Everyone Dies In Alabama (Rewritten)

(A Collection of Short Stories

Salvation’s In The Chocolate Milk

Basic paced towards the bedroom. How long had it been?

If he’d already stayed an afternoon, and an early morning—with the night before tacked on as well, he couldn’t forget that—was it two days, or just one and a half? He hadn’t watched porn for at least twenty-four hours, right…didn’t that have to be right?

Yes, it must have been twenty-four which, honestly, was rather impressive. He hadn’t done that in so long.

Basic hated porn, and the empty it left—that gnawing ice center that ate away at his soul until he was sure he was about to be forever lost to its frosty tendrils. Yet, somehow, he also loved that empty so very much, how once porn had been seen he could, if only for a second, not feel all the wretched grief—she’s dead…she must be seeing so much—that kept plaguing his mind.

It was a contradiction, to hate and to love something so dear, but he already had that with his father, his sister, even himself, so why not bring something else into the mix. And what about his mother? He just couldn’t escape the mounting issue of his mother.

Basic slammed his palm against his head. He actually tried to push away so many thoughts yet only succeeded in throwing himself off balance. He almost fell into the sliding glass door closet that the hotel had given him to use.

Inside that closet were hangers, thick wooden ones with iron hook tops that were latched secure to an even more iron, iron bar. There would be no stealing of these things, they were welded shut to be precise—quite thiefproof really—but with his violence, Basic could have done it. Given up, let gravity do its job, and just continue with being off balance until he crashed through that door only to reach those hangers, and that bar, to finally find out just how iron, and how welded, it all truly was.

But no matter how much this night might have been about hurt—I couldn’t save her from her cancer…she must be seeing all the wrong I do—crashing through anything wasn’t the punishment he’d planned for. Basic ended his stumble just in time, that glass door gaining such a nice impression of his palm as he used it to right himself before continuing with his pace.

“I didn’t break you,” he said before giving a slight nod to everything that now carried quite a few lines, and quite a few whorls, from quite a few of his fingers. “I do break everything else,” he coughed on, “guess you’re just lucky.”

But he wasn’t lucky, and he still couldn’t stop thinking about his mother no matter how hard he’d just put his palm to his head. It was such a lurking guilt that kept hiding deep within. He’d try to focus on anything else—his job, his father, or, more recently, how he’d needed to get that alcohol and all those pills—yet then everything about his mother would take over and that would be that.

Nothing else could be around once those thoughts had intruded and, right now, he couldn’t stop yet another interruption, his head begging for him to focus—maybe on his pacing, just lose himself inside such a nice foot in front of other foot nonsense—yet he found only failure. His sins, each dark wrong, she was dead and there was no way she wasn’t bearing witness to all of that on the other side. How could he not break once those thoughts had arrived?

Of course, before she’d died he’d sinned as well, had watched so many adult films, but after her death it was like he just had to have more. In fact, in the year since her passing, he’d become quite the glutton in-regards to pornography. The old retro classics, or the much newer films, both were fine—he wasn’t particular—all that really mattered was a strong internet connection and a quiet room to have some privacy.

Basic sighed defeat. He’d had one, main, dream for most of his life. It had never been much, and he’d done almost nothing to make it a reality, but Basic had still had that dream: to get his mother far from everything that had never been as great as it should have been for her, to be the good son and save her, but he hadn’t and he’d needed so much porn to numb that failure away.

Oh, sure, he could have gone the much more normal route and chosen alcohol, or taken up quite a few other more intensive activities—something involving needles, or perhaps many a trip to many a dark corner where many a bag of white powder could have been purchased—but Basic had always been a recluse, the kind of loner that had never wanted to be a part of society anyway, and this meant porn was just the best choice around.

It was because porn was only ever he, alone, with a computer screen. Porn was only ever he, alone, debased and brought low without hurting anyone else because anyone else was merely a flicker of a bygone day.

