The Life and Times of Innis E. Coxman

The Life and Times

of
Innis E. Coxman

or

Between Shit

and
Syphilis

By R. P.
Lester

This is a
work of fiction.

All depictions of people, locales, and situations are

either
a product of the author’s

imagination
or are
used fictitiously.

Keeping in the spirit of entertainment, please,

nobody
get their panties in a
bunch over such

a
trifle of a book.

Copyright
© 2014 by R. P. Lester
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the author
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Printed in the United States of America

Cover by Bespoke Book Covers

First Printing, 2014

ISBN-13: 978-1490461380

ISBN-10: 1490461388

For J. and C.—winners of
the endurance race.

Thanks for putting up
with me.

I love both of you very
much.

 
“When you reach your
mid-thirties,

you
tend to slow down.”

Jan the Actress

From Edward Bunker’s
Animal Factory

Who the Fuck Are You?
 
1

Chapter One
 
1

Like Father,
Like Son
 
1

Gunslinger
 
1

To Fall From
Grace
 
1

Coxman’s Log: 11:36 PM
   
1

Chapter Two
  
1

Those Who
Left Me Weeping
 
1
in the Fetal Position
 
1

Black Magic
Woman
 
1

Lifestyles
of the Bitch and Shameless
 
1

Love Means
Never Having
 
1
to Say “You’re Crazy”
 
1

Coxman’s Log: 7:36 PM
   
1

Chapter Three
 
1

The Drugs
Never Have You
 
1
(Until You Try to Quit)
 
1

The Proof is
in the Pudding
 
1

Rushin’
Roulette
 
1

Coxman’s Log: 5:07 PM
   
1

Chapter Four
 
1

(Man, I
Need a Boost.)
 
1
Hey You! You’re Fired!
1

Giving the
Dog a Bone
 
1

Wade in the
Water
 
1

Coxman’s Log: 4:00 AM
   
1

Chapter Five
 
1

To Unnerve
and Neglect
1

Do Unto
Others Unless You’re in Charge
 
1

Seek and Ye
Shall Find
 
1

Coxman’s Log: 4:11 PM
   
1

Chapter Six
 
1

Another Day,
Another Dollar
 
1
(That’s Not Yours)
 
1

That’s Your
Problem
   
1

Don’t Call
Us, We’ll Call You
 
1

Coxman’s Log: 1:29 PM
   
1

So Here We Are
 
1

Let me tell you who the fuck I am.

I’ve
been called impossible. Some have labeled me an asshole. Either way, my birth
certificate says that you should address me as Innis E. Coxman.

My
parents named me Innis because it sounds close to “penis” and my father thought
it would be funny. The “E” stands for Emma because deep down I suspect they
hated me. As well as being a surname, Coxman proved to be indicative of future
talents.  

I
came howling into the world when I was ripped from my mother’s stomach in an
emergency C-section. My head was reportedly too massive to pass through her
vagina and my cynicism was giving her abdominal cramps. They did everything but
go in with a journeyman plumber to excavate my chubby body. I’m firmly
convinced that’s the reason for an egg-shaped skull with scars I can’t explain.
Afterward, Mama spent two months in the hospital fighting death from sepsis.
I’ve never forgiven myself. Later in life, she confided that she was bewitched
by the purple elephants whizzing around her portly frame and that my birth was
rather hazy (man, they’d give drugs to anybody for the smallest ailments back
in the 70s).

Now
granted, there’s not a lot I vividly recall from that day—I was new and
searching for the coffeepot. But I distinctly remember a smack on the rump to
make sure I wasn’t dead followed by the doctor calling me fat.

By
all accounts his exact words were, “Shit! Weigh that boy! He’s a big one!” Not
even five seconds into the atmosphere and already I’ve got some quack giving me
a complex about my weight as I was compared to a prize tuna.

That
little Cuban prick.

For
many years I felt I owed him a few slaps for the one he gave me all those moons
ago, though my anger subsided when I was older and discovered that he and his family
were here illegally.

Jackpot.

