Father-Son Stuff ...
The afternoon he left home for good, Stephen Greenwood knelt on the carpet, clutched the arms of his seven year-old and bored into his gaze with eyes as hard and serious as drill bits. Max let his head fall and lolled it like a narcoleptic until his father’s voice found just the right note, and then he lifted his face to the man. “Nothing’s changing,” Stephen exhorted with a fervor that encouraged and alarmed the boy.
Three years later, a year before Stephen ceased his twice-monthly, three-hour roundtrips from San Francisco to the grassy suburb he had fled, he learned from his ex that Max–skinny, vulnerable, prone to tears–was being bullied. Enlarged and charged by the urge to protect, Stephen endeavored to teach the boy boxing. “Balance,” he said in the seclusion of a stand of trees in the park in which they spent every other Sunday, punctuating the point with an evangelical thrust of his finger. He had grown his hair long shortly after leaving, and when he bounced on the balls of his feet to demonstrate the art of boxing, his hair swished like a horse’s tail across newly-toned shoulders. “You look like a Spartan,” said Max with a smile aimed shyly at his dad’s chin. Stephen raised the edges of his plunging moustache and cuffed his son’s head affectionately; but to his surprise the boy swatted his dad’s hand away and made two fists which he pressed to his face grinning like an elf either magically lethal or powerless and bluffing.
When Max was seventeen–six-foot-two, doughy thin, with hair dyed coal-black and nails to match, with a driver’s license and his mother’s car–he determined to start seeing his father again. His mother had advised him to forgive his father for his own sake if not for the sake of his dad; and besides, she had added with a shrewd expression, child support would end at eighteen, and wasn’t it wise to get in good with your father? Max nodded out of respect for his mom, but his decision was prompted mainly by tales of a city where boys had black nails.
The man who greeted Max at the door of the studio apartment was not the feral figure of the boy’s childhood but a mild presence who blushed and shyly lowered his gaze, once penetrating, now uncertain and small, from the appraising stare of his son. Uncertain how to greet his son–handshake, soul shake, bro hug, kiss?–Stephen tried a bit of each, so that the greeting resembled the grappling of beginning dance partners. A few awkward moments later, Stephen thrust a wooden plaque at his son and eyed him hopefully, but Max’s arms remained limp at his side, and he smiled slyly beneath lidded eyes. “Check it out,” Stephen repeated with an affect of casualness that was undermined by a note of desperation. His moustache drooped at Max’s flat affect, and a reciprocal smile rose on Max’s lips. He enfolded the plaque in long slender fingers. “It’s shiny,” he said.
Stephen nodded: friends had warned him: seventeen. “It’s shiny, true. And it has an inscription.” He recovered the plaque and gazed at it as if at a prayer book:
To Dr. G, for helping us see the beauty of song.
Love, Ms. Kendrick’s Klass
A smile bloomed on a father’s face. “I had them all singing Beatles songs, Maxim! Fifth graders. Can you imagine?”
“Imagine all the people,” Max slurred.
“Lennon reference, that’s my boy. I mean man.” Stephen squeezed himself down into the workstation between the couch and the little free-standing bookcase that separated his living and sleeping areas. “Look at this, Max-A-Million Bucks.”
Max looked at the computer screen as directed, but the wordplay returned his gaze to the years when he was a fresh-out-of-the-box kid whose dad showered him with nicknames like confetti on a conquering hero and batted rhymes and puns around with him like birthday balloons.
Stephen looked up at his son like a ten year-old in a go-cart at the starting line shining up at his dad. “It’s my YouTube channel, Circus Maximus. For my songs.”
“`Twould seem to be.” Max’s smile opened like a tentative flower at dawn.
With an effort to heed the advice of good friends that he not sound critical, Stephen observed in a carefully calibrated tone: “You’ve still got that great sardonic–”
“Ironic.”
“Attitude, eh?”
“B.”
“Har! Hey Maxim, look: sixty-seven subscribers.”
“Hey, Stephen, look: Some graying hippie wannabe stole your guitar.”
Stephen jerked his head back but let the jibe go. “This fan–guy’s from Australia.”
“He looks twelve, man. You sure it’s even legal to talk with him?”
Uncertain how to read his son’s comments or his cryptic expressions, which changed in kaleidoscopic fashion , Stephen instead addressed the computer. “This girl–young woman–is from England, man.”
“They’ve got Internet there?”
“Audible sigh. Listen, dude, are you ready to roll?”
“Sure, dude, if it’s French.”
“You can’t stop that, can you?”
“You can’t top that, Shamu?”
“Hey,” Stephen said with mock indignation, “I’m not even five pounds overweight.” He patted a stomach that was flat from dissolution rather than design. “Let’s head to my gig.”
