[Liquid] Supreme
Mar. 22nd, 2009 12:55 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
crankyoldmanFandom: Original
Rating: PG-13
Summary: The ghetto experience had taught her the true currency was genetics.
Notes: Only two more parts left! Spring Break has been oddly productive.
Song: Preview only!
Previous Parts: In the list here.
She wanted to say the ghetto experience was an experiment in sociology; that she hadn't really become white trash. That such a thing was a figment of the imagination, some illusion to pass the time between her idealized poor husband and her empty stomach. To think that class really existed was perhaps the greatest shock of all. To think that marrying into a lower one wasn't as charitable as she thought was what made her bitter until even his even-tempered soul wanted to shove her face into the carpet; it twitched when he spoke, she could see it. Throwing their TV trays aside as he emphasized all the virtues she was not sold the deal. At least she didn't have to defend the saints she kept in her pack of cigarettes, hidden in the backpack supposedly containing books.
'We are as we are, just dirty figments of the once high god, you realize.'
One didn't really become white trash until the Other recognized it; the hip sway, the sizing up of the minority--classy white girl to trash in just three moves. At the bus stop she could almost be an artist, but walking through the streets of the places the railroads forgot with her baggy pants and over-large t-shirts and hair not cut in what seemed like years made her one of them.
And he seemed too eager to let her meet the friend he'd made at work.
Supreme talks about his baby's mother like a whore. Sweet 16 she is, with future uncertain, love incomplete. Soapy days for Jr. and she. At 3, Supreme comes to give his boy a pat and a pound, put his hoodie on the couch, his Timberlands up on the chair so his bitch can bring him a beer. So, this is the Nuclear family? Mommy, baby... and Daddy makes a mess of his baby's mother's hair as they fuck 'til her mother comes in from work.
Pay-per-view movie while the toddler wailed, and the hot dogs boiled on the stove; in another life, she would have flinched at that. When he looked at her, he always smiled; the good wife had come with him to see the perfect family. She tried to avoid the toddler's toys as he threw them, his mother avoided them in an oblivious haze. Maybe she would get some of what Mother Trash was on.
"So your husband says you're real smart, gonna make something and you'll be rich someday."
She hid the lip snarl with one of the hot dogs; tasteless boiled things. After a swallow she could respond to Father Trash, with some kind of decency.
"It's supposed to work like that."
She'd learned that trying to explain what her ambitions were just got blank looks and head pats. If she played the hand of Proud Intelligent Woman now it would just go without a call and no stakes. Conversation was a gamble anyway when she was trying to beat down the urge to strangle someone else's progeny.
"You should invest. I hear real estate is where its at."
If it were really that simple, Father and Mother Trash wouldn't be in subsidized housing, and she sure as hell wouldn't be talking to them. Her disgust would be an open palm instead of the tight fist burrowed into couch cushions. Charity and sympathy were much easier concepts when the filth of her own existence didn't bring bile to her mouth.
She's playing house, he's playing man and Jr. is the only one who accepts he's just a child. Wild nights she had with a swish of her stuff, knocked up to a waddle, a baby carriage bustle and still gets her play. But her dream is true romance... well sorta, everyday from 3 to 6. Supreme leaves out before Mommy comes kick his lazy narrow behind back onto the street. He's not a corner boy. The bodega in the 40's is mid-block where bullets flock, no names engraved and he may be next. Shielded by the patron saint of the brothers. Being there is all there is.
It was harder to smile when he put his arm around her, with these Christian folk. They didn't offer anything for her to dull the under layer of violence that has built up within her, no liquor to sate the beast that hid behind her long eyelashes. These Christan folk with their dull-eyed wives never seemed to have what she needed to get through forced socialization and her own husband's parade of normalcy and she wasn't quite ready to steal it. The fact they meant well while their child ran rampant is what made the shake come back to her hand; how many people forgot about the now for the sake of the afterlife?
Mother Trash probably thought the afterlife was free pay-per-view.
She almost snapped when the toddler's toy hit the sweet spot at her temple. The place where she had wondered how hard she could push only three nights before. Her accent came unbidden with them; more geography than theirs, which came from long hours in the stockroom and getting knocked up at the prom. She managed to save all the venom for the boy, an innocent really, he couldn't help that his parents were only still children themselves. Play actors. The toddler didn't realize that her flash of steel grey was really a silent prayer that he be drowned before they molded him into something truly useless.
