The Jugheads

by J. R. Helton

Genres: Biographical; Literary Fiction; Sagas

Synopsis

East Texas in the 1960s is not the worst place to have grown up, but for narrator Jake of The Jugheads, it was a minefield. Describing clearly and courageously first jobs and first kisses, family vacations and family fights, Jake takes us through a wild ride of a coming of age, in an ordinary American family that he believes is as violent and dysfunctional as they come. By turns hilarious and moving, The Jugheads is a compelling return to form for a master of the underside of the American psyche.

Release date: October 7, 2014

Publisher: Seven Stories Press

Print pages: 304

Sample

IN THE CITY

The first thing I drew was Mickey Mouse. I was alone in the house. I had a piece of blue cake, a comic book, manila paper, and colored pencils. I sat there at the table. I looked at the linoleum squares. The dirty white refrigerator. It had magnets holding pieces of paper on the door. A daisy magnet. A cow magnet. There was a Bible on the table. I opened the Bible and saw paintings of the apostles, John the Baptist and his head, Moses, Solomon. I knew about Solomon. My mother told me what he did and I thought he was a mean man. I decided to draw him. It took forever. When I was finished, he filled the whole page. Long, black hair hung past his shoulders. A tall red hat. A beard to his waist. I studied the picture. Something was wrong. He looked like a pirate.

I thumbed through the Bible. I tried to read it, but it was dull, dull, dull. Then I came across a painting of Jesus. His hair was long, his eyes brown, his beard short. Jesus was making the peace sign, which baffled me completely. I decided to draw him.

When I was finished, it was something. My picture was the same as the one in the Bible.
Then there was noise. My father was home with my mother. They walked into the kitchen and looked at what I’d drawn.

“I don’t believe it,” said my mother.

“Neither do I,” said my father.

“He’s got natural talent,” my mother said. “Incredible.”

“You’ve got natural ability,” my father said. “You should develop it.” It was decided then and there. “You’re going to be an artist,” my father said.

They looked at the pictures. I started to eat my blue cake.

My mother picked up the picture of Mickey Mouse. “I’m gonna save this forever,” she said.

And she did. 

***
 
We lived in north Houston. Our house was small. There was one hallway that led to a second bathroom on the far side of the den. I never would go to that bathroom. The hallway was too long, too dark.

One night, my father was caught on the toilet with no toilet paper. He called for me.

“Go to the other bathroom and get me a roll.”

“But—”

“Hurry up.”

I didn’t hurry. I walked slowly down the hall. The walls loomed high. A dark door was closed at the end. I opened the door and walked through. Inside, the bathroom was all green. A green mirror, green ceiling, green toilet, green lights and walls. The only thing white was the sink. A large praying mantis sat on the edge of the basin. His head moved towards me. The fluorescent light was humming. I grabbed the toilet paper and ran. 

***

My father was a mailman. He also lifted weights down at the Y. A weight-lifting mailman. I wore his blue safari hat loose on my head. We had a game we played when he came home from work. Try to push down Daddy’s biceps. I tried and tried. So did my sister. We could never do it.

“They’re too big,” we said.

***

The kitchen table was green. I spent a lot of time at that table. Drawing. Playing with my little car. At night, we ate at the table. My father told mailman stories.

“Those people should have had that dog chained. Or a higher fence. He jumped right over it and bit me on the back.”

“Oh no,” my mother said.

“Their Shepherd sits right out on the front porch. Every day, he doesn’t do anything, and then, out of the blue, he bites me. I had to kick his head in.”

“That’s terrible.”

“I crushed his skull. The owner wants to sue me for killing his dog. I said, you try to sue me, mother fucker, I know where you live. I come to your house every day. What could he sue me for, anyway?”

I listened to the stories. To me, being a mailman seemed like a high-risk, high-adventure job.