I’ll
never forget the crying pleas of despair as he, his wife, and their eight
children were rudely forced onto a boat for their deportation back to Cuba.

Say hello to Fidel for me, fat boy.

***

I’m
from Louisiana. Born and bred. I grew up on everything from gumbo to steak
& gravy to microwave pizza to jambalaya to Hot Pockets to chicken &
dumplings with cornbread and just about everything in between. It’s an alright
place I guess, but I don’t live there anymore. I got out when I had the chance.
The only things that state really gave me were a lot of bad memories I’m still
trying to shake as I approach my 40s, a ton of hard-earned life-lessons from an
assortment of cruel “teachers,” and a drug habit that ran into a double-digit
time frame.

I
grew up like most kids, I suppose. There were birthday parties I don’t
remember, drunken family gatherings that never should’ve happened, random
assaults at school, Christmases with gifts scattered about the living room, and
bouts of doubt and self-loathing nurtured by low self-esteem. All the goodies
that bear rehashing in a monograph of malfunction.

I’ve
started this book on four separate occasions, wading three chapters deep on my
first attempt, two-and-a-half on the second, nearly flinging myself from a
cliff on the third. They were complete wastes of time and paper. Or maybe not,
depending on one’s view. After all, were it not for the combined weight of that
hellish trinity I may have never been forced to see what I truly needed to
convey with these keys: how it really was. Finally, it dawned on me what I had
to do.

I
threw my hands in the air and said, “Fuck it.”

This
is the truth, warts and all, the hurtful and the funny, with the innocent and
the guilty grabbing equal billing on the marquee, without embellishment or
safety nets for anyone
.

Myself
included.

I
don’t know what will come of this book, but I hope it doesn’t meet the fate of
so many printings from the past—having some babyface like Leonardo Dicaprio
butchering my beloved memoirs like college coeds in a shitty B-horror movie.

(Shoving
my personal feelings aside, you can’t help but admire a man who advocates so
strongly for his people.
What’s Eating Gilbert Grape
is an underrated
classic and portraying himself in a role of mental retardation proves that the
feeble-minded can accomplish just about anything.)

***

Let
me address any curiosity you may have about your author:

I
don’t have a doctorate in some field of intellectual prowess, nor do I claim to
be a deep thinker crushed by the weight of his own existence. I’ve never even
stepped foot in a college classroom. Hell, I barely managed to graduate high
school. If it weren’t for a certain teacher passing me in Advanced Math my
senior year I’d still be earning my diploma (how you doing, Coach? {How the
fuck
did I wind up in Advanced Math, anyway?}). I merely have a moderate wealth of
life experience coupled with a twisted view of the world we live in.

And
I’ve always loved writing and music.

The
two women in my life look to me with total adoration, but make no mistake—the
pedestal upon which both my woman and daughter have placed me is made of Ritz
crackers and will someday crumble into a sea of Cheez Whiz.

I
am an utter dick, pure and simple.

My
little girl loves me more than makeup and thinks that I am Zeus (who am I to
destroy childlike wonder?). I would fight to the death for her and she knows
it. Separately and together, she and I have been through more adversity in the
last eleven years than I care to share with you. I won’t talk about her too
much in this memoir except for when she’s pertinent to the story. I’ll let you
in on a smidge, but I’m sure you understand that some things are private. What
I
will
say is that we have a bond that won’t ever be broken and leave it
at that.

I
have a girlfriend whom I love very much. In addition to putting up with my
flaws and pendulous shifts in attitude, she adores me and thinks I walk on
water. She’s going to despise me when I tell her
it’s
plexiglass.

***

I
cried when I left my mother for the first time.

She
worked as a teacher for thirty years, slugging it out in the ghetto trying to
show the neighborhood youth that there were other ways to get ahead in the world
besides selling crack and sexual favor. Then, as thanks for her years of
guidance and public subjugation, she developed cancer and died only to be
buried with a wig in a pink, satin-lined coffin. 

That’s
all you get to know about her.

So
then.....

I
cried when I was eighteen and left my mother for the first time. I cried again
three years later when she left
me
for the last time.