And even if that was such a lie—someone else was always getting hurt—Basic still couldn’t get enough. Watching the tear of clothes, that girl proclaiming, “no, I don’t think we should,” until that guy, or that other girl, kissed her again and she would drop to her knees just to prove how much her “no,” had meant nothing at all…it was amazing.

He couldn’t do that in real life. Around true ladies, maybe even with those who were used to being used, he would only see his parents. How his father would always crowd down upon his mother, inches from her face, how his father would also always call her stupid, or a bitch, or much worse right before demanding she apologize for ever making him so angry. Honestly, Basic saw that all the time.

And then there was his mother. How her head would always be such an anchor trying desperate to find some purchase along whatever floor, in whatever room, she’d been cornered in. How that would also always make her neck and shoulders slump from the weight while her eyes would only ever hold such weary exhaustion as she would stare at nothing except her own feet. His mother had always stayed forever silent while absorbing so much verbal abuse from his father yet, somehow, when all the yelling had wrapped up, she would still find a way to straighten—head no longer that anchor—as she so quickly would continue with her day. Basic had always seen that as well.

His mother wouldn’t even be angry, or bitter, afterward. Exhausted, yes, slumped from the weight of it all of course, but that was when there had been yelling because afterwards…well, afterwards Sue Basic was only ever loving, sweet, the kind of woman that straightened, and smiled, before giving back to the world the exact opposite of all she’d just received.

Basic’s life then was only based around the fear of ever being as cruel as his father mixed in with the absolute beauty of his mother’s opposite—real life is grace, straightening up and being kind. It drove him mad.

For some reason, there remained a part of himself that actually wanted to be how his father acted—I can take, and take, and only ask for more in return—but he couldn’t. He would be with a girl and really would see his father screaming vile at a woman he’d vowed to love and protect, demanding from her things she could never give, and he would flinch. Or, Basic would already be kissing, hands starting to inch ever closer to precious buttons, and there would be his mother—eyes so weary—and, again, he’d back off as if he’d been hit.

There was no way he could deal with that, not with any true lady. Returning to the silence, in some private room, only to drown in the fantasy of porn, and all the ice it offered, would have to suffice.

“You’re dead,” Basic whispered. He liked how he could solidify that fact, worm it from his gut to make it the undeniability of language and breath. “A whole year dead, and now you can see so much.”

He should have been saying that to someone, anyone, ever since her passing but how could he when any word might rip free all the numb that porn gave, maybe even shove him right back into the loud, and the real, and all the other places where true ladies, and a true life, existed. But maybe he could say it to this room?

Seriously, why not let these walls, of this suite, be his only audience since he was about to head over to Iraq and maybe, just maybe, some higher up’s’ had finally done something good when they’d given him such a privacy perfect gift, a room that had two beds, a fridge, two TVs, and a small side living room area that only he would ever use. Basic sighed again. All the thoughts—she’s dead…she sees—were building up again and, anyway, he already knew he wasn’t ready to talk even in such a solitary place.

What he really needed to do was to distract himself a bit more, focus not on his pacing—that foot in front of other foot nonsense just wasn’t working—but rather move on to anything else that might take his mind away. He began to wonder about his uniform.

It was in that closet. He really did have so much space there, a closet ready to be used by many but stuck—for now—with accommodating only him. He could have hung up his entire wardrobe there, yet all he’d managed to take from his suitcase was the camouflage he’d been presented with at Paris Island, the thick forest green and brown everything that still held the stenciled letters of his last name placed either below his left shoulder, or along the flap of some pants pocket.

He liked that. How had he never thought of that before? Not the forest green—no one liked the forest green—but the stencils, how they were of his last name, his better name.

Basic had to smile at that. This avenue of new thought was rather nice, its many twists and turns something he truly didn’t mind following. Just how many Benjamins, or Bens, were there in the world…hundred’s, millions? It was a name placed in rather high regard in the Bible—Joseph’s favored brother—but, recently, Basic had been spending a lot less time with the Bible then he had before her death so maybe every Benjamin, and all those named Ben, wasn’t written in there anymore.

