Illegal Foreign Object

I write this five hours into a 12-hour, rail-rollicking train trek from Austin, Texas to Texarkana, Arkansas. Truly’s Fast Stories… From Kid Coma fill the headphones, pleasingly. This is my first long-distance train ride since I was 9. That trip, a 30-hour hell ride to Minnesota, during which I read the one piece of literature I thought to bring with me (a pro wrestling magazine that detailed among other things, a Texas Stadium mud wrestling match between valets Missy Hyatt and Sunshine) roughly 100 times. Titillation wore off by hour three of that ill-fated journey North.

Today’s State-crossing excursion takes me in the general direction of my father’s ashes. Twenty days ago, the morning following our beloved Rangers dramatic Game 1 World Series win, a victory that set the tone for the remaining four games and garnered Texas (the franchise, not the State) its first championship, Dad shuffled off this mortal coil. Tomorrow would have been his 75th birthday. I’ll undoubtedly celebrate atop a mountain of Pop’s postmortem paperwork — his affairs are the only reason for this trip.

Thus far, the trip has been void of anything notable, though that could change if the man sitting a few rows behind me succeeds in expelling his lungs from his chest cavity.

Currently, we sit just outside of Fort Worth, Texas. There’s something on the tracks, and until it’s moved, we don’t.

All the years I lived in and around the Dallas/Ft. worth area, I never spent much time in Cowtown. I do recall a trip to the famed Billy Bob’s Texas honky tonk with Dad one evening in my early teens to see a friend of his and enjoy some tunes (if memory serves, Mark Chestnut was playing that night). Typing this reminds me of a story that may or may not be true, but I’m gonna tell it, anyway.

As the story goes, my dad had a friend named Mike, and Mike had designs on going to Nashville and becoming a country and western singer. One night in a honky tonk, Mike and Dottie West were sitting around a table having drinks and telling each other lies. The rumor is Dottie said her bed was a comfortable way to fame and fortune in the country music business. Mike, newly married, went back to his apartment. Mark Chestnutt (allegedly), went home (allegedly) with Dottie (allegedly). There is surely some fiction in that yarn, but I’m retelling it that same way it was told to me. What is 100% factual is that Mark Chestnutt had eight number one singles in his career. Mike became a banker who recorded and self-released a cover album of old gospel hymns. Dottie effin’ West, y’all…

Anyway, that night back at Billy Bob’s, I remember seeing Dad two-step with a leggy blonde with a hairdo that touched the heavens and breasts you could serve Thanksgiving dinner on. I recall little else about the evening.

This is, hopefully, one of my last trips to my old hometown. If all goes as planned, I’ll have no reason to make any additional visits. This sits fine with me — I hate the place. These last five years, extracting myself from my happy, peaceful, loving home life to spend three to four months a year changing Dad’s diapers and listening to his racist, homophobic, misogynistic rants, have not been easy. They took a toll on me physically, emotionally, and financially. Still, I was cursed with a soft heart and he needed help. Whether he deserved it or not entered my mind plenty — I buried it and carried on. This is how it always was with me and Dad.

When he had kidney stones in Costa Rica when I was a teenager, I had a nurse teach me to give shots so I could pump him full of pain meds until he was able to pass the stones. When he needed double knee replacement surgery, I changed my work schedule so I could be with him for four of his five weekly rehab treatments. When he had the triple bypass surgery that added years to his life while robbing him of his ability to walk, I went to countless rehab appointments, let him live in my house for free, paid most of his bills, and kept him fed. This isn’t recorded for history to garner any sort of praise or sympathy from the reader — it’s just a statement of the facts. Despite all the brawls, betrayals, and broken promises, I loved my dad long after he stopped loving himself. Thinking about it, I’m not sure he ever loved himself.

Oh, he was most certainly a braggart and an egomaniac, but I tend to lean towards the idea that most people with those particular foibles don’t think much of themselves and overcompensate, fearful you’ll see the real them. Or, I could just be typing out of my ass.

Regardless, this trip to East Texas is sure to be packed with unanticipated emotions. It’s good I’m doing this alone. I did the other stuff alone, so this just makes sense. When the last piece of business is completed, perhaps I’ll bow to the camera Kwai Chang Caine-style. Maybe not.

There are stressful days ahead, but I have a checklist (and I find few things more satisfying that checking things off a long list). Now, I will queue up the new Chris Stapleton record and see about a short nap. Lord willin’ and the creek don’t rise, there’s about six hours remaining in this journey.