Dougie
On the day his father died, Dougie Carmine had a Snickers.
It was all he remembered of that day: caramel, peanuts, and chewy nougat blended in a cocoon of hard chocolate. No tears, no stubborn self-delusions, no misplaced blame.
When his mom had stumbled across the crowded living room and thrown a wine bottle at his uncle, he’d taken his first bite.
As his dad’s younger brother ducked behind an antique loveseat and protested innocence, Dougie broke through the chocolate shell. His eyes almost rolled to the back of his head as it melted on his tongue like butter on a freshly-baked biscuit. Explosions of cocoa starlight danced across his taste buds, taking command of his senses and blocking out the sound of Mrs. Carmine’s hiccoughing wails. The stampede of feet as people rushed to wrestle a fireplace poker away from her other hand blended with the harmony of the peanuts crunching in his ears.
While a stone-faced policeman droned out the details surrounding his father’s passing, Dougie admired the consistency of the caramel. It was just right—not too stiff, but not too gooey. He lost himself in its richness, deaf to words about other women, alcohol, and recreational drugs.
His top teeth ripped through the layers of caramel and peanuts, holding them against the roof of his mouth while his bottom teeth scraped away the nougat. He admired the toasted, almost smoky essence of the peanuts as they blended with the sweetness of the caramel and saltiness of the nougat. Saltier than usual, but it added depth to the flavor, so he hadn’t allowed himself to wonder why the candy tasted different that day.
When he took the final bite, popping the last morsel into his mouth like a divine offering, he willed time to stop so he could stay lost in the euphoric haze for eternity.
He chewed unhurriedly, lazily, squeezing his eyes shut and blocking out the leering faces of reporters pressed against the outside of his home’s bay windows. He scrunched his face into a fierce mask of concentration as the last bits of candy swirled around his mouth, blind to the camera flashes ripping through the room like lightning. Once he’d finally ground the last bite into a dissolving paste, he reluctantly swallowed and sent it to fill the ravenous void gnawing inside him.
After the policeman finished giving his report and the shouting in the room swelled—the denials and accusations, the javelins of guilt and condemnation hurled with vicious accuracy from one family member to another—Dougie went to work on cleaning his mouth. His tongue labored furiously to free specks of nutty grit from the crevices of his molars. He then sucked at tiny globs of caramel wedged between his jaw and back teeth and, with steely focus, ran a thorough sweep from one end of his mouth to the other until the surface of every tooth was as smooth as porcelain.
Satisfied, he dropped the candy wrapper on the floor beside the pile of unopened birthday gifts at his feet and sighed.
It had been the best Snickers he’d ever had.
A year passed, with a wrapper added to the growing pile of chocolate-smeared plastic that marked the peaks and valleys of Dougie’s life. For every time he saw his father’s name in the local news, every time his mother broke down into hysterical tears and raged against “scheming whores selling their souls for a check,” he opened another wrapper. And when a thin, nervous woman holding a screaming infant in her needle-marked arms had appeared on the doorstep of his home, he’d gone to the store and emptied his wallet on the candy aisle.
His mom packed the house and moved them to a new town a week later.
Mrs. Carmine promised Dougie a fresh start in Willow—a life free of the nosy press and being forced to bear the weight of his father’s infamy. “You’ll love it here, Dumpling,” she said. “This is a whole new city with new possibilities and the chance to become whoever you want to be. No more living in your daddy’s shadow.”
Dougie appreciated her words but knew them for the hollow lie they were.
How could he escape his dad’s shadow? It lived in her eyes every time she looked at him. It waved at him every time they drove past a gym and she gave him a covert glance that inevitably dropped to his ballooning stomach. It beckoned to him each time a baseball game was on TV and she lost herself in bottomless glasses of Pinot Grigio, her misty gaze drowning him as she retold stories of his dad’s glory on the diamond field.
And whenever he found brochures for community sports teams lying on his bed, he remembered the lie…and tore open another wrapper.
When another year passed and the anniversary of his father’s death rolled around to greet his fifteenth birthday, Dougie finally embraced the shadow. It was too strong to fight, too persistent to shake off, and he’d become way too out of shape to keep running from it. As he walked into Ralph J. Kirby High School and a new era of being, his mind replayed the vow he’d made to his mother to become more athletic and work toward joining the JV softball team by his junior year.
He whispered the vow to himself over and over like a Buddhist mantra as he marched through the hallway, locking his mind on the promise and not allowing it to be replaced with the usual excuses he created to get out of first-period gym class. His gym bag was even slung across his shoulder with a new pair of socks folded neatly inside on top of a new tracksuit, as if its presence guaranteed he’d be sweating on the field before the hour was done. The closer he got to the gym, the stronger his determination became. His pace quickened.