The only thing Basic knew for sure was that in elementary school, and high school, of course middle school as well, and college, he’d never found himself in a class where he would be the only one. Some teacher would take roll and Ben Abrams, or Benjamin Valentine, or Ben Benjamin would always have their names said before his, or just a bit after.

They were the common few. Those blessed with something similar that should have kept them close for forever except for the simple fact that Benjamin Valentine was cool and that alone allowed him entrance into a group no other Benjamin could join, Ben Abrams was such a genius that that kept him in another group entirely, and Ben Benjamin was so angry no group wanted to get near to him at all. And Benjamin Basic…well, he truly had always been that loner kind of outsider, the kid with downcast eyes—that is what I learned from mom—who looked up only occasionally because up might bring hurt so why would any group ever want him anyway.

Pretty much, Basic had always just been a Ben surrounded by better Ben’s. But his last name, maybe that really could have made him special?

Basic lost his smile once he followed that turn. Special? The truth was too obvious to lie. Basic wasn’t that uncommon a last name. There was nothing that would ever make him special.

He reached the end of the bedroom. It really did have two beds, a TV set high on a cabinet, a large window at its rear which looked out onto a pool four stories below, and a dark green rug at his feet, something stain dotted with lines of red and blue to possibly make it pretty. Was it finally time for what he’d planned for? He thought it just might be.

Basic wandered back towards that side living room area. Right before it started, and just after the bedroom ceased upon the threshold of a wide-open doorway—which felt right, an opening or an exit without a way to distinguish either—was where the fridge rested. Underneath a sink, and a tiny microwave, that fridge was a small bit of gleaming black with only two things inside and, since getting drunk was a major part of his plan, the thing that contained all the vodka was what he needed right now.

He bent and yanked out a rather large bottle, twisted off a cap too in one quick flourish before drinking long swallows without pausing for air. He had to do this fast, if he went slow he’d remember how he wasn’t a drinker and, really, really, he hated alcohol quite a lot.

Yet oddly, Basic did find himself suddenly starting to like the way this vodka torched down his throat. How it hit that core of cold inside his soul and, for a second—such a brief candle flicker—made everything warm.

Which, again, was truly odd. Numb, cold, all that ice was what he wanted—right…right—yet that warmth did give him a thrill until Basic slapped at his head just one more time. He wasn’t about to also start having thoughts like that—random nonsense about his last name, sure, but not this, not when he should still be loving those frosty tendrils—and he made himself drink faster.

He even stared over at that wide-open doorway. Nothing else had been a perfect distraction, but maybe a quick wonder about why he’d never closed that thing might do. Besides, he really did enjoy the option of it—this doorway signifies a new start, some grand opening…or, no, no, it’s an end, the best way to identify how we should close everything up tight—and he stared, and stared, until his bottle was half empty and most every bad thought, “oh, warmth is nice,” and another return of, “she sees, she has to see,” were both almost gone.

He drank on. It was just who he was, someone not very fond of alcohol yet someone who could be rather stubborn once a course of action had been decided upon. Dating women, having a real life, after twenty-five years of existence he hadn’t yet conquered that touch of indecision, but his main reason for living had been taken from him so why not drink, and drink, until he finally got drunk enough to find the strength to end it.

After all, that was what this was about. Gaining the liquid courage to say goodbye, and, also, just perhaps, getting a little too sloshed to truly feel along the way. Basic already knew he wouldn’t mind attaining any bit of that and, with his life such a waste, he wouldn’t even be snuffing out something that deserved to be preserved.

Yet he did think that actually having sex would have been nice. He’d had another dream, since he’d been a child, of another her. She was all distant eyes, and a face leveled forward to the world as if ready to attack it or be attacked by it. He did often find himself unsure as to which this woman would be—victim, or the one who would take others as her prize—but he really had thought he would have met her by now.