***

It
seems that getting divorced runs in the Coxman bloodline like plaque psoriasis.
I got divorced once to prove I wouldn’t tolerate rudeness, but why speak too
much on it now? It would spoil my Lancelot façade and you’ll read all about
that in a bit. Besides, I’m not the lead horse in that race. As much as I would
love to be the first to thrust my snout over the finish line, my father and
sister have five sets apiece.

About
my sister: she lived with us briefly when I was a toddler. She’s from my
father’s first marriage and we barely know each other. She blossomed in one
state while I languished in another. Culling memories for this book has made me
see that many events I experienced could’ve been avoided had her tutelage been
available. But I’m not laying guilt trips, however it may seem. It truly
doesn’t matter anymore. Coming up alone as I did without the coaching of my
older sibling caused me to be one stupid, selfish, spoiled motherfucker with
very few lasting friendships. But as I sit here in the body of a man recalling
the flashbacks of a boy, I was all the better for it, for perhaps I would still
be stupid, selfish, and spoiled.

That’s
the first time I’ve ever seen or spoken those words and I find them
liberating.

The
only friend I could ever count on was Fred, my loyal, faithful goat. When I was
a small child, my parents and I went on vacation to the Rocky Mountains and
discovered him after returning from a hiking trip. He was rubbing his white fur
against our camper trying to molt. My father shooed him away, but later that
night he tried to break into our RV foraging for asparagus and ass. My mother
gave him a can of green beans in an attempt to placate his needs, though he
wouldn’t go away. Pops turned a Remington .270 on him and was going to blow his
liver into the landscape when Mama dissuaded him. Once my father discovered
that Fred wasn’t a pagan god come to kill us, he fell in love with his beard
and we took him in as our own.

Fred
died when I was in my late 20s, living well beyond the expectancy of goats in
the wild. I buried him with aluminum cans and his favorite toy.

I
miss him.

***

But I’m getting head from you
Shit. Guess now’s as good a
time as any to talk about this.

My
fingers are fiercely independent, as you can plainly see. My advanced
apologies. I’ve done my best to correct any sarcasm displayed by my phalanges,
but you’ll still see this occur from time to time.
Deal with it.

But
I’m getting ahead of you. All will be explained and documented, because this is
my story. We’re going at my pace, in my voice.

You’re
just along for the ride, good people.

We’re
going to have some fun, crack on a few celebrities who have it coming, and show
deference to the ones who deserve it. There are going to be some laughs and a
few low points, too. Then again, life is full of laughs and low points. It
isn’t one big high.

I
ought to know. I tried.

Eventually,
there’s a gritty comedown.

Stick
with me or don’t. The choice is yours. If you bail on me, no hard feelings
because you’re not the first. If you’re hardcore, you’ll know it; you’ll be reading
until the end. And those are the only readers I really want to share my story
with. The ones still standing, blood streaming from the face, asking for more
after all the punches have been thrown, wobbling with a stiff middle finger in
the air.

Birds
of a feather, goddammit.

The
truth is, I have no illusions or lofty expectations about my tale. One hundred
copies of this book may never see the light of a library, never blaze through a
Kindle, or bask under the warm glow of a student’s desk lamp. My tale of
redemption and maturity may go as unnoticed as broccoli stalks at a fat camp.
And that would truly lick the dog’s balls.

Because
hell yes
I hope to have these sins being read all over the world.
Essentially, that’s what they are. A sweeping collection of my sins,
juvenility, and debauchery along with the transgressions of many
coconspirators. I hope to sell so many copies of this memoir that I can finally
buy Tuna Helper instead of Sea Assistor because the off-brand is
bullshit.

No,
I’m not a
New York Times
bestselling author with a Pulitzer to my
credit, nor do I have maids dusting off my antique porn collection. But I love
books, I love them when they’re based on something true, and I love them best
when the characters are flawed. I sure as hell hope you do, too.

***

(Names of individuals have been changed
to protect the parties
involved
to protect the families of these guilty cocksuckers.)

Innis E.
Coxman

February,
2014