"I ain't really lookin' into real estate. Just hopin' ta git through school 'fore it gits much more hard."
Mother Trash blinked her googly eyes, and promised her son candy. Father Trash seemed more at ease now that the high speech was gone from her vocabulary, and the good wife was out. Because the good wife understood how best to respond to the hardworking folk, the disenfranchised real people that weren't hindered by commercialism like the places she had come from. They watched their televisions while their children tore up the house; her family had done so out of an inability to communicate. She was much better off with the simple folk.
"When you lookin' to start a family?" And her husband smiled the smile that preceded the cheap vodka brought to her before she had learned to need it.
Living lovely without turning the corner, reaching for a swig brings sweat to his brow and shit to his mouth, dispelling knowledge on the stuffs, the pleasing things the baby's mother do, dousing the sidewalk with wretch of a boy/man, breaking Friday night to seek man/hood in a paper bag. Says, "Fatherhood is real cool and the kid looks like me so she better not let nothing happen to him or I’ma kill the bitch."
Could she parody Mother Trash, the student girl-woman with the wild son? They used to call her dramatic with her big gestures and outrageous speech, her cockateel hair and predilection for costumes instead of clothes. But here in the subsidized house that smelled of boiled hot dogs and dirt she couldn't quite bring that up.
If the Other had deemed her White Trash, and Queen Nefertiti couldn't stand to look at her, then why the hell did she deny? If it looked and smelled like...
"Maybe in a couple years," he answered for her, taking away what could have been the performance of her life. Hadn't they agreed that her aristocratic body was unfit for the burden of breeding? Then again, three months ago he still pretended like the rings of sludge in the shower were his duty to take care of, not assumed to be her womanly care.
She had to remind herself that she'd asked for this.
"If at all," she added, letting a breath out like it should have been saturated with nicotine. She was hallucinating her ways out now, entertaining herself with a fiction that Mother Trash had revealed her stash behind the toaster and they were doing what all good future breadwinning wives did and baked their minds out of reality.
Such a child. Such a victim this way that she painted with shit.
Sudden twitch to the roll of the wheel, trained steel stained blue puts punk on the wall for some trumped up call from precinct 101. Monday at 3, the baby's mother waits, Jr. in her arms, patiently at the door, doesn't know what she misses. Locked into the routine, a project queen. Supreme rode off into the sunset with a 3 to 6 all his own. Took a week for her to find out, a minute to promise devotion, her life on hold as Supreme calls checking on his boy (and the baby's mother). Life on the outside ain't even worth it. Shit. Who screwed whom?
He squeezed her shoulder a little hard, reminding her of the way that TV trays flew through the air in front of her. Was implied violence as bad as the violence itself? Some old dead white guy had probably pondered that between his gay love affairs. Everyone knew that educated men wanted nothing to do with educated women.
"You two would make cute kids. With such blue eyes. You're like... what's the word for it?"
"Aryan."
"Yeah, like some kind of Aryan dream. Blond and blue-eyed pretty babies."
The ghetto experience had taught her the true currency was genetics; and she was fucking rich in that. Her Viking husband and her own heritage meant for the most envied phantom children. Her possible sons threw toy cars with Mother and Father Trash's one and only, but they were pretty at least. The stringy strands of blonde on her husband's head and her blue steel was the jackpot in any country and class. Even starving they could be royalty.
"World domination and everything." His gods hung dead on trees and hers were cackling over the bones of scapegoats.
There’s not enough room in the pen for them both to stay locked into their little worlds they will. Leather gear, X skullie, Size 2 Docs. Man, Jr.’s the fliest shit in nursery care. Paid for by W.I.C., so who's getting dicked?
It almost made intelligence a moot point, watching her phantom children wreck the subsidized house and burn the world down. She could practically drink the hunger in his eyes, realizing they were sharing the same vision for the first time in forever.
"Maybe."
She wondered how much cheap vodka it would take this time, for him to talk her down on her knees and then her back. The place a sensitive man like him never said but always hoped.