“Where I’ll dance a jig,” mumbled Max with a self-conscious grin.
The café in the Richmond, just blocks from the sea, was deep and narrow and brightly lit. In the roomy front were thick hardwood tables; in the slender midsection an upright piano and a scaled-down drum kit and a worn love seat and an upholstered chair; in the back, a cozy nook in which underfed middle-aged scholars with stringy hair read by small table lamps. The walls featured black-and-white photos of the neighborhood and watercolors by neighborhood kids, and on the bookcase were paperbacks and beaten board games. Stephen held the door open and beamed at the scene, funkier than any in his suburban hometown, which was his son’s hometown also. “Cool, is it not?”
“I don’t know. Is it naught?”
“Dude, you are something.”
“In that case, I’m aught.”
“And you are caught!”
Max arrested his smile as if suddenly conscious of the painful unhipness of their old rhyming games, and replaced it with a haughty mask.
“Let’s eat,” Stephen said, noting the retrenchment. When standing Max slouched like a question mark but was half a head taller than his dad even so, and he gazed over Stephen’s head at the menu board. “Ummm,” he mosquito droned, “umm umm umm umm..” The counter girl smiled at Max’s schtick and the discomfiting effect it had on his father. “A bowl of Our Famous Onion Soup,” Max declared at last, “and a big cuppa joe.”
“You drink coffee?” Stephen queried with raised brow.
“Extra large,” Max told the girl, who wore the signature adornments of her generation–nose ring, tattoo (red roses, green vines climbing up the throat)–but was cool with the dinos of Stephen’s generation who sat the place all day and all night. Stephen wondered whether his son liked the girl or whether he liked girls at all, for his nail polish, soft skinny frame and languid demeanor suggested gayness to Stephen, though he was unsure of the code even after ten years in town.
“And a glass of red,” Max slurred into the hair that thatched his dad’s ear.
Stephen smiled at the jest but Max stared seriously into his eyes. With a confidential hush Stephen said, “I’ll let you have a sip of mine, old pal.” Seeking confirmation from his man-boy he added: “A little sip couldn’t hurt, right?”
“Not at all, old boy.”
As soon as they sat Stephen raised his wineglass to toast his son, but Max curled long fingers around his dad’s hand in the manner of a Golden Age film star cupping a leading man’s hand for a light, and deftly maneuvered the glass to his lips. He drank long and hard. Stephen widened his eyes, and Max laughed huskily and expulsively at his consternation. “You’re blowing your image, man, getting all excited like a square from the burbs.” Max had emerged from his squeaky-voiced stage with a baritone that he loved to show off.
“Raising your son right!” rasped Ruddy Rod into Steven’s ear from behind. He was in the midst of a six-week coke binge, and unruly tendrils of cocaine-white hair reached out from beneath his black bowler like weeds seeking light. He had lately quit the last of the scores of short-term gigs that had been his working life, and lived on a crafty disability claim and the proceeds from selling grass around the corner.
“No,” said Stephen. “I mean yes, he’s my son. But as for the raising him right–”
“Horseshit,” said Max, with a collegial glance at Rod’s encouraging grin. “You’re raising me fine,” words belied by the mockery in his smile at Rod.
Rod’s protuberant eyebrows, twin snowbanks with antennae, quivered at the discord between father and son, and he fixed shining eyes on Max as if to imply that a bond more potent than that between Max and his father existed between Max and himself.“You’re father talks a lot about you,” he suggested with a grin designed to provoke.
Max lowered his eyes and smiled demurely.
“And I’ve written about him, too,” Stephen hastened. “You’ll hear that tonight.”
Rod leaned in on Max like a barfly imposing wisdom by force of will and a hint of menace. “And they’re good,” he intoned, pressing Max’s slender forearm to the table and squeezing as if to test Max’s vital force.
“I can’t wait to hear `em,” Max told the table. “He used to sing me to sleep in the old days. Solid gold days,” this last with a private smile at his dad akin to those which he would discreetly share with his father at seven to proclaim his allegiance when Mona would press her hand to her forehead and deride with ever-growing panic Stephen’s talk about moving to San Francisco to plug into music and meet colorful people and discover himself. Stephen thought he recognized the supportive expression but wasn’t quite sure, for he had removed his glasses in anticipation of the show. Before he could make sure, Rod leaned heavily in between the two.
“Man, your kid looks like Tim Lincecum, ain’t you noticed, with that long hair, plus he’s got that wise guy grin, like he knows something we’re too old or screwed up, or too old and too screwed up to get, you know what I mean? Hey didja get him his Let Timmy Smoke t-shirt yet, or are you gonna plead poverty like always?”
