The Life and Times of Innis E. Coxman Read online

  The Life and Times

  of Innis E. Coxman

  or

  Between Shit

  and Syphilis

  By R. P. Lester

  This is a work of fiction.

  All depictions of people, locales, and situations are

  either a product of the author’s

  imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Keeping in the spirit of entertainment, please,

  nobody get their panties in a bunch over such

  a trifle of a book.

  Copyright © 2014 by R. P. Lester

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the author

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Printed in the United States of America

  Cover by Bespoke Book Covers

  First Printing, 2014

  ISBN-13: 978-1490461380

  ISBN-10: 1490461388

  For J. and C.—winners of the endurance race.

  Thanks for putting up with me.

  I love both of you very much.

  “When you reach your mid-thirties,

  you tend to slow down.”

  Jan the Actress

  From Edward Bunker’s Animal Factory

  Introduction

  Who the Fuck Are You?

  Chapter One

  Like Father, Like Son

  Gunslinger

  To Fall From Grace

  Coxman’s Log: 11:36 PM

  Chapter Two

  Those Who Left Me Weeping in the Fetal Position

  Black Magic Woman

  Lifestyles of the Bitch and Shameless

  Love Means Never Having to Say “You’re Crazy”

  Coxman’s Log: 7:36 PM

  Chapter Three

  The Drugs Never Have You (Until You Try to Quit)

  The Proof is in the Pudding

  Rushin’ Roulette

  Coxman’s Log: 5:07 PM

  Chapter Four

  (Man, I Need a Boost.) Hey You! You’re Fired!

  Giving the Dog a Bone

  Wade in the Water

  Coxman’s Log: 4:00 AM

  Chapter Five

  To Unnerve and Neglect

  Do Unto Others Unless You’re in Charge

  Seek and Ye Shall Find

  Coxman’s Log: 4:11 PM

  Chapter Six

  Another Day, Another Dollar (That’s Not Yours)

  That’s Your Problem

  Don’t Call Us, We’ll Call You

  Coxman’s Log: 1:29 PM

  So Here We Are

  Introduction

  Who the Fuck Are You?

  Let me tell you who the fuck I am.

  I’ve been called impossible. Some have labeled me an asshole. Either way, my birth certificate says that you should address me as Innis E. Coxman.

  My parents named me Innis because it sounds close to “penis” and my father thought it would be funny. The “E” stands for Emma because deep down I suspect they hated me. As well as being a surname, Coxman proved to be indicative of future talents.

  I came howling into the world when I was ripped from my mother’s stomach in an emergency C-section. My head was reportedly too massive to pass through her vagina and my cynicism was giving her abdominal cramps. They did everything but go in with a journeyman plumber to excavate my chubby body. I’m firmly convinced that’s the reason for an egg-shaped skull with scars I can’t explain. Afterward, Mama spent two months in the hospital fighting death from sepsis. I’ve never forgiven myself. Later in life, she confided that she was bewitched by the purple elephants whizzing around her portly frame and that my birth was rather hazy (man, they’d give drugs to anybody for the smallest ailments back in the 70s).

  Now granted, there’s not a lot I vividly recall from that day—I was new and searching for the coffeepot. But I distinctly remember a smack on the rump to make sure I wasn’t dead followed by the doctor calling me fat.

  By all accounts his exact words were, “Shit! Weigh that boy! He’s a big one!” Not even five seconds into the atmosphere and already I’ve got some quack giving me a complex about my weight as I was compared to a prize tuna.

  That little Cuban prick.

  For many years I felt I owed him a few slaps for the one he gave me all those moons ago, though my anger subsided when I was older and discovered that he and his family were here illegally.

  Jackpot.

  I’ll never forget the crying pleas of despair as he, his wife, and their eight children were rudely forced onto a boat for their deportation back to Cuba.

  Say hello to Fidel for me, fat boy.

  ***

  I’m from Louisiana. Born and bred. I grew up on everything from gumbo to steak & gravy to microwave pizza to jambalaya to Hot Pockets to chicken & dumplings with cornbread and just about everything in between. It’s an alright place I guess, but I don’t live there anymore. I got out when I had the chance. The only things that state really gave me were a lot of bad memories I’m still trying to shake as I approach my 40s, a ton of hard-earned life-lessons from an assortment of cruel “teachers,” and a drug habit that ran into a double-digit time frame.

  I grew up like most kids, I suppose. There were birthday parties I don’t remember, drunken family gatherings that never should’ve happened, random assaults at school, Christmases with gifts scattered about the living room, and bouts of doubt and self-loathing nurtured by low self-esteem. All the goodies that bear rehashing in a monograph of malfunction.

  I’ve started this book on four separate occasions, wading three chapters deep on my first attempt, two-and-a-half on the second, nearly flinging myself from a cliff on the third. They were complete wastes of time and paper. Or maybe not, depending on one’s view. After all, were it not for the combined weight of that hellish trinity I may have never been forced to see what I truly needed to convey with these keys: how it really was. Finally, it dawned on me what I had to do.

