Dedalus hated driving in the dark, especially down the mountain. In his shit-heap that passed for a vehicle, the darkness seemed to close in around him, suffocating as he barreled round the turns, 20 miles per hour faster than the posted speed limit. His yellowed and savage headlights barely pierced the thick of it, he reading the road by the white stripes that passed nearly beneath the hunk of metal and oil.
Let's go, old girl. Let's go.
He measured his distance by the turnouts and the signs of elevation. At one time, he could do it by the number of times his ears would pop as he descended the hill, but now that he was near-deaf in the left ear (too many concerts) and had a severe infection (too much time in the lake) in the right, that ear-popping was less and less frequent. He kept the windows down and the radio up, both hands on the wheel and a constant barrage of reassurance to the decrepit Oldsmobile.
Let's go, old girl. Let's go.
It was early spring and the wind whipped up in the cabin, stinging and fresh. Dedalus pulled his hood closer around his ears, adjusted his hat and hit the pedal harder. His fear transferred itself into a jittery, loose-lipped shot from the hip. If anyone else were in the car, they would have clutched the oh-shit bar and kept their heels dug deep into the floorboards.
The tires screeched around every corner, in time with the music, in time with his cadence.
At 2,000 feet now. Come on, old girl. Let's go. Nearly there, now.
Yellow lights reflected back at him as a truck passed in the opposite direction. He put up his forearm to shade his eyes and came off the accelerator. The truck passed as quickly as it approached; he saw the red lights receding in his rear-view mirror. His heart quickened; his foot dropped back down.
Taking a turn too close in the darkness, the black came to claim him. His tires hit loose gravel and his rear-end came spinning out behind him. He overturned, both hands white-knuckle white on the steering wheel, gritting his teeth and leaning forward, breathing out his mouth. Slowly, the fishtailing came under control and he merged back into his lane.
Let's go, old girl. That was close. Let's go.
He patted the dash and smiled for the first time, his cheeks red from the wind, his eyes blood-shot from holding them so largely open.
Ten minutes later, they rounded the last turn of the darkness and came to a long, wide-laned straightaway. The night receded as the city lights enveloped them and Dedalus rolled up the windows, lowered his hood and shivered.
God, I hate that mountain. We're home, old girl. We're home.
9.29.2008
9.22.2008
Listening to the Radio and Talking About Girls
We listened to the radio and talked about girls. Really, my dad didn't talk about girls so much as he listened. I rambled. He would ask a few questions, nod his head and pay close attention to me -- but this time was mainly about me and bonding and CCR. We would go out, my dad and I, every Friday after school and just drive. Inevitably, we would end up at Foster's Freeze for dipped cones and he would get the guy at the counter to double dip for me. We would sit on top of the bench-tables -- butts on the table-tops and feet on the benches -- while the ice cream melted under the chocolate and ran down our hands.
"It's going to rain tomorrow," he would sometimes say.
"How do you know that, Dad?" I would look up at him then, eyes innocent with the cone shoved half-way in my mouth.
"Well, you can smell it, for one. It smells like rain. And there's the fact that the sky is gray this evening. Do you see that?"
"Yep."
"If the sky is red tomorrow morning, it will rain for certain. Based on tonight, it might not rain -- but it probably will." He would smile that thin-lipped smile we loved so much and go back to eating his ice cream, one hand on my frail and miniature shoulder.
We would continue this way until the ice cream was gone, then wipe our hands, wash our faces with the hose on the side of the building, and hop back into the old Nova. Dad would turn on the radio and we would cruise home, quietly, listening to his old CCR tapes. At the driveway, he would turn off the lights, kill the engine and ask with profundity, "So, what's new, Champ?"
This is when the rambling and the nodding would come into play. He would honestly pay attention; I knew this because of the questions. He asked the most sincere questions, though they seem so ordinary now: What did this girl look like? How was she around her friends? How did I feel around her? I thought my heart would explode every Friday talking to him; he knew just how to get the emotion in a clear, rainy kind of way. He put words in my chest where there weren't any before.
Later, we would get back into the house and let the screen door bang behind us. Every time I came back in, I felt a little more grown up -- like my dad was letting me in on some secret of men. I would be all smiles and my mom, coming out of the kitchen or the living room, would ask:
"What are you so happy about?"
"Nothing, ma. Nothing."
"It's going to rain tomorrow," he would sometimes say.