“I didn’t, and I’m not–”
“You’re not?!” Rod made a fake show of astonishment. He straightened up and burlesqued perfect posture, and tapped his nose theatrically to show Stephen that he understood the role he was to play. “Of course you’re not. Hell no you’re not! Don’t smoke grass, Maxwell Silver Hammer. Your father is right.” To Stephen he added, “I’m going out back to not smoke myself.”
Stephen’s tone conveyed doubt and remorse. “I’m not even sure why I hang with that guy, Max. He’s a decent drummer and an interesting guy, and a real local character, you know? He’s not all that bad if–”
“Forget it, man. Weed’s great.”
Stephen felt it his fatherly duty to protest, but the subtle shifting changes in his son’s countenance puzzled and froze him. “You’ll like our songs, Max. At least, I hope you will.”
“And I’ll hope for a thrill.” An impish challenge gleamed in Max’s eyes.
Stephen sang and played guitar, Ruddy Rod was on drums, and Big Sal on bass. They started out with three Beatles songs and two Neil Young tunes, and then, with six or eight folks tuned in and approving, they played Stephen’s songs. Stephen introduced each with an anecdote about the song’s origin or moral thrust while Rod twirled his sticks and grinned madly at the ceiling and Big Sal uplifted his cartoonishly-large crescent moon chin with the dignity of a palace guard. “This was inspired by my lost dog,” Stephen would say. “This is about Grandma Greenbaum’s soulful chicken soup.” “This is for my father, Major Achievement, who famously told Uncle Steven, about me: He’s not a pimple on his old man’s ass.” Stephen sang with an aching voice and a seeking stare that clanked against the side of his son’s downcast head, for Max was texting, and texted throughout. Stephen’s voice quivered in response to hi son’s punching of the keypad buttons, and beads of sweat pushed their way out through the pores of his forehead, their damp warmth flooding Stephen with the day at 16 when–awkward, zitted, and for the most part unfriended–he was forced to make a public service announcement to a classroom full of mocking kids. He finished the song and drank water.
“Max,” he entreated the texting boy, whose smirking gaze was fixed to his phone. “Maxim,” Stephen burst. Max looked up at his dad with the mildly curious gaze of a TV-watcher, and Stephen gazed at a cluster of folks engaged with his music in the hope that they had seen and comprehended and sympathized with him. “Maxie,” Stephen said. “I wrote this song for you.” Stephen had spent most of the last year learning to play like Neil Young: his
optometry gig, part-time by design, gave him lots of practice time. He played the song well on the Martin he’d saved for years to buy.
“For you,” he sang to his languorous son,
“to help me sing what I couldn’t say to you,
to find and renew you,
to sing my song loud,
to make my boy proud,”
the guitar’s blue-green notes saturating the lyric of a father-son separation and a father’s quest for redemption. There was an appreciative reduction of chatter as Sal’s fat bass notes dropped emotional depth charges and Rod’s jazzy brushes softened the palette. Stephen resolved the song with a willowy “for you” as the feeling of fatherhood surged through him again. Sweet applause from hearts joined in concord lightened his spirits.
“Maybe we forgot to tell y’all this is a record release party,” he said, holding high the CD he had spent eight months recording with a year’s worth of savings. “So if you’re the sort of person who likes to buy this sort of music, this is the sort of music you might like to buy.”
“Or not,” crashed Rod’s cymbal.
“Buy or die,” slurred Max.
Stephen stepped to the table and ceremoniously handed his cd to Max as Rod passed the bowler beneath a scattering of bills which he fluffed like salad greens. Max studied the cd case. “Seeking Home?” he said. “You should call it, My Son’s Art Lessons, or My Son’s Missing Art School Tuition or whatever.”
Stephen’s arm froze at a right angle to his body. A woman with spiky silver hair who had listened intently to the show clasped Stephen’s wrist in a hand whose bones showed through loose skin like bat wings. Hers eyes twinkled with compassion. “I’ll take one,” she said. “That was wonderful.”
Stephen accepted her support and engaged her in a prolonged conversation, for her questions about his song ideas validated his sense of himself as an artist. He sold the disc to her and resolved to mount her twenty dollar bill on a plaque, for this was the first record he ever had sold. He sold a second cd to the woman’s grown daughter, then turned to discover that Max was gone. His father’s cd remained on the table.
Stephen walked to his car under a moonless sky in which sheets of fog jetted in from the ocean. He stepped into his car and inserted his cd and was consoled by the pleasurableness of the music and the intelligence of the lyrics, and most of all by the knowledge that he had created it all, and had done so with professionalism. And was he not, he mused, a professional musician, having just drawn other peoples’ hard-earned money from their wallets in exchange for his music? He pulled from the curb and drove to the corner and rolled right around it. Partway down the block he checked the rearview and glimpsed Ruddy Rod, unmistakable with his bowler hat and jangling gait, flinging his hands up into the air as if tossing confetti over the head of his gangly companion, a tall, rubbery, receding form who appeared to be Stephen’s son: Stephen couldn’t tell.
