“Dude, like I don’t think his balls ever dropped. I mean, listen. I can’t tell if it’s a dude.”
Scott sat in the bean-bag looking at my Air Supply album. It was summer-hot outside so his socks and shirt were off but the room was cool with the curtains closed. Two Less Lonely People played.
“My dad says it’s not natural, two guys singing like that. Said they look like fruitcakes.” Scott pointed at the cover. “Kinda looks like Apocalypse Now, right? ‘Napalm in the morning.’” Scott mimicked a soldier, stiff and excited.
“Dude, it’s a sunset, okay?” I turned the page of my book, then stopped reading. “You mind when your dad says stuff like that?”
“Nah, not even. He’s just jealous.” Scott flexed his toes. Some part of him was always moving. He set the cover on the carpet and put his arms behind his head. “Not everybody earns these guns.” His biceps rolled to life.
I sniffed the air for pit-effect and went back to my book, then put it down again. I had a question.
“Just can’t keep your mind off this, can ya?” He crunched his abs. “Don’t worry, dude, just say the word.”
I shook my head. “You think Mary would like Air Supply? I’m gonna buy her the cassette.”
Scott shook his head. “Nah. She already thinks you’re a little on the girl-side. Give her Speedwagon. Gave it to Houser. He said it was awesome.”
“You got Houser?” I smiled. Scott got everybody.
His head fell back over the end of the bean bag. His Adam’s apple jumped as he talked. “You know how much I like football.” He lifted his head up. “Yeah, give her Speedwagon. Says you’re a man. Save Air Supply for when we’re old.”
Little Johnny sat in the principal’s office quiet as a churchmouse as Miss Clair told the story again.
“I just don’t know what came over him, Principal Davis. He was playing with Andrew and Malachi and suddenly he slapped Andrew upside the head and pushed a crayon up Thad’s nose. Thank goodness the crayon was already broken or there’s no telling what could’ve happened!”
Johnny heard his father arrive outside the office door. They said they’d call his mother but since she didn’t go to church anymore he didn’t think they would. Sure enough, Johnny’s father was let into the office right as Principal Davis was asking him why he slapped Andrew and pushed a crayon into poor Thad’s brain.
His father shook hands and sat down. “You pushed a crayon up Thaddaeus Brown’s nose?” he asked.
Johnny mumbled, “Yes, sir.” Then he added, quickly: “They said mama was going to hell because she don’t go to church no more. So I walloped ‘em both.”
His father raised both hands to his nose like he was going to pray. All the adults looked at each other. Johnny couldn’t tell if they were going to laugh or were just thinking.
Principal Davis took over. Johnny’s father put his arm around him. Miss Clair nodded softly.
“I’m sorry to say it, little one, but your mama isn’t right with the Lord. There’s only one way for her to go, and it isn’t pretty.”
She looked so sad that Johnny felt sorry for her. Then she said, “And we don’t hurt people who are just speaking the truth.”
Johnny’s father gave him a nudge. He knew what he had to do. “I’m sorry,” Johnny said. And he knew he would never hurt anyone again who was just speaking the truth.
Mom and Dad shouted at the TV in different languages, both of which I understood after spending over five years listening to the differences. A man in a suit was saying something in a third language that was very difficult to follow, something about the Supreme Court and “tapes” the President thought were his.
“They belong to the fucking country!” Dad yelled. “That asshole! This is the reason I don’t vote in no goddamn elections. Fucking cocksucker!”
Mom only paused to take a quick glance back at me, where I sat at the dining room table trying to do my multiplication. Then she went on: “Where does he think we live? Russia? This is not the way an American behaves. Something’s wrong with him.”
“He’s a disease, Joy. You know what you do to a disease? You get rid of the fucking thing.”
As so often happens, what began as a point of unity quickly turned into a point of conflict. Soon my mother accused my father of wanting to “eradicate” everyone he disagreed with, herself included, to which my father responded with a statement illuminating my mother’s naivete. I believe the phrase “shit for brains” was used, of course only in reference to “those people who don’t know the difference between their ass and a hole in the ground.”
