CH 1-10

Summary

A teenager becomes infatuated with a thirty-year-old man. Theme Song: ‘Jolene’ -Dolly Parton #Poetry

1 sitting in sinks & eric

Joelene🌸

I’m Joelene.

And here’s a few things

that you should know

about me:

One: I love sugar pancakes,

and guys with potbellies.

And beard.

And men that wears

white wife-beaters,

with cigs hanging

from the corner of their lips.

And men who drives pick-up trucks.

And men with dogs.

It’s a plus if you have dogs.

And the shaggy ones? It’s a double plus.

I love sitting in sinks:

When Mama is not home, that is.

If she ever sees me, she’d confiscate all those

old mills & boobs I read on the daily.

They are called: Mills & Boon.

But I say Boobs because they’re filled with

S.E.X. Satisfying. Enjoyment. X-rated.

Now I can’t read them around Papa,

because he’d burn them along with

them naked magazines

I see him with on Sundays.

When Mama goes to the community church

with that fat pastor, wearing those big,

broad hats that hides her bony face.

He’d read and read and read.

And I think it’s those old, smelly books

that caused my quick-growth crush on

Eric Jacobs.

I don’t mean the magazines,

I mean the romance books.

Who’s Eric?

Patience. Patience.

So eager to go to prison,

aren’t you?

Eric was/is perfect.

He reminds me of cherries.

The ones too far in the tress.

That you have to climb the balk to get them.

And your skirt gets caught

in an overgrown limb

and boys with their tricycles below

are getting flashes

of your cotton panties.

But you don’t care because,

boys are ugly

when you’ve met someone like Eric.

So let’s backtrack…

to the first day we spoke.

2 pretty up

So Papaw–I call him that sometimes

because of my accent.

It’s pronounced like Papa-ya.

It means Daddy, Dad, Father,

Pops. Sperm Donor.

He had plans to pick Uncle Eric up,

at the subway station.

He was coming by train.

And ew, he’s not my uncle.

Mamaw just liked to call him that.

But I don’t.

Because how could he be

when I’m this in love with him?

Before I finally met the man

that Papaw loved to drone about,

I didn’t know he would have been this…

Handsome.

But I wanted to go with them

to pick him up,

so when Mamaw called out:

“Jo! Jo-Jo! Go get

those rags off the line!”

She called panties, rags.

I raced down the stairs

at the speed of light.

Floral pink nightie

and bare feet.

I’d take all the prick from the

grass-ants and squishy mud.

I kept on my best behaviour.

Washed all the egg grease

and ketchup stains from the plates.

Mop the floors with bleach.

Then Mamaw said: “you can come,

go put on sumn’ propaw.”

I struggled to hook my bra.

And fought with my bangs.

And chose a good frock.

And in my head,

I was lighting up a cigar

and snapping a picture of myself.

Oh, uNcLe Eric.

He was a storm,

I didn’t know was coming.

But young girls

don’t prepare for storms.

Nah, they don’t.

Their parents do.

They only sit by the table

and play

with the molten wax from the candle.

And form hand animals with their shadows.

And pretend to be a ghost whisperer.

Mamaw never did prepare me for this hurricane.

And neither did Papaw.

3 at the subway

Let me tell you ‘bout the subway.

It was crowded.

And smelled like old fart.

And had people wearing hats and coats

and pushing each other around. “Outta my way!”

Mamaw held me close to her, like I was five.

Didn’t like it.

Then when Papaw waved his hand,

and Mamaw smiled and waved too.

I felt left out.

Because I couldn’t see him.

I tipped on my toes.

And peered over heads.

And tried to find what

they were so excited about.

Then I caught a glimpse of dirty-brown hair

and a grin and a straight nose

and a cigarette hanging from the corner

of a raspberry-pink mouth.

And my world stopped.

Uncle Eric was no Uncle.

He was youngish.

A bit old and a bit young.

He tore through the crowd

like a brewing hurricane.

See it here.

The Hurricane.

I froze like one of those mannequin Mamaw

used to pin up at the town’s old clothes shop.

And my heart hee-hawed like

the horses we had at our home.