April 4, 2011
December 15, 2010
"Sherman Zahd" published in Pulse
My antiwar satire "Sherman Zahd," previously published in two print mags, has recently gone live in the online Pulse Literary Journal, published by Liz Pinto. Check out Liz's pub -- and if you write fiction or know someone who does, polish it nicely and send it on to her.
"Rear View"
This is the story of a refugee from the burbs who seeks to reconnect with his 17 year-old son. I heartily encourage you to comment. Can you relate? Do you recognize any of the characters? Does it remind you of any other fictional or real-life scenarios you’ve encountered? Any moments/descriptions that you particularly like? Stylistic comments? Thanks for reading.
Rear View
The afternoon he left home for good, Stephen Greenwood knelt on the carpet, clutched his seven year-old’s arms, drilled into his gaze with eyes serious as steel. Max dropped his head and lolled it as a narcoleptic might, then lifted his face as if drawn by the sun. “Nothing’s changing,” Stephen exhorted with a fervor that encouraged and alarmed.
Three years later, when Stephen was still making his twice-monthly trips of three hours round from San Francisco to Novato, the hot-weather, green-lawn burb he had fled, he learned from his ex that Max–scrawny, enticingly vulnerable, prone to tears--was being bullied in school. Overwhelmed by the Superman urge to protect, Stephen taught the boy boxing. “Balance,” he said in the seclusion of a stand of trees in the park, punctuating the point with an evangelical thrust of his finger. He bounced about like a bantam rooster, his now-long hair brushing bony shoulders. “You look like a Spartan,” said Max, his smiling eyes aimed at his father’s chin, his lips strangely twisted. Stephen raised the edges of his downward plunging moustache and cuffed his son’s head affectionately; but Max swatted his father’s hand away and smirked over fists pressed tight to his face like an elf either magically lethal or powerless and bluffing.
When Max was seventeen, six-two, rubbery thin, with hair dyed coal-black and nails to match, he began to see his father again at the urging of others and the prompting of a heart stirred by San Francisco stories. Forgetting balance, Stephen jabbered “check this out” and thrust a richly gleaming lacquered dark wood plaque to the boy. Max’s arms remained limp at his side. “Check it out,” Stephen said with a casual air undermined by a desperate note. His moustache drooped and a smile rose in synch on Max’s lips.
Max enfolded the plaque in long slender fingers.
“It’s shiny.”
Stephen nodded; friends had warned him; seventeen. “Shiny, yes ... and it has an inscription.” He reclaimed the plaque and gazed down as if at a hymnal.
“To Dr. G,” he read, “our favorite optometrist, for helping us “see”
the beauty of song. Love, the kids of Ms. Clausen’s class.”
A smile bloomed. “I had them all singing Beatles songs, Maxim. Fifth graders. Imagine.”
“Imagine all the people,” Max slurred like Neil Young.
“Lennon reference, that’s my boy ... man.” Stephen wheeled neatly and sat down at the compact computer workstation crammed between the small couch and the free-standing bookcase that divided his apartment into living and sleeping areas. “Look at this, Max-A-Million Bucks.”
Max looked at the computer screen as directed, but his gaze apprehended with longing and distance the years when he was fresh out of the box and his dad had showered him with plays on his name like confetti strewn on a conquering hero.
Stephen looked up and back at his son like a ten year-old in a go-cart shining up at his dad. “It’s a YouTube channel, Circus Maximus. For my songs.”
“It would seem to be.”
Without reproach, Stephen observed, “You’ve still got that–what, sardonic?”
“Ironic.”
“Bionic! Attitude. Eh?”
“B.”
“Har. Maxim, look, sixty-seven subscribers.”
“Har, look: Some graying hippie wannabe has your guitar.”
Stephen jerked his head back but let the jibe go. “This guy’s from Australia.”
“He looks twelve. You sure it’s legal to talk with him?”
Stephen wearied of looking at Max’s face and spoke to the computer screen instead. “This girl–young woman–is from England.”
“They’ve got Internet there?”
“Audible sigh. Listen, you ready to roll?”
“Sure, if it’s French.”
“You can’t stop that, can you?”
“You can’t top that, Shamu.”
“Hey, I’m not even five pounds overweight.” Stephen patted a very slight paunch. “Let’s head to my gig.”
“Where I’ll dance a jig,” the merry message belied by a self-mocking grin and mumbled intonation.
