Tag: family

Goin’ to Hell

~ Greg Beckman ~ Leave a comment

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.

*

Micros are located HERE.

And the poetry books are located HERE.

Two Countries

~ Greg Beckman ~ Leave a comment

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.

*

More Micros HERE.

And then these lovely books of poetry…

“Conversations I didn’t hear

~ Greg Beckman ~ Leave a comment 
[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.”

*

More poems here.

Short on time? Try a micro or four here.

Matches

~ Greg Beckman ~ Leave a comment

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.

*

More Micros here.

Maricopa

~ Greg Beckman ~ Leave a comment

We arrived in Maricopa April 2.  Uncle Bill thought it was funny that we came from Maricopa, Arizona, to Maricopa, California.

“Just think about how many people will get a kick outta that one,” he said.

“I’m going for a run,” I said.  

Dad glanced up, not at me.  Near me.  “Go up along Klipstein to the highway.  Open Country.”

 I took off.

*

The streets were flat and dusty, cracked asphalt until the highway began.  I ran the shoulder.  I could see mountains in the distance.  There was a For Rent sign in front of a trailer off the highway.  I wondered how far off the mountains were and went blank.  I just ran.

*

They were all in the backyard sitting on lawn chairs with drinks.  I saw them through the kitchen window.  They looked like they were having a good time.  Bill was telling a story.  They all seemed to be enjoying it.  

My parents got the extra room.  I took the couch.  It didn’t matter. I could sleep anywhere.

Mom was sitting on the bed when I got out of the shower.  “Maybe we’ll take up running.”

She looked up at me.  We were all trying.  But it was harder for them. 

* 

Keep Reading Here.

*

Swim Dogs

~ Greg Beckman ~ Leave a comment

No one knew who Dylan was swimming for.  Everybody watching him rock his arm muscles before he mounted the block and bent forward following his loose hands down to the lip of the platform assumed it was for the title or maybe for college.  Girls, maybe.  

His dad watched from the stands.  He could see the clock and the block when Dylan pulled back for the spring and looked one last time down the lane because I was down at the end of 25 watching every muscle but also hearing him laugh when we talked about the girls who hid in corners thinking he was perfect when he actually farted a lot and liked Carney’s hotdogs because they made him fart more until his room stank to high heaven and his mom yelled to stop farting so much because it was “stinkin’ up the whole damn house” while his dad laughed and asked from the living room if some of that gas would help in the pool.

All fun and games until we were poolside and Dylan made a deal with me:  “If I come in over 20, name your prize.”  

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

There was no way he was going under 20 seconds.  It was a gimme.  His way of saying he wasn’t afraid.  

He dove through the hoop and dophined once before cresting into power that took our breath in a gasp and then a shout.  Dylan beat water to the wall and flipped.  A wave crashed on deck.  Dolphin.  His legs forged a wake.  I grew proud.  It’d be close.

We sat in his car.  It was dark.  It smelled like chili dogs.

“Loser,” I said.

And he let another one rip.

*

☧

~ Greg Beckman ~ 1 Comment 
Pizza Port, Morro Bay, California

It was quiet until it wasn’t.
But waiting for pizza is hard
on kids. I wasn’t surprised
when the little girl started to cry.
Her brothers drank their Cokes.

Mom looked at Dad.  It’s your turn,
her eyes said, twinkling. She
watched the game on the television.
Dad picked up the crying girl,
following the game until she sat on
his leg and leaned in:

“I miss Lolly” before resting on his
flanneled chest.  It looked soft.
His hand covered her back.  
He whispered:  “I miss her too.”
“Can I get a new one?”
He was all hers.
“We’ll see.”

Pizza came.  No grace but grace.
Mom wiping her boys’ mouths,
Dad pointing out uniform colors
on the TV, on his forearm one tattoo,
his smile large, kids fed,
old truck outside, no room but room,
family,

peace.

There are more poems here. And books here.

And then some stories here.

Peephole

~ Greg Beckman ~ 1 Comment 
The dog that looked like a bear,
big and ruffled and angry like
hibernation was not going well
jumped against the wall of the hall
tore away ravenous down the way
pulling a too-small child, dragging that
child towards the elevator
but it couldn’t wait and squatted 
and pissed a lake when the
elevator doors opened so it ran
ran ran for the doors as the child
fell through the urine and shrieked
more angry than sad, and let
go of the leash and the dog/
bear jumped on Anush the 
woman in the elevator who lived
with the dog and the girl and then 
she screamed at the dog and the
girl covered in yellow urine, all
Armenian words now fighting in the
hallway so even the dog came slinking
back and the door of their apartment
opened and a fat fat man in black
velour pants and a chain around his
neck bellowed, walked out into the center,
bellowed some more until Anush 
screamed again, this time at him,
the contempt!  Oh wow the contempt!
She snarled and screamed and
two more children wandered dumbstruck
out of the door, no shoes on their feet,
shorts and t-shirts that didn’t look
real real clean, one eating cereal
out of the box until Anush screamed
at them and they ran with the unine-covered
girl into the apartment and the dog started to
quiver back on its hind legs behind the man,
started to strain and soon there was poop poop
on the floor but the man didn’t see it
and stepped backwards and stepped
right into the poop and swore:
“Shit Fuck!”
Anush backed up, he moved forward
to kill her and this is the way it
went until an even older woman
like grandmother-old came limping out of
the apartment and said something kind or
that sounded kind because the man stopped
in his shitty tracks and Anush took a 
breath and even the dog seemed better.
The old grandmother held out her arm and
her son came to her and gave her his hand
and called another name and another child,
a new one, came out of the apartment and
took the dog to the elevator and down and
they all walked inside the apartment and
closed the door and there was still piss
and shit on the floor but, finally, quiet.

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