THE SAGA OF MARYLOU EARLY AND FLOYD STALL, A STORY OF LOVE AND HURT IN THE DEEP SOUTH
EPISODE 31, HIGH ON THE HOG
When Floyd Stall reached the old road to Smithville he took a deep breath, almost able to taste the freedom in the air as he quickened his pace. That goddamned Marylou had gone and cut it good this time, used that wicked Early tongue of hers and got him where it really hurt. A man could only take so goddamned much and he taken all he was ever gunna take from that ball bearing bitch. She’d cut it good she had; permanent good and he was goddamned glad to finally be out of that hell hole of a trailer.
Sure it’d been nice livin’ up off the ground on them big ole rubber tires, with runnin’ water and lectric lights, but right was right and there was no two ways about it. It’d made him lazy is what it’d done—made him overlook that goddamn Early tongue of hers for too long. Twenty three feet of luxury and high livin’ couldn’t buy Floyd Stall—Stalls weren’t for sale and never would be—that was for goddamn sure, and then for goddamned sure again. And no matter what was said it just weren’t right ta’ do the things these city folks did in the house in the first place. Pappy would turn in his goddamned grave he would.
Still there was somethin’ a tuggin’ at him, somethin’ he hadn’t expected, a tug of . . . He angrily shrugged the feeling off. He was goin’ home where a man could get a little respect and live like a man was supposed to. He had fambly back in them woods, including a passel of good lookin’ cousins that still had most of their teeth. He sorely missed that bunch, especially Jolene, and every one of them would welcome him home with open arms and more if they weren’t with the curse.
Except for that dag blamed curse, you’d be hard pressed to find a finer or more understanin’ bunch a cousins when the hankerin’ was on a man. Unfortunately that dag blamed curse was like clockwork with Early, Stall and Fulton females. The sonofabitch always struck em’ all around the time of the full moon, and that bastard would be a risin at sundown today. The whole lot of em’ would be ornery and bleedin’ for a goddamned week.
It didn’t matter; nothin’ mattered cept bein out of that goddamned trailer, and relief was what he was feeling anyway—that was it in a goddamned nutshell and that’s all it was, just plain old fashioned physical relief like the kind that stared all this. Yep, relief was the right word—that’s what he was feeling. Relief at finally being able to leave, to do what the hell he wanted without someone nagging on him all the time. He’d do his business and anything else he wanted anytime, anywhere, and any goddamned way that goddamned pleased him. After it all was said and done a man’s dignity was his measure; worth telling the bitch to kiss his ass, worth livin’ in them woods, well worth it a thousand times over, and what in the hell had she ever done for him anyway?
“Nag,” he said aloud. That’s what the bitch had done, nag, nag, nag, and then nag some goddamned more. Floyd do this, Floyd do that, Floyd wash yourself, Floyd change you underwear, Floyd we’re running out of this that or the other, Floyd, Floyd, Floyd. The bitch’s favorite word was Floyd. Sure she allowed privileges, but only when the mood struck her. She’d let the hound out; that was her secrete little signal; let the critter out so the mutt wouldn’t hear the loud pestering; as if it gave a big shit. She was good then, he had to admit that, maybe even better than Jolene, especially the way she kicked them long Early legs of hers around and hollered, but it was on her mood and it was still Floyd do this or that.
She liked his big Stall pecker, that’s what the bitch liked. The Stall’s was famous for big peckers around these parts, everyone knew that. Sure she’d give head, but only until she was sure the massive bastard had achieved its full nine inches. Even that was an argument with Marylou. Everyone knew you measured from the bunghole, which was the true length of the old bone, but she liked to insult him and measure along the side, claiming the monster was only five and a half inches. The bastard was big around as a beer bottle and always so hard a mountain lion would a ruin his claws afore scratchin’ it; the bitch couldn’t deny that.
Still, it was anything to get a goddamned dig in; that was Marylou Early, and one way or ta other she’d end up a mounted on that huge bastard. She liked bein’ in control and it was a flesh frenzy for a time, but as soon as she let go her a couple of nuts, she’d head for the front door to let the mutt in and that’d be it. He always broke the dam, he made goddamn sure of that, but it didn’t matter to her if he’d unleashed him a flood or not. It was like she was doing him a goddamn favor and he was sick of it. And there was no round two with that one, not anymore, no sir re bob. There wasn’t even any dirt road or sack garglin’ nowadays. That was for them that worked at the mill and brought the big bucks back to their trailers. It was wham bam thank you man, and that’s all the hell it was. There was nothin’ there, nothin’ that counted, and probably never had been.
What Marylou Early needed was her ass slapped around; slapped around real good, maybe even a nice black eye so she could look in that fancy bathroom mirror and be reminded she was dealing with a man that used to make top money and buy good weed. Plus she’d have to show her shame around the mobile estate park. That'd bring the bitch down off her high horse that all this fancy livin’ on rubber tires had allowed. Let her learn what it was like to have her dignity dragged through the dirt. That’d teach her a goddamn thing or two.
