“Wethinks, the daring spirit of HOYOTOHO should not be limited to musical conquests alone.”
Dangerous!?..this thought burning holes through our cerebellums…burning, yearning, and alas: the manifold blackbook of subversive literary artists was retrieved from its damp medieval chamber.
Numero UNO on the ‘Most Wanted List of Literary Renegades’: J.E. Yesman.
J.E. Yesman is something of an American enigma. His short stories possess a rugged descriptive style reminiscent of Thoreau, paired with an suggestive humor not far removed from FOX’s Sunday Night animation classics. One thing’s certain, Yesmans’ skill for staging a moral/ethical dilemma is unusual amongst the up-and-coming generation of literati. Let not the idyllic setting fool you–in the world of Yesman: Happy endings are for sissies.
Now without further adieu, HOYOTOHO.com presents the provocative prose of J.E. Yesman.
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A Short Story:
There wasn’t much activity in the small Missouri Valley town of Wesleyan. The gossip parade from the old, weathered ladies had died down a week or two ago if only because of them dying, the memory of whom blew away in the swarthy, ceaseless breeze that tumbled the tumbleweeds down what used to be a fairly busy Main Street. A Main Street that previous to what can now be called current was filled with hookers and gangsters and priests, but all had either passed to the area six feet beneath or to the nearest town that could be described as anything but “ghostly”. Now, all that remained were the furnishings of a population who took life seriously and the skeleton buildings of the townspeople who filled their lives with love, money, and religion; even the children, who frolicked in the dandelions and bathed in the town’s mineral water rivers were gone, probably dead from the corruption of their parents or the perversion of their preachers: speculation. Nevertheless, Wesleyan’s town morale was left to the upkeep of its last two citizens. It was a father and son, know they would have left with the rest if not for the predicament of a crippling disease and an equally de-habilitating loyalty.
For whatever the reason everyone had left, neither the father nor the son knew. Shut-ins from the world and Shutouts by the world, word of the reason for the mass exodus hadn’t reached them in their archaic late nineteenth century shanty at the edge of the town and near the outskirts of the valley. It was only when they saw a string of men, women, and children hand in hand passing over the horizon that they learned of the evacuation. The son was frustrated as obvious questions fluttered through his mind: Why are they leaving? Why aren’t we going? What will we do? He was twenty-four and educated well, but only in terms of farming. Letters, to the son, didn’t make sense and numbers angered him. On the other hand, the father’s apathy equaled his son’s frustration. His mind was filled with the concern of his oncoming demise. His thoughts were the only part of his being still working. Eyes didn’t twitch, ears didn’t wiggle, mouth didn’t open, and rest assured appendages didn’t move; his muscles were relaxed and locked and never to be disturbed. He had his thoughts though, so he thought about the adventure of the afterlife and the rights and wrongs he’d committed and the chances of Heaven or Hell. And, he did this in his rocker on his front porch as small drops of saliva pooled around his chapped lips and streamed down his salt-stained neck; meanwhile, the son sat staring at his quadriplegic father and the tears, he couldn’t stop his tears, because he had gone through the town and called and looked and he discovered there wasn’t anybody left. So, he then went to the church and chattered through a few minutes of prayer to the One above.
After the earnest mutters, the son looked through a poorly finished stained glass window and saw his father through a violet red pane covered in a swarm of grasshoppers, or at least enough grasshoppers to see from one block away. Suddenly, ideas flowed, nasty things about their predicament—starvation, illness, death—all were succinct possibilities, but none of these ailments had a solution, save for one. He could leave.
He knew his father couldn’t however, so he went through Wesleyan picking up food and other essentials wanting to take care of his father for as long as he could. Providing for him put the son in the right mindset and it was fine and perfect and quiet for two weeks. Two weeks of waking to the snoring statue of his father and seeing his malnourished chest heaving up and collapsing down was the only joy he needed, but after two weeks, he realized that their food was nearly gone and winter time was approaching and he wouldn’t survive much longer without food or energy. Furthermore, the nearest town was twenty miles northward of Wesleyan, and, well, he didn’t have much of a choice. He couldn’t let his father suffer; he was going to perish anyway. It was a confusing circumstance for the son, but human nature seems to always take effect, and selfishness doesn’t wane in many conditions, much less this type of situation.
The son then decided on what would be best for himself and also his crippled father. He made the long, slow walk to the shed, while scattering the slew of abandoned dogs that were beginning to show signs of the madness and he grabbed the rusted six-shooter sitting atop the highest shelf. Loading the chambers with only one round from the piles and piles of rounds in the middle shelf, he held back a few memories and decided the way to handle this predicament was through Fate. He was going to let Destiny decide. The son was going to play Roulette and let some spiritual force pass judgment upon his father’s future. But, the priority was to first clean and oil the gun in the most methodical of ways. He reached for a rag and worked, deciding to work until the rust had disappeared, he was in the shed for the whole evening. He missed dinner, he neglected his father too, and he did so until that gun was shiny.
When finished, the son stood and marched through the piles of dogs and he giddily jumped the steps leading up his porch to his concrete father. The son studied his dad for a moment, peering into his bloodshot, green eyes and once satisfied he took the revolver and spun the chamber and muttered quite savagely something unintelligible. Then, he squeezed. Nothing. He squeezed again. Nothing. He broke the rules. Thus, Destiny decided for him on the third squeeze.
The explosion surprised the son, but not as much as the result. With a whimper, he dropped the gun and fell backwards, landing close to the pack of dogs already smelling him and dying with the words, “Damn Backfires,” on his lips.
The half moon was bright that night and it reflected off the son’s open eyes, but no reflection was brighter than the one radiating from the father’s teeth, which had been exposed by the gunshot blast.