Eric grinned and took my father in a big ‘ole hug.

Now that he was nearer, he was old.

Not old, old.

But older than me.

By…

Can’t tell ‘ya.

But…we were gaps a part.

I love men with pot bellies.

Eric has/had no pot belly.

He didn’t drive a truck. He had on a wife-beater

and smoked but I had to wait ‘till we got back

to know if he liked dogs.

The furry ones.

Then when he greeted Mamaw,

I shyly swung from left to right.

Waiting for my turn.

Mamaw came alive when they hugged.

She looked like a red rose.

And I knew then, he was no Uncle.

They just called him that.

Then his eyes settled on me.

And I pinked with sin.

Eric grinned wide. “who’s this?”

Before I can say a thing, Mamaw said:

“Joelene. Don’t remember her?”

“Of course, I do,” Eric said

with this cute smile,

“she’s got so big.”

He eyed me from head to toe.

Eyes fixed on my titties for too long.

And I thank God I started blooming

from seventh grade.

“Know me?” I raised a brow.

It came off rude.

Mama slapped my arm.

“Stop it!”

Uncle Eric just grinned wider.

“Of course, I do.”

“How?” I squinted my eyes

from the late morning sun.

“He came to look for us

some years ago. You were a baby then.

He was just finishing high school.”

Papaw said, gleaming with pride.

“Oh.” Was all I said,

but Eric kept looking

and looking and looking.

At Me.

Then Mamaw ruined everything

when she said: “time to go back.”

And I knew things were just going to start…

4 knee squeeze

Mamaw was cutting vegetables.

Papaw was fixing our old Tv.

It kept frying like meat on grill.

And speaking of meat, Eric was turning

the chicken legs

while he occasionally drank

from a bottle of beer.

And I lay spread on the couch,

one leg hung over the ridge,

the other hanging off the end.

Facing Eric’s back.

And when he looked back,

he swung me a smile.

It looked like a secret smile.

So I smiled back.

Then Mamaw looked around

just as he swung his face ahead again.

She stormed out the kitchen.

Slapped me on the knee.

And said: “sit properly!”

Then she pinched me on the arm,

it hurt like pepper,

and whispered in my ear:

“Close your legs, I’m seeing your whole morning.”

Morning means panties or crotch.

I sat up and fixed my dress,

fighting back anger

and annoyance.

Then the Tv finally came on.

Papaw was forcing Eric

to come watch the games with him.

Mamaw never liked that.

She frowned as Eric left.

Papaw sat at the end of the couch,

Eric sat next to me.

And as he passed by me,

he squeezed my knee.

And my body came alive.

Woah…

5 across the dinner table

So it was confirmed.

Uncle Eric was no Uncle.

He was Papaw’s friend.

They went to the same high school

where they wore these weird caps

and ugly-coloured Khaki.

They walked with books in their hands,

and wore pin-up shoes.

Then they went to the same overseas farm.

Picking tomatoes, and oranges,

and bell peppers for Canadian money.

Eric lived somewhere I can’t remember.

But there was a war happening in his country.

It was bad there.

That’s why he was here.

We watched some Tv after the game.

One of those black and white movies,

because my nurtures couldn’t pay for the cable.

Some men in pants and caps

and polo shirts came to cut it off.

Papaw belched more than once

as he sucked a dried-out orange,

disturbing Mamaw.

And each time, Eric would swing me

this face as if to say:

“we the only two people sane here, eh?”

And I would smile secretly.

I never missed when he stared at

my pale legs stretching from under

my washed-out nightie.

Then it was dinner time.

We all sat around the table to eat.

Mamaw sang one of her prayer refrains,

spat some words in a language I couldn’t understand,

wished for us to be washed in the blood of the lamb.

And I was being washed in two, sea-green eyes.

Eric sat on the other end,

right in front of me.

And boy, was he staring.

We ate and drank,

and I fed my skinny dog

mackerel from my plate.

And Eric leaned over and petted his head,

and I got heart in my eyes.

He liked dogs too; perfect.

Then it was time to wash the dishes.

And Mamaw practically forced me.

I hate washing the plates.

