“wash it down with gin” (NF) and two paintings by Kelly Matheson


Each joint has a price. In terms of insurance, that is. Worker’s comp is a son of a bitch to people who sprain an ankle because you wore flip-flops to work that day or slipped on ice in the break room. But if you find a band-saw and make the calculated decision to remove appendages to work the system, you’ll find a legend of values for each limb and ligament. I know this because my brother cut his fingers off. I half wondered if he did it just to get out of work for a few months. At least it got rid of those trashy prison tattoos on his fingers. That’s the kind of contempt you hold for someone who has tried to choke the life out of you on multiple occasions. He received a settlement check that gave him the only stability he ever had.  A trailer that he paid the down payment on and then never made another payment. He rented the lot, of course. It was in the middle of nowhere and we only visited him a few times to help him clean and move in. He was riding a sympathy high for a while. He got to live the way he wanted. No responsibilities like working, paying bills, or cleaning. Just smoking, bartering his pain meds, and making god-awful food. He sat in a singlewide trailer, chain smoked and corresponded with a slimy attorney every day to make the best case and get the biggest payout. He got a check for somewhere in the neighborhood of $17,000. A hell of a bankroll for someone who’d been relegated to poverty his entire life. With it, he played house. He found some semblance of love and got married. Even attempted to start a family. Several months of marital and patriarchal bliss. He added an entirely impractical iguana to the mix. Years later, on one of his quests to live on the fringe of society, he let the beast freeze to death. After a year of growing moss and a rubber tree, a Magic Chef range and having to maintain 700 square feet, it all proved to be too much for him. All relationships were too much for him. I have no qualms admitting his accident was most likely on purpose. My brother was a rambler in a post-rambler world. There are no more brakemen and hobos. Only sad, lonely homeless men who claim park benches in the winter and creeks in the summer. It never did sit right with me knowing he was sleeping in the park or on someone’s floor. He wouldn’t reach out often to me considering my brash nature and my selfish shithead of a husband. He wasn’t welcome as an overnight guest and he knew this. I can blame my husband, but that kind of life scared me. No stability, no check, no 800-thread-count pillowcase and lamp to light my nightly escape from reality in some book. Brian was a bastard. Not in the descriptive sense, but in reality. He knew because he was told over and over and over again. Drilled in him that he was a mistake, born to be resented.  He was made in a one-horse pseudo-old-west town as revenge for my mother to pay back my father for all the bullshit he pulled. My brother, his namesake nonetheless, was the collateral damage. With each signature and roll call he was reminded that he was the illegitimate child of his mother and named after the man she avenged herself against. He was not wanted and he would never truly know his lineage. He was always a problem or issue to be dealt with, with thrown punches and sharp words. Funny thing is I met his so called biological father. He looked nothing like him. So in all these fights and mud slinging there was a name that rang out. But now I knew that wasn’t even his real father. I never made this known to my brother, we never talked about anything really. Until the day this mans obituary came out. I’ll never know if my brother believed me when I told him, there’s no way that was your father. It made me feel sad for him. It made me remember when he turned eight. The doctors handed down the news. It felt like a terminal diagnosis at that time. Juvenile diabetes. To a family with no money, no prospects, and too much pride to accept help. Two shots a day. Insulin and syringes twice every day. Every day was a struggle. He was already ostracized in every way. In his own family. In school, due to his learning disabilities, which could probably be explained by his illness and the ever-present mood swings. Now he was different physically. He never belonged anywhere. His sheared wool was always black as soot. Constant fighting with my mother, who poured her resentment of his existence straight into him, unapologetically, which only exacerbated his distaste for living in reality. His ability to lie as a means to an end was honed at a young age. She told him what a sorry piece of shit he was. The fact of the matter remained that my mother and brother were so much alike in the fact that neither of them could hold a job very long or maintain any kind of relationship. They were both infamous for screaming matches in the front lawn. Fist fights and dramatic attempts on each others lives were just another day. In our little slice of rural North Carolina, it was always a first-name basis with all the deputies. In a time when mental illness was an urban issue, these were nothing more than rural realities. Nothing you can do to help them.  Keep them from shooting the neighbors. Anything more is out of my pay grade. The rest of the souls living in that hellhole are just SOL. So you wake up. Another day of shit to eat. Go to vacation bible school where you are taught to be grateful for the shit you eat. Forgive your mother and file your brother away in a part of your brain that can’t be explained or contacted without pain and confusion. Make a complacent attempt at finding normalcy and stability. Then they both die, and you are left craving shit for breakfast.


Kelly Dishmond is an artist and writer who lives in Hickory, North Carolina. Kellsbells1783