Stains of Gluten

 

Chapter 1

 

          Growing up, I’ve been taught, numerous times, that my soul is gluten free. My parents made sure to let me know, day after day, week after week. The conversations went something like this: we’d be sitting around the dinner table, and Dad would say to me, “So son…how was school?” “Eh,” I would reply, because I hated my dad and didn’t like talking to him. “You know son, your soul is gluten free,” he would say. “Wow, that’s great,” I would mumble, rolling my eyes. On another occasion, I was out on an oil rig, rigging some oil, and whatever other oil-drenched activities take place on an oil rig. On this particular day, I was so dreadfully covered in oil that I retired to my bedroom on the 3^rd floor of the oil rig, so that I might change my clothes. Upon opening my closet, I discovered my mom sitting there. “Mom, what are you doing here?” I asked, somewhat surprised.

         “That’s what I’ve been meaning to ask you, son!” she exclaimed, visibly upset. “It was only five years ago that you ran away from home. Won’t you come home, son? Won’t you?”

          I turned my back. How could I go home? How could I? How could I go back to that life I once knew, a life of drugs, alcohol, and stand-up comedy? How could I repair the damage done to all my family, my friends, and my pet iguana? And how on earth did my mom get inside my oil-rig bedroom closet?

          How?

          “I don’t know, Mom,” I said, the emotions swirling deep within me, whatever the crap that meant. My father, Jeremiah, was a very stern man. He rarely smiled. His only method of communication with me was shaking his head in disappointment, because that’s all I had ever been to him. Oh, and that time at the dinner table where he told me about my gluten-stained soul. That was an exception. Was it really time for me to go back? Was it really time for me to reconcile with my father, the only father I had ever known, the only father to have ever fathered me like a true father? Was it? I turned and looked at my mom. I stared into her eyes, those penetrating blue eyes.

          Do it for mom, a voice said inside of me. Do it for dad.

         “I’ll do it!” I yelled, triumphantly, lighting up my favorite cigar. My mom shed a tear.

          “I knew you’d come home, son,” she said, a smile on her face.

          “Whadda ya say you and I get outta here?” I said, putting my arm around her, drenching her in oil. Somehow though, the cigar lit all the oil on fire, and from there it was just a really really bad day, to say the least.

 

Chapter 2

 

          It’s almost 60 years later. I’ve grown old. Most of my face is gone from the day the oil-rig fire tore it all off. But I still look back upon that day and laugh. Old Mom sitting in that closet. How did she get in there? She always had a way of getting into your closet. I laugh again. “My mom,” I say to myself, smiling. It doesn’t really look like a smile, because, like I said, most of my face is burned off.

          I live in a rest home now. It’s hell. I hate the food, I hate the people, I hate the smell. The only thing that keeps me company is my television set, old favorites like “The Lawrence Welk Show” and “Matlock.” I push the “call” button every 10 minutes, but nobody ever comes to visit me. I haven’t had a visitor in at least seven months. You might think that crazy.

          This is my curse. And this is why when I get out of this place, I’m going to form a band called “Stains of Gluten”. Because all my life I’ve been deceived into thinking that there were no traces of gluten on my soul. But there are, my friend. There are! You know how I know? BECAUSE SOME CRAZY BEARDED HOMELESS GUY TOLD ME. Yeah! What do you think of that?! And this guy has already agreed to be the drummer in my band. Welp, I’ve got to go now. See ya.