The café in the foggy Richmond, just blocks from the sea, was deep and narrow and brightly lit. The roomy front had thick hardwood tables, the slender midsection had an upright piano and a scaled-down drum kit and a cushy worn love seat and a white upholstered hardback chair; in the nook in back sat ascetic scholars ignoring the noise. The walls were adorned with black-and-white neighborhood photos and neighborhood kids’ watercolors, and the bookcase lodged relaxed piles of paperbacks and well-used board games. The kitchen effused the oppressive odor of cheap cooking oil. Stephen held the door and beamed within. “Cool, is it not?”
“Is it naught?”
“Dude, you are something.”
“Then I am aught.”
“And you are caught!”
Max pursed his lips at the pointlessness of the rhyme and stared straight ahead.
“Let’s eat,” said Stephen. Max slouched like a question mark but was half a head taller than his dad even so, and he studied the menu board over his head. “Ummm ... ummmm ...” The pause lingered, and the counter girl smiled at Max’s inane schtick and his father’s discomfort. “A bowl of Our Famous Onion Soup and a cuppa joe.”
“You drink coffee?” Stephen queried with paternal concern.
“Extra large,” Max told the girl, who wore the accouterments of the mild youthful rebellion of the day–nose ring, tattoo of rich green vines climbing up her throat–and was cool with dinos such as Stephen. Stephen wondered whether his son liked her, or girls like her, or girls at all, his black nail polish and languid demeanor suggesting gayness, though Stephen was unsure of the code even after ten years in town.
“And a glass of red,” Max slurred into the brown hair brightened by snowy strands that thatched his dad’s ear.
Stephen turned to smile at the jest but Max stared seriously into his eyes. With a confidential hush Stephen said, “I’ll let you sip mine; a sip couldn’t hurt.”
“Not at all, old pal.”
As soon as they sat Stephen raised his wineglass to his son to toast him, but Max curled long fingers around his dad’s hand in the manner of a Golden Age film star cupping a leading man’s hand for a light and drank long and hard, his gulp-gulp, gulp-gulp proclaiming an experienced drinker. Stephen widened his eyes and Max laughed huskily. “You’re blowing your image, man–for more Repub from the burbs than big city rocker.” A baritone had emerged, and he liked showing it off.
“Raising your son right, I see!” rasped Ruddy Rod. He was adrift in the mist of a
six-week drug binge and had let himself go, and his uncut hair of cocaine-white reached like weeds from beneath his black bowler. He had quit the last of the scores of short-term gigs (never “jobs,” a word for squares) that had comprised his working life, and lived on the payments from a crafty disability claim and the profits from selling grass out of his apartment around the corner.
“No,” said Stephen, “I mean yes, he’s my son. As for the raising him right–”
“Horseshit, man, you’re raising me fine.” The toss of the boy’s head and the unconcealed mockery in his smile reeked of inebriation.
Rod’s protuberant eyebrows, twin snowbanks with antennae, quivered at the discord between father and son. He lowered his roasted face to Max and fixed shining eyes on him as if to imply a bond more potent than father-and-son.“You’re father talks a lot about you,” he suggested with a provocative grin.
Max lowered his eyes like a poker player and smiled demurely.
“And I’ve written about him, too,” Stephen hastened, “in my songs you’re gonna hear tonight.”
Rod leaned in on Max like a barfly imparting wisdom via gravity of manner, force of will, and the subtle suggestion of physical force. “And they’re good,” he intoned, pressing Max’s slender forearm to the table and squeezing as if to test Max’s life force.
“I can’t wait to hear `em,” Max told the table pleasantly. “He sang me to sleep in the old days. Solid gold days.” When Max was seven, and Mona would press the back of her hand to her furrowed forehead and hawk at Stephen for his impractical talk about moving to San Francisco to plug into music, meet colorful people, discover himself, Max would gaze dewy-eyed at his dad to show his support. Stephen believed he discerned the same tender expression on his son’s face now but wasn’t quite sure, for he had removed his glasses in anticipation of the show; before he could make sure, Rod leaned heavily in between the two.
“Man, your kid looks like Tim Lincecum, ain’t you noticed? With that long hair and that smart-kid grin, like he knows something we’re too old or screwed up, or old and screwed up to get? Didja get him his Let Timmy Smoke t-shirt yet, or are you gonna plead poverty again?”
“I didn’t, and I’m not–”
“You’re not?” Rod said with fake astonishment. He tapped his nose theatrically to show Stephen that he understood the role he was to play in the charade, then straightened up and burlesqued perfect posture. “Of course you’re not. Hell no you’re not! Don’t smoke grass, Maxwell Silver Hammer. Your father is right.” To Stephen: “I’m going out back to not smoke myself.”