"How do you know that, Dad?" I would look up at him then, eyes innocent with the cone shoved half-way in my mouth.
"Well, you can smell it, for one. It smells like rain. And there's the fact that the sky is gray this evening. Do you see that?"
"Yep."
"If the sky is red tomorrow morning, it will rain for certain. Based on tonight, it might not rain -- but it probably will." He would smile that thin-lipped smile we loved so much and go back to eating his ice cream, one hand on my frail and miniature shoulder.
We would continue this way until the ice cream was gone, then wipe our hands, wash our faces with the hose on the side of the building, and hop back into the old Nova. Dad would turn on the radio and we would cruise home, quietly, listening to his old CCR tapes. At the driveway, he would turn off the lights, kill the engine and ask with profundity, "So, what's new, Champ?"
This is when the rambling and the nodding would come into play. He would honestly pay attention; I knew this because of the questions. He asked the most sincere questions, though they seem so ordinary now: What did this girl look like? How was she around her friends? How did I feel around her? I thought my heart would explode every Friday talking to him; he knew just how to get the emotion in a clear, rainy kind of way. He put words in my chest where there weren't any before.
Later, we would get back into the house and let the screen door bang behind us. Every time I came back in, I felt a little more grown up -- like my dad was letting me in on some secret of men. I would be all smiles and my mom, coming out of the kitchen or the living room, would ask:
"What are you so happy about?"
"Nothing, ma. Nothing."
9.16.2008
The Professor
The professor leaned against the desk at the front of class, feet crossed and hands-a-pockets. 31 students sat opposite him, quietly musing the latest problem he put to their minds. Many of them looked to be faking thought.
"I took this job to challenge the generations," he thought, "not to babysit." He walked over to the white-board, pulling a marker from his blazer pocket as he did so. "Any theories?," he said out loud.
"Well," pondered Julian Kyle,"this seems just another example of American Imperialism."
"You think everything written in America is an example of Imperialism."
"Am I wrong?"
"Probably not." The kid used these blanket statements, but many of them were hard to argue with. Sometimes, Darius McDonnelly wondered if the world and its literature was even worth caring about.
He continued scribbling keywords on the board, circling some, crossing out others, gainsaying the class until they either agreed with his notions or got pissed off enough to speak up otherwise. It holistically felt as though only he and Julian were in the room together. This went on for the duration of class.
As the students gathered their belongings, Julian Kyle walked up to the teacher. "Professor?"
"Yes, Julian. Something I can help you with?"
"Um ... yes. What are your thoughts on the necessity of revolution?"
"Completely necessary. Thomas Paine, Thomas Jefferson, the rest of the Founding Fathers -- they obviously believed in it as well, otherwise we wouldn't be standing here, would we?"
"Right. I meant, what do you think of the necessity of revolution TODAY. Like ... you know, now?"
"I am all for overthrowing our government, boy, insofar as they have trampled the rights of the citizens and taken to ruling from a point of wealth. Or have you forgotten I believe we no longer live in a democracy? Is this the question you were asking?"
"Yes. And I didn't forget. In any case, will you please attend a meeting going on later this evening?"
Caught off-guard, McDonnelly didn't know what to say. "Excuse me? A meeting? Of what sort?"
"Of the revolutionary sort, Dr. You will get more information if you attend. I would ... rather, we would appreciate it."
"Well, since it is just a matter of discussion and not a matter of action, yes. Where is this meeting taking place?"
"A car will be by to pick you up outside of the main building at 7 p.m. sharp. Thank you, Dr." They locked eyes for a moment, the student dipped his head forward just the slightest bit, then turned on his heels and walked out of the room, leaving the professor to ponder this little turn of events.
"Finally," he thought, "someone is challenging me."
"I took this job to challenge the generations," he thought, "not to babysit." He walked over to the white-board, pulling a marker from his blazer pocket as he did so. "Any theories?," he said out loud.
"Well," pondered Julian Kyle,"this seems just another example of American Imperialism."
"You think everything written in America is an example of Imperialism."
"Am I wrong?"
"Probably not." The kid used these blanket statements, but many of them were hard to argue with. Sometimes, Darius McDonnelly wondered if the world and its literature was even worth caring about.
He continued scribbling keywords on the board, circling some, crossing out others, gainsaying the class until they either agreed with his notions or got pissed off enough to speak up otherwise. It holistically felt as though only he and Julian were in the room together. This went on for the duration of class.
