Based on the original song by Shel Silverstein, “A Boy Named Sue”
It was late-afternoon by the time I finally pulled into Gatlinburg, Tennessee. Sleep deprived, ragged from the road and still trying to fight the hangover from the night before, I kicked open the car door and stepped out into the mid-July sun, desperate for a cigarette. It had rained the night before and the streets were still muddy, but the air was hot and it made me crave a cold beer. The perfect hangover cure, I thought to myself, as I reached into the back of my car, pushing away the old guitar my piece of crap dad had left me and grabbed the backpack that carried my money and the only other thing dad had left me: an empty whiskey bottle. I threw it over my shoulder, thinking of the day I’d finally be able to smash that bottle over his head. I slammed my car door and set off in search of a bar to quench my thirst, hoping that maybe I’d finally run across that son of a bitch.
I kicked the mud off of my boots before walking into the bar, where a single patron sat sipping his beer, talking to the pretty blonde bartender. She smiled at me as I sunk onto a bar stool and politely ordered a beer, averting my eyes from hers due to the ingrained feeling of shyness I carried that was beginning to creep in. She brought me my beer and sweetly asked me my name. “It’s uh…it’s…. Sue.” I stammered. She giggled furiously while I turned deep red, pulled my beer closer to myself, stared into it and felt embarrassed. “Sue?!” she began, “Who would name their kid Sue?!” “I guess a son of a bitch of a dad.” I replied dejectedly. At the other end of the bar, the man who had been sitting there drinking his beer when I walked in started laughing hysterically. “Is something funny?” I asked, feeling my blood start to run hot. “Suuue!!!!!” He almost fell out of his stool in laughter. “A boy named Suuuue!!!!” I got up off my barstool and walked over to him, sipping hard at the long-neck bottled beer in my hand. “Yes, my name is Sue.” I said through grit teeth, “How do you do?” I gave him no time to reply and smashed the bottle across his head, turning his laughter into pitiful crying as he slumped to the floor. “You can tell your friends a boy named Sue did that to you.” I chuckled to him. Placing a large bill down on the bar counter, I apologized for the mess and walked out, in search of a more peaceful place to drink.
I walked down the street with a sour look on my face. I swear, on the moon and stars, that I’ll kill that son of a bitch if I ever find him, I thought. I was so tired from carrying around that name and the days of having to stand up for myself, feeling constantly embarrassed, were getting old. As much as I sought vengeance on the man who had done this to me, I equally sought escape from the world that made me feel so ashamed. I just want to enjoy a beer in peace for once. I turned the corner down a muddy street and there I saw a small, out of the way saloon. It looked just quiet enough to where I thought I might be able to find that peaceful drink within and with a hopeful sigh, I decided to take a chance on it. My feet stopped dead in their tracks the moment I walked in. The blood in my body turned cold and my heart pounded with icy rage, as there sat, dealing cards around a table and looking like the mangy, dirty dog he was, the son of a bitch that named me Sue.
I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out the tattered photograph of him that my mother had given me, just to make sure. The scar across his cheek, that evil eye… It was him alright. He was old now, his hair graying, and a rough life had left his back bent, though he had retained his big size. He looked like the devil to me. Out of my backpack I took the empty whiskey bottle he had left my mother and I when he split and I gripped the neck with rage. I had been waiting my entire life for this moment and now, as our roads finally crossed in this sleepy mountain town, I was going to spill every drop of his blood or die trying. I yelled across the saloon at the top of my voice, sending with it all the years of pain he had caused me, “Hey YOU! Yes you, you mangy, dirty son of a bitch! My name is Sue! How do you do?!” He met my icy gaze with rabid, crazy eyes as I whispered… “Now… you’re gonna die.”
I rushed him and brought the whiskey bottle crashing down across his forehead, sending him sprawling across the floor of the saloon. I tried to move in on him, but he was a quick old man and I never saw it coming when he came back up with a knife in his hand and deftly sliced off a piece of my ear. I stumbled backwards holding my ear as blood poured down my hands and he stood up tall with a dangerous look in his eyes as blood poured from his forehead. I felt the rage overtake me and I picked up a chair and brought it crashing across his face. It sent him to his knees spitting out teeth, but he just shook his head, smiled at me and charged into my body so powerfully, that we crashed through the wall of the saloon and into the muddy streets of Gatlinburg.
A crowd had started to form, but nobody was about to get in between the dealings of a father and son, so they watched in quiet suspense. Our fists flew with fury, landing blow after blow as we wrestled in the mud and blood. My father, being the dirty fighter he was, bit me like a crocodile and I screamed in pain, slamming his head back down into the mud while he just cussed and laughed. He kicked me off of him like a mule and as we both stumbled backwards in the mud, we both reached for our guns. I was faster than him this time though and I got to my feet and aimed the barrel of my .45 at his forehead. The air fell dead silent and all you could hear were his and my heartbeats pounding as he looked up at me in the mud with a smile stretching across his scarred and rugged face. He spit some blood into the mud and laughed, and then, shaking his head, said…”Looks like this rough world has made you tough.” I shifted uncomfortably, feeling strangely the air of a father to son lecture, and I cocked the hammer. “I knew I wouldn’t be there to protect you as you grew up,” he continued, “so I gave you that name knowing it would make you tough and strong in a world that wants to kill you. Seems like it’s done that.” And he spit more blood. The gun in my hand trembled. “You just fought a hell of a good fight. I know you hate me and if you want to kill me right here, right now, then I wouldn’t blame you. But do you feel that gravel in your gut? You feel that spit in your eye? That made you the tough son of a son of a bitch that you are? Before you pull that trigger, you oughta thank me for that…” A tear trickled down my bleeding face and the trembling gun fell into the mud.
What could I do? What could I do? “Pa….” I whispered, shaking as the hate for my father dissipated into the mud, blood and beer. He stood up and put his hand on my shoulder and said quietly, “Son, let’s go get a drink.” We walked through the jaw dropped and stunned crowd, who watched us silently, and through the broken wall of the saloon to the bar where the bartender stood shaking with fear. “Two shots of whiskey.” My father said. The bartender put an entire bottle in front of us and rushed away. As I sat there passing the bottle of whiskey with my father, rekindling after all those years and laying to peace the unrest in our lives, there was still one undeniable truth in the back of my mind that I couldn’t stop thinking of… If I ever have a son, I think I’ll name him George…or Bill. The whiskey slid down my throat, numbing my battered body and warming my soul and I looked over at the son of a bitch sitting next to me. On the moon and stars…. I thought… anything but Sue.
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