When a car pulled up next to him he recognized the rod knock and lifter noise of their old Ford wagon and shoved his hands deeper in his pockets. He knew it was her, but didn’t look over and kept walking.
Marylou leaned across the seat, driving with one hand as she hollered through the wagon’s broken passenger window. Someone at the park had put a rock through it last year. Floyd said he was a goin’ to fix it, but hadn’t got around to it yet.
“Floyd, where ‘ya a goin’? You don’t need ta be mad, Floyd. I wasn’t mad at you, baby.”
He set his jaw, keeping his eyes on the road shoulder ahead as he quickened his pace.
“Floyd please,” her voice pleaded. “You know how much I hate an explosive crap when you don’t flush or clean after yourself. It’s just the way I was raised—I can’t help it. I saw too much of that. I’m tellin’ you I can’t help it, Floyd.”
He stopped, turning to her as she brought the car to a halt next to him. Screwing his face into a scowl he screamed, “I heard what ‘ya called me Marylou! Nobody calls me that—nobody! I’m a Stall! If you was a man I’d stomp a mud hole in your ass right here and now!”
“I didn’t mean it, Floyd!” she yelled pitifully, holding back tears as she shook her head vigorously no. “I swear to god I didn’t mean it, baby!”
He stood looking at her through the wagon’s broken window. She was wearin’ them damn store bought shorts of hers that showed off her long legs, and the way she was leant’ across the seat had her big tits straining the cups and straps of the fancy K-Mart brassier he’d let her send off for. She probably had on those shiny matching panties he’d allowed too. Marylou was a ball bearing bitch, but put together like a brick shit house. She was all Early she was, and in addition to wicked tongues, Early’s was famous in these parts for long legs and big tits.
“We’re a havin' tacos tonight,” she said quietly, breaking the silence that seemed loud despite the insistent knocking of the old Ford’s engine. “The food stamps came and if I stretch em’ good we won’t have to et’ possum or squirrel for two weeks or better. I already done grated the cheese and everything. I know you're partial to tacos and I have me a passel of them taco bell hot sauce packets you like ta’ put on em.”
Floyd found himself hesitating a moment before finding new resolve. “You can’t buy me that easy, Marylou—not this time! I ain’t anybody’s stinky ass. That’s what ‘ya called me Marylou! A stinky ass! We’re kin and ‘ya called me a stinky ass!”
“I’m sorry, Floyd—it won’t happen again. I . . . I just lost my head when I saw the mess. It ain't like takin’ care of business in the outhouse. We got us a real flush crapper now.”
“You lost your head,” he said slowly, mockingly. “What about me! What about me, Marylou! You been livin’ so high on the hog you think it’s alright to cut a man’s balls off now! That’s what ‘ya did! Whacked em’ right off! Took my manhood ya’ did!”
Marylou was quiet and staring for a moment. “I’ll let the critter out after we et’ them tacos,” she said softly. “That’ll fetch that manhood back.”
Floyd found himself hesitating again but finally said, “And you’ll keep him out for a time? Will ‘ya do that, Marylou?”
“Until American Idol comes on at eight. You can pester on me all you want till then. It’ll have to be the dirt road. I been with the curse since mornin.”
Floyd hesitated yet again; thinking about Marylou’s nice back forty. She’d always been right good about letting him plow it when she was with the curse. Behind that thought was one of the massive 19 inch black and white back at the trailer. He’d been a ponderin’ on American Idol; tryin’ to figure who was gonna’ take it. The one thing they didn’t have back in them woods was lectricity and TV.
“And there’ll be no more of that pullin' back when you’re a givin' head,” he said. “I know you was taught better ta’ home. You’re a stayin’ right on that huge bastard till the dam busts and the lakes gone dry. Then you’re gonna sit up nice and straight and stick your tongue out so I can make sure ya’ swallered and aren’t a cheatin’ on me.”
She nodded after a moment, and after another moment, Floyd reached for the door handle.
Marylou did a u-turn and headed the old Ford back to the Emeryville Mobil Estate Park. Floyd was right, they had been a livin’ high on the hog, but there was no way in hell she was movin back to the woods with Pa and her brothers Jubal and Ernest. If it wasn't one of them a wantin' ta' pester an pleasure, it was ta' other, always sayin' she had to be good enough for her own kin afore they'd chance sendin' her off ta’ others. And Floyd was just a first cousin which was legal in these parts, and they had them a good bond, almost like on TV. He’d just been a little antsy since getting laid off at the mill, but 5.53 an hour jobs just didn’t come along everyday for plain folk, and all he could affort’ ta’ smoke nowadays was trash weed and not much of that. The oil change place over in Smithville said they might be able to use him when things picked up. It was the break he’d been a waitin’ for. He’d have ta’ work with coloreds, but Floyd said he’d do it. He’d be alright once they was a back on their feet.