But that truly had been a dream and, anyway, he probably would have just become obsessed with those distant eyes. All he’d really wanted was the sex, a relationship had always been another something that had felt too real.

Which was a problem. If that was the way he was going to treat her—any her, it didn’t matter—if he really was going to be so much like his father, making any her into something that was only ever about what she could give to him, then sex would have been a bad thing. It was a journey where Basic didn’t see an end.

Women by the plenty would have been first, but he would have lied, and cheated, to get them—told love yet given only lust. He would have run too, after his passion had fled, he would have taken off and convinced himself it was her fault for his behavior. He was already so much like his father anyway—hello porn; I know you recognize me, and the man who watched you long before I arrived—and it really wouldn’t have been too difficult to be like him even more.

Basic finally swallowed the vodka empty. He already had the pills. The window to that four-story drop didn’t open far enough to let him through—had someone else already leapt, was the hotel staff prepared for plans like his—and he hadn’t yet been given a gun. Also, a knife seemed like it would hurt, so that was out of the question. The pills he’d gotten would just have to do.

But he still needed a minute before he could take everything, all the tiny white he’d already piled high upon a nightstand by one of his two beds. Basic looked down at his feet. The random nonsense of that wide-open doorway hadn’t been perfect either—all that love for warmth, and how she must be watching, muted only for a second yet now roaring back—and he needed something else.

He looked past his feet to enjoy the carpet beneath. Pretty wasn’t the word to use here. Sick, or twisted, would have fit this length of shag better. It really did look a great representation of something wrong…a lurching free fall perhaps, something that would happen if that window opened just a tad further.

Basic restarted his pace. The carpet had inspired him—it looked wrong…he was wrong…why wouldn’t he get inspired—and he wanted to walk again as he enjoyed that fact. Maybe he would even surrender as he went, letting it all go as he finally allowed the walls of this room to truly hear all about the addition that had led to this moment.

He still said nothing. He had it, his father, her death, and how the Marine Corps Reserve had activated him and was about to push him back into a real life. The reasons were there but no matter how Basic might have been able to get his feet to go he just couldn’t do the same with his words.

When was the last time he’d been this drunk? That carpet inspiration was already long gone yet, suddenly, one new thought did arrive. It was even something Basic was so happy to indulge, a thought that would never require any words which was a blessed relief.

He’d gotten this drunk at a frat party, and it had once more been vodka—it did seem to be his favorite—which had accomplished that feat. He’d already known he wasn’t going to join. Frats were fun for the parties they threw to get you in, but they cost money, and Basic had never been on great terms with money.

Cash to him was a whirlwind relative. The kind of Bohemian aunt your parents always spoke of, but you never saw unless she swung by for a weekend—acted all crazy and fun and turned your life sideways before driving out of town just when you were certain she might stay for forever.

Without the funds the party had been nice, yet already melancholy, a great soon to be part of his past that Basic had tried to smile at yet had more often found himself frowning over. Then the stripper had arrived.

Someone had handed him a large flask, had even said he should share it with all the other pledges, but before Basic had been able to explain he was just auditing this little house debauchery a thin white girl with dark brown hair, and damaged eyes—not distant, damaged—had started to dance. She’d had on a half open black leather jacket too, black leather boots, and a thin black bikini top and bottom that looked more like dental floss than proper beach attire. There really hadn’t been a lot for her to strip, but she’d still given it a go. There had even been a guy behind her, and though Basic had never gotten a good look at him he had found himself often thinking that there’d been a strict steel to that man—a deep hardness that had made that girl dance for if she hadn’t then that hardness might have been aimed only at her.

That man had had a large stereo too—this had been right at the end of two-thousand and one, everything smaller that could have played music had been around but not at mass levels of mass acceptance just yet—and that man had turned that stereo loud as Basic had opened the flask. He hadn’t been against nudity, he loved nudity, it had been the live—in your face—variety that had made him nervous.