As the students gathered their belongings, Julian Kyle walked up to the teacher. "Professor?"
"Yes, Julian. Something I can help you with?"
"Um ... yes. What are your thoughts on the necessity of revolution?"
"Completely necessary. Thomas Paine, Thomas Jefferson, the rest of the Founding Fathers -- they obviously believed in it as well, otherwise we wouldn't be standing here, would we?"
"Right. I meant, what do you think of the necessity of revolution TODAY. Like ... you know, now?"
"I am all for overthrowing our government, boy, insofar as they have trampled the rights of the citizens and taken to ruling from a point of wealth. Or have you forgotten I believe we no longer live in a democracy? Is this the question you were asking?"
"Yes. And I didn't forget. In any case, will you please attend a meeting going on later this evening?"
Caught off-guard, McDonnelly didn't know what to say. "Excuse me? A meeting? Of what sort?"
"Of the revolutionary sort, Dr. You will get more information if you attend. I would ... rather, we would appreciate it."
"Well, since it is just a matter of discussion and not a matter of action, yes. Where is this meeting taking place?"
"A car will be by to pick you up outside of the main building at 7 p.m. sharp. Thank you, Dr." They locked eyes for a moment, the student dipped his head forward just the slightest bit, then turned on his heels and walked out of the room, leaving the professor to ponder this little turn of events.
"Finally," he thought, "someone is challenging me."
9.05.2008
My Fathers Who Art in Memory
Everything on this blog, from now on, will be fictional. Unless it's poetry. But it will be literature and, while it may take root in reality, these stories do not abide there.
I have, inside my mind, a million or more memories that have never come to pass. An attic of undusted reality. Something like that. Like my father. My dad. The best at everything and the worst son of a bitch that ever was. It's been so long that I don't remember which memories belong to him or to some other male figure in my life. Better yet, I can't recall the differences between my life or the ones I have read so often about. Inside my conscience, there resembles a kaleidoscope of father figures.
The first thing I see when I think about my father, though, are his hands. He had hands like a bear. They fit his body. He could tie a knot on a leader so quickly, beautifully, gracefully... effortlessly. He'd row the boat hard with his scarred-like-Christ and sun-spotted hands, beach it with two oars and smile a thin-lipped toothy grin as the sweat dripped from his brow and he wiped it away with the back of his arm. Strength in those hands, but love, too. Discipline, hugs and tickles for us mixed with the hard caresses for my mother -- all in those flesh-covered weapons we called hands. He taught us manhood, respect, fear, all through those potent limbs, those frightening forces of nature.
It's easy to see the hands, but takes work to picture the gray-blue Irish eyes, the high cheekbones, strong arms, wild hair. The Roman nose, sun-freckled skin and reddened shoulders -- the hands are always the easy part.
It didn't take long to realize he wanted to live through me. Learning how the quail flies, when to shoot, how to fish, how to fight and so on. Being taught so he could live, even after he's dead and buried. Selfish, really, but I didn't mind. the expectations never changed; he would always teach and I would always learn. And he was so good at it. Teaching. Doing. Everything. Gave me my first rifle at 12. It was an old Rossi pack rifle where the stock and split when you pull and twist a knob. A rifle for backpacking trips and camping with his fellowship of men. A beautiful gun, really. I still have it.
He taught me in such a way that you knew he was imparting wisdom -- hard truths about society to be figured out later, on your own. The lesson was never over. I learned to track and shoot at the same time, so that it made me feel hollow and happy inside. For my birthday in August, I received a copy of the SAS Guide to Tracking. I read it furiously. Never tracked a thing for three weeks, though. We lived in the city and are lucky to see pigeons.
We went to Lake Mojave, sitting on the cusp between Arizona and Nevada. Walking the mesas near Hoover Dam as a boy, I learned the necessity of water. My father taught me those other two things.
"Do you see those, kiddo?" He pointed with his index finger, sitting on his haunches and squinting at the ground ahead.
"What?," I asked.
"The torn brush, the over-turned rocks, the coyote tracks?"
"No." I was scared I was going blind. He came adjacent to me and painted a picture with hand signs and low murmured words. Showing me where the coyote went and how to follow him. Painting with those big hands. And smiling with his eyes. Teaching me how to discern the unclear.
"Do you understand now?," he pressed.
"Yes."
"OK. Good. Good." We walked on then, nearer to camp and around the sage-brush and over the red-clay road that had just been put in the year before.
"Where are we going, Dad?"
"To a canyon."
"Are we shooting?" I could feel my heart begin to beat heavily in my chest, anxiety and enchantment building in me.
"Yep." His eyes sparkled as he said it to me, happy that I was happy.
"I get dibs on the shotgun!"
"You get dibs on the surprise waiting for you. You're 12. The shotgun is meant for when your shoulders get stronger and your eyes more crisp. Radio your uncle and tell him we're scouting a canyon. Tell him to bring the cases. We'll meet him at Big Horn Crest where the bay is glassy and the sand turns black if he wants to swim before-hand. Can you remember all that?"
"Uh-huh. No problem."
"Good."
And that's how it was.
I have, inside my mind, a million or more memories that have never come to pass. An attic of undusted reality. Something like that. Like my father. My dad. The best at everything and the worst son of a bitch that ever was. It's been so long that I don't remember which memories belong to him or to some other male figure in my life. Better yet, I can't recall the differences between my life or the ones I have read so often about. Inside my conscience, there resembles a kaleidoscope of father figures.
The first thing I see when I think about my father, though, are his hands. He had hands like a bear. They fit his body. He could tie a knot on a leader so quickly, beautifully, gracefully... effortlessly. He'd row the boat hard with his scarred-like-Christ and sun-spotted hands, beach it with two oars and smile a thin-lipped toothy grin as the sweat dripped from his brow and he wiped it away with the back of his arm. Strength in those hands, but love, too. Discipline, hugs and tickles for us mixed with the hard caresses for my mother -- all in those flesh-covered weapons we called hands. He taught us manhood, respect, fear, all through those potent limbs, those frightening forces of nature.
It's easy to see the hands, but takes work to picture the gray-blue Irish eyes, the high cheekbones, strong arms, wild hair. The Roman nose, sun-freckled skin and reddened shoulders -- the hands are always the easy part.
It didn't take long to realize he wanted to live through me. Learning how the quail flies, when to shoot, how to fish, how to fight and so on. Being taught so he could live, even after he's dead and buried. Selfish, really, but I didn't mind. the expectations never changed; he would always teach and I would always learn. And he was so good at it. Teaching. Doing. Everything. Gave me my first rifle at 12. It was an old Rossi pack rifle where the stock and split when you pull and twist a knob. A rifle for backpacking trips and camping with his fellowship of men. A beautiful gun, really. I still have it.
He taught me in such a way that you knew he was imparting wisdom -- hard truths about society to be figured out later, on your own. The lesson was never over. I learned to track and shoot at the same time, so that it made me feel hollow and happy inside. For my birthday in August, I received a copy of the SAS Guide to Tracking. I read it furiously. Never tracked a thing for three weeks, though. We lived in the city and are lucky to see pigeons.
We went to Lake Mojave, sitting on the cusp between Arizona and Nevada. Walking the mesas near Hoover Dam as a boy, I learned the necessity of water. My father taught me those other two things.
"Do you see those, kiddo?" He pointed with his index finger, sitting on his haunches and squinting at the ground ahead.
"What?," I asked.
"The torn brush, the over-turned rocks, the coyote tracks?"
"No." I was scared I was going blind. He came adjacent to me and painted a picture with hand signs and low murmured words. Showing me where the coyote went and how to follow him. Painting with those big hands. And smiling with his eyes. Teaching me how to discern the unclear.
"Do you understand now?," he pressed.
"Yes."
"OK. Good. Good." We walked on then, nearer to camp and around the sage-brush and over the red-clay road that had just been put in the year before.
"Where are we going, Dad?"
"To a canyon."
"Are we shooting?" I could feel my heart begin to beat heavily in my chest, anxiety and enchantment building in me.
"Yep." His eyes sparkled as he said it to me, happy that I was happy.
"I get dibs on the shotgun!"
"You get dibs on the surprise waiting for you. You're 12. The shotgun is meant for when your shoulders get stronger and your eyes more crisp. Radio your uncle and tell him we're scouting a canyon. Tell him to bring the cases. We'll meet him at Big Horn Crest where the bay is glassy and the sand turns black if he wants to swim before-hand. Can you remember all that?"
"Uh-huh. No problem."
"Good."
And that's how it was.
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