Stephen said softly, “I’m not even sure why I hang with him, Max. He’s a pretty good drummer, an interesting guy, a real local character. He’s not all that bad if–”
“Forget it, man. Weed’s great.”
Stephen felt impelled to protest, but was mesmerized by the subtly shifting changes he discerned in Max’s expression. “You’ll like our songs, Max. I hope that you will.”
“I’ll await a thrill,” Max said, an impish challenge gleaming in his eyes.
It was Stephen singing and playing guitar, Ruddy Rod on drums, Big Sal on bass.
Three Beatles songs and two Neil Youngs, and then, with half a dozen folks tuned in, they played Stephen’s songs, Stephen introducing each with a clear-eyed gaze and a sincere anecdote about the song’s origin or moral thrust while Rod whirled his sticks and grinned madly at the ceiling and Big Sal lifted his cartoonishly-large, black-stubbled rubbery chin in the air with the dignity of a palace guard. “This was inspired by my lost dog,” Stephen would say. “This is about my Grandma Greenbaum’s chicken soup.” “This is for my father, Major Achievement, who felt that money meant merit and told my Uncle Steven, quote, He’s not a pimple on his old man’s ass.” Stephen sang with an aching voice and a family therapy stare that clanked against the side of his texting son’s downcast head. Max texted throughout, and Stephen’s voice quivered as if in response to the buttons Max punched. Perspiration pushed its way out through the pores of his forehead, and the damp warmth flooded Stephen with the recollection of shame at 16 when–awkward, zitted, for the most part unfriended–he was forced to make a public service announcement to a class full of mocking kids. He finished the song and drank water. “Max,” he entreated the texting, smiling boy. “Maxim,” he burst. His son looked up at him with the mild curious gaze of a TV-watcher. Stephen stole a glance at the cluster of folks engaged with his music hoping that they saw, comprehended, and sympathized with him. “Maxie,” he said. “I wrote this song for you.”
Stephen had spent the last year learning to fingerpick like Neil Young over long hours of practice afforded by his part-time assistant optometrist gig. He picked the song well on the Martin he’d saved for ten years to buy. “For you,” he sang, looking down at his son, who slouched languorously on a well-cushioned chair, “to help me sing what I couldn’t say to you,” his voice pure and tender, “to find and renew you, to sing my song loud, to make my boy proud,” his ringing blue-green notes beautifying the lyric of a father-son separation and a personal quest. There was an appreciative reduction of chatter as Sal’s fat bass notes dropped emotional depth charges and Rod’s jazzy brushes softened the hue. Stephen resolved the song with a willowy, elongated “for you” as the sense of fatherhood he had once set aside surged through him again. The sweet applause of hearts in concord further lightened his spirits. “Maybe we forgot to tell y’all this is a record release party.” He brandished the CD he’d recorded over the past eight months. “So if you’re the sort of person who likes to buy this sort of music, this is the sort of music you might like to buy.”
“Or not,” crashed Rod’s cymbal.
“Buy or die,” slurred Max.
Stephen stepped to the table and made a ceremonious gift of his cd to Max as Rod passed the bowler beneath a scattering of bills which he fluffed up like a salad of greens. Max studied the cd case. “Seeking Home? You should call it My Art Lesson Money or My UC Tuition, or whatever.”
Stephen petrified with one arm frozen at a right angle to his body. A woman who had listened intently to the show clasped his wrist in her hand with its bat wing bones. She was trim with short silvery hair that spiked smartly over her forehead, and she looked into Stephen’s dazed eyes with a twinkling gaze of understanding and sympathy. “I’ll take one. That was wonderful.”
Stephen allowed her lightness to lift him. He engaged with her, and was gratified by her questions about his song ideas. He sold the disc to her, made a note to mount her twenty dollar bill on a plaque, sold a second cd to a young woman, then turned and discovered that Max had gone and had abandoned his father’s cd on the table.
Stephen walked to his car under a dark moonless sky obscured further by the sheets of fog jetting in from the ocean. He stepped into his clunker and inserted his cd, and was immediately consoled by the pleasurable sound of the music, the intelligent heartfelt lyrics, the consciousness that he had created it all and had done so with professionalism. And was he not a pro, he mused, having just drawn other peoples’ hard-earned money from a hat, having sold two cd’s? He pulled from the curb, drove to the corner, and rolled right around it. Part way down the block he checked the rearview and glimpsed Ruddy Rod, unmistakable in his bowler hat with his jaunty gait, gesturing wildly at his gangly companion, a tall, rubbery form receding in the darkness who appeared to be Stephen’s son; Stephen couldn’t say.
