Child of God-Cormac McCarthy

Child of God was probably the easiest of six Cormac McCarthy novellas that I have read (so far) and was by far the darkest. American Psycho's Patrick Bateman comes to mind, or, Heat 2's Otis Wardell, or, any interchangeable specimen cultivated in utter depravity from Stephen King's library who resides within the same exclusive hemisphere of upper-echelon sociopaths as Lester Ballard. Unlike King, who sometimes exercises the liberty of grotesque measurements to paint his character's psychopathic shadow just a bit too dark, Cormac sketched Lester Ballard with a brush that never felt like it was being squeezed in the painters grip.

Which made him appear to be all the more menacing.

It is a depressing habit I admit, but sometimes—when I am free to roam within the solitary recess of my mind—I often drift off into the shoes of sociopaths that I have known personally—or of—and wonder what it is like to be completely devoid of empathy in life. A habit that ultimately served as the birth canal of Tully McGinty.

I have met sociopathic criminals through the casino that acted as accelerates to the bleak outlook of society I once had and also see many upon many criminals in the headlines of Cleveland.com and The Chronicle or know of deadbeat ex-husbands and baby daddies that seem more prone to fall through the protective slats of legal pits than others and wonder what it is like to live a life such as that.

I am so far removed from the hemisphere of criminality that I get the Willie's whenever delinquent city tax notices show up in the mailbox. I sometimes dread the letters of agencies like the IRS, FBI, CIA, and legalese firms more than death itself. So warped is my fear of legal repercussions, that I would rather duel a lengthy bout against physical illness than be forced to enter into a year-long legal battle over any number of potential infractions the government packs within its everlasting arsenal.

My fear also begins to rise when I read about the downfall of countless celebrities who are forced to endure the societal backlash of decades-old sexual assault accusations when they come to light and wonder how they can rise in the morning and even sleep at night while their character is perpetually thrashed. As I see people like Johnny Depp and Kevin Spacey fight for career survival, I often wonder—should success ever arrive at my doorstep—if there is some vindictive female from my tumultuous past frothing at the mouth to ruin my life for a transgression I am unaware of.

I admit these irrational pangs of anxiety not as a confessional, but to correlate how difficult it is for me to perceive what life is like for the criminal sociopath. To the best of my knowledge, no government agencies are pursuing an investigation into my background for misdeeds because I have done nothing wrong and I know of no females from my past that I am on negative terms with nor do I have any over-sized skeletons in the closet across either landscape that should arouse such fears to exist. But for those who do and go about their days from sunrise to sunset absent of compunction, it is both fascinating and a bit unnerving to wonder what life is like for people like that.

For instance. Two of the three people who were in the vehicle that hit me had various felonies attached to their record and the driver behind the wheel was without a license nor had insurance. I could not even begin to imagine waking up the following day after having put two of my friends in the hospital, creating such a devastating wreck, and then having to face the mountainous hill of inevitable legal issues and medical bills. I would need drastic psychiatric help to prevent myself from entertaining and pursuing self-harm, the self-condemnation would be so scathing.

But for some, this is just another day in the life of a bottom-feeding criminal with no regard for the law.

*Curiosity got the best of me and I looked up the person on social media and a few months later he was posting pictures of himself and his girlfriend hanging out in a speedboat without a care in the world.*

One other such individual is a baby daddy who is the father of a cousin of mine's children. Even back when I was in High School this guy was always getting pinched for drugs and all sorts of stupid shit. Twenty years later the tide not only never turned, but surged forth with greater ferocity of deprivation. He makes regular appearances on Lorain Counties Busted.com for all sorts of wonderful charges and then verbally spars and threatens people who comment on his mugshot. Last I checked he was being held at Grafton County for Grand Theft and Assault and Battery while awaiting his sentence. His bail is set at $100,000.00.

Keeping him company is a loose acquaintance I knew through bowling that is serving five years (plus) for rape. And while awaiting that sentence he managed to rack up a separate felony charge of Grand Theft, all while making incessant posts on Facebook professing his innocence.

It is mind-boggling to me how some operate without that extra chromosome that disseminates that which is right, from that which is wrong.

Now, mind you, there are several instances, that, by the grace of God alone, I have either avoided or never reached their potentially devastating apex, that would have placed me as a bedfellow with the aforementioned. Nothing too egregious, mostly being behind the wheel when I shouldn't have been or running around with stupid folks who were doing stupid things and not removing myself from the situation. They were very few, but enough to look back upon to know two things. One, I am extremely blessed to have God's watchful presence upon my faltering soul. And two, that it was scary enough to know that I never wanted to enter into those positions again.

But, again, others, seem to always miss this memo and figure that, since they rolled through a STOP sign once and didn't get caught, they more than likely never will. And even if they do, continue to delude themselves to the fact that living a life on the lam is only a consequence of bad luck. A gray cloud that never leaves the residence above their head.

I suppose that is why it is so easy and amusing as a writer to let loose the floodgates of our inner sociopath and see what shakes loose. Some, like McCarthy and Easton Ellis, dive deeper into the resulting abyss than others.

Now I thought Tully McGinty was one reprehensible son of a bitch, and that was deliberate. It was painful to write of him stealing, philandering, and in his glorious violent self. But it was true to the form of those whom I had met.

But I have never met anyone like Bateman, Wardell, and Lester Ballard. Nor do I think that McCarthy, Mann, or Easton Ellis have either. But that did not stop them from trying on their shoes for size.

In McCarthy's caricature of Lester Ballard, we as the audience are not expected to hold sympathy for his plight. For there is none. He is a self-absorbed caveman a shade above Bigfoot minus the physical attributes. Within Ballards primitive nature, wherever there is a missing ingredient that others have, he fills it for his self-satisfaction in any way he feels like, no matter the ensuing chaos that follows his all-take and no-give lifestyle. It is made clear that Ballard cannot have a stable relationship with other women. Instead of hitting the books at the local library to sharpen his brain and shaping fat into muscle at the gym, he takes the easier route of the depraved mind and kills females then has relationships with the corpses. Oftentimes dressing them up in lingerie and wearing the items himself.

It is McCarthy's ability to describe Lester Ballard and his inhuman lifecycle so matter of factly that singes Child of God into the brain. The prose is borderline poetic and at the same time hauntingly succinct. Like looking over a quiet meadow that once was a Civil War battlefield imagining the bloodshed in your mind and then returning to the indifferent stalks of nature that remain.

I suppose that is the way you can learn to accept the utter genius and describe any of Cormac McCarthy's novels though…

Absolutely genius.

Very bleak read, but a privilege nevertheless. Short, dark, poetic, and jarring.

Grade: A-

Verdict: Read