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I didn't want to hear that about my Pop; I mean, I knew he
was a dirty old man, all my girl cousins used to hate him, 'cause he
was always playin' grab-ass. My cousin Tricia claimed that when she
was about fourteen he used to creep into her bedroom and put his
hand in her panties.

I loved him though, he taught me how to drive, told me
about pussy - the best thing about Pop was that he'd talk to me like I
was a person, not just a kid. But anyway, when he died, I was the
only one there with him. My dad and aunts were all out in the hall,
they were afraid he was gonna take all night dyin', and they were all
out there arguing over what kind of pizza to have delivered. I was
sittin' right next to the bed and he leaned over and said something
about "sweet split-tailed little beavers," gurgled and died. When I
realized he was dead, I reached over and tried to shut his eyes, but I
was too afraid to push hard enough and every time I shut 'em, they'd
pop right back open again.

The devil hopped onto me and started scrabbling up my chest
toward my face. I seized up; I couldn't move at all, and if I'd tried I
probably would've crapped my drawers anyway. He smelled horrible,
like a giant dead diamondback rattler rotting in a tub of
formaldehyde, its guts and scales floating around loose. I was also
weirded out 'cause he was startin' to look kinda like old Pop and I
was kinda worried he was gonna stick his hand down my pants or
something.

As he got clsoer, his head- man the fuckin' thing was swelling
up like a balloon hooked to a helium tank. It just kept growing until,
when he sat himself on my chest, right in my face, it was so fuckin'
huge that he coulda popped my whole head in his gigantic mouth like
a goddam breath mint. And his tongue, Jesus Christ, he had this big
frog-tongue. He wasn't talkin' no more, he just opened up that
mouth and let his tongue fall down --"splap" -- on my face. I was
drowning under that nasty pink thing. The tongue wormed its way
into my mouth and down my throat; I couldn't breathe. Then it
swallowed my head.

When my dad woke me up he said my face was a dead blue-
green. "Shit boy, I thought you was dead." He had to roll me over
and open my mouth to get the puke out of my windpipe, then he
gave me mouth-to-mouth." It's bad enough eating my own vomit and
it's usually still hot and fresh when I do, but it was pure "D" hell
eating your cold puke especially with all that snot mixed in it." He
told me all that later and he announced, "Boy, you ain't drinkin' no
more. From now on, you've quit, ok?"

I just shrugged my shoulders. I'd had enough to drink
anyway. When I got out of the hospital I started lookin' for work
right away- I wasn't about to spend all day and night on that damn
couch. Hell, I even started sleeping on the floor.
-Nat Wilson Turner
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