But boy did I love it when Eric said:

“I’ll help her.”

6 in suddy waters

Soapy, suddy waters.

Eric and I’s hands

were buried underneath.

Let me tell you where all the

shenanigans and hanky-panky

officially started.

Right here, when I was cleaning

the big dutch pot that Mama

did bake the pudding in.

I wondered why they’d call it

Dutch pot. Was it made by people

who spoke Dutch?

And speaking about languages,

Mamaw said Eric could speak

two languages:

English and Spanish.

I’d have loved to hear him speak

a sentence longer than ‘como estas?’

And ‘muy bien.’

And ‘gracias.’

The girls at the high school I go to

think it’s hot when boys can speak

different languages.

I think it’s hot when ‘men’ can speak

different languages.

There’s a Big and Long difference

between the two.

You’d have to have a painfully

mature brain

to get the pun.

And when it came to Eric,

I needed not look to know.

That there is a BIG

and LONG difference.

Then our hands brushed

underneath the cold waters.

We both were reaching for

the bent fork with aging flower

patterns on the handle.

Eric chuckled, and I smiled shyly.

“Almost mistook your fingers

for the sponge,” he said.

And when my mouth gaped

with no words coming out,

he added:

“Your hands are soft.”

And I felt like…the compliment,

like the smile,

was a secret.

So I glanced back

at my parents.

Still watching “The Sound of Music”

on our old box Tv.

Eric followed my eyes.

Then he laughed again.

“Those old movies

are for old folks, yeah?”

That was what

he asked.

And I answered:

“Yeah. A bit lame.”

He grinned. Then all of a sudden

he was leaning over.

Into my ear.

“Meet me in the hallway

later tonight. I’ll let you see

a real movie.”

7 rotten teeth

So when it was bedtime,

and the lights went down,

I stared up at the

glow in the dark stars.

And I kept thinking

about the rendezvous.


And when I knew my bring-ups

were well asleep.

I got up like those rats

that wait for darkness to bite

and rattle at biscuits

left on the counter.

Mamaw would have given me

a fine ass beating

had she come to know I was biting

biscuits at 12 in the night.

Her babygirl was sure

to get a rotten teeth.

Sweets at that time of the hour

without supervision

was not healthy.


And this rat wore a white nightie,

peach socks on one foot,

lemon on the other.

And a single pigtail

with glow-in the dark neon clips

from the Train trip 12 hours ago.


The hallway made no sound,

and the house was dark.

Eric was waiting by the steps.

Like,

He knew I’d come.

He said nothing as he got up.

His smile wasn’t there.

And when he took my hand,

it felt like ice.

Ice-cold, thick concrete.

And I thought:

“ah, this was what

a man should feel like.”

But I wished I could feel

other things.

Like his lips.

Then he took me

to a room.

The Spider-Man sheets,

that belonged to my

half-brother Dan,

and the 90’s monitor.

Daniel would come over

on holidays.

But this was Eric’s room

for a while.

So basically,

I was in Eric’s room.

My heart started racing.

Bodum. Bodum.

And I must have been

at a carnival.

Because all I was hearing

were drums.

8 coloured movies

But he really wanted us

to watch a movie.

Because here we were,

watching a comedic show

that was making us laugh.

‘Tis was coloured,

and haven’t been aired before

on our two-channel Tv.

And let me tell you,

the man could laugh.

Eric kept on laughing

and laughing

and laughing.

But then when all the joke

died down, and I started yawning

and stretching

and my frock rid up.

Eric paused the movie,

placed the phone on the

army-green bedsheets,

and asked: “tired?”

“A little,” I said.

Then he tilted his head.

A lock of brown hair

fell in his eyes.

And I felt like…boy,

was I looking at

Leonardo DiCaprio.

Not Leonardo DiCaprio

in Shutter Island.

I meant the Leonardo DiCaprio

in Titanic.

Eric then asked

with a heavy hint

of curiosity in his voice:

“How old are you,

Joelene?”

And I told him.

He tensed slightly.

Like a robot.

And I panicked.

I should have lied.

I should have lied.

I should have lied.