  I threw my hands in the air and said, “Fuck it.”

  This is the truth, warts and all, the hurtful and the funny, with the innocent and the guilty grabbing equal billing on the marquee, without embellishment or safety nets for anyone.

  Myself included.

  I don’t know what will come of this book, but I hope it doesn’t meet the fate of so many printings from the past—having some babyface like Leonardo Dicaprio butchering my beloved memoirs like college coeds in a shitty B-horror movie.

  (Shoving my personal feelings aside, you can’t help but admire a man who advocates so strongly for his people. What’s Eating Gilbert Grape is an underrated classic and portraying himself in a role of mental retardation proves that the feeble-minded can accomplish just about anything.)

  ***

  Let me address any curiosity you may have about your author:

  I don’t have a doctorate in some field of intellectual prowess, nor do I claim to be a deep thinker crushed by the weight of his own existence. I’ve never even stepped foot in a college classroom. Hell, I barely managed to graduate high school. If it weren’t for a certain teacher passing me in Advanced Math my senior year I’d still be earning my diploma (how you doing, Coach? {How the fuck did I wind up in Advanced Math, anyway?}). I merely have a moderate wealth of life experience coupled with a twisted view of the world we live in.

  And I’ve always loved writing and music.

  The two women in my life look to me with total adoration, but make no mistake—the pedestal upon which both my woman and daughter have placed me is made of Ritz crackers and will someday
crumble into a sea of Cheez Whiz.

  I am an utter dick, pure and simple.

  My little girl loves me more than makeup and thinks that I am Zeus (who am I to destroy childlike wonder?). I would fight to the death for her and she knows it. Separately and together, she and I have been through more adversity in the last eleven years than I care to share with you. I won’t talk about her too much in this memoir except for when she’s pertinent to the story. I’ll let you in on a smidge, but I’m sure you understand that some things are private. What I will say is that we have a bond that won’t ever be broken and leave it at that.

  I have a girlfriend whom I love very much. In addition to putting up with my flaws and pendulous shifts in attitude, she adores me and thinks I walk on water. She’s going to despise me when I tell her it’s plexiglass.

  ***

  I cried when I left my mother for the first time.

  She worked as a teacher for thirty years, slugging it out in the ghetto trying to show the neighborhood youth that there were other ways to get ahead in the world besides selling crack and sexual favor. Then, as thanks for her years of guidance and public subjugation, she developed cancer and died only to be buried with a wig in a pink, satin-lined coffin.

  That’s all you get to know about her.

  So then.....

  I cried when I was eighteen and left my mother for the first time. I cried again three years later when she left me for the last time.

  ***

  It seems that getting divorced runs in the Coxman bloodline like plaque psoriasis. I got divorced once to prove I wouldn’t tolerate rudeness, but why speak too much on it now? It would spoil my Lancelot façade and you’ll read all about that in a bit. Besides, I’m not the lead horse in that race. As much as I would love to be the first to thrust my snout over the finish line, my father and sister have five sets apiece.

  About my sister: she lived with us briefly when I was a toddler. She’s from my father’s first marriage and we barely know each other. She blossomed in one state while I languished in another. Culling memories for this book has made me see that many events I experienced could’ve been avoided had her tutelage been available. But I’m not laying guilt trips, however it may seem. It truly doesn’t matter anymore. Coming up alone as I did without the coaching of my older sibling caused me to be one stupid, selfish, spoiled motherfucker with very few lasting friendships. But as I sit here in the body of a man recalling the flashbacks of a boy, I was all the better for it, for perhaps I would still be stupid, selfish, and spoiled.

  That’s the first time I’ve ever seen or spoken those words and I find them liberating.

  The only friend I could ever count on was Fred, my loyal, faithful goat. When I was a small child, my parents and I went on vacation to the Rocky Mountains and discovered him after returning from a hiking trip. He was rubbing his white fur against our camper trying to molt. My father shooed him away, but later that night he tried to break into our RV foraging for asparagus and ass. My mother gave him a can of green beans in an attempt to placate his needs, though he wouldn’t go away. Pops turned a Remington .270 on him and was going to blow his liver into the landscape when Mama dissuaded him. Once my father discovered that Fred wasn’t a pagan god come to kill us, he fell in love with his beard and we took him in as our own.

  Fred died when I was in my late 20s, living well beyond the expectancy of goats in the wild. I buried him with aluminum cans and his favorite toy.

  I miss him.

  ***

  But I’m getting head from you Shit. Guess now’s as good a time as any to talk about this.

  My fingers are fiercely independent, as you can plainly see. My advanced apologies. I’ve done my best to correct any sarcasm displayed by my phalanges, but you’ll still see this occur from time to time. Deal with it.

  But I’m getting ahead of you. All will be explained and documented, because this is my story. We’re going at my pace, in my voice.

