Buy the book at Amazon.com
Nine
I’m picking up Marcus from school.
I forget why. An email from Jessie. I skipped out of work early.
Maybe
it’s the bully. She said something about a bully. The parking lot is empty, so
I get out and wander into the courtyard. Marcus is perched on a bench, calm as
a Buddha, while some little black cub dances around him like a boxer, slapping
the top of Marcus’s head as he peels off insults.
“Big
ol’ fagboy, that’s all y’are, jus’ love a big ol’ cock up your asshole. Makes
ya drool, gives you a boner jus’ thinkin’ ‘bout that cock. What? Now it’s in
your mouth? Mmmm, tastes good! Whatsamatter? Can’t fight back? Lookit ol’ Queen
Marcus, gonna move to San Francisco and die of AIDS, little ol’ dick gonna
break in two and fall right off. Poor ol’ fagboy.”
He
goes in for another slap but falls short when I grab his wrist and yank it
behind his back. I grip his opposite shoulder for leverage and dig a knee into
his spine. I could break him, right now.
“What’s
your name, kid?”
“Ponce.”
“Like
the explorer?”
“Y-yeah.”
He’s
scared shitless, the little bastard.
“That’s
good,” I say. “Now, number one, the only reason my son hasn’t pounded your
little black ass into pudding is that I promised his parole officer I’d keep
him on a short leash. The last little boy who taunted him just got out of the
hospital, and so far he can say ‘hello,’ ‘cat’ and ‘wa-wa.’
“Number
two: ‘Fagboy?’ That’s the best you can do? Jesus, they were telling fag jokes
when I was a kid. Besides, have you noticed who’s runnin’ Hollywood these days?
Now. I’m gonna let you go, and I want you outta my sight quick, or I and my
pit-bull son will be on your sorry ass like ugly on your mama. Okay?”
He
says nothing.
“Okay?”
I repeat.
“Y-yeh.
Sure.”
I
shove him forward. He stumbles to his knees, then scrambles up and takes off
like a shot. He stops at the corner, however, ‘cause he just can’t help
himself.
“Cocksucker!”
“Oh,
very original!” I reply. I turn to
Marcus, who looks horrified. “What’s your problem?”
“You’re
making it worse, Dad. Now he’s gonna think I’m a big wuss.”
“Well
maybe you are! I’ve had it with your goddamn pacifism, Mahatma. The next time
little Ponce gives you any shit, you are under direct orders to push his punk
ass to the ground. They’re not gonna leave you alone until you do something, Marcus. I’m sorry, but
that’s the way the world works.”
I
head for the car and hear Marcus plodding behind me. I am a bad father. I am
dispensing questionable advice.
Driving
home, I think of Robert Mapplethorpe, that photographer who caused all the fuss
in the eighties. One of his shots was a self-portrait, the artist squatting
nude, a bullwhip trailing behind him like a tail – the handle stuck up his ass.
I first saw it in a gallery in San Francisco. After the initial shock, it made
perfect sense. Christians had taken a single physical act – the insertion of an
object into a man’s rectum – and labeled it the work of Satan. With his devil’s
tail, Mapplethorpe was simply acting out the crime.
Another
showed a dark black man and a pale white man in a nude embrace. Remove the
societal subtext, note the sharp focus, and you have an aesthetically
intriguing study in contrast: black and white skin in a black and white shot.
Sadly, I know few minds agile enough to make that separation. Perhaps F. Scott
Fitzgerald. Perhaps Pisarro.
This
morning, I got in early to work and pulled up Horny Housewives. Cantinflas on my wife’s shoulder. A large black
cock up her ass.
This
is not all. At lunch, I found myself wandering downtown, a nameless ache in my
throat, my limbs insufferably light. I spotted a bright sign in a sushi bar and
my brain emptied out – water down a drain. I have felt this before, but so long
ago I cannot name it.
I
pull into the driveway. Jessie’s in the side yard, attacking the lemon tree.
Her latest domestic obsession. Lemon tarts, lemon meringue pie, lemon poppyseed
muffins. I open the door and swing out my legs. She smiles.
“Hi
dear. Would you like some lemonade?”
“Sure,
honey. That sounds great.”
(Dear?
Honey? Whose house is this?)
“Marcus?”
she says. “Would you…?”
Marcus
is gone, up the walk.
“Is
he all right?”
“Rough
day,” I reply.
She
twists her lip. “The bully?”
“Yep.”
“Oh
dear.”
“Don’t
worry – it’ll be okay.”
“Poor
Marc. He’s got so many feelers, he’s bound to get them bruised.”
We
enter the house. My wife pours me a lemonade. I watch a Disney cartoon with my
daughter. The strange feeling, the lightness in my limbs, fades away.
The next day, my greeting is not so
warm. Jessie storms down the walk, her hair tangled, teeth pressed together in
a hiss.
“What
the hell were you thinking?! You can’t go around assaulting other people’s
kids. He’s a twelve-year-old, for Chrissake! Are you trying to get thrown into
jail? Are you trying to turn your son into a monster?”
“Is
he okay?”
“Of
course not!”
“Ah
shit. Is he beat up?”
She
looks at me like I’m the biggest idiot in the world.
“Ponce
is in the hospital.”
I
gotta admit, for a second I’m enjoying this. Ponce deserves whatever he gets.
But that’s not the way my son sees it. When I get to his room, he’s got a
Spiderman website on his computer screen, but he’s not really looking. When I
put a hand on his shoulder, he speaks in a low, crackling tone.
“I
did what you said, Dad. I pushed him. But we were right next to this railing…”
He
looks at me with moist eyes that could slay a devil.
“He
wasn’t moving, Dad. I thought he was dead. I thought I killed him.”
I
squat next to his chair and wrap a hand at the back of his neck, riding out his
tears, taking my punishment.
Photo by MJV
No comments:
Post a Comment