The Packing House Excerpt (Beginning of Chapter 1)

Since many readers have had trouble gaining access to the first full chapter of THE PACKING HOUSE, I am posting a portion of Chapter 1 below. If you'd like to read the ending of the chapter, click here, or email me at g.donaldcribbs@yahoo.com to request a copy.

After you read this excerpt, I'd love to hear your feedback. Feel free to post a comment below. Enjoy!

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1 | Monster

            My brother’s being nice to me all of a sudden.

Either that or he’s trying to get me in trouble.

I mean to find out which one.

The tell-tale sign? This morning he gave me a forbidden Mϕnster drink he stole from the fridge. One of the jerks my mother dates stashes them at our place, but they’re off limits for us. Like police lights rolling red-blue-red-blue from every reflective surface off limits. He’s gonna get a beating for sure.

            I corner him in our sparse room pinning him to the wall. Not like he has anywhere to hide behind crates that are makeshift furniture and mattresses on the floor for beds. The smell of tuna hits me like an uppercut.

Jonathan’s blue eyes try to work on me the same way he would sweet talk one of his many girlfriends. The same brother who gave me his last quarter at the arcade more than once, who lets me pick the topping on the rare occasion when our mother breaks down and orders pizza—pepperoni, which he despises. And more times besides flashes through my mind.

“Gah! Jonathan,” I say, releasing him with a jolt as I block my nose with my shirt and back away. “What died in here?” He plays the silent act flopping on the bed. Just asking for it.

I shouldn’t get so worked up over a drink that tastes like ass. It’s wannabe beer, not even a legal issue. Carbonated cough syrup. Why do I let it get to me? Because it’s one more thing. Another excuse to thump the life out of me. I could lose the library over this. Hell if I’m giving up the one thing that keeps me sane. He’s done it before. Mϕnster Man.

“You’re just like him,” he says, indicating Mϕnster Man with a glance toward the door.

            “All right, we can do this the hard way,” I say, grabbing his ankles and pulling him off his bed. Even if I tell the truth—how he set me up—it’ll all come down on me.

An incriminating lump moves under his blankets. I knew something was up. “Oh, so you’re hiding another stray? Wait’ll Mom finds out. Mo-om!” I holler over my shoulder in the direction of the landing. Nothing but crickets. Typical. I wonder if she’s got one of her boy toys down there. Jonathan flumps back on his mattress and uses his hands to keep his captive well hidden.

            “Cut the crap, Joel. You hide stuff, too,” he snaps, “and, I’m gonna tell Mom, if you tell on me. Go ahead. Call her again.”

What could my younger brother possibly have on me? If he wagers he could smuggle his latest pet in under our mother’s nose, she will find out. I’m not too worried, having seen his track record. I haven’t said a word about the thing with the girl, so it can’t be that. I circle back to the question of what dirt he thinks he has on me.

“Just get it the hell out of the house, or else.”

“Or else, what?”

“Or else. I’m not covering for you again.” I can wait and get rid of it when he’s not home if I have to. I just came up here to get to the bottom of this.

            “Hey, why’d you slip me a Mϕnster this morning anyway? You know that’s grounds for a beating.” Lately, my mother’s been letting her acquaintances help out with the parenting, such as our consequences, as she calls it. “Remember that security guard Mom was seeing? He thought he was some kind of tough guy. Tom, the Enforcer.” The quick laugh we have over tough-guy Tom dissipates some of the tension.

            “You…didn’t get much sleep last night. No one did. I figured you could use it.” Jonathan looks at me funny. What the hell does that mean? He looks back at the blanket. Whatever he’s hiding, the lump thinks his hands blocking all exits is some kind of game. My money’s on a kitten. Jonathan may be a year younger than me, but he’s a freshman in high school now. He shouldn’t be grabbing strays up off the street.

            “Is it a kitten? You’d better let it get some air, or you’ll kill the sorry thing before Mom catches you.”

Jonathan gives me a glare, like I’m the one sneaking around.

“Just sayin’.”

He lifts his blanket up. Sure enough, it’s a wobbly, calico kitten, not old enough to be away from its mother yet. Kinda like a tiger with its striping. Maybe it’s more like patches. I shake off newborn kitten cuteness.

I try to appeal to his practical side. “So, how are you gonna give it milk?”

“Wanna help?” I can tell where this is going; I am not covering for him again. I mean it. When I don’t answer, he continues. “I’m stashing it for this girl I met at school. Her parents won’t let her keep it at her place, so I offered to take care of it. I figured it might get me somewhere later. You know what they say,” he says. I just shake my head. Always thinks with his dick.

“You can’t be serious.” As if I expect to get anywhere. “You are so bus-ted. Are you willing to lose swim team for a kitten? Hope it’s worth it.”

