Appalachian Tiki Shirts//Alexander Holcomb

The move stole everything.

His dad’s new job—we’ll practically be rich, son—took them from Tampa to a southwest Virginia town too small to mention. He left behind his best friends, a group he had run around with since middle school, and Jules, his first serious girlfriend, broke things off. Long distance just isn’t for me. He never thought about either enough to decide which hurt worse.

He passed—survived—high school through the begging and pleading of his mother. I just want to see my baby boy graduate. His sister finished back in Tampa before the move. College wasn’t for her, but she fell in with a gaggle of girlfriends from church. He made passing friends—people who would help him with a flat tire but not give him a ride the next day. The lemon of a Volkswagen Beetle his dad bought for him and his sister tested that theory plenty of times. His biggest social leap was getting drunk at the high school graduation afterparty. (Who is this character? or Why have we never seen this side of you?) The alcohol made him feel warm, like he was in Tampa and the inquisitors were his friends.

That summer, with nothing ahead of him, he road tripped to Tampa to see his boys. The girl he kept in his memories and on his lock screen had long found a new man. His boys: Matt, Collin, Black Matt (who no longer appreciated the nickname, if he ever did), and J Boy had all split between love interests and college plans, so he would see them separately. No chance to recreate the old days.

Somewhere in Georgia, he filled up his tank and stole, along with a pack of crackers, a gaudy tiki shirt. During their freshman year spirit week, the guys had worn novelty Hawaiian shirts every day, even when—and especially if—it didn’t make sense. They got enough attention and laughs that they did it again sophomore year. He left before junior year, when they finally broke tradition, but he decided this callback could be his opener.

Colin and Matt (Black) both chose against school and moved in together, working barely above minimum wage. They seemed happy to see him and blew air out of their noses at the dad shirt. Less than an hour passed before Colin gasped. You gotta change your background, dude.

She’s engaged, and he’s a really chill guy. He cut the visit short and took their coffee cups as revenge. No one stopped him from leaving.

J Boy—my girlfriend calls me Justin—hardly paid attention to him while they sat on the couch at Justin’s parents’ house. This visit felt familiar because he and J Boy were never close. J Boy’s parents only pretended to remember the former Tampa local. Justin kept repeating, You gotta come back, man. You gotta come back, as if it were a prerequisite to his attention.

Lonely roads, midnight coffee, and yellow interstate lights. Mississippi.

Matt was the only friend who offered him a place to stay—just a couple nights until my roommate comes back for summer classes. They walked around campus, talked about drama (he had updates for Matt), and smoked weed. Matt loved it, but it made him feel nothing but sleepier. The nights crawled in slow motion, and he wondered if he could end the reunion early.

When Matt’s roommate returned, he rejected their offer to sleep on the floor—no couch. He thought of Chris McCandless, but he hardly had enough money to get home. Gas is hard to steal. The first night on the road, he went through Nashville and stopped on Broadway to see the bachelorette parties and honky-tonks. He stole a cowboy hat and another Hawaiian shirt. The store clerk yelled and chased him for a block until he stopped, waved his hand, and spat in his direction. Not worth it.

He woke to another vagrant knocking on his window in a parking lot outside of Nashville. The man shook in his ratty jacket and fingerless gloves as he waited for the driver to answer. He opened his bleary eyes under the white lights.

I’m freezing my balls off, man. Can I get in?

Don’t care, he yelled through the glass. Just don’t steal my shit. I’m broke as you, ‘cept for this car. He unlocked the Beetle, and the man entered through the passenger door.

Name’s Gabriel, pronounced Gay-brul, not the Mexican way. How you wearing shorts?

No reply. Sleep. Dreams. Later, sunshine.

Gabriel offered him a loose, near empty bag of cereal by crinkling it in his face. Here, take it! Because it seemed to mean so much to Gabriel and because he hadn’t eaten since Memphis, he accepted it. He was happy to never see Gabriel again, but the car engine wouldn’t turn over. Gabriel offered to take a look. He lifted the hood, fiddled around, and slammed it shut before giving the driver a thumbs up. It started, and as he left, he dropped the cereal from the window to say thanks.

His gas ran out in Bristol as he rolled into a station. With no money in the bank, he stole a bag of chips and bummed money by washing windows. The manager shook his head from behind the window bars and lottery tickets but didn’t bother stopping the kid. An hour later he was back on the road with half a tank, and time passed as he started to recognize home.

Sometime after midnight, the car stopped a mile from his parents’ driveway. Instead of calling, he walked the rest of the way. When he made it, he dropped his bag on the floor and raided the snack cabinet as his legs began to itch from the cold. The commotion woke his dad.

They’d had rat problems before, so his father barreled in with a BB gun and wide eyes as white as his underwear. Seeing a boy instead of rodents, he lowered the weapon and smiled. Kerouac, you’re home! No response. You know, like the—oh, forget it! Cool shirt.

Thanks.

Glad you’re home. Your mom is worried you’re going to move back.

Me too. I won’t.

Why not?

Just won’t.

Trip went bad then?

He shrugged.

Sounds about right. Pause. By the way, I was thinking while you were gone. Let’s get you looking at one of them hiring agencies soon. Can’t live here rent free forever.

Okay.

And don’t forget your jacket next time. Colder than a witch’s titty out there.

Okay. Dad?

Yes?

Do we need any coffee cups?

No. Pause. Why?

Just wondering.

Did you—seriously?

Yeah.

Where? Actually, I don’t want to know. Put ‘em in the cabinet. Talk about it later.

The idea of Tampa’s warmth lingered with him long after. He wore Hawaiian shirts and khaki shorts everywhere. At work, when he worked, he looked the same whether he was on a construction site or in a call center. He collected nicknames like Vacay and Aloha Andrew before he quit or got fired for stealing, and during the winter, he shivered while looking for inside jobs.

Alexander Holcomb (he/him) explores family, culture, and trauma through art. His publishers include Bright Flash Literary Review, Wrong Turn Lit, Fifty Word Stories, and various nonfiction presses. He recently moved from Tennessee to Heredia, Costa Rica with Olivia, his wife and favorite editor. Alexander's other words can be found on alexanderholcomb.substack.com.