Rear View
The afternoon he left home for good, Stephen Greenwood knelt on the carpet, clutched his seven year-old’s arms, drilled into his gaze with eyes serious as steel. Max dropped his head and lolled it as a narcoleptic might, then lifted his face as if drawn by the sun. “Nothing’s changing,” Stephen exhorted with a fervor that encouraged and alarmed.
Three years later, when Stephen was still making his twice-monthly trips of three hours round from San Francisco to Novato, the hot-weather, green-lawn burb he had fled, he learned from his ex that Max–scrawny, enticingly vulnerable, prone to tears--was being bullied in school. Overwhelmed by the Superman urge to protect, Stephen taught the boy boxing. “Balance,” he said in the seclusion of a stand of trees in the park, punctuating the point with an evangelical thrust of his finger. He bounced about like a bantam rooster, his now-long hair brushing bony shoulders. “You look like a Spartan,” said Max, his smiling eyes aimed at his father’s chin, his lips strangely twisted. Stephen raised the edges of his downward plunging moustache and cuffed his son’s head affectionately; but Max swatted his father’s hand away and smirked over fists pressed tight to his face like an elf either magically lethal or powerless and bluffing.
When Max was seventeen, six-two, rubbery thin, with hair dyed coal-black and nails to match, he began to see his father again at the urging of others and the prompting of a heart stirred by San Francisco stories. Forgetting balance, Stephen jabbered “check this out” and thrust a richly gleaming lacquered dark wood plaque to the boy. Max’s arms remained limp at his side. “Check it out,” Stephen said with a casual air undermined by a desperate note. His moustache drooped and a smile rose in synch on Max’s lips.
Max enfolded the plaque in long slender fingers.
“It’s shiny.”
Stephen nodded; friends had warned him; seventeen. “Shiny, yes ... and it has an inscription.” He reclaimed the plaque and gazed down as if at a hymnal.
“To Dr. G,” he read, “our favorite optometrist, for helping us “see”
the beauty of song. Love, the kids of Ms. Clausen’s class.”
A smile bloomed. “I had them all singing Beatles songs, Maxim. Fifth graders. Imagine.”
“Imagine all the people,” Max slurred like Neil Young.
“Lennon reference, that’s my boy ... man.” Stephen wheeled neatly and sat down at the compact computer workstation crammed between the small couch and the free-standing bookcase that divided his apartment into living and sleeping areas. “Look at this, Max-A-Million Bucks.”
Max looked at the computer screen as directed, but his gaze apprehended with longing and distance the years when he was fresh out of the box and his dad had showered him with plays on his name like confetti strewn on a conquering hero.
Stephen looked up and back at his son like a ten year-old in a go-cart shining up at his dad. “It’s a YouTube channel, Circus Maximus. For my songs.”
“It would seem to be.”
Without reproach, Stephen observed, “You’ve still got that–what, sardonic?”
“Ironic.”
“Bionic! Attitude. Eh?”
“B.”
“Har. Maxim, look, sixty-seven subscribers.”
“Har, look: Some graying hippie wannabe has your guitar.”
Stephen jerked his head back but let the jibe go. “This guy’s from Australia.”
“He looks twelve. You sure it’s legal to talk with him?”
Stephen wearied of looking at Max’s face and spoke to the computer screen instead. “This girl–young woman–is from England.”
“They’ve got Internet there?”
“Audible sigh. Listen, you ready to roll?”
“Sure, if it’s French.”
“You can’t stop that, can you?”
“You can’t top that, Shamu.”
“Hey, I’m not even five pounds overweight.” Stephen patted a very slight paunch. “Let’s head to my gig.”
“Where I’ll dance a jig,” the merry message belied by a self-mocking grin and mumbled intonation.
The café in the foggy Richmond, just blocks from the sea, was deep and narrow and brightly lit. The roomy front had thick hardwood tables, the slender midsection had an upright piano and a scaled-down drum kit and a cushy worn love seat and a white upholstered hardback chair; in the nook in back sat ascetic scholars ignoring the noise. The walls were adorned with black-and-white neighborhood photos and neighborhood kids’ watercolors, and the bookcase lodged relaxed piles of paperbacks and well-used board games. The kitchen effused the oppressive odor of cheap cooking oil. Stephen held the door and beamed within. “Cool, is it not?”
“Is it naught?”
“Dude, you are something.”
“Then I am aught.”
“And you are caught!”
Max pursed his lips at the pointlessness of the rhyme and stared straight ahead.
“Let’s eat,” said Stephen. Max slouched like a question mark but was half a head taller than his dad even so, and he studied the menu board over his head. “Ummm ... ummmm ...” The pause lingered, and the counter girl smiled at Max’s inane schtick and his father’s discomfort. “A bowl of Our Famous Onion Soup and a cuppa joe.”