He would make his mother proud. He would do what he knew she wanted and follow in his dad’s footsteps. Even if those feet were the wrong size. Even if those steps led to hurting everyone he loved. Even if they brought heartbreak and humiliation and…and…
And death.
He stumbled. The bag fell from his shoulder and bounced against his feet, skidding across the hall and bumping gently against a vending machine looming in the corner.
As if in a trance, Dougie drifted to the machine, his eyes fixed on the rows of snack-sized cellophane bags, packs of chewing gum, and candy bars. Not blinking, he reached down and picked up his gym bag, his limp hand nudging it back onto his shoulder.
He slowly turned to look down the long hallway, seeing a double set of gym doors waiting for him at its end. An image of his mother from that morning flashed through his mind—a look in her eyes he’d never seen before glowing so brightly as she looked at him, he’d had to look away. Pride.
Time moved beyond him, bringing the ringing of the school bells as he stood frozen in front of the vending machine, staring into its tempered glass. His mother’s face danced in its reflection, her smile so dazzling that it stung his eyes with burning tears. Her image morphed into his father, his body lying in a casket surrounded by white orchids.
His hands began to tremble.
As though controlled by some other force, his right hand dug into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled dollar bill. It held the money against the edge of the cash slot as he scanned the rows of candy bars for the combination to enter. He frowned.
It was out of Snickers.
He gave a wry laugh. There you go, Douglas, he told himself as he thrust the dollar bill back into his pocket and turned away. It’s a sign. Move on.
He took a step toward the gym and stopped. Shifted the gym bag to his other shoulder. Looked back at the vending machine…
Baby Ruth would have to do.
Stay tuned to read more about Dougie and where this turn in life takes him in Misfits Rising…
On the day his father died, Dougie Carmine had a Snickers.
It was all he remembered of that day: caramel, peanuts, and chewy nougat blended in a cocoon of hard chocolate. No tears, no stubborn self-delusions, no misplaced blame.
When his mom had stumbled across the crowded living room and thrown a wine bottle at his uncle, he’d taken his first bite.
As his dad’s younger brother ducked behind an antique loveseat and protested innocence, Dougie broke through the chocolate shell. His eyes almost rolled to the back of his head as it melted on his tongue like butter on a freshly-baked biscuit. Explosions of cocoa starlight danced across his taste buds, taking command of his senses and blocking out the sound of Mrs. Carmine’s hiccoughing wails. The stampede of feet as people rushed to wrestle a fireplace poker away from her other hand blended with the harmony of the peanuts crunching in his ears.
While a stone-faced policeman droned out the details surrounding his father’s passing, Dougie admired the consistency of the caramel. It was just right—not too stiff, but not too gooey. He lost himself in its richness, deaf to words about other women, alcohol, and recreational drugs.
His top teeth ripped through the layers of caramel and peanuts, holding them against the roof of his mouth while his bottom teeth scraped away the nougat. He admired the toasted, almost smoky essence of the peanuts as they blended with the sweetness of the caramel and saltiness of the nougat. Saltier than usual, but it added depth to the flavor, so he hadn’t allowed himself to wonder why the candy tasted different that day.
When he took the final bite, popping the last morsel into his mouth like a divine offering, he willed time to stop so he could stay lost in the euphoric haze for eternity.
He chewed unhurriedly, lazily, squeezing his eyes shut and blocking out the leering faces of reporters pressed against the outside of his home’s bay windows. He scrunched his face into a fierce mask of concentration as the last bits of candy swirled around his mouth, blind to the camera flashes ripping through the room like lightning. Once he’d finally ground the last bite into a dissolving paste, he reluctantly swallowed and sent it to fill the ravenous void gnawing inside him.
After the policeman finished giving his report and the shouting in the room swelled—the denials and accusations, the javelins of guilt and condemnation hurled with vicious accuracy from one family member to another—Dougie went to work on cleaning his mouth. His tongue labored furiously to free specks of nutty grit from the crevices of his molars. He then sucked at tiny globs of caramel wedged between his jaw and back teeth and, with steely focus, ran a thorough sweep from one end of his mouth to the other until the surface of every tooth was as smooth as porcelain.
Satisfied, he dropped the candy wrapper on the floor beside the pile of unopened birthday gifts at his feet and sighed.
It had been the best Snickers he’d ever had.
A year passed, with a wrapper added to the growing pile of chocolate-smeared plastic that marked the peaks and valleys of Dougie’s life. For every time he saw his father’s name in the local news, every time his mother broke down into hysterical tears and raged against “scheming whores selling their souls for a check,” he opened another wrapper. And when a thin, nervous woman holding a screaming infant in her needle-marked arms had appeared on the doorstep of his home, he’d gone to the store and emptied his wallet on the candy aisle.
His mom packed the house and moved them to a new town a week later.
