January 27, 2010

Dusty Bloom

by Joseph Hargraves

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:

Karen said...

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.

waiting for hope said...

Sad and telling about the culture of this country .. how many Dusty Bloom's have fallen through the cracks of being truly cared for?

trisha027 said...

I have known a few Dusty Blooms. Rape can drive a man/woman over the edge from guilt. Dark, sad and very well done!

Tim Irish said...

Well done indeed...

"Smells like a Rose" said...

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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