Spot on or not. So I’m happy when I turn off
the main road into Alexa’s unassuming, well-kept
neighborhood. I attempt a return to small talk.
“So, what are you up to the rest of the weekend?”
Her shrug releases the scent of her leather
jacket, a hint of some citrusy lotion. Not much.
Filling out college applications and FAFSA
forms. Tedious and silly. I’m not going far.
“Me either. UOregon, and I’m thinking about
taking a year off before that. But when I told that
to Mr. Wells, he acted like it was a dead-
end alley to residence behind a Dumpster.”
Well, I think it’s a great idea, especially
if you explore a little of the world beyond
the Willamette. Everyone should travel
before they decide where to settle down.
I pull over on the dirt shoulder in front
of Alexa’s small tract house, which
is shuttered by the night, no hint of light.
at the windows. “You here all by yourself?”
As a matter of fact, I am. My parents went
to the movies in Eugene. They won’t be back
for a while. She feathers my hand with her
fingertips. Want to come in and play?
I lift her hand from mine, bring it up
to my lips, kiss it gently. “You tempt me,
milady. However, I shall have to decline
your generous offer. Perhaps another time.”
Fine, she sniffs, but at least she smiles.
In that case I’ll just have to go play alone.
I watch her walk to her door, appreciate
the arc of her hips, their metered swing.
I could change my mind, follow her in.
Instead, I’ll go home and play. Alone.
Well, Not Quite Alone
It’s a little after midnight, and Dad still
isn’t home. Postgame on Friday nights,
he regularly goes out with his buddies
and gets wasted. On more than a few
occasions, he’s arrived home courtesy
of a designated driver, usually a wife,
called out into the cold to save her husband’s
butt, not to mention his friends’ butts.
They never call Mom, who is home
and passed out on the sofa, snoring
like a chain saw above the soft play
of HBO on the TV. She is on her back,
long reddish hair a tumble of waves over
the pillow, her face worry-freed by sleep,
and in this one glimpse, this momentary
standstill of time, she is the mother
I always imagined she could be—warm
and caring. Not pierced, heart and soul,
by fragmented dreams and splintered
memories. But now she rolls to one side,
her sleeve lifting to expose a freckled arm
and nicotene-tattooed fingers. Her forehead
creases, the skin beneath her chin slackens.
She looks old. I think she was born that way.
I Trudge to My Room
In no mood anymore to play, alone or
otherwise. My cell is on my bed where,
apparently, I left it. Wow. I never even
missed it, which seems to have pissed off
the love of my life: WHERE THE HECK R U,
AND WHY WON’T U ANSWER UR PHONE?
Sheesh. (Heck!) If I didn’t know better,
I’d think she was jealous or something.
I flash back to less than a half hour ago,
smell the perfume of orange over leather,
feel the dance of Alexa’s fingers against
my hand. I did nothing. Except, maybe, lust
a little. But lust without follow-through
doesn’t count as infidelity, right? Too late
to call her now, I text back: SORRY. FORGOT
MY PHONE. BUT SEE? HOME EARLY. MISSING
YOU. There. That should do it, and if not,
tomorrow could be either very interesting
or a boatload of boredom. At least I won’t
be hungover, though the way my shirt
smells, I could probably get that way just
sucking the spilt beer off it. I strip, slip
into flannel pants and a well-worn T-shirt,
tiptoe down the hall to the laundry
room, and throw my stuff in the washer.
On the way back, I grab a blanket from
the stash above the dryer, cover Mom
to warm her dreams. Turn off the TV.
Hopefully Dad will let her snooze
right there until morning. Depending
on his mood—good drunk, or evil—
he might. If she’s really lucky, he’ll
be blasted enough to not even notice
she’s missing from their bed. I flop
on my own mattress, roll up in the down
comforter, try to shake the moist chill.
The face of my cell tells me I’ve received
a new message. 1 A.M. ISN’T EARLY. Guess
that answers that question. Next door
in Luke’s room, I hear a train whistle.
“It’s only one now,” I whisper to no
one. It’s not like Hayden is listening.
It Would Be Nice
To sleep in just one freaking Saturday
morning. But, no. It’s barely eight o’clock
when I startle awake, words crashing
over me, and into me, like a landslide.
Where were you?
Why would you care?
You could have called.
You’re not my fucking mother.
Don’t talk to me like that!
You barely qualify as my wife!
Remind me not to get married in my
lifetime! What is it about marriage
that makes people start to hate each other?
Then again, sometimes I wonder if what
initially attracted those two to each other
wasn’t, in fact, hate. Is it love that makes
sex good, or would any emotion, equally
weighted, create the same kind of passion?
That’s Assuming
Their sex was passionate,
and why would that thought
even cross my mind? Beyond
the thin drywall membranes
enclosing my room, doors
slam. One. Two. They’ve gone
to their separate corners
for now, but it’s only Saturday,
Day One of the Martin Luther
King Weekend standoff. I lie
very still, listening to myself
draw breath, trying to remember
a holiday when this miserable
excuse for a family actually
had fun. Way back when Luke
was little—maybe not quite
three—we drove to the coast
for Fourth of July and camped
on the beach, just the quartet
of us. Mom and Dad set up tents
and a big canopy, and beneath
it, a fold-out picnic table.
The place wasn’t real crowded.
Most everyone wanted to watch
the big fireworks displays,
so they stayed close to city
“hullabaloo,” as my kindergarten
teacher used to call such chaos.
I would have been just past
old Mrs. Mueller’s class then,
and now twelve years dissolve,
just like that. Funny how your mind
works, but I can see that day
as if peering through a reverse
time telescope. I taste the tang
of the salt mist, fee
l the breeze
lift a forest of goose bumps
off the wet skin of my stick-
thin arms and legs, right up
through the sand crusting them.
But What I Remember Most
Is the music of Luke’s little kid giggles
and Mom’s lilting gossip while Dad
chopped wood for the campfire.
I’ve rarely felt as complete as I did
that day, eating half-cooked hot dogs
and digging for sand crabs and dodging
surf, showing off to my brother what it meant
to be a boy at the beach on the Fourth of July.
Mom sneaked off a time or two to smoke;
Dad quietly sucked down beer, pretending
not to notice. Mom was drinking lemonade
from a big cooler, only when I accidentally
sipped from her cup, it tasted sharper than
mine. I knew what that meant by then.
As the afternoon wore on, Luke and I grew
tired from sand-castle building, but not nearly
as drowsy as Mom and Dad. Once or twice,
I caught them kissing, and that was rare indeed.
At six, I didn’t think much about them being
in love, so it surprised my naive eyes that they
sure looked to be that way. I will never forget
the flush of raw happiness that brought me.
Once It Got Dark
Dad went to the car, returned
with a surprise—a small footlocker
filled with fireworks. We had to wait
for the wind to die down, and I could
see Dad grow antsier as time passed.
Finally, he decided, I think it’s safe
now, boys. Let me get the lighter.
Mom handed him the butane stick,
cautioned us to take the fire danger
closer to the wet sand at the water’s edge.
Luke and I watched Dad set up a row
of spinners and cones and funnels
in front of some big, gnarled driftwood,
to block any breeze off the water.
Here we go. Ready? Stand back.
Crackle! Whistle! Whoosh! Okay, compared
to giant sky explosions, it was a small
display, but Luke grabbed my hand, took
one step behind me, peeked out from
around my back, not even pretending
bravery. Then Dad handed each of us
a sparkler, showed us how to hold them
at the very bottom of the sticks.
Careful. These babies are hot, hot, hot!
Hot, hot, hot, repeated Luke, and then
Dad lit the end, igniting the sizzle spray.
“Wave it, like this!” I demonstrated,
but Luke held his sparkler straight up
and down, right up until one of those
tiny white embers lodged itself in a pore
on his arm. He threw the offending stick
into the sand. Ow! Ow! Stupid hot.
Then he held up his arm to show the blister.
Dad blew. Jesus H. Christ on a crutch!
How can my son be such a pussy?
His temples pulsed anger noticeably.
“Hey, Dad. He’s just a little kid, okay?”
Defending my brother, that was my job,
even way back then. Dad, of course, was two
sheets to the wind. I see clearly in hindsight
what I was blind to then. In retrospect,
the next part isn’t really such a shocker.
It Sure Freaked Us Out Then
There were more fireworks
inside that footlocker—
bottle rockets
Roman candles
firecrackers
a couple of M-80s.
All illegal in the state of
Oregon, which outlaws
personal possession of
fireworks that—
fly
explode
travel more than six feet on the ground
or twelve inches in the air.
And boy, they did every
bit of all that! Dad lit them
methodically, laughing
like a lunatic as they—
flew
exploded
shot into the air, with a great
whoosh of fuel before blowing wide.
Dad’s lame attempt
at Fourth of July family fun.
No One Laughed
Except for Dad, and that was totally
swallowed up by the chaos of noise.
Down the beach, people
shouted, a chorus of Hey!
What the hell was that?
That’s illegal, isn’t it?
Someone call the ranger!
(And someone did.)
Luke screamed
and scrambled toward
the tent, tripping over
his feet and crying even
louder because of that.
Mom came running,
yelling at Dad to Grow a brain!
Though it was obviously much
too late, and the one he made
do with was stewing in alcohol.
I plugged my ears, but
couldn’t block out the tornado
of sounds, which were scarier,
somehow, than the bottle rockets.
So Much
For sweet family memories.
The rest of that one devolves
into a cacophonous blur of arguments
and explanations and Dad talking
his way out of going to jail,
I thought those were only taboo
in residential areas. So sorry . . .
but only because the park ranger
happened to have witnessed Dad’s
outstanding play for the Oregon
Ducks once upon a time,
Holy Pete! I’ll never forget that
game against Purdue, when you . . .
while Mom kept shushing Luke,
whose sniffling began to wear on
my nerves. I had to agree with Dad.
Luke was a wuss, even if he was just
a baby, and Mom kept him that way.
Quiet now, little man. Everything’s
okay. No more booms. I promise.
All I wanted was for everyone to
shut up so I could listen to the low chuff
of surf and the chatter of wind against
the nylon tent. I remember muttering
into my sleeping bag, “Camping’s
supposed to be good times. Not like
it is at home. Why can’t we ever
just have fun?” But no one heard,
and no one answered. Pretty much
the story of my life, at least where
my parents are concerned. Too caught
up in their personal tangles of pain,
disappointments, and tomorrows
made murky by yesterdays. I’m damn
sure never going to exist that way. No
sir, it’s all about living fearlessly today.
And to do that, I have to get out of bed.
All’s quiet on the western front, so I do
the bathroom thing, then head to the kitchen
where, I hope, the coffee is already made.
No Such Luck
Guess my parents decided to sleep
off their late nights, rather than fight
them with caffeine. At least the silence
indicates slumber somewhere. Two doors
slammed, though. Mom must have chosen
Luke’s bed. Dad never goes in that room.
Good thing I’m familiar with the Mr.
Coffee. I measure the grounds, add extra,
wanting the brew stiff. I fill the reservoir
with cold water, hit the on switch, and as
&n
bsp; the machine starts a slow drip, happen
to glance over the kitchen counter into
the dining area, where my essay still
decorates the table. Most of it is stacked,
facedown. But one section remains right
side up, spread slightly, as if someone has
recently been reading (rereading?) it:
And what of this “Imago Dei,” this supposed human creation “in the image of God”? Theologians and philosophers differ in their interpretations, but basically, were one to believe in the scribblings of Genesis, everything started with God. An entity of some kind. (Who knows his precise nature, or exactly what his origin was? The Bible isn’t real specific about infinity, pre-Genesis.) But God was powerful. No, invincible. The flawless source of all love and reason. Intellect defined.
I suppose it makes a certain sense, if you were all that, you’d want to play around with creation, if it was your preferred pastime, and to believe the scriptures, it was his. Not to mention, a talent. If I were to buy into the whole theory, I’d like to know if the Earth was his first try or if he’d had some practice. I mean, seven days from oblivion to Eden, fully functioning. Now that’s some serious handiwork!
And his crowning achievement—Adam and Eve. Created in his image, so flawless, like him. Except for that little thing called free will, something he owned in spades; therefore, they got it, too. And all that free will led to disobedience, the fall away from enlightenment. Still, God, the wellspring of love, offered them salvation through forgiveness. Not through an offering plate, or because they fell on their knees, repeating Hail Marys. Mary—that Mary, anyway—didn’t come along for quite a few years!
I Almost Quit Reading There
I have read it before, more than
once. But the next few sentences
are underlined. By whose hand,
I haven’t the slightest clue.
Even if you can swallow the idea of God, the concept of Imago Dei defies comprehension. Humans aren’t inherently good—a ludicrous proposition. Instinctively, people are barbarians. Cannibals, even. They eat each other alive, get off on torture, inflicting pain. This is not the image of the Gospel God. If God is love, and God is infinite, love would by definition be infinite. But love, for most, is a means to an end, and even in its purest form, it is fleeting. Not infinite. Therefore, there is no God. Simple logic.
The Mr. Coffee beeps, and I’m
drawn away from the table to
the steaming pot of lush-smelling
hot liquid. As I pour a cup, add
a heaped teaspoon of sugar,