Mrs. Carmine promised Dougie a fresh start in Willow—a life free of the nosy press and being forced to bear the weight of his father’s infamy. “You’ll love it here, Dumpling,” she said. “This is a whole new city with new possibilities and the chance to become whoever you want to be. No more living in your daddy’s shadow.”
Dougie appreciated her words but knew them for the hollow lie they were.
How could he escape his dad’s shadow? It lived in her eyes every time she looked at him. It waved at him every time they drove past a gym and she gave him a covert glance that inevitably dropped to his ballooning stomach. It beckoned to him each time a baseball game was on TV and she lost herself in bottomless glasses of Pinot Grigio, her misty gaze drowning him as she retold stories of his dad’s glory on the diamond field.
And whenever he found brochures for community sports teams lying on his bed, he remembered the lie…and tore open another wrapper.
When another year passed and the anniversary of his father’s death rolled around to greet his fifteenth birthday, Dougie finally embraced the shadow. It was too strong to fight, too persistent to shake off, and he’d become way too out of shape to keep running from it. As he walked into Ralph J. Kirby High School and a new era of being, his mind replayed the vow he’d made to his mother to become more athletic and work toward joining the JV softball team by his junior year.
He whispered the vow to himself over and over like a Buddhist mantra as he marched through the hallway, locking his mind on the promise and not allowing it to be replaced with the usual excuses he created to get out of first-period gym class. His gym bag was even slung across his shoulder with a new pair of socks folded neatly inside on top of a new tracksuit, as if its presence guaranteed he’d be sweating on the field before the hour was done. The closer he got to the gym, the stronger his determination became. His pace quickened.
He would make his mother proud. He would do what he knew she wanted and follow in his dad’s footsteps. Even if those feet were the wrong size. Even if those steps led to hurting everyone he loved. Even if they brought heartbreak and humiliation and…and…
And death.
He stumbled. The bag fell from his shoulder and bounced against his feet, skidding across the hall and bumping gently against a vending machine looming in the corner.
As if in a trance, Dougie drifted to the machine, his eyes fixed on the rows of snack-sized cellophane bags, packs of chewing gum, and candy bars. Not blinking, he reached down and picked up his gym bag, his limp hand nudging it back onto his shoulder.
He slowly turned to look down the long hallway, seeing a double set of gym doors waiting for him at its end. An image of his mother from that morning flashed through his mind—a look in her eyes he’d never seen before glowing so brightly as she looked at him, he’d had to look away. Pride.
Time moved beyond him, bringing the ringing of the school bells as he stood frozen in front of the vending machine, staring into its tempered glass. His mother’s face danced in its reflection, her smile so dazzling that it stung his eyes with burning tears. Her image morphed into his father, his body lying in a casket surrounded by white orchids.
His hands began to tremble.
As though controlled by some other force, his right hand dug into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled dollar bill. It held the money against the edge of the cash slot as he scanned the rows of candy bars for the combination to enter. He frowned.
It was out of Snickers.
He gave a wry laugh. There you go, Douglas, he told himself as he thrust the dollar bill back into his pocket and turned away. It’s a sign. Move on.
He took a step toward the gym and stopped. Shifted the gym bag to his other shoulder. Looked back at the vending machine…
Baby Ruth would have to do.
Stay tuned to read more about Dougie and where this turn in life takes him in Misfits Rising…
On the day his father died, Dougie Carmine had a Snickers.
It was all he remembered of that day: caramel, peanuts, and chewy nougat blended in a cocoon of hard chocolate. No tears, no stubborn self-delusions, no misplaced blame.
When his mom had stumbled across the crowded living room and thrown a wine bottle at his uncle, he’d taken his first bite.
As his dad’s younger brother ducked behind an antique loveseat and protested innocence, Dougie broke through the chocolate shell. His eyes almost rolled to the back of his head as it melted on his tongue like butter on a freshly-baked biscuit. Explosions of cocoa starlight danced across his taste buds, taking command of his senses and blocking out the sound of Mrs. Carmine’s hiccoughing wails. The stampede of feet as people rushed to wrestle a fireplace poker away from her other hand blended with the harmony of the peanuts crunching in his ears.
While a stone-faced policeman droned out the details surrounding his father’s passing, Dougie admired the consistency of the caramel. It was just right—not too stiff, but not too gooey. He lost himself in its richness, deaf to words about other women, alcohol, and recreational drugs.
His top teeth ripped through the layers of caramel and peanuts, holding them against the roof of his mouth while his bottom teeth scraped away the nougat. He admired the toasted, almost smoky essence of the peanuts as they blended with the sweetness of the caramel and saltiness of the nougat. Saltier than usual, but it added depth to the flavor, so he hadn’t allowed himself to wonder why the candy tasted different that day.
When he took the final bite, popping the last morsel into his mouth like a divine offering, he willed time to stop so he could stay lost in the euphoric haze for eternity.