  You’re just along for the ride, good people.

  We’re going to have some fun, crack on a few celebrities who have it coming, and show deference to the ones who deserve it. There are going to be some laughs and a few low points, too. Then again, life is full of laughs and low points. It isn’t one big high.

  I ought to know. I tried.

  Eventually, there’s a gritty comedown.

  Stick with me or don’t. The choice is yours. If you bail on me, no hard feelings because you’re not the first. If you’re hardcore, you’ll know it; you’ll be reading until the end. And those are the only readers I really want to share my story with. The ones still standing, blood streaming from the face, asking for more after all the punches have been thrown, wobbling with a stiff middle finger in the air.

  Birds of a feather, goddammit.

  The truth is, I have no illusions or lofty expectations about my tale. One hundred copies of this book may never see the light of a library, never blaze through a Kindle, or bask under the warm glow of a student’s desk lamp. My tale of redemption and maturity may go as unnoticed as broccoli stalks at a fat camp. And that would truly lick the dog’s balls.

  Because hell yes I hope to have these sins being read all over the world. Essentially, that’s what they are. A sweeping collection of my sins, juvenility, and debauchery along with the transgressions of many coconspirators. I hope to sell so many copies of this memoir that I can finally buy Tuna Helper instead of Sea Assistor because the off-brand is bullshit.

  No, I’m not a New York Times bestselling author with a Pulitzer to my credit, nor do I have maids dusting off my antique porn collection. But I love books, I love them when they’re based on something true, and I love them best when the characters are flawed. I sure as hell hope you do, too.

  ***

  (Names of individuals have been changed to protect the parties involved to protect the families of these guilty cocksuckers.)

  Innis E. Coxman

  February, 2014

  Chapter One

  Like Father, Like Son

  A sticky leech named Tyler Durden once said, “Our fathers were our models for God. If our fathers bailed, what does that tell you about God?”

  The first part of this rationale suggests that God is an educated hick with liquor, a cache of firearms, and an open ticket to Vegas for whenever an impromptu remarriage is desired. The second half suggests that He is the sort to trade Mama for a life of sexual promiscuity and untreated internal rage.

  It would seem that my “God” is an emotionally retarded trollop.

  ***

  Old Man.

  Pop.

  Daddy.

  El Gran Padre.

  The one whose sense of justice is a strip of leather from the Big & Tall section of Sears.

  Your father.

  He was the mentor for life’s lessons, your guide through troubled waters, and the hand of discipline when he had to be. With a kind word or an evil eye, he could fill you with pride about a good report card or reduce you to a dirty pervert for jerking off in the backseat on a long trip. Whatever your relationship with the man who sired you into this world, you can’t deny he looked out for you.

  For you ladies: didn’t he do everything in his power to protect you? Who else was going to drag your cheating husband to the basement where his screams didn't matter?

  To all the men: wasn’t he full of fatherly advice? Just think how long it would've taken you to find a stash spot for Fat Fucking Farmgirls.

  And when it was time to dole out punishment, who forced you to perfect the two-handed ass shield when he whipped you for photographing your sister’s friends in the shower?

  That’s right, your father.

  ***

  So your pops is that impish rogue who shot at the neighbor’s cat. A wild and wacky guy who’s pulled knives on Jehovah’s Witnesses. That scamp who told the cop to blow him instead of “Thanks for the warning.” And the zany character who advised your principal that he was going to skullfuck him if he did
n’t revoke your suspension (it’s a distinct possibility that this is all just my father). He’s an individual. A staunch nonconformist. Someone who strayed from the herd a long time ago. A man who follows the beat of his own dysrhythmic drummer no matter where that shitty tune may lead.

  With an outlook as soiled as a young man’s bedsheets.

  I don’t know about you, but my pops is one of the craziest motherfuckers to ever punch a stranger as they stood in front of a Starbucks doing nothing but drinking their terrible coffee. He’s as looney as Paris Hilton at a job fair. This is the same guy who accused the mailman of fucking his wife when he asked my pops to sign for a package.

  I knew that hapless bastard.

  He had delivered in our neighborhood for years and I saw him frequently.

  Needless to say, from that point on the mailman greeted me with downcast eyes whenever I saw him. If I was, say, in the yard mowing our corner lot with the damn push mower instead of the riding mower because my father said it “built character,” he would turn his head and look the other way when I waved. If I met him at the mailbox for our delivery, he would shove the stack of bills and advertisements in my hand without so much as a grunt.

  The sad part was that I didn’t know why any of this had taken place until years later. (His daughter and I dated for a little bit after high school. She told me about it after I’d stuck it in her wucket a few times.)

  As my world view expanded, I became embroiled in my own complications with the fairer sex. During these periods of depression, I would sometimes reflect back on my father’s third marriage to my first stepmother and wonder what really happened way back then. One night when I was licking my wounds from a battle with a particularly promiscuous shrew, it struck me like a bolt of lightning: