I remember riding in the back seat of my parents’ Ford LTD when this song came on the radio. Mom was driving and my brother and I listened to her singing along with Dolly like there was no one else in the world. I could see her smiling, my mom, as she moved back and forth with the music, lifting her pinkie with the line “…and wrapped my heart ’round your little finger.”
For a few minutes, we all just rode along, heads moving side to side, nothing special, which was totally special. And then it was over and we all went back to where we had been. Mom kept listening to the radio, my brother and I kept playing or fighting, I don’t remember. But that song? It stayed as the tune to one of the most peaceful, happy, free memories I have, mom singing in the car, happy in her world while her two kids watched the world go by.
It’s just a memory, but it shines because of the music.
Dolly Parton’s music was for everybody. You could sing to it on the radio and not feel like you had to take vocal classes first. You could use your real voice and express your real feelings without thinking you had to be better or different or perfect. It’s the way she felt about people and life, and it shone through. You could almost hear her saying, “Come on, join in.”
For her, for her music, but also for the way she gave us all a space to just be happy even when things were hard, I’m very grateful.
Spirit says: “Your words create your world. Shoot for the stars.”
I say: “I’m 17 again... only this time, this time! I’ll go straight to the SavOn (remember those?) and buy hair-clippers to shave my back and chest and arms (I can handle the chest and arms but I’ll have to find someone to do the back – maybe Grammy, she always seemed to know what direction I was headed). I’ll work out and run with my shirt off, and then when I see Jason at the Dales Jr. liquor store and he gives me those eyes I’ll ask him if he wants to go to Carney’s to get food and he won’t take his beautiful eyes off my hunky arms and chest.”
Spirit says: “Don’t say will. Say Am. BTW, he was already into you. Why shave?”
So I say this: “Okay, wait. Maybe just the back. Maybe that’s the way Jason and I become friends because he is already giving me those deep blue eyes in class, so I don’t think he minds clipping my back as we talk in French and he tells me I’m smart and I tell him ‘Let’s go get food at Carney’s’ because I’m an idiot, but then I see I’m being an idiot so I give him a kiss and we roll around for an hour or two until his Dad gets home and we race to get dressed before he comes upstairs laughing because he already knows.”
Spirit says: “Don’t say MAYBE. If you’re sure, it’s happening.”
Happening? What did happen? Forty years happened. Life happened. Death happened. Dave. Hmmm.
So I say this: “I’m 17. I’m at Dales Jr. I’m skinny and hairy and think I might be gay but I don’t know because I’m scared of all the prostitutes over in Santa Monica and it’s 1986 and there’s AIDS and no one to talk to. I’m buying Jim Beam for my Dad and run into Jason. His hair is perfect eighties, swooped back and free. We talk. We’re shy. I want to kiss. He leaves after waving goodbye. He doesn’t want to go. I float home and have a drink with my Dad. He says there’s something different about me. I say nothing. But I know how I feel.”
Spirit pauses: “That’s what happened. Those were terrible years. Jason broke your heart. Badly. Why go through all that again?”
I can hear hope in his voice. He only wants me to say what’s true.
So I speak truth.
I say: “Why mess with perfection? What I want to know is: will I remember any of this? It’s been wild so far! Wait! Don’t tell me! I don’t want to know!”
Spirit says: “Good answer.” He laughs as I fall asleep.
“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.
Greg Beckman 