Message-ID: <54848asstr$1162883404@assm.asstr.org>
From: "Sean Farragher" <sean.farrhagher@comcast.net>
Thread-Index: AccCHNflJTKuXyQGTIycfhjeStMMbQ==
Subject: {ASSM} Mother and Her Cannibals (A Novel in progress)  Slow, Incest  -- Chapter One Prologue
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Date: Tue, 07 Nov 2006 02:10:04 -0500
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Mother and her Cannibals
Novel-in-Progress
C 2007 Sean Farragher All Rights Reserved
http://seanfarragher.com <http://seanfarragher.com/> 
and http://seanfarragher.com/cannibals
BLOG: http://farragher-conversations.blogspot.com/

Prologue:

West Point July 4, 1964 to June 1, 1968

For most of their lives, the righteous man acts responsibly and resists the
compulsion to screw up his life by acting out what most consider anti-social
fantasies. 

Consider Florian Joseph Rudaski. 

"Just Joe," as he now preferred. Baptized a Roman Catholic, he grew up in
the sweet part of Rochester, NY on the shore of Lake Ontario. His ethnic
given name Florian could have been a burden for the future graduate of West
Point. He fought for his name on the football and baseball field and
insisted on Florian Rudaski and not Joe. 

When Joe won the 160-pound boxing tournament at the Point, he was Florian
Joseph Rudaski. When he earned the rank of Cadet Lieutenant, many thought he
would become General Rudaski.

Vietnam changed Florian. After two tours of service, Joe earned his
doctorate in history from Columbia. Joe had not yet inherited his family
fortune, and he had stopped talking to his parents when he resigned his
commission. 

As Joe became financially successful in the 1980s, he lived the honor of his
new capitalist religion. Then again, slowly, in a bitter struggle with
conscience, Joe set himself up for conflict and dysfunctional angry fantasy.

Later, after Joe's mother died, father forgave son. When Joe moved back to
Rochester and accepted an appointment as a history professor at Rochester
University, they understood the other better. As his father aged, Joe became
the father. Finally as a man in his fifties, after the death of his mother,
with the aid of an orthodox Jewish Freudian psychiatrist, he recalled his
childhood and the sexual abuse of his parents, Uncles and Aunt. He reasoned
that his father must have known. Joe held his resentment hard. 

 

Chapter One
Saturday, June 10, 2006

1214 Lake Road, Webster, NY 14580 

Joe's steel body humped for that last rep. He knew he could bench 250 lbs
ten times. He bet his work out partner he would do fifteen. He felt the eyes
of every woman in the gym. He loved it, but that did not satisfy him. He hit
15 and pushed out another. His buddy, actually his nephew, walked away
cursing in a friendly manner his Uncle twenty years younger. He knew he
couldn't do two reps.

"Hey Uncle Joe, someday you are going to die you know that."

"Then you will be happy."

Joe laughed at his nephew's jealousy. Toweling off he tried to call Anna,
the aerobics instructor who had met last week. He got her machine and left
her a straightforward message. 

Now, he would have to find her soon. Next week, he left for a work/vacation
in Ohio. He had accepted a temporary position as Visiting Professor. 

Anna was surprised when Joe showed up for her aerobics class that night.
Yes, she had a date afterwards, but yes, she would break it. 

They had had a great night, and she asked him if he wanted to go hiking.
"Just you and I." 

"You couldn't keep up," he teased.

"Old man," she said, "you would eat my dust."

"I will eat anything you provide."

Anna did not answer. She simply melted into his body. 

 

*** 

Saturday, July 28, 2006 1 PM

Florian Joseph Rudaski wandered the byways of I-71 just east of West Salem,
Ohio. 

Joe drove his silver 2003 Benz 320 Sedan with ash leather interior as a
protective device. He knew he had to be at Ohio State on September 1, but he
had no idea where or why he had driven the back roads and highways now. 

As long as he was inside his car, cell phone handy he knew he was safe.
There will be moments in the near future when he will consider making a 911
call against himself.

Four years ago, Joe had prepared notes for his lawyer for the divorce. He
found un-mailed letters where he had imagined his name as a river flowing
through dreams he never quite realized. 

When Joe visited LA in 1996 where he was to receive a literary award, he
looked at the sign on Hollywood Hills and imagined it to read "Florian
Joseph Rudaski." 

Once, the historian dreamed he was a prophet. Perhaps he would be the
unanticipated "God of the Lost Life" written on a newly translated pre-Mayan
tablet from Site #345. He wondered if he could create his own California
style religious sect from his angst. These are some of his random thoughts.
Joe's search was a progress that had an atypical origin and an unpredictable
final act. 

Last year he took in his college age niece when she enrolled at the School
of the Arts in Rochester. Joe and Juliet flirted; on her birthday, she dance
naked pretending Joe was not there. She didn't know he was watching. He
heard her sing his name repeatedly. That night the self-aware historian
Rudaski wrote about himself as if he were an historical person. That night
he almost knocked on her door, but he did not. 

As Joe often explained to his seminar, "every action has several
consequences and choice is the means by which the successive action plays
out. There are many levels in an entirely new present. Every perceived idea
becomes a new way of living. Things, of course, change too fast. Usually,
these vulnerable personalities during war show their emotional extremes. 

Joe had no idea how his world would change from his unpredictable final act.
Joe had always been attracted to younger women. He never got involved with
college students if they were likely to take his class. He had only acted on
the urge in places where he knew he was safe. 