How much had it taken for Mother Trash to produce an heir?
Who reigns supreme?
Rating: PG-13
Summary: The ghetto experience had taught her the true currency was genetics.
Notes: Only two more parts left! Spring Break has been oddly productive.
Song: Preview only!
Previous Parts: In the list here.
She wanted to say the ghetto experience was an experiment in sociology; that she hadn't really become white trash. That such a thing was a figment of the imagination, some illusion to pass the time between her idealized poor husband and her empty stomach. To think that class really existed was perhaps the greatest shock of all. To think that marrying into a lower one wasn't as charitable as she thought was what made her bitter until even his even-tempered soul wanted to shove her face into the carpet; it twitched when he spoke, she could see it. Throwing their TV trays aside as he emphasized all the virtues she was not sold the deal. At least she didn't have to defend the saints she kept in her pack of cigarettes, hidden in the backpack supposedly containing books.
'We are as we are, just dirty figments of the once high god, you realize.'
One didn't really become white trash until the Other recognized it; the hip sway, the sizing up of the minority--classy white girl to trash in just three moves. At the bus stop she could almost be an artist, but walking through the streets of the places the railroads forgot with her baggy pants and over-large t-shirts and hair not cut in what seemed like years made her one of them.
And he seemed too eager to let her meet the friend he'd made at work.
Supreme talks about his baby's mother like a whore. Sweet 16 she is, with future uncertain, love incomplete. Soapy days for Jr. and she. At 3, Supreme comes to give his boy a pat and a pound, put his hoodie on the couch, his Timberlands up on the chair so his bitch can bring him a beer. So, this is the Nuclear family? Mommy, baby... and Daddy makes a mess of his baby's mother's hair as they fuck 'til her mother comes in from work.
Pay-per-view movie while the toddler wailed, and the hot dogs boiled on the stove; in another life, she would have flinched at that. When he looked at her, he always smiled; the good wife had come with him to see the perfect family. She tried to avoid the toddler's toys as he threw them, his mother avoided them in an oblivious haze. Maybe she would get some of what Mother Trash was on.
"So your husband says you're real smart, gonna make something and you'll be rich someday."
She hid the lip snarl with one of the hot dogs; tasteless boiled things. After a swallow she could respond to Father Trash, with some kind of decency.
"It's supposed to work like that."
She'd learned that trying to explain what her ambitions were just got blank looks and head pats. If she played the hand of Proud Intelligent Woman now it would just go without a call and no stakes. Conversation was a gamble anyway when she was trying to beat down the urge to strangle someone else's progeny.
"You should invest. I hear real estate is where its at."
If it were really that simple, Father and Mother Trash wouldn't be in subsidized housing, and she sure as hell wouldn't be talking to them. Her disgust would be an open palm instead of the tight fist burrowed into couch cushions. Charity and sympathy were much easier concepts when the filth of her own existence didn't bring bile to her mouth.
She's playing house, he's playing man and Jr. is the only one who accepts he's just a child. Wild nights she had with a swish of her stuff, knocked up to a waddle, a baby carriage bustle and still gets her play. But her dream is true romance... well sorta, everyday from 3 to 6. Supreme leaves out before Mommy comes kick his lazy narrow behind back onto the street. He's not a corner boy. The bodega in the 40's is mid-block where bullets flock, no names engraved and he may be next. Shielded by the patron saint of the brothers. Being there is all there is.
It was harder to smile when he put his arm around her, with these Christian folk. They didn't offer anything for her to dull the under layer of violence that has built up within her, no liquor to sate the beast that hid behind her long eyelashes. These Christan folk with their dull-eyed wives never seemed to have what she needed to get through forced socialization and her own husband's parade of normalcy and she wasn't quite ready to steal it. The fact they meant well while their child ran rampant is what made the shake come back to her hand; how many people forgot about the now for the sake of the afterlife?
Mother Trash probably thought the afterlife was free pay-per-view.
She almost snapped when the toddler's toy hit the sweet spot at her temple. The place where she had wondered how hard she could push only three nights before. Her accent came unbidden with them; more geography than theirs, which came from long hours in the stockroom and getting knocked up at the prom. She managed to save all the venom for the boy, an innocent really, he couldn't help that his parents were only still children themselves. Play actors. The toddler didn't realize that her flash of steel grey was really a silent prayer that he be drowned before they molded him into something truly useless.
