Page 44 of Family Affair
Chapter 11
When school let out for the summer, Frank was ready.
Cade had left to spend a few weeks with Uncle Ronald at his farm, to play cowboy and screw country girls. Frank didn’t get the fascination with the farmer’s life, what with the dirt and temperamental animals, or the love for tradition expressed in the form of the old rambling house with leaky roof, rusted plumbing and rotted floorboards. But whatever cranked Cade’s tractor.
Lately, his brother had become a pest, nagging like an old man, trying to stop Frank from seeing Ward, from painting, from sneaking out – you name it, Cade had an issue with it. Listening to his holier-than-thou lectures was more than he could stomach. There were a lot of fights. Even their parents sighed with relief when Cade departed.
After his brother had left, Frank allowed two weeks for the household to settle into its lazy and boring summer routine, cleared the stash of cash he hoarded for this very purpose, and drove off. Just like that, with two spare pairs of underwear and a toothbrush.
Obeying every posted speed limit, he navigated his way to the interstate casting fearful glances around like a thief. There was no reason to be worried, he kept telling himself. No one would miss him until later in the evening, and by then he’d have put a good distance between his flashy car and this hateful city.
Reaching the interstate, he stepped on the accelerator. Hard.
The last of Atlanta fell away, and with it, the invisible restraints chaining him to his life released. For the first time in two years, he felt blessedly free.
He rolled the windows down, the wind howling with the speed of his driving.
“Fuck you, you hear me?” he yelled and the words were snatched away, drowned by the noise of the highway. “So long, assholes! You thought you owned me? Eat that, you greedy bastards!”
His soul sang. Oh, the glorious mighty beyond! No more oppressive furtive tasks, no more sitting at the easel until his back hurt and his buns felt numb and his eyes burned, trying to get the lines and shades just right because the success of the operation rested entirely on his undeveloped shoulders. No more rubbing elbows with smooth people who stank of lies and greed and perversion.
Frank felt like an untethered balloon carried away on the wind, the blue skies large and open and welcoming. He was in paradise.
I can never go back,he thought.I'd rather die.
He drove all night, stopping once behind a closed gas station to catch a few hours of restless sleep.
An exact plan for his future hadn’t been quick to crystallize. Escape had been foremost on his mind, followed only by vague and hazy ideas of what he’d do once free. Munching on a greasy burger, he contemplated his future. And where was he, by the way? Arkansas?
Pushing serious thoughts aside for the time being, Frank decided to have fun first. That very night he rolled into Little Rock and, armed with a crudely made fake ID of his own production, crashed the first bar that caught his fancy.
Assuming a cocky posture of a seasoned clubber, he took a seat at the bar and spread his knees and elbows wide to claim a wider personal space.
“Hey, you! The kid at the bar!”
He turned his head and lifted one eyebrow under the fringe of his untrimmed hair, giving the speaker an intimidating look, a trick he saw his father utilize with great success.
“You talking to me?” Voice low, he addressed the tall guy with a braided beard.
“Yes.” His heavy looking was lost on the guy who squinted in his direction. “How old are you, anyway?”
“Old enough.”
The Beard gave him a snide look. “I bet your ID says so.”
His ID said he was twenty one, and he banked on his face looking at least that old. The two women next to the Beard snickered, obviously of a different opinion. They were both bleached blond, busty, and dressed in tight t-shirts, and Frank found the combination mightily attractive.
A cue was thrust into his hands. “Don’t worry, we don’t give a shit if you’re twelve. You play pool?”
“Yep.”
“Great! Come here. You drink beer?”
He did now.
He left Little Rock only to repeat the same routine in the next town, the next state, careful to stay on the move no matter how drunk he’d gotten the night before. And he’d gotten pretty damn drunk. Pickled-dickered-hammered, under-the-table, not-so-farfrompuken drunk. Sodden. Pigeon-eyed. He’d seen the Devil. How he drove the Vette from the bars to whatever motels he checked into, he had no idea.
Somewhere along the road he lost his virginity. How exactly it happened he, to his everlasting regret, could never remember.