War came swiftly. I knew they’d achieve detente eventually, but not without a complex ritual of negotiation laced with extracted promises and sexual favors. Having a common enemy – the Mormons across the street or something my teacher had said – usually helped them overcome any residual tension.
I made sure to steer clear, just like Europe, speaking Dad when I was on the fucking playground banging shit out and Mom nearly everywhere else.
[note: best if read on a device that preserves indentation/spacing]
“After everything he’s been through…” “Sports’ll knock some sense into him. Teach him something.” “He’s smart – he’ll figure it out.” “Just don’t say anything. You always say something and it always lands wrong.” “Life is going to hit that kid sideways.” “He says he wants to go to Japan. Live there. What’s he think he’s gonna find? Big mistake.” “Football? Right. Cheerleader more like it.” “You’re one to talk. Exactly how many times you land on your back?’” “He’ll find his way. He's gonna be happy. Gonna surprise everybody.” “How am I supposed to raise a gay kid?” “Maybe the swim team? Don’t they like that?” “You love him, you horse’s ass. That’s what you do. Every single day of your life. You love him.” “You always defend him.” “You’re supposed to be a teacher. Shut the fuck up.” “You’re supposed to be his father. Act like it.” “I’m that boy’s Grandma and I say he’s gonna be fine.”
I watched as Billy tried to light the flimsy cardboard match out on the back porch. It wouldn’t catch and he was crying.
“Think about this the next time you decide to waltz around in your mother’s shoes.”
Billy’s fingers were already a little burned. I was allowed to watch because that’s what happens when you dishonor the family like that. “No son of mine…” Dad began but then noticed Billy was trying to fold the cover of the matchbook back so that he could pull the match between it and the sandpaper strip. “No way, no fuckin’ way.” He grabbed the matchbook and used his thumb to hold the match down while he zipped it.
“Like a man, Billy. Light it like a fuckin’ man. And stop your sniveling or I’ll add another book.”
Billy tried to stop crying. He tried to cover the matchhead with his thumb and it lit but took half his thumb with it. He yelped and dropped everything.
“That’s enough!” Mom pushed past me onto the porch. “He’s had enough!”
Dad turned on her. She didn’t back away but I could tell she thought about it. “You want him growing up a fuckin’ PANSY, Mickey? What’s next? Lipstick?” Dad started prancing around the porch with his wrists pointed down and knees stuck together.
Billy started to laugh. He was still crying a little but then he stopped and picked up the matchbook. Dad got behind him and held his hands and showed him how to hold the match just right so it would only hurt a little.
“That’s my boy,” Dad said. “Another one.”
Mom went inside shaking her head but she was smiling too.
Neither of them noticed I was wearing Dad’s work boots. I really liked the way they felt.
“You’re just going to have to come with me,” she said as she put the final touches on her eyelashes. She brushed the top ones up and the bottom ones down. “There.”
We left. I sat in the back seat. “I should leave him there to stew.” She always said this and we always got Ray out of jail. Mom would pick up the phone and talk for a while and then we’d get him out.
Ray stood outside the police station smoking a cigarette. He leaned against the brick wall, tall and alone. Mom said, “What the hell?” Ray opened the door and got in. His face was cut. He smelled like cigarettes and something else.
“Fine example for your brother.”
Ray turned halfway and winked at me.
“You stop that right now, Raymond! I have half a mind to march you right back in there.” Ray changed his face and sounded contrite. “You look nice today.” She reached across the seat to hold his hand. I saw his jaw muscles set.
“I’m going in there. Make sure they clear up this nonsense.” She shut the car off and looked at her face in the rear-view mirror. “Back in a sec.” We watched a policeman hold the door for her and keep looking. She walked in with her purse under her arm. Ray turned around to me.
“How’d you get that?”
“Got into a rumble, SmallFry.” He asked if I wanted to go to the pool. We talked about the high diving board. After a while Mom got back in. She checked herself in the mirror and started the car.
“What do you want for dinner, Raymond?”
Ray raised his eyebrows. Mom hummed a song. I sat in the back and hoped for macaroni and cheese.
This is where I met Babar and Gus and
Charlotte who was friends with a pig
and taught us both Life Goes On
even through tears.
I watched my mom carry her weight in books
to the librarian-lady paid to look mean
but she was actually nice as she took pictures
of punchcards and told me I would have
such fun where I was going.
We were poor though I didn’t know it
as I poured over a Big Book of Ships
and I listened to Drums
that I hated hated hated but
I loved the way my grandma read so I
pretended (I think she knew).
Later I'd walk to that funky stoned (literally)
building on my own, corner of Vanowen and Vanalden.
There I solved cases with Encyclopedia Brown
and found a book called The Battle of Midway
that taught me sometimes a war comes down to 28.2072° N, 177.3735° W.
Gray's Anatomy — wow! How did they draw that well,
and is that what I look like inside?
Where the Red Fern Grows because,
you know, dogs — and to make myself feel better
I picked up The Red Pony. Mistake.
Except tears and truth often go together.
Steinbeck became my god before
I met Corrie ten Boom in her hiding place and
Siddhartha Hesse kept asking me questions
until I found out why a caged bird sings
and that wars are going on always,
sometimes in the bedroom,
sometimes far from streets.
Angelou Birdsong led to Beloved Morrison
and Purple Walker, and I saw with new eyes a way:
war is going on always, always,
but to speak is to fight. Never stop fighting.
Never. Stop. Fighting.
Still later I met Monette and found his half-life
beautiful — maybe mine would be, too.
I put Melville back on the shelf 55 times before
I finally breached its first great wave and then thought:
was Hawthorne his Moby Dick?
Poor guy — Hawthorne was a crank
but damn if his letters weren't good.
Woolf my Patron Saint
showed me her room so that I could want mine.
Tan and Yen Mah who made my mom cry
because they knew, they knew — “we carry our stories” —
it wasn’t easy, not easy at all.
She loved those books.
All this and more in a library,
from my little corner one
(when LA had only one area code)
to the Library of Congress, a pilgrimage.
Memories of mom dragging me by the hand until,
later, I was pushing her chair to the books.
All these people, all these ghosts
dancing and sobbing and waiting on shelves,
waiting to be held or thrown, doesn’t matter.
Life buoyed by imagination,
imagination buoyed by life.
Freedom. Adventure. Suffering. America.
So of course:
Arizona
Georgia
Illinois
Louisiana
Mississippi
Missouri
Montana
Pennsylvania
South Carolina
South Dakota
Texas
Wyoming
let's close the libraries.
We wouldn’t want anybody
learnin' nothin' new…
*
“This effort to change what libraries are, or even just take libraries away from communities, I think, is part of a larger effort to diminish the public good, to take away those information resources from individuals and really limit their opportunity to have the kinds of resources that a community hub, like a public library, provides.”
— Deborah Caldwell-Stone, director of the American Library Association’s Office of Intellectual Freedom.
The air smelled all Georgio and ocean in LA and my body worked so well I felt nothing, nothing, which is what health and vitality are, feeling nothing but heat on the bed, body on the sheets, the summer smell of my body in that not-new crusty motorhome parked outside Aunt’s house at the top of a street on a hill on a curve. It shouldn’t have worked parking on the ridge between Torrance and, over there, Redondo. The street was too small but she loved that RV and parked it in front of her house after she picked me up at Beck’s, my other grandpa, the one I hadn’t seen in so long. He didn’t know where I’d been or why, how I hitchhiked across the Utah desert and Nevada and slept with a truck driver in a cheap motel with shitty beds because I was fourteen and my step-dad threw me out of the car in Salt Lake.
He didn’t ask and I didn’t say. She knew but didn’t say anything. We had that in common.
I sometimes go back to that hill but nothing’s there anymore except I am in that bed over the cab, my own little place because there was no room in Aunt’s house. She acted embarrassed but to me it was heaven and I told her I couldn’t think of a more-fun thing to do. I ran to it that first night to fuck around because I was only fourteen and didn’t know how to pick up sex then and the whole thing was mine so I jammed myself thinking about the missionaries that used to come knocking on the door and the new nylon shorts I was wearing, the blue running shorts she bought me with the slit up the leg so high, and I couldn’t be stopped and nobody was around and they probably couldn’t see even though the little cab-light was on and they probably saw, or saw the camper moving, but I didn’t think about that too long because it felt so good. Nobody said anything the next morning, not even her son, even though he looked at me weird and they’d have to be blind not to see.
I was a nice boy everyone pitied because I was not strong and who my step-dad married. Someone once said at his church “For what he’s been through…Heavenly Father sure made him smart.” Skinny arms and twig legs and desire for those missionaries, desire so wild I yelled the first time I came and then it became a contest to see how far it could go until I knew I was gay and not just friends with guys and my first thought was “Cool.” Then all hell broke loose again and I’m almost fifteen in an RV parked on a curve at the top of a hill. I want so many guys I feel like a whore back when being a whore was dangerous because AIDS was out so I’m fucking around above the cab amazed at how I smell and happy. Aunt drives me to Universal Studios the next day and says she thought she washed the sheets but evidently not and opens the windows as she drives up the 405 freeway. This is the first time I feel like a man. Everything changes. I didn’t think it would — I wanted time to kiss Bryce and use my body with him and have someone beautiful take me away. But she smelled the sheets and I was proud and didn’t need Bryce or mom or a dad because I was sure.
It’s all good now. There’s no need to go back to my glorious skin or dream other whores out there waiting to be touched and taken and left so they can go to work the next day and then home to kids and husbands who know nothing. I go back to that bed over the cab that smelled of sweat and cum because I love how the story began and I watch everything that’s happened and say:
“Fuck you were a skinny whore.”
I feel good. I feel fifty while I sit at the table, stay up for the words because they are strong and true and because this is who I want to be, where I want to be, writing under a crap light while people wonder what the fuck I’m doing parked on this goddamn hill.
My brand-new truck still had less than two thousand miles on it and was the first thing I bought after graduating college even though it had no air conditioning and I found out you had to buy a bumper for trucks separately. I never bought a truck before especially one without a bumper but the salesman told me I made a solid decision and it would come in handy moving from Seattle to Pullman with all my college life in boxes in the back for my first real job. The signpost Aaron wanted to steal was was going to scratch up the bed of my brand new truck but Aaron said “It’s gonna be fine — you worry too much” but he also said he was going to be on-time when I picked him up in Redmond which was south of Seattle and kind of meaningless unless you were into a new company called Microsoft but he was late for the drive back to WSU and now it was dark. “It’s like you’re afraid of life or something” to which I said “Or something” because I wasn’t going to let him think I minded stopping at mile-marker 47 on State Route 26 because that was his number on his high school football team and he wasn’t getting much field time at WSU so he wanted the sign to cheer him up. When he asked if I could stop I told him the sign was attached to a post and I didn’t have any tools in the new truck to take the sign-part off but he said he was strong and flexed his arms because he was always flexing his arms and said he’d take the whole friggin’ post if he had to. No one would see because it was dark as Hades in wintertime when we pulled away from the 90 and Spokane and started toward the southern corner of Washington with nothing but dashboard lights and headlights. “We can turn the lights off if you’re going to be a girl about it” he said and I knew he was baiting me but I really didn’t mind. It was dark and I thought who really looks at those mile-markers anyway so I agreed and Aaron gripped my shoulder as I drove and said I was the best. “Save it for the judge” I said but I was smiling in the dash-lights and Aaron could see that so he tapped me again on the shoulder and asked how things went with my girlfriend in Seattle.
The headlamps spread light out in the clean not-city farm air as I told Aaron we were probably going to get married and I was planning a great big expensive trip down to Los Angeles so that I could propose in front of the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion fountain before we watched Phantom of the Opera which was not at the Pavilion but at the Ahmanson right in the same complex. I was lost in my plans and Aaron was quiet until I looked at him for being so quiet and realized he probably didn’t know anything about Los Angeles being from Redmond or why I wanted to propose there to my girlfriend and seemed to be looking forward to it when we were just two guys driving across Washington looking for mile-marker 47. I said “What?” and Aaron looked like he was holding something back staring straight through the windshield because he didn’t want to get in an argument which totally confused me because what argument could there be over my plans to ask my girlfriend to marry me? He put up his hands in a kind of to-each-his-own way and backed into the bench seat until I said “What, Aaron?” and I guess he figured he tried so he just hauled right off and said “Why?” I asked what he meant by “Why?” and he said nothing with his hands and that’s the way we rode through the night down State Route 26.
It was so black outside the dashboard lights hurt my eyes so I decided to see what everything looked like without the lights after making sure no one was coming or behind me. Aaron thought it was cool riding down the 26 with no lights in total pitch black and rolled down his window and stuck his head out into the cold night air until I turned back on the lights and the cab of my truck lit up with the dashboard and I could see the cab and Aaron again and he looked like he was weighing something again in his mind and trying to figure out what to do with it. I guess he decided because he put his hands on his knees and grabbed them and said “What are you afraid of?” The way he asked I wasn’t sure if he was asking me so I would ask him or if he was just messing with the same thing he harped on since I met him and we shot hoops out behind the dorm. His hands gripped his kneecaps and then came together as he looked out his window and said it was probably none of his business but he just didn’t think I should be getting married. So soon. “Why?” I asked and Aaron breathed a little and then stopped until he said “Forget it, man — just me being Stupid Aaron” as we passed mile-marker 32 and talked about Seattle and how different and small and water-less Pullman was and why I decided to do the whole dorm director thing at WSU. “Easier places” he said and I could tell he missed the water and didn’t like all the Joe Farmers who got married their Sophomore years and moved into married housing. In the dashboard light I could tell he wasn’t going to make it as he searched for the next mile marker and told me it was hard for him to meet girls and that he’d be transferring next year. He said I was lucky but I could tell he was just saying that even though he was right. I was lucky and scared especially when I was with him.
It seemed important to ask questions and say things once we passed mile-marker 46 and I started to slow my truck down and could hear the engine slow down also. “The wood’s going to be splintery from being out here so long” and Aaron said yeah as he geared up to steal the signpost and flexed his hands and rolled his neck. I could tell he lived for this and I felt bright and all the things I wanted to say receded into the darkness behind us and we looked at each other like friends. Aaron said “Awesome!” and I said too that it was awesome and that I’d never stolen anything but a piece of Bazooka bubble gum when I was six and was marched back to the liquor store to confess my crime by my mother who noticed I had gum when I wasn’t allowed. Aaron stared ahead with clear eyes reflecting the dashboard lights and said “Damn” and that it really wasn’t stealing because we’d probably paid for the sign many times over and replacing it would probably give somebody a job for a least a while. I could see the mile-marker roll into view next to a barb-wire fence and pulled past it and drove onto the shoulder then onto the dirt and Aaron rolled down the window fast and stuck his head out and told me I was too far away but I said I was going to back up to get the tailgate right behind the post. I shut off the lights as Aaron got out of the truck but he wanted them on because he couldn’t see what the hell he was doing in complete darkness and plus there was nobody out there which was true. I turned them on after a quick look up and down the highway and left the engine running as I jumped out to lower the tailgate as Aaron started to throw his shoulder against the mile-marker sign and then push and pull it with his hands until the post started to move a little and crack up the dirt. I carefully took hold of the splintery post and pulled while Aaron grabbed and pushed. I was happy to be doing this with Aaron until the entire post wobbled and we started to lift it up and a small volcano of dirt came out ahead of the cement around the bottom of the post. We lifted up and Aaron said “Shit!” because he just got a splinter in his hand and said quickly we’d get it out later. “Fuck!” The post was above-ground now still upright while Aaron moved to lift the cemented bottom onto the back end of the truck and I jumped into the bed to lay the mile-marker down gently. In the bed I looked down State Route 26 and it was dark and peaceful and cold until I saw a pair of lights heading for us and I jumped down and the two of us dove into the truck. I was about to put the truck in gear but Aaron said to just shut down the lights quick and go dark. “Are you crazy?” I said but his eyes looked intense and right and he reached over and turned off the headlights and turned off the engine and took the keys. I wanted to grab them but he held them out his window and said “Just wait — everything will be alright.” I said it might be a cop and he probably saw us from way back there and he said “Doesn’t matter” and soon a car passed us like we weren’t there and continued down the road. Aaron took my hand in the dark cab and turned it over and put my keys in it.
The dashboard glow hurt especially after the dark that I had just about gotten used to when I turned the key and started the engine. My eyes adjusted to the light and I saw Aaron’s hand turned upright on his leg and him looking at me like a guy who just scored the winning touchdown and still wanted more even though he was hurt. The splinter was more like a stake and was old rough red wood that was probably going to infect because it was driven deep under his skin across his palm. You could see it like a rusted needle in his palm that he was surprised by but started to pull at anyway as the skin of his palm started to move like it was gripping the splinter, like there were barbs that would rip out a lot. Aaron winced and laughed a little and said it was totally worth it and started to pull again but I stopped him and said he was going to leave half in that way. “You need to get that looked at” I said so he said “So look at it” and held his thick dirty palm to my face so that I sat back but then didn’t and took his hand and turned it face-up as I turned on the light over the rearview mirror and thought: “This thing is really driven in.” Aaron said “So am I gonna live doc?” and I said he should’ve been careful but then thought how stupid it was to say that after the old dark wood was already under his skin. I got an idea and asked for the Bic I kept in the glove compartment and he got it without taking his hand from mine and handed it to me wondering what the heck I was going to do with it. Without saying anything I edged the cap off the pen and let the pen fall and used the cap to push the old red wood up from the bottom and watched as it slowly crept out of his hand without any blood or anything. “You’re lucky you have calluses” I said and he said that was amazing and he didn’t feel a thing and then he whooped leaving his hand in mine but turning it over. After a while he said “What a trip, man!” and clapped his hands together and we drove onto the road and started towards Pullman and the dorm.
It was late when I pulled into my spot behind the old brick dorm with a mile-marker in the bed of my new truck. The dorm was still alive with lights on in almost every room and I suddenly wondered how we were going to get the sign-post up to Aaron’s room. I figured he’d lift it into my office on the first floor but then thought he could put it in the basement with all the other storage and just get it later. Maybe there wouldn’t be anybody hanging around the lobby studying or taking a break from studying but Aaron said he’d take care of it and ran inside the dorm through the back door before I had a chance to tell him I couldn’t get caught helping a resident steal a sign-post. I thought about lifting it out of the truck myself and got out to take a look but then figured it was too heavy with the cement around the bottom and leaned back against the truck and waited for Aaron. He came out the door first and then four other guys followed who said hi to me before looking at the sign-post and saying “You took the whole fucking thing?” in awe and judgment so Aaron hit one in the chest and everybody laughed. Aaron beamed and said it was the coolest thing but he needed to get it upstairs to his room and Eric who was strong and smart said unless Aaron was going to plant it all he needed was a crowbar and he’d get the sign off the post. Eric asked me “Do you have a tire-iron Greg?” and I thought of the brand-new unused tire-iron behind the bench seat which I got and gave to Eric who jumped into the bed of the truck and wedged the sign from the weatherbeaten post. He stood in the back of my truck with a wide strong smile as Aaron rubbed his hands together and said he hadn’t had this much fun in such a long time and it was all thanks to me as he clapped my shoulders. The guys nodded and said something about studying though I could feel the drinking signal in the word studying and started to replace the tire iron and lock the truck. The guys got the rotted broken post out of the truck-bed and threw it in the dumpster around the corner from my parking spot and waved goodbye after brushing off their hands on their jeans. Aaron started to follow them but then turned and said “It was really fun — thanks, man” and then started again for the back door with mile-marker 47 in his hands. He turned one more time at the door and I thought he was going to say one more thing, something important because he stopped with the door open and stood there looking at me before nodding up at me and walking into the dorm.
I hold my breath against this metal world,
this chewy phlegm and snot-dripping contraption,
close tight my eyes against the green-gowned monster
and think:
“What the fuck! Deceiving womb!”
Sweat and salty tears now on my cheeks —
why is she crying? Narcissist.
I was the one ripped into a rotting cell that tasted of —
is that excrement? —
birthed into man’s horrendous hall,
his macabre theater of death and religion.
And she’s crying?
I scream.
(Was that the “talking” you heard?)
*
Note:
Coming home from college for the first time, I told my mother what I’d learned in my philosophy class: “Your fifteen minutes of passion condemned me to death.”
Her response: “Sounds like your philosophy teacher needs to work on his stamina.”
Greg Beckman 