“Oh, it is. Trust me. It’s gotten me a few in the sack, working this angle. Don’t even mind. And, I won’t lose swim over this.” I stare at him a moment and decide whether to pounce on his ego or his claim of conquests.

“Why do you use them like that, Jon?” I ask instead.

“Girls? They’re like water to a swimmer,” he says, gesturing as if he packs a python in his pants. “It’s like diving in. At first the water takes you—she’s the dominator and you’re surrounded, she’s got her hands on your goods, but you know you’ve got to teach her to work with you if you’re gonna medal. If you let her take over, you’ll drown. It’s enough to drive you out of your mind if you don’t do something about it. So, I do. Hey, she wants me so far,” he shrugs.

I didn’t ask for the book report, but that part is true. Jonathan gets all the girls after him whenever we start at a new school. As much as we move, none of the new girls have any idea how big his prior track record is. Lucky for him we got in this school before sign ups were closed out for the year. Maybe it’s because he’s a swim jock? They all love his curly hair and pool water blue eyes. If only I were that lucky.

Closest I ever came was with this girl, back when our father was around, where I used to call home. All these places we bounce between now are like the shimmer trail a snail leaves in its wake. It gets crazy sometimes. I got pulled into a version of spin-the-bottle and ended up in the closet for seven minutes in heaven with her on the first round.

I’d known her since we were young, but not like this. Amber. She was acting so strange. That was the year her breasts became cleavage and my hands itched to know how they felt cupped in the crevice of my open palms. Until then I tried to fight it. When she pulled me in I couldn’t stop myself. Between the coats, our lips barely skimmed each other, a tangled dance in closet darkness. The heat smoldered in that space between, before our air hitched at the sound of her father’s staccato footsteps on the basement stairs.

I didn’t care. I kept going.

The thudding drum of my heart pounded mercilessly in my ears, blocking out every other sound. I thought it would rip right out of my ribcage. But I could feel her trembling there in the dark. And I knew. I fumbled for the knob in a confused swirl of panic that he’d find us like that, the abrupt halt as I beat back my desire to finally kiss Amber Walker on the lips, and the painful reminder a bulge pinched uncomfortably between my legs.

After that my memory gets muddled. I remember the door flew open, and Amber’s dad must have seized me by the collar, because the next thing I knew I was scrambling for purchase on the stairs and then I was out the door—slam—and blinking in the yard, trying to see in the harsh slices of sunlight.

Sure, he tossed my ass out of his house, but it didn’t change what happened in that closet. That was something I could keep. No one could take it. No matter who they were.

Amber wouldn’t talk to me for a solid month. She was scared. That, and her mother had labeled her the equivalent of a whore. I was a bad influence. And her father turned his back on me, after rooting for me from the start. How could I come that close, only to have it end in such utter failure?

“Eventually, this is all gonna catch up to you,” I say to Jonathan, snapping out of my reverie. “Mark my words.” He still blathers on, trying to impress me with the big shot way he handles girls. You’d think he was the older brother. But I know it’s just how he deals. I can’t fault him for that. Maybe one of them will break through his defenses. Make a man out of him.

“Fine by me,” Jonathan says. “But once they start showing resistance—like the second half of a race and get too serious—I ditch them before I’m eating the wake of my competition. I don’t have time for regret, just time to dive in and race again.”

“What are you gonna do when they want something more?”

“Best thing for those serious types is to focus on the next race. There’s always another heat, a few more seconds to shave off.”

“You treat ‘em like that-”

“-that’s why it’s all good when we move, bruh. I’ve got to dive into that fresh pool of girls.” Jonathan makes a few thrusts, and grabs himself to drive his point home.

“Just swear to me you’ll sheathe that thing every time you do it, okay?” My tone is creeping in the direction of lecture mode, but I’ve got to say this, since no one else will. I know our mother won’t. “STDs are as real as AIDS, Jon. Watch what you’re effing with.”

That last line hangs heavy in the air, a drawn out pause before Jonathan nods with half-assed acquiescence, then turns his attention back to the blanket. He coaxes the kitten with small bits of tuna. I give up and head to leave. This time Jonathan interrupts.

“You had another one of your nightmares again, didn’t you? Last night.” He lets this drop and float for a bit. Whaddya know? My little pisher of a brother is extorting me with actual substance here. Unbelievable. I turn to face him.

“All right, out with it. What did you hear?” I stroll over and flop on my mattress, leaning forward. “You see something? You got nothing. What are you trying to front?” We’re at a standstill, which makes no sense since we’re both sitting.

“I know what I know and that’s all I’ll say.” Every part of me wants to pummel it out of him, but he’s right. They are back and worse than ever. Fourth time this week I woke up gasping for breath, bathed in sweat, shaking uncontrollably. Probably couldn’t hide it to save my life. If my nightmares keep Jonathan up, too, I’ve got bigger problems.

Does he know what went down between me and Amber?

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