"I ain't really lookin' into real estate. Just hopin' ta git through school 'fore it gits much more hard."
Mother Trash blinked her googly eyes, and promised her son candy. Father Trash seemed more at ease now that the high speech was gone from her vocabulary, and the good wife was out. Because the good wife understood how best to respond to the hardworking folk, the disenfranchised real people that weren't hindered by commercialism like the places she had come from. They watched their televisions while their children tore up the house; her family had done so out of an inability to communicate. She was much better off with the simple folk.
"When you lookin' to start a family?" And her husband smiled the smile that preceded the cheap vodka brought to her before she had learned to need it.
Living lovely without turning the corner, reaching for a swig brings sweat to his brow and shit to his mouth, dispelling knowledge on the stuffs, the pleasing things the baby's mother do, dousing the sidewalk with wretch of a boy/man, breaking Friday night to seek man/hood in a paper bag. Says, "Fatherhood is real cool and the kid looks like me so she better not let nothing happen to him or I’ma kill the bitch."
Could she parody Mother Trash, the student girl-woman with the wild son? They used to call her dramatic with her big gestures and outrageous speech, her cockateel hair and predilection for costumes instead of clothes. But here in the subsidized house that smelled of boiled hot dogs and dirt she couldn't quite bring that up.
If the Other had deemed her White Trash, and Queen Nefertiti couldn't stand to look at her, then why the hell did she deny? If it looked and smelled like...
"Maybe in a couple years," he answered for her, taking away what could have been the performance of her life. Hadn't they agreed that her aristocratic body was unfit for the burden of breeding? Then again, three months ago he still pretended like the rings of sludge in the shower were his duty to take care of, not assumed to be her womanly care.
She had to remind herself that she'd asked for this.
"If at all," she added, letting a breath out like it should have been saturated with nicotine. She was hallucinating her ways out now, entertaining herself with a fiction that Mother Trash had revealed her stash behind the toaster and they were doing what all good future breadwinning wives did and baked their minds out of reality.
Such a child. Such a victim this way that she painted with shit.
Sudden twitch to the roll of the wheel, trained steel stained blue puts punk on the wall for some trumped up call from precinct 101. Monday at 3, the baby's mother waits, Jr. in her arms, patiently at the door, doesn't know what she misses. Locked into the routine, a project queen. Supreme rode off into the sunset with a 3 to 6 all his own. Took a week for her to find out, a minute to promise devotion, her life on hold as Supreme calls checking on his boy (and the baby's mother). Life on the outside ain't even worth it. Shit. Who screwed whom?
He squeezed her shoulder a little hard, reminding her of the way that TV trays flew through the air in front of her. Was implied violence as bad as the violence itself? Some old dead white guy had probably pondered that between his gay love affairs. Everyone knew that educated men wanted nothing to do with educated women.
"You two would make cute kids. With such blue eyes. You're like... what's the word for it?"
"Aryan."
"Yeah, like some kind of Aryan dream. Blond and blue-eyed pretty babies."
The ghetto experience had taught her the true currency was genetics; and she was fucking rich in that. Her Viking husband and her own heritage meant for the most envied phantom children. Her possible sons threw toy cars with Mother and Father Trash's one and only, but they were pretty at least. The stringy strands of blonde on her husband's head and her blue steel was the jackpot in any country and class. Even starving they could be royalty.
"World domination and everything." His gods hung dead on trees and hers were cackling over the bones of scapegoats.
There’s not enough room in the pen for them both to stay locked into their little worlds they will. Leather gear, X skullie, Size 2 Docs. Man, Jr.’s the fliest shit in nursery care. Paid for by W.I.C., so who's getting dicked?
It almost made intelligence a moot point, watching her phantom children wreck the subsidized house and burn the world down. She could practically drink the hunger in his eyes, realizing they were sharing the same vision for the first time in forever.
"Maybe."
She wondered how much cheap vodka it would take this time, for him to talk her down on her knees and then her back. The place a sensitive man like him never said but always hoped.
How much had it taken for Mother Trash to produce an heir?
Who reigns supreme?