Vignettes Regarding the Artwork of Brendon Kotes
There are some kids who, finding out their parents think a certain way, latch on to it like glue. Faith, politics, morals. Just the tip of the iceberg, those are. Entire families create dynasties in this way…or at least a locally owned gas station chain.
Then there are other kids, the kind who, upon finding out a parent’s belief, will run like hell the opposite way. Called “contrary.” “Difficult.” Or, Casey’s favorite: “wild.”
So when Casey’s father began his ranting on about Taylor L. being a cheap-ass mother-fucker who wouldn’t know his fender from his tranny if they both hit him upside the head, well, Casey took that as permission to get to know the newly minted drag winner. He’d tag along, on the outskirts of that circle, perched on the tailgate of someone else’s truck, elbows on knees as he listened and laughed and talked shop with young men twice his age and just as reckless.
Brendon found out later—much later—that Taylor L. had been only twenty-one during that first race. Messed up nose from too many boys-will-be-boys neighborhood brawls. Crooked teeth, not because his parents didn’t have dental, but because they just kept “forgetting” to go to checkups. Hair to his shoulders, dark and wavy and full, yet pulled back into a tight bun the moment things got serious.
And things were always serious during midnight hour, illegal races down Ol’ North Main.
At least according to Casey. Continue reading