It had even, yet again, made Basic think about his parents and, honestly, he knew…that was so strange. How his father had never loved his mother as much as he’d loved himself, and how Basic had sworn he would never use a woman as his father had used her. And his mother…oh his mother…Basic just couldn’t shake her kindness, her decency. Every time he wanted to act bad—just do what dad does—she was bright light good and this is so wrong. He hated his father for such valid reasons, but the hate he had for his mother—why did you have to show me how to act right—was exactly why the isolation of porn (it’s only me, I swear I’m only hurting myself here) would always be of value.

The flask he’d been given had drained down his throat, and the room had even begun to sway—I don’t feel, I don’t—as Basic had tried to convince himself that watching that girl, and ignoring that man behind her, had been okay. It had clearly been what everyone else had felt, so why should he be all alone in feeling so different?

But in the end, Basic hadn’t convinced himself of anything. All he’d done was to quickly feel sick right after the show had wrapped up. It had been this churning in his gut, a twisting nausea that had grown and grown and though he’d tried to run, had hoped maybe to get somewhere safe, some spot where he could actually be alone, he’d failed.

Basic had thrown up all over his shoes as soon as he’d made it to the front lawn. Right in front of everyone, those who probably hadn’t been too upset when he’d told them a little later he wouldn’t be joining, he’d embarrassed himself fully and though he was pretty sure he wouldn’t throw up this night, Basic did want that sickness back. Something that was again churning, a nice trench of ruin that would rip his throat to slivers and take that frost center with it.

He liked empty, and cold, yet also loathed both. He really couldn’t stop such a thought from running through his mind. It was even about to outpace everything else; all the other little wandering nuisances that only dealt with how his mother was dead and that had to mean she was seeing everything he was doing.

Was that biblical though? Not the liking and the loathing, that would never be in the Bible, this was only about the seeing. Maybe he could pull out a Bible—in that nightstand, under his pills, there had to be one—to investigate. He could even spend a whole hour reading all about Jesus, and salvation, and forgiveness, he could definitely skim at least a couple verses just to see if there was a mention or two of how in death others could bear witness to the living, but Basic already knew that reaching for anything just wasn’t going to happen.

Whether it was biblical or plain superstition, he remained steadfast on this one thing. His mother had to be noticing. He’d missed her, he’d had so much grief, and he’d run straight to porn and isolation—more than before her death, hours of it now, two hours of daily adult film confinement, fourteen hours a week, maybe sixty plus in a month. The figures added, and added, they piled up next to all the minutes and seconds he hadn’t been able to conjure so she could have lived just a little longer.

Basic sighed. He couldn’t follow that thought anymore—and, anyway, no Bible should be brought out into this night—so he just kept pacing. It was becoming harder; however, the booze getting stronger and stronger with every heartbeat, but he could do it. Basic made it to the sink and put the empty vodka bottle on its edge before he leaned down. He got out the jug that was the only thing left in the fridge, something else that would connect to his past because that was what was needed most, before he angled back towards the bedroom.

When he’d been on Paris Island, Basic had had some moments as well, many of them belonging only within the concrete walls, and stained glass, of the church he would visit on Sundays. On those pews, the Drill Instructors sent to scowl outside—they couldn’t vent until service was over—Basic had believed. In peace, in the fact that his life might actually mean something, that maybe there had even really been a God who would smile kind rather than the highest Father that would yell only rage. On Paris Island—and during those Sunday’s—Basic had felt so normal.

He’d called it a settling, or simply an unclench that had made that cold center of him crack in ways he’d accepted and, honestly, also in ways he hadn’t thought all that much about. He would just pray, and sing, he would even listen to the preacher and, actually, listen—the preacher’s words noted and agreed with unlike any other service he’d ever attended. Those other services had always been a ritual of sing here, nod agreement there, but this had been vibrant, and alive, and maybe God truly had sent his son to die on a cross just for him, a hundred percent for Benjamin Basic because he did love him.

