The Life and Times of Innis E. Coxman Read Free Page A

or a POW, never coming home to an honorable discharge to meet
and marry my mother.
    And
the world would’ve been deprived of the genius you hold in your hands.
    I
have much respect for my pops, if for no other reason than sludging through and
doing it his way. With the help of the G. I. Bill, working at side jobs, my
mother’s support, and meeting the right people, he became a college graduate
who went on to form his own law practice architectural firm emu
farm fuck that. I'm not telling you what he does. Just know that after
years of taking orders from others, Pops eventually became the one who could
bring the hammer down.
     
    ***
     
    Sure,
I recall mistakes that were made while I was growing up, but whatever, man. How
many mistakes have I made with my kid? (Plenty. That’s the answer.) None
of it matters now. It’s all dead snips of a faded past. H. F. Coxman always
took care of me, made sure I had what I needed, and was able to provide
luxuries like running water and food. But he’s always been just a little
batshit left of center, and I couldn’t begin to explain how some of his actions
have forced me to reexamine whether or not the man should undergo some sort of
forced psychoanalysis.
    Well,
yes I can explain, actually. I was under the impression that’s what we were
doing here.
    It’s
a rhetorical statement, smartass. Read on.

Gunslinger
     
    I was twelve years old when I saw my father shoot a man. Three
times, no less. Sadly, I didn’t have a damn thing to do with it and had to
watch from the confines of his Lincoln. He ensured that I was immune from the
bedlam, protecting me from the comical 80s fight scene due to unfold by
ordering me back to his car so I couldn’t assist with my slingshot.
    I’ve
never forgiven him for that shit.
     
    ***
     
    My
parents' relationship had gone the route of so many marital unions (re: fucked
like a drunk sorority girl), complete with the money-sucking marriage
counselors and attempted vehicular homicide. When they’d finally agreed on a
divorce, theirs was no different than any other swan song between two rational
adults. It was complete with finger-pointing, empty threats, and both accusing
the other of being a big crybaby meanie-mouth poopie pants (I learned early
that monetary disagreements can have a profound effect on one’s maturity).
    Things
took a nosedive when my pops did the most logical thing a businessman with a
functional cock can do: he started dicking his secretary.
Not that it was a big deal, mind you. He was in the middle of a separation and
it’s a natural progression for any man, particularly one of means.
    But
this lady had a skeleton in her closet. A secret my pops didn’t know about
until it was right on top of him and almost too late. Strangely, she held it
closer to the vest than that picture of her gargling a nutsack at the office
Christmas party (the photo was used as the cover for the company’s captivating
pamphlet Sexual Harassment in the Workplace: Ain’t it a Mouthful?). She
had an abusive ex-husband named John Sweetbuck who lurked in the shadows,
making a mockery of the authority vested in him, and aching for the day he
could get his hands around her throat for some all-important reconciliation.
     
    ***
     
    Sweetbuck
had been a cop since his mid-20s, graduating first in his class, and being the
first rookie in his department to earn accommodations. After some time on
patrol, his was also the first questionable shooting in over ten years.
    It
happened behind an Awffle Spouse restaurant as he was receiving payment from a
heroin mover. John had planned on killing the guy afterward, a Puerto Rican
named Esteban whom he’d arrested for possession a few weeks earlier. He knew
you couldn’t stamp out all crime all the time, but he couldn’t abide smack, not
after watching his little brother get hooked. It was part of the reason he’d
spent five years as a cop. He tolerated the weed and coke dealers, but he
attacked heroin suppliers