#GODDOESNTWANTYOUTOBEPOOR McKinnell_Narrative

[Jesse_McKinnell]

Here are the first few pages of my new novel, #GODDOESNTWANTYOUTOBEPOOR:

Chapter 1

The sun rose on Lawson, Maine ushering in another sweltering July day, the fourth in a row and twelfth out of the last fourteen. Townsfolk sought relief as best they could. Backyards were dotted by plastic pools, and styrofoam coolers of thin beer. Kids dipped themselves in the quarry, floating in oversized black inner tubes until they felt hot enough to pop. Box fans occupied windows in the houses too poor for air conditioning, and shoppers lingered longer than necessary in the meat section of the Hannaford Super Market.  

For Jordie Furman, the heat meant people stopped buying his limited supply of skunk weed. This in turn meant Jordie had both considerably less income and more time on his hands, the ratio of each being inversely related to the other. Though not particularly stoic, Jordie was in his own way resourceful. Which is why on this, the hottest day of the year so far, with his neighbors seeking any form of shelter they could find, Jordie was outside laboring, and it had him in a particularly foul mood. 

His best, and only, friend Wiley Dutch, one of the town’s two USPS letter carriers, dropped by to make sure Jordie was staying out of trouble, a routine he had adhered to religiously ever since Jordie’s mother had abandoned him before his brain had finished developing.

“Hands up, dick weed.” Jordie spun around, weapon in hand.

“Jor, you know it’s me. It’s always me. No one else comes up to this shit hole.” To prove the farce, Wiley lifted his hands above his head and jutted his chin towards Jordie.

Jordie lowered the pellet gun and grunted. “Jesus Christ Wiley, you gotta stop sneaking up on me and shit.” He slammed the pea shooter back into a holster slung from his opposite shoulder to his waist. Fashioned out of an ancient, white t-shirt, and duct tape, yellow pit stains stood out on the brittle fabric. It hung off him, accentuating his slight frame in a way that, had a mirror been available, would have made Jordie self-conscious. His dark hair and thick eyebrows absorbed the heat of the sun, baking his brain.

Wiley, tall and awkward, towered over Jordie. When they were kids, on days like this, Jordie would joke unabashedly about seeking shade in his shadow. Now, without the hope that his body would catch up, accounting for their post-pubescent physical differences was a sore subject.

He turned his back to Wiley and resumed his work. “And you know damn well this town is full of tweakers. Never know when one of them is coming after my stash.”

“What’re you working on today?” Wiley dropped his faded blue, postal service pack on the crumbling drive. Junk mail spilled across the hot pavement. He pulled a handkerchief out of his back pocket and rubbed at the sweat that dotted his forehead.

“Fixing the drain spout so I catch all the water that comes off the roof.” Jordie pulled on a twisted piece of aluminum that was snaking down the side of his house. Ligaments in his neck popped out as he strained to force it into the dark blue plastic barrel that had fallen off a bait truck.

“They turn the water off again?” 

“Yeah,” Jordie’s voice was clipped through gritted teeth. The aluminum groaned, but held its shape. “Come on motherfucker…” The drain strained against the bolts that held it in place over the aluminum siding, resisting his attempts to coax it into a new shape.

Wiley watched the proceedings with growing disinterest.

“You still have power?”

“For now.”

“Anything cold in the fridge?”

“Probably…how should I know? Quit bothering me.” 

Jordie’s grip on the drain slipped and it sprang back into its original contour. His face turned red as he punted the barrel, foot landing with a dull thud.

“Fuck!” Jordie howled, hopping up and down on one foot grasping his freshly injured big toe.

Wiley ignored the theatrics and kicked at his mailbag, parsing through the letters with the sole of his boot, until three packages fell out. He picked them up and continued past Jordie into the house. “I got three today.”

“Be right there.” Jordie pounded the dirt with one hand and massaged his injured toe with the other.

Bent on revenge, he unholstered the gun from its sweat-stained improvised holster and fired three pellets at the overturned barrel. The shots clattered noisily against the thick plastic without doing any damage. Jordie cocked the gun sideways and emptied the rest of the ammunition into the side of the house. Metal shards scattered in every direction, including one that careened straight back, burying itself in his forehead. Jordie dug the shrapnel out of his skull and threw it into the grass. The house, with straight drain spouts, continued to loom over him, mocking his efforts.

Jordie holstered the gun and followed Wiley inside, slamming the screen door with extra zeal.

Wiley had already spread himself out across a smoldering futon. Pulled from the side of the road after a particularly rainy week, it served unfortunate double duty as both the most hospitable landing spot for guests and the sole padded sleep surface in the shack. The horrors witnessed by the moldy, styrofoam mattress could not be overstated. 

Wiley pointed towards the blood slowly trickling down Jordie’s forehead, pooling above his left eyebrow.

“What happened?”

“What you mean?” Jordie pulled a pair of beers out of the fridge and passed one of the cans to Wiley.

Wiley accepted the drink with silent gratitude and watched as blood overflowed the embankment of hair and dripped across Jordie’s eye. He wiped at it dismissively with his shoulder, but otherwise refused to acknowledge the wound.

“Never mind.”

“So you going to open those or what?” Jordie retrieved a dull chef’s knife from the kitchen and tossed it next to the three Amazon packages at Wiley’s feet. The knife was stained from hard water and had only ever been used to pry open cans after the can opener shit the bed.

Wiley cracked the beer, wincing as lukewarm foam sprayed his eyes. He blew at the top and took a swig. The beverage was barely cooler than the sweltering air, and too low in alcohol to put a dent in his brain. He drank it down as fast as he could, tossing the empty towards the kitchen before turning his attention to the boxes. 

He navigated the thin cardboard like a surgeon, cutting away the detritus without nicking the contents.

“Book.” He tossed it on the cushion next to him and turned to the remaining packages.

“Stick-on earrings.”

“Doll.”

“Is the doll still in the box?” Jordie was rifling through the open shelving in the kitchen. He pulled down the only food remaining in the house, a box of stale Fruity Pebbles, and poured a handful into his mouth.

“No, plastic bag. Couple of small smudges on its forehead, but overall in pretty good condition.”

“Is it retro?” Through a mouthful of cloying cereal, Jordie’s question was muffled.

“I mean … isn’t everything?” Wiley turned it over in his hands.

“Put it in the sell pile.”

Wiley tossed the doll into the corner next to a low-power blender, a stack of calendars featuring cats dressed like firemen, and thirty-two identical ceramic mugs, only two of which were chipped.

Jordie dropped the box of cereal in Wiley’s lap and flopped down next to him. He picked the book up, fingered the spine and started flipping through the pages.

“Who’s this guy?” he asked pointing at a sincere looking man with large capped teeth and greasily parted hair on the cover.

“Milo Johnson; one of those TV preachers.” Wiley stuffed a dozen brightly colored flakes between his teeth.

“Money is Love. How God’s Grace Turned Me From Pauper to Prosper,” Jordie recited from the front cover. “How to turn His grace into lasting success in only six months.” He flipped through the pages settling on a section in the middle full of glossy pictures. He held the book up to Wiley and pointed at a picture of a buxom blond woman in a small tiger-striped bikini. 

Wiley squinted at the grainy photo and wiped the sweat off his forehead. “He’s married to some model or something.” He confirmed. “Look, we going to sell the rest of this shit or what?”

Jordie ignored him and turned back to inspect the inscription under the photo. “My wife, July Summers, the most downloaded woman on AOL, May 1995.”

Wiley retrieved a new beer without asking Jordie if he wanted another round. He leaned against the sputtering fridge and flipped through his phone with his thumb. 

“Says that doll is a Suzie BurpsALot. Discontinued in 1986 after a disastrous Christmas roll-out. It was a knockoff Garbage Pail Kid, or something. Most of the stock was buried in landfills or shipped to China to be recycled into adult diapers. If you got the box that’s a $100 bill all day from a collector.”

Interest piqued, Jordie put the book down on the mattress. “What does the box look like?”

Wiley flipped his phone around so Jordie could see the bright green packaging with the word “Burp” blown up two times larger in a purple dripping font.

Jordie scratched his nose and studied the image. “Think we can fudge it?”

Wiley shrugged. “I don’t see why not.” 

He picked the doll back out of the pile, wiped at the black smudge on its face with his sweaty handkerchief, and carried it to the corner of the room placing it carefully on a piece of white poster board. Jordie twisted the knob on an ancient draftsmen light perched overhead. He stepped back with his phone and snapped pictures, turning the doll over on all four sides. Wiley scrolled through Google images on his phone looking for a clear picture of a mint Suzie BurpsALot box that he could white the background out of.

“You find one?” Jordie switched off the light and opened up the eBay app. 

Wiley nodded and airdropped him a picture of a new box with a scrubbed out background. It could survive only the laziest scrutiny. Within five minutes Jordie had opened up an auction for a “near mint” Suzie BurpsALot with a buy-it-now price of $100. 

“There,” he said, proudly showing the posting to Wiley. 

The feedback rating on his profile stood at 74%. Three times in the past two years complaints from buyers had forced him to abandon accounts, each one necessitating a new email and a scrub of his IP addresses. 

“Fine. You got any weed?” Wiley finished his beer.

“Nothing worth smoking.”

“You need my help listing the rest of this stuff?”

Jordie collapsed onto the futon, instinctively holding his breath until the mold spores had settled back down after his disturbance. “Nahh. It’s mostly junk.”

“What about the book?”

Jordie picked it up and flipped through the pages with his thumb. He settled back on the picture of July Summers. “I’ll post it later. Books are so cheap, they’re hardly worth the effort.”

Wiley stood next to the door and watched heatwaves rising from the pavement. His shoulders slumped. “I’m going to finish my route.”

“Sure.” Jordie was still looking at the book.

“I’ll bring by more packages tomorrow. Maybe we get lucky and find some nerd’s baseball cards.”

“Sure.” He repeated, leafing back to the beginning.

The door clanged shut behind Wiley as he trudged into the heat to finish his government job.

Jordie stretched out on the mattress with the book over his head and started reading.

I was born in a small farm town to indigent parents. My father fancied himself an ace salesman, hawking whatever could be carried door-to-door and plied to housewives. A stack of Encyclopedia Britannica’s sat undisturbed in our kitchen for seven months before my mother found the courage to admit he was never coming back home. 

Her natural and understandable response to this abandonment was to engage in an extensive recruiting campaign. She searched every bar, restaurant or hole in the wall that served alcohol, populating her bedroom with a steady stream of replacement father figures, searching for anyone with a paycheck willing to share the burden of me. None of them lasted more than a month or three, and after two years, having exhausted the supply, she decided I had been sufficiently nurtured so as to be self-sufficient.

At the age of fourteen, the shack we lived in was turned over to me, and our dog, Toto, a Rottweiler mix, was placed in my care. My mother absconded out West looking for acceptance and fulfillment. The last time I saw her, she was playing a receptionist in a John Hughes movie. It was not a speaking part.

My parents were heathens; dirty, unsaved and unclear of their purpose in life. They wandered about, burning up the years, chasing hair-brained schemes, and finding nothing but emptiness. I have forgiven them for their sins. 

It was through their struggle that I found the power of GOD and He has found me worthy of a profound life, filled with success, love, and wealth. It is through the lens of this extraordinary gift that I guide you into His loving arms and all the earthly pleasures that YOU are entitled to.