But quickly, his forehead

smoothed out again,

in the pale moonlight

streaming through

our boarded-up window.

Manure and wet grass from the barn

was strong in the room.

But Eric had smelled like

fresh laundry and Sunday mornings.

Here what now,

I had to make up for my age.

“What?” I crossed my arms.

“Why’d you ask?”

Eric chuckled

and ruffled my hair,

“Nothing, squirt.”

I huffed, “don’t call me that.”

“Why…squirt?” He teased.

He was annoying

and cute

all at the same time.

And I didn’t know

if I wanted to smile

or frown at all.

I did both.

Then Eric, taking his teasing too far,

brought his face to mine.

I could see his faint beard and

smell cigarette on his breath.

Cigarette. Weed. Hot.

“Ever been kissed, Squirt?”

And before he waited

for what I had to say,

Eric was leaning in

and placing his cold

rough lips on top of mine.

9 dry lips

Then it was over.

The kiss was dry,

and quick,

and plain.

One moment his lips

were on mine.

The next,

they were not.

Was this

how adults kiss?

It was fast,

like a blink.

Like skipping the channels

of a Tv.

Like dashing fast

through the freeway.

Mamaw would say otherwise:

“love comes from the gut;

it’s a feeling. A first kiss takes

your breath away.”

She’d say that when watching

those cheesy soap operas.

But Mamaw, I felt nothing here.

It was too fast.

I didn’t get the chance

to fantasise,

to dream, to hope.

To envision

what it would be like.

Eric didn’t make me have to

wait for it.

And when he was done,

he licked his lips,

sighed, and whispered:

“between us, alright?”

And all I could do

was nod.

Eric did it too fast.

I wasn’t ready.

I wanted a do-over.

It didn’t feel long-lasting.

It didn’t feel memorable.

But maybe this was how

older people kiss.

Butterflies are for ‘kids.’

Just like Trix are for ‘kids.’

And I felt like all my life

I’ve been tricked.

Then he asked:

did you like it?

No!

But I smiled and said:

“yes, I did.”

Eric seemed satisfied.

There was a big

‘ole grin on his face.

And I just wanted

my first kiss back.

10 dirty bloomers

I wanted it back,

so we could do it again.

This time longer,

and more detailed.

Not cold metal

against soft sand.

He could wet his lips.

I’d sit and wait

for him to do it.

Then we could

go again.

Maybe he could

hold my neck,

brush his lips

against mine first.

Or he could say

something like:

“man, you’re beautiful.”

“Look at you.”

“God spent a little more

time on you.”

Cheesy, but I’d have liked it.

Because lord knows,

I loved cheese.

And most especially

when Eric was eating it.

We were outside on the patio

and Eric was munching

on cheese sandwiches.

Occasionally, crumbs would cluster

on his lips.

It was cute when he used

his pink tongue

to get them off.

And I thought: boy,

he should have used

it while we kissed the other night.

Maybe,

it would have been better.

And my parents were questioning him

about the war.

“How the war?” Papaw asked,

shining his brown shoes with

that bad-smelling polish.

I pushed my top-lip up

to shield my nose while Mamaw

combed my hair.

As Eric spoke about

the big guns and blood-shed,

he kept looking over at me.

Again and again.

And I knew it was wrong,

but I made sure to sit

with my foot-bottoms

on my chair.

I was wearing a light frock.

Bloomers all in my drawers

and dirty baskets.

And Mamaw inputted:

“And how your girl doing?”

And I was wondering:

huh? who’s ‘his girl?’

And I knew it was coming.

Something greater than a war.

And Eric now looked weird,

biting unusually big into his bread.

“She’s doing alright.

Went to stay in the Netherlands.”

“Ah-okay. Nice gal, she is.”

Mamaw answered,

and I was not a younglin.

I knew what ‘your girl’ meant.

So before I knew it, I was getting up.

Mamaw cast me a feisty look.

“I’m not done, child.”

“I am NOT a child!” I almost screamed,

because I darn wasn’t.

And when I ran off, I could feel Eric’s eyes

on my back.

Because why did he kiss me

if he knew he had a gal?