Piece: Roman Is Cold.
Word Count: 1,186
Genre: Observational Humor, Memoir
This is a first person perspective piece and has a plentiful amount of grammatical mistakes. Unless they are explicitly unnecessary or just outright grammatically wrong (like using a comma where I shouldn't have or a verb for a noun or vice versa (breath vs. breathe, i.e.)), please do not attack the grammar in your critique. Also, feel free to let me know if this is a character and a setting you'd like to read more of.
It was a chilly night in the oxymoronic Texas town of Scott. After a certain month in the year, sure, it was acceptable to drop into the 70’s, maybe even the 60’s or 50’s.Hyphen here, perhaps instead of period.
But the 40’s? Never the 40’s. Never like tonight.
This town’s frozen and I feel it in my fingertips gliding along on the road on two-feet. Like a Roman soldier. That’s what my dad used to call me: Roman. It’s not my name. That’s a cause for some confusion, mind you. ‘Roman’ is an acceptably normal first name for any man with creative birth parents. My dad would call me Roman because I walk everywhere even though the technology existed to go on wheels. Hell, I now own a car. I just prefer to walk whenever there's no rush to get where I'm going. Just not on nights like tonight. Goddamn, it’s freezing.
Twenty years young and my hands,-
the bones in my hands really,-
feel like they are about to fall apart. I’ve spent the last two years of my prime stacking boxes for a corporate giant. I’d smoke a cigarette if that didn’t mean getting smacked in the face by my three ladies waiting for me at home; each one for a different reason.
Mama would smack me and say
It’s bad for your health, retard.
Ally would wallop me and shout
It’s addictive, dumbass.
Katie would knock me one time and whisper
You knew it would piss off Mama and Ally. Do you like getting hit for a cancer log, idiot?
I’m not a polygamist or anything. I’m not even religious, so that scratches any possibility of me ever having a few wives at home. I mean, how would I justify myself? The judge would be all hell and brimstone on the day of my sentencing and I say,
It just felt like the right
thing to do, Your Honor.
The judge would throw her gavel at my head and tell me to go shove what feels right where it feels wrong. Goddamn Mormons, with their ‘excuses.’ Don’t get me wrong: Mormons are great people
But how can you honestly ever justify having more than one wife at a time?
Mama Nevada is like a mother to me. She’s not my birth mom. She’s got more balls than me. That’s not to say I don’t have balls -
I do -
and plenty. Saying that is just a testament to how much balls this woman has. You know those people at the public rallies for presidential candidates who ask those real tough questions that no candidate wants to answer and everyone in the audience],
in the free world wants to know the answer to
but won’t wouldn't
ever ask given the chance? Yeah, Mama’s gonna be the person to ask those. And don’t expect her to say
Don’t Tase me, bro.
Instead, you’d probably be hearing
Don’t break our ribs, sis!
The one with the Taser, however, would be Ally Nevada, Mama’s actual birth child. Aggressive...
words that all describe her nice days. It’s expected that a sixteen-year-old girl would be slightly moody every day. I’ve been there;
I dated girls that age when I was in high school. I thought I had that variety of female figured out. After meeting her and becoming a
part of her day-to-day, I honestly debate whether or not I need to give up any hope of having a daughter one day, as to avoid her having the chance of living through her sixteenth year of life.
This last sentence is really long, I'd recommend breaking it up and rewording it to where it's more clear. The last part of the sentence is confusing. It sounds vaguely like he's given up his hopes of having a daughter to prevent her murder due to behavioral issues by his hand, before she's 16. I'd ditch the murder reference unless it develops your main character, like murder is something he's familiar with.
Ally’s a cuddly teddy bear at heart though. She’s like my sister. Like a surrogate sister. She's like my little surrogate sister.
I’d hate her if I didn’t love her.
The Nevadas took me in when I first came to Scott. I was a whiny 18-year-old back then. I had decided that I was better than college
So I ditched it. Ran to the only place where no one would ever find me: Redneckville, USA. I hadn’t planned on finding a family. I did.although that's what happened.
These people were became
the support structure an 18-year-old with no plans for the future, no car, and no money needs. It was like getting reared all over again, but this time with the perspective of eighteen years of Californian-
living under my belt. They brought me in and made me feel like a member of the family. I love thisthese
So much so that I won’t pull out my phone and speed-dial Mama and beg her to come get me out of this cold. Wouldn’t matter anyway
I doubt that I could feel my fingers by this point. Only a few more blocks. I can stand this weather for awhile more.
My phone vibrates. I pull my paw out of my pocket and read the notification the vibration had signaled for. It’s Katie, the current love of my life.
She knows that I’m not going to text her if I’m walking home. I shouldn’t text her. Then again, if I don’t text her, she’ll assume the worst has happened. She’ll think that I’ve somehow gotten hurt. Then she’ll run to her car, try to start it, it won’t start, so she runs back out of the car to go yell at her mom to give her a boost. As she’s running, she slips on the iced-over puddle of water on her curb. Breaks her back. Now she’s paralyzed.
I’m not going to have that happen. Not on my watch. No, sir. I stretch out my sore fingers in a feeble attempt to get blood circulating in my frozen popsicle sticks. I do this for a few steps to no avail. I resign myself to having to type this message caveman-style. After a few misplaced and deleted m’s and p’s from my stiff typing, my masterpiece is finished and ready to be sent.
She’ll appreciate that anecdote I had about her possibly becoming paralyzed;
I must remember to tell her when I’m a little warmer. Texting is a terrible medium for emotional subject matter, sure. But it is a fantastic way to tell your girlfriend that she just became Joe Swanson in your daydream. Are daydreams still called daydreams at 11 o’clock at night? Must look this up once home.
Then why are you texting me? It’s like 40 degrees outside.
Great, now my Swanson story is ruined. I won’t text her back this time. Besides, I hate the fact that my phone refers to the person sending my messages as ME (Cell)
. I know it’s me who is sending these messages. If I let a friend borrow my phone and send a message on it, will it say ROMAN’S FRIEND (Cell)
? I don’t think so, because I’ve tried and it still misrepresents the sender as having been me. Now I’m paranoid that my friends are going to send hate-filled messages to ex-girlfriends and say I sent them. Not that my friends would but still.
I look up at the next street sign as I walk past it. I’m only a block away now. And that’s great because I think my feet are about to fall off. Goddamn, it’s cold.
You can use exclamation points if you want! Goddamn it's cold!