He chewed unhurriedly, lazily, squeezing his eyes shut and blocking out the leering faces of reporters pressed against the outside of his home’s bay windows. He scrunched his face into a fierce mask of concentration as the last bits of candy swirled around his mouth, blind to the camera flashes ripping through the room like lightning. Once he’d finally ground the last bite into a dissolving paste, he reluctantly swallowed and sent it to fill the ravenous void gnawing inside him.
After the policeman finished giving his report and the shouting in the room swelled—the denials and accusations, the javelins of guilt and condemnation hurled with vicious accuracy from one family member to another—Dougie went to work on cleaning his mouth. His tongue labored furiously to free specks of nutty grit from the crevices of his molars. He then sucked at tiny globs of caramel wedged between his jaw and back teeth and, with steely focus, ran a thorough sweep from one end of his mouth to the other until the surface of every tooth was as smooth as porcelain.
Satisfied, he dropped the candy wrapper on the floor beside the pile of unopened birthday gifts at his feet and sighed.
It had been the best Snickers he’d ever had.
A year passed, with a wrapper added to the growing pile of chocolate-smeared plastic that marked the peaks and valleys of Dougie’s life. For every time he saw his father’s name in the local news, every time his mother broke down into hysterical tears and raged against “scheming whores selling their souls for a check,” he opened another wrapper. And when a thin, nervous woman holding a screaming infant in her needle-marked arms had appeared on the doorstep of his home, he’d gone to the store and emptied his wallet on the candy aisle.
His mom packed the house and moved them to a new town a week later.
Mrs. Carmine promised Dougie a fresh start in Willow—a life free of the nosy press and being forced to bear the weight of his father’s infamy. “You’ll love it here, Dumpling,” she said. “This is a whole new city with new possibilities and the chance to become whoever you want to be. No more living in your daddy’s shadow.”
Dougie appreciated her words but knew them for the hollow lie they were.
How could he escape his dad’s shadow? It lived in her eyes every time she looked at him. It waved at him every time they drove past a gym and she gave him a covert glance that inevitably dropped to his ballooning stomach. It beckoned to him each time a baseball game was on TV and she lost herself in bottomless glasses of Pinot Grigio, her misty gaze drowning him as she retold stories of his dad’s glory on the diamond field.
And whenever he found brochures for community sports teams lying on his bed, he remembered the lie…and tore open another wrapper.
When another year passed and the anniversary of his father’s death rolled around to greet his fifteenth birthday, Dougie finally embraced the shadow. It was too strong to fight, too persistent to shake off, and he’d become way too out of shape to keep running from it. As he walked into Ralph J. Kirby High School and a new era of being, his mind replayed the vow he’d made to his mother to become more athletic and work toward joining the JV softball team by his junior year.
He whispered the vow to himself over and over like a Buddhist mantra as he marched through the hallway, locking his mind on the promise and not allowing it to be replaced with the usual excuses he created to get out of first-period gym class. His gym bag was even slung across his shoulder with a new pair of socks folded neatly inside on top of a new tracksuit, as if its presence guaranteed he’d be sweating on the field before the hour was done. The closer he got to the gym, the stronger his determination became. His pace quickened.
He would make his mother proud. He would do what he knew she wanted and follow in his dad’s footsteps. Even if those feet were the wrong size. Even if those steps led to hurting everyone he loved. Even if they brought heartbreak and humiliation and…and…
And death.
He stumbled. The bag fell from his shoulder and bounced against his feet, skidding across the hall and bumping gently against a vending machine looming in the corner.
As if in a trance, Dougie drifted to the machine, his eyes fixed on the rows of snack-sized cellophane bags, packs of chewing gum, and candy bars. Not blinking, he reached down and picked up his gym bag, his limp hand nudging it back onto his shoulder.
He slowly turned to look down the long hallway, seeing a double set of gym doors waiting for him at its end. An image of his mother from that morning flashed through his mind—a look in her eyes he’d never seen before glowing so brightly as she looked at him, he’d had to look away. Pride.
Time moved beyond him, bringing the ringing of the school bells as he stood frozen in front of the vending machine, staring into its tempered glass. His mother’s face danced in its reflection, her smile so dazzling that it stung his eyes with burning tears. Her image morphed into his father, his body lying in a casket surrounded by white orchids.
His hands began to tremble.
As though controlled by some other force, his right hand dug into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled dollar bill. It held the money against the edge of the cash slot as he scanned the rows of candy bars for the combination to enter. He frowned.
It was out of Snickers.
He gave a wry laugh. There you go, Douglas, he told himself as he thrust the dollar bill back into his pocket and turned away. It’s a sign. Move on.
He took a step toward the gym and stopped. Shifted the gym bag to his other shoulder. Looked back at the vending machine…
Baby Ruth would have to do.
Stay tuned to read more about Dougie and where this turn in life takes him in Misfits Rising…
