Every Father Kills His Son, Chapter One

Presenting Tim’s begun-in-2005 semi-autobiographical novel, serialized as he finally finishes it

Happy Gnu Year, Stackateers! In the middle of this century’s first decade, I began writing a fictionalized memoir based around my rather fucked-up relationship with my father, trying to make sense of things following his death in 2003. Hence I began this novel, Every Father Kills His Son, concerning a NYC-resident punk rock musician, returning to the small Texas town that spawned him on a Greyhound bus. His abusive, alcoholic redneck father has just died, and he’s trying to make sense of his emotions as he returns home to settle his father’s affairs. The story bounces between the past and the present, as he reminisces while the bus winds its way through America, en route to the fictional micropolis of Bronson, Texas.

I have been meaning to finally finish this novel to my satisfaction for years. Admittedly, it’s tough, as the raw material is my own shattered childhood memories. At times, it gets graphic and detailed in depicting my father’s mistreatment of me and especially my mother. (Probably why I gave my father’s character in the book the initials “O.J.”! Lol!) There have been times where I had to stop after a particularly nasty scene, it shook me so badly. But I need to get this out of me. This is one of my New Year’s resolutions.

This chapter is open to the public, as a preview. But Every Father Kills His Son will generally be behind the paywall, after I end the 20%-off-for-life paid subscription offer at month’s end. I appreciate everyone who subscribes, free or paying. But it is the paid subs that keep the light on around here. Hence, certain benefits are exclusive to such patrons, such as the serialization of my novel.

Your feedback is appreciated. And if anyone is interested in publishing my novel, please be in touch. For now, we take you to the year 2003, as John Gentry, AKA Johnny Suicide of classic ‘90s punk band The Sonic Reducers, deals with the blazing Texas heat for the first time in many years….

Chapter One

The Texas sun was beating a Keith Moon drum solo into my forehead.

That big yellow orb in the sky was blazing with laser beam intensity through the Greyhound windshield, as we rode into the Rio Grande Valley. And all I wanted was a joint and a blowjob.

It’d been years since I’d been back in Bronson, the old hometown. Maybe ten years spent in Austin, trying to outrace a shitty existence, pursuing rock ‘n’ roll dreams. Another five in New York City, realizing then losing those dreams on the Lower East Side, now trying to scratch out some sorta existence in a Jersey phone room. Then there was another busted romance plaguing my heart. And all you can do about those is bandage the cracks, until someone else comes along and inflicts more damage.

Why humans cannot treat each other with more respect and civility is beyond me. This could be a far better world.

But here I was, heading back to Bronson. My dear, sainted sperm donor, Obediah Jedediah Gentry, had just expired. He was “O.J.” to you, “Jed” to his parents and half-brother, “Cowboy” to anyone who knew him the last however-many-years of his accursed life. I just addressed him as “asshole,” if I deigned to address him at all. Now here I was, coming home to clean up his messy affairs.

I missed the damned funeral. I didn’t find out until that morning. I was at Port Authority, checking my email at these kiosks MTA kindly provided in those days, when I opened a message from my Uncle Jonas, whom I hadn’t spoken to in years. Forwarded from my old band’s website, it simply, plainly stated, “Tell John Gentry his father, Jed, died about a week ago. The funeral will be this afternoon, in Bronson.”

Upon reading those words, I spilled my blue cup of light-and-sweet coffee all over my neatly-pressed white Levis. And the hot liquid could not stop the chill now gripping my frame.

O.J. Gentry did everything he could to ruin my and my mother’s lives, growing up: Untamed alcoholism, attempts to repair his marriage with his fists, psychological warfare, hopping from job-to-job. Yeah, there was an entire shopping list of damages the sonofabitch inflicted, and another list of victims that grew exponentially. And for some goddamn reason, his death shook me to my bones.

I always figured I’d dance on his grave, or at least piss on it. I figured I’d rip through the soil with my bare hands, rip open the coffin lid, pull the fucker out by his burial suit’s lapels, and stomp on his entrails myself. I wanted my vengeance for every last one of his crimes. I am here to tell you that is not how it happens, brethren and sistren.

No matter what, half my DNA is his. And when they make their loud, noisy exit (because they lived a loud and noisy life), you feel it. And you drop to the floor.

O.J. Gentry was gone. Good riddance. Only I’m not celebrating. And I am heading home to make sense of his waste of a life. As far as I could tell, the only good things that man ever did were donate raw genetic material to my conception (although he was no father,  never mind husband to my mother), gave me my first guitar, then got the fuck out of our lives. And stayed out. Unless he’d had enough of a fifth of Jim Beam, and welled-up with rare nostalgia for what he’d lost/fucked up.

So, what’s with all this emotion? He did everything but earn it.

“You a rock star?”

I was deep in The Clash and Johnny Cash on my CD Walkman, trying to work up even a modicum of nostalgia for the town which spawned me. As far as they were concerned, I was just that weirdo who listened to that strange music, the sum total of Bronson’s punk scene. I got beaten up for it, until I had a growth spurt in my senior year. I was the punk rock black sheep, at home and at Bronson High. So why the fuck am I coming home?

“Mister?” the voice cut in again, a little louder. “Did I see you on MTV?” 

The voice’s owner was likely in his late teens, with the facial piercings, tribal tattoos, and ponytail-with-shaved-sides that became unfashionable when Lollapalooza shut down a few years back. But news travels slow to The Valley, especially of the pop cultural variety.

I removed my headset, managing the best smile I could under the circumstances. “You might have, if you watched at 4:00 AM,” I joked. 

“Are you Billy Idol?” he parried. I had to laugh.

“No. I likely wouldn’t be on a Greyhound headed to Bronson, Texas, if I was.”

“Well, who are you?” he counterthrust. That was a good question.

“I’m John Gentry,” I explained. “You might have heard about a punk rocker named Johnny Suicide. That was me. I used to lead a band called The Sonic Reducers. We had a couple of minor hits. The biggest one was called ‘I Hate To Love.’”

Mr. Shaved-Sides-Ponytail shook his head. He didn’t know of me, probably because I wasn’t in Limp Biskit. “Are you any good?”

I chuckled. “That’s a matter of opinion, I guess….”

I slipped my headphones back on, turning up the volume on “Groovy Times,” before I started embarrassing myself by screaming at this innocent soul, demanding that he remember me, insisting I was important once. Honestly, I doubt I was. You probably wouldn’t even win a Trivial Pursuit game or round of Jeopardy blurting out my old punk rock name. I guarantee you could with Johnny Cash or The Clash.

Ultimately, maybe my sonofabitch of a father was right, all those years ago. I guess I didn’t amount to anything. I guess I didn’t prove him wrong. 

Now here I was, on my way back home on a fucking Greyhound bus, to settle the affairs of a man who damn near killed me, with whom I did not speak for 20 years. 

What is wrong with me?

Later this week: Parade Of Great Guitarists: Poison Ivy, a record review yet to be determined, the Jesse Dayton interview part two, and the Glen Matlock interview part one!

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