If Joe were honest, he would speak about his longing for his high school
years and the young women he had known. Back in the 1960s, the daughters of
some of his friends idolized him. He was a football and baseball star. At
camp, he taught a girl to swim and his hands trembled at night, but he did
not do anything. In Vietnam, on leave, in Thailand, he slept with teenage
prostitutes. He let go there, because he believed he would not survive the
war. 

Back in the world, after graduate school, satisfied his unease. He married a
much younger woman. She did not want children. He resisted temptation. She
divorced him five years ago because she bored him. 

When Joe drove alone in his car, he nurtured bizarre images tied to
nightmares. Sometimes, not to be aroused, He thought of fucking as
convoluted vomit and a glaze of semen or feminine lubricant. Sex lived in
this group as an intellectual misfit. Rivers and valleys disgorged into feed
back mechanism that covered the ground with flora. Nothing was in balance or
predicted. Wrong preceded right.

Disgusting was ordinary. Incest, teenagers and exploitation of all kinds
linked itself to the most ordinary of melodies. It would never be
acceptable, but it does not go away. Even astute politicians rubbed
themselves to their perfect Kink motel.

Blood had its own tune. When he tripped the wire, made his mind drop kick
itself the face of his Nam war friend Dave's Lynch's almost
nineteen-year-old niece jumped in his sleeping bag, in the tent, the last
day of the hike, she grabbed his cock, and would not let go until he came.
She wouldn't let him do anything to her. She giggled. Joe broke down. Why
did he let her do it? Afterwards, she sat there holding his big hand rubbing
it against her mouth. She demanded a kiss and he gave it to her. She wiped
her chin and smiled back. 

After all, another Ulysses did find bubble gum on his seat of a Cinema in
Paris. Some loud American girl had been chewing it, and her companion felt
her up, she spat it at him. Joyce noted the incident in a letter to Pound.
He told Pound that was a rare moment. He never wanted to be an American, but
after that particular joy, Joyce said, I almost booked passage. 

Flight and thought becomes spastic and random, and as Joe rode, wondering
what he would do, the world suddenly stopped as he pulled up within the
parking lines as the only car at a rest stop. 

History has its own wandering ghost as Yeats mused. Was it Joe? What new
language would Joyce and Beckett create to describe twenty-first century
America? Nabokov did it in 1955. Lolita became satiric mask, magical
talisman, idol and jerk off symbol for soft, complicated cocks. 

Finally, Penelope did wait for the heroes to return as soldiers and marines
returned to the world at Travis Air Force base. Joe remembered how his body
lurched forward when the wheels ran two bumps into the tarmac. In that end,
hallucinations recorded, Joe pulled into the almost empty rest stop just
south of some no name road designated #186. 

When he stopped, he loosened his hold on the steering wheel. His body buzzed
as he let go. He had no idea what he would do next. He opened the door and
closed it. "My God," he said. "It's fucking hot out there." He slammed the
door close and started to leave. Joe had to get cool, so he looked for his
athletic bag. He could not find it. He looked in the glove compartment. He
saw his wallet, cell phone and passport safe. He remembered he had the
second draft of an important paper for a Dutch conference in that bag. He
could replace it, but he wanted it with him. He looked up the number for the
motel last night. He had the bag there. He remembered it. Meanwhile, he
found another bag and changed into a tee shirt and shorts. It must be 100
degrees out there. The AC in the car allows delusions. He laughed too
himself and called up the hotel. Yes, they had the bag. He told them to keep
it at the front desk. His legs cramped. Outside was another deal.

When Joe first drove into the Interstate rest stop two 18-wheelers parked
next to each other along the exit road, and one car was loading up getting
ready to leave. He was at least 100 yards from everyone. Joe was careful. He
stepped out, looked around and stretched. He noticed three kids playing grab
ass by restrooms and vending machines. He studied one of the young girls
carefully. She wore virtually nothing. The other girl a teenager wrestled
with a boy who felt her up. While Joe watched, the boy ran into a car and
sped away.  

It was not hard to figure out why the rest stop was so empty at one PM on
Saturday. It was a super humid hot miserable day. While he walked to the
men's room, one truck pulled away and then two cars passed through without
stopping. Another car left quickly as he pulled up to the space. Only one
truck parked out of the way stood out against the scrub trees and usually
advertisements. 

Joe did notice there was a direct line emergency phone line next to three
pay phones without handsets. He scanned the entire parking lot. Now, there
were no cars. 

After all the rest stop constructed over cattle grazing land owned by
speculators had its roots in the American way. To the left cherry trees grew
fat fruit. Bees swarmed over the garbage cans, and there, always present, a
usually nocturnal raccoon scampered on top of a picnic table pushing garbage
off the edge. The beast rode the candy wrappers to the ground.

When the last truck pulled away, Joe wondered how the kids he saw by the
vending machines could get home. He had just started to look at them. No one
would just walk up. There was nothing here but farmland and garbage. For all
he knew he was alone and the folks at the vending machine were illusions
from another place. As he turned to park, his car the little girl ran out in
the street in front of him. Joe slammed on his breaks. She did a dance. He
didn't yell. That was out of character. 

She yelled back, "sorry mister." 

He smiled, and then she did an odd thing. She turned her ass towards Joe and
shook it like a pole dancer.

"What's your name?" 

"Crystal"

"You are something else," he laughed and shook his head.

"No, I just eight years old."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
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