But those Paris Island services would always end way too soon, and Basic would only have a return to the barracks to look forward to. Back there the Drill Instructors would make up for lost time. They would pick two, or three, or the whole squad to kill with hour-long pushups as Basic would crack in much worse ways.

Sweat covered lots of things. In air-conditioned wastelands shakes of disgust, and sorrow, could be mistaken for a quick chill—tears of unfair, I deserve better, thought of as only drops of weakness leaving the body. Basic had never really suffered while at Paris Island—his family had all been alive back then, how could he have suffered—but he’d still felt the world a torture he could not abide. He’d hated God for that. For giving him that Sunday service peace only to strip him bare hours later.

But soon God came to fix that too.

Breakfast, lunch, and dinner. It hadn’t been stained glass quiet, the sweet melody of recruits singing praise, but it had been there, a miracle found inside a cafeteria lined with trays and plates.

It also happened by surprise. Some tarnished grey beast, something that had always just been covered with dull metal handles—things that had only ever granted access to unending amounts of hot water—had one day held something cool as sweet kisses of moisture had run droplets off a handle Basic hadn’t yet seen. But that wasn’t the surprise. After a month on the island, Basic had become quite accustomed to keeping his head even lower than normal so not seeing something, even after a month, a week, only a few days, was to be expected.

Basic still didn’t even know why he’d looked up that day. Maybe the hot water had been gone, or the random joy of even hotter Gatorade might have already been emptied into the recruits who’d rushed in before him. All Basic did know was that there had been a new handle, it had felt cool, and he’d grabbed at its weeping sheen before lifting it up to fill his cup.

It was then that the surprise had arrived, this great taste of salvation that had saved his soul as soon as he’d gotten back to his table to take a sip. It had been the hand of God, truly, some grand miracle touching his heart through everything sweet and chocolate that had slipped past his lips to dance along his tongue. Basic had even instantly felt as if he were back to being the spoiled child of his mother, her selfish little boy who could watch as she vacuumed for hours on end while he stayed rooted to the couch, her tiny brat who would still act all abused if she didn’t rush to get him strawberry milk, or some food, the second all that work was done.

Who cared if this milk hadn’t been strawberry? It had been sugar and seemed a touch of rebellion even if he’d probably been getting much needed calcium along the way, something that might have explained why milk had been in the chow hall in the first place.

Salvation really had been there. After weeks of hot water mixed only with the rare treat of more hot water—and sometimes, just sometimes, hot Gatorade—Basic had finally had something new, something that had made him feel oh so happy and at peace. He’d even closed his eyes and had imagined he hadn’t felt deserted, abandoned—empty while surrounded by so many—as he’d sipped that chocolate milk away, his faith in God never being stronger.

It had soon become ritual. Make it to breakfast, to lunch, to dinner, write letters home in the evenings—he had enjoyed that too, he would never forget that—and then make it to sleep only to repeat and repeat until Sunday when behind stained glass even more salvation could be found. The chocolate milk had gotten him through his days, his letters had gotten him through his nights, and the church had gotten him to believe. He really wished he’d found a way to continue that once Boot Camp had ended.

Basic popped open the top of the jug he held, the sweet sugar chocolate inside making him float as he finally made it to one of his beds, got comfortable on the corner of such thick sheets, and took a sip. There was so much he should have said—why couldn’t I have saved her; I can’t keep watching what I watch—but this was still only about being numb and enjoying the ice.

He sighed one last time. All his dark thoughts had, somehow, finally gone quiet and he leaned over for his pills before taking another sip of chocolate milk. Salvation was still here, but a more permanent kind now, and he had to smile at that as he put a few pills into his mouth and drank a little more. What could ever be better?