finger discount<\/em>. The bike wasn\u2019t there. It wasn\u2019t anywhere. I looked until dark. Charles never brought it up again. Neither did I. I kept waiting for him to tell Violet what an asshole I\u2019d been. I figured I see him riding the bike one day, popping wheelies and showing off.\u00a0 None of that happened. Then Violet got sick.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Now I worry over Violet\u2019s life and that fight with Charles like they\u2019re the same. When I\u2019m not thinking about one, I\u2019m thinking about the other.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I get up off the bed and go out to the living room. I pull a chair up to the couch and hold Violet\u2019s hand. She\u2019s sleeping, and Matty is sitting on the floor with Clay. They\u2019re pretending to play checkers, but mostly Matty just likes to stick the checkers in his mouth because he\u2019s teething.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I tell Clay, \u201cDon\u2019t let him swallow one of those, do you hear?\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

He doesn\u2019t answer.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cDo you hear?\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cI hear you, I\u2019m sittin\u2019 right here. I\u2019m not retarded.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Charles comes out and says, \u201cDon\u2019t be such a dick, Clay.\u201d Then he grabs the pills off the table and goes out and waits for me on the porch.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I hold Violet\u2019s hand as long as I can. It\u2019s as light as air, like a quail feather or a June bug. Something that could float away as soon as I let it go.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Charles hops off the porch and heads down the drive towards the main road. When he crosses the highway and steps into the woods\u2014woods that are as thick and overgrown as any jungle anywhere\u2014when I lose sight and sound of him completely, I finally let go of Violet\u2019s hand, and get up to run after him.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Just for laughs, me and my cousins grab one of Violet\u2019s wigs…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"featured_media":2429,"template":"","categories":[9,48,49],"tags":[6,423,424],"class_list":["post-2422","article","type-article","status-publish","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-aquifer","category-fiction","category-literary-features","tag-aquifer-the-florida-review-online","tag-bootleg","tag-earl-marona-jr"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nBootleg - The Florida Review<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/cah.ucf.edu\/floridareview\/article\/bootleg\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Bootleg - The Florida Review\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"Just for laughs, me and my cousins grab one of Violet\u2019s wigs...\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:url\" content=\"https:\/\/cah.ucf.edu\/floridareview\/article\/bootleg\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:site_name\" content=\"The Florida Review\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:image\" content=\"https:\/\/cah.ucf.edu\/floridareview\/wp-content\/uploads\/sites\/43\/2017\/11\/Earl-Marona_Jr._Aquifer_Photo-HorizontalCropped.jpg\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:width\" content=\"1800\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:height\" content=\"1129\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:type\" content=\"image\/jpeg\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:card\" content=\"summary_large_image\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:label1\" content=\"Est. reading time\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data1\" content=\"17 minutes\" \/>\n<script type=\"application\/ld+json\" class=\"yoast-schema-graph\">{\"@context\":\"https:\/\/schema.org\",\"@graph\":[{\"@type\":\"WebPage\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/cah.ucf.edu\/floridareview\/article\/bootleg\/\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/cah.ucf.edu\/floridareview\/article\/bootleg\/\",\"name\":\"Bootleg - 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