Turner McDogg
In which I give a public reading at Chuck Palahniuk's Midwest Story Night.
It’s official! posted my reading of my (new) short story “Turner McDogg” from Midwest Story Night. Click on Chuck’s post below to watch the recording. I’ve also included the full text below.
But wait! There’s more.
I made a bunch of zines that I passed out at Story Night. It was a lot of folding, yes, but a lot of fun. For all my lovely paid subscribers? Check your email. I’m sending one to each of you. I just need your preferred mailing address. If you’re not a paid subscriber yet? All good! But if you decide to upgrade, I’ll send you a zine as a token of my eternal thanks.
Until Friday.
Love,
matt ❤️
Story No. 8: Turner McDogg
Finally he made up his mind to marry her. He felt so free, like a weight had been lifted off his heart and brain, which wasn’t how the saying went, but felt true regardless.
Had he doubted before? Hell yes, like a million times, maybe two.
But it was because of all the times he’d doubted that he was making this decision only now, at 29, in the dead of winter, alone, while Fabiola was out of town on a trip to visit her parents in California.
No question remained now.
He and Fabiola were getting married.
And to be finally sure felt fantastic.
After all, how many times did Fabiola have to exemplify the perfect life partner before he acted? She loved him unconditionally. That was big. They were best friends. Also big. They came from similar, not-rich families, liked the same music, believed in God but not the church, could talk for hours, had sufficient jobs.
What was he waiting for?
Plus, it was hard to imagine anyone would ever love him the way she did. Not that that mattered, per se. They weren’t waiting for someone else to come along that they could love more, or staying together only because the chance of someone better coming along got slimmer and slimmer with each passing day.
No.
Of fucking course that wasn’t what they were doing.
When she returned from California, he would pop the question. Flowers, a sign, at the airport, romcom style. His heart fluttered just thinking about it. Tomorrow, he would buy the ring at the mall, finance that shit and figure it out later. The people would have payment options, had to, and that was kind of a beautiful thing, that anyone could get married no matter their income or social status, or whether they were already in heaps of debt. Future ramifications? Unknown, but they would figure that out later — as husband and wife. Even doing bills would be sweeter.
With the plan in place, he relaxed and scrolled through his phone.
Stupid.
Weird.
Advertisement.
Kind of cool.
Who cares.
Advertisement.
Aw.
Selena Gomez has a cooking show?
Advertisement.
Then an image of a sunny, green field slid into view.
Beautiful.
Spectacularly.
It stretched for miles in every direction. Over the field, a few clouds floated. Perfect cumuluses. The sky was a moody blue. But the field was the main thing. Someone needed to frolic through that green without delay. Someone needed to run, laughing, before intentionally stumbling into the grass and rolling on their back, giving them a complete view of the sky where a single puff of white drifted across the blue like an unmoored sailboat — and now it takes on the shape of a sailboat, and a tear of joy runs down the side of that someone’s face, wetting their sideburn.
Next to the field there was a yellow truck from the fifties. It was covered in moss. The truck was parked in front of a simple house with cobblestones making a path to the front door. The caption of the image read, NEBRASKA. The person who posted it, one Turner McDogg.
And suddenly he got this urge.
What if he was there, far away from his studio apartment in New York, in Nebraska with Turner McDogg. He and McDogg could run through the field, come back, sit in the bed of the mossy truck, put back some beers. They could hop in McDogg’s operational truck and wander through the whole midwest, visiting all sorts of tiny towns, meeting interesting people, finding other beautiful fields and farms and rusty vehicles they’d circle while scratching their chins.
He started thinking about James Agee and Walker Evans and that one dust bowl lady everyone’s seen — about adventure and writing and photography and art and friendship and the kind of beauty that’s only found by getting horizontal in the middle of a field. And he started to feel this burning desire to go somewhere like that. It felt like butterflies. Angry ones. Butterflies that were sick of the stomach’s cramped quarters. Butterflies that wanted out out out.
But Fabiola.
And getting married.
And not doubting anymore, not for the two millionth and first time.
But really?
All that was a sham.
Yes, he was doubting. Yes, he doubted. Yes, he would doubt. And sometimes doubting wasn’t that bad. Sometimes it was excellent to doubt — to doubt because your options were between loving your lady better or roaming the midwest with Turner McDogg.
In that way, doubt was pleasant.
About tomorrow? He’d figure it out then.
Right now, he closed his eyes and fell asleep imagining himself laying in the middle of a field. ♦
I seem to have assumed a very broad stance while reading. Have a great Wednesday, ya’ll.
Love the descriptions in this story. It was fun seeing the recording on Chuck's post!
Love the story Matt! Drew me in and kept me wondering, will he marry her or will he travel? Can't wait to read more.:) Also, the way you stand when you read, (from seeing your picture you posted), reminds me of Mike Myers in "So I Married An Axe Murderer". (I know how that sounds, but I promise I can explain that better and deep sincere apologies if you already seen the movie. Don't mean to over explain this,lol. .) Mike Myers in that movie is a poet who reads his work aloud in a little dive coffee shop but when he stands up on stage to deliver his performance, he stands with confidence, speaks with a humorous tone, and utters sheer coolness that just draws you in. You are Mike Myers, my friend. An utter badass who inspires us all. Keep up the awesome work! :)