“You drink coffee?” Stephen queried with paternal concern.
“Extra large,” Max told the girl, who wore the accouterments of the mild youthful rebellion of the day–nose ring, tattoo of rich green vines climbing up her throat–and was cool with dinos such as Stephen. Stephen wondered whether his son liked her, or girls like her, or girls at all, his black nail polish and languid demeanor suggesting gayness, though Stephen was unsure of the code even after ten years in town.
“And a glass of red,” Max slurred into the brown hair brightened by snowy strands that thatched his dad’s ear.
Stephen turned to smile at the jest but Max stared seriously into his eyes. With a confidential hush Stephen said, “I’ll let you sip mine; a sip couldn’t hurt.”
“Not at all, old pal.”
As soon as they sat Stephen raised his wineglass to his son to toast him, but Max curled long fingers around his dad’s hand in the manner of a Golden Age film star cupping a leading man’s hand for a light and drank long and hard, his gulp-gulp, gulp-gulp proclaiming an experienced drinker. Stephen widened his eyes and Max laughed huskily. “You’re blowing your image, man–for more Repub from the burbs than big city rocker.” A baritone had emerged, and he liked showing it off.
“Raising your son right, I see!” rasped Ruddy Rod. He was adrift in the mist of a
six-week drug binge and had let himself go, and his uncut hair of cocaine-white reached like weeds from beneath his black bowler. He had quit the last of the scores of short-term gigs (never “jobs,” a word for squares) that had comprised his working life, and lived on the payments from a crafty disability claim and the profits from selling grass out of his apartment around the corner.
“No,” said Stephen, “I mean yes, he’s my son. As for the raising him right–”
“Horseshit, man, you’re raising me fine.” The toss of the boy’s head and the unconcealed mockery in his smile reeked of inebriation.
Rod’s protuberant eyebrows, twin snowbanks with antennae, quivered at the discord between father and son. He lowered his roasted face to Max and fixed shining eyes on him as if to imply a bond more potent than father-and-son.“You’re father talks a lot about you,” he suggested with a provocative grin.
Max lowered his eyes like a poker player and smiled demurely.
“And I’ve written about him, too,” Stephen hastened, “in my songs you’re gonna hear tonight.”
Rod leaned in on Max like a barfly imparting wisdom via gravity of manner, force of will, and the subtle suggestion of physical force. “And they’re good,” he intoned, pressing Max’s slender forearm to the table and squeezing as if to test Max’s life force.
“I can’t wait to hear `em,” Max told the table pleasantly. “He sang me to sleep in the old days. Solid gold days.” When Max was seven, and Mona would press the back of her hand to her furrowed forehead and hawk at Stephen for his impractical talk about moving to San Francisco to plug into music, meet colorful people, discover himself, Max would gaze dewy-eyed at his dad to show his support. Stephen believed he discerned the same tender expression on his son’s face now but wasn’t quite sure, for he had removed his glasses in anticipation of the show; before he could make sure, Rod leaned heavily in between the two.
“Man, your kid looks like Tim Lincecum, ain’t you noticed? With that long hair and that smart-kid grin, like he knows something we’re too old or screwed up, or old and screwed up to get? Didja get him his Let Timmy Smoke t-shirt yet, or are you gonna plead poverty again?”
“I didn’t, and I’m not–”
“You’re not?” Rod said with fake astonishment. He tapped his nose theatrically to show Stephen that he understood the role he was to play in the charade, then straightened up and burlesqued perfect posture. “Of course you’re not. Hell no you’re not! Don’t smoke grass, Maxwell Silver Hammer. Your father is right.” To Stephen: “I’m going out back to not smoke myself.”
Stephen said softly, “I’m not even sure why I hang with him, Max. He’s a pretty good drummer, an interesting guy, a real local character. He’s not all that bad if–”
“Forget it, man. Weed’s great.”
Stephen felt impelled to protest, but was mesmerized by the subtly shifting changes he discerned in Max’s expression. “You’ll like our songs, Max. I hope that you will.”
“I’ll await a thrill,” Max said, an impish challenge gleaming in his eyes.
It was Stephen singing and playing guitar, Ruddy Rod on drums, Big Sal on bass.
Three Beatles songs and two Neil Youngs, and then, with half a dozen folks tuned in, they played Stephen’s songs, Stephen introducing each with a clear-eyed gaze and a sincere anecdote about the song’s origin or moral thrust while Rod whirled his sticks and grinned madly at the ceiling and Big Sal lifted his cartoonishly-large, black-stubbled rubbery chin in the air with the dignity of a palace guard. “This was inspired by my lost dog,” Stephen would say. “This is about my Grandma Greenbaum’s chicken soