His parents’ house had an element of
disclosure: dried spaghetti on walls,
baby’s stench, and damp beer coasters.
Now something happened that could
only be felt by their son, Dusty Bloom.
Hitch-hiking, he had been raped at gun
point. With bravado he told me it was
as glamorous as an art film. Something
to be twisted into art. 15 years old and
forced to – you know. Now he knew
what his house was about. He knew
why adults drank and went to A.A.
Dusty asked me to help him start a cult
for people who were proud drunks. He
finished a Budweiser and threw the bottle
out the window. He started sobbing:
tears, snot, and fear, “I came when
they raped me. Those, dirty, old, pigs
held a gun to my head--and I came. I’m
so sick; no one will ever love me.”
I was afraid to tell him the truth: “I
love you. I love you even more now.”
I walked home mute. Dusty ran away.
The last I heard, he changed his name,
and was living in a homeless shelter,
scribbling screenplay after screenplay
in drunken, schizophrenic language.
5 comments:
heavy dues he paid... makes me hope he finds comfort in those drunken, schizophrenic screenplays. I've known a few people who would join a cult for people who were proud drunks. love your perspective.
Sad and telling about the culture of this country .. how many Dusty Bloom's have fallen through the cracks of being truly cared for?
I have known a few Dusty Blooms. Rape can drive a man/woman over the edge from guilt. Dark, sad and very well done!
Well done indeed...
My father used the phrase once "fall through the cracks" referring to government health care. He did fall through the cracks....I have not heard from him in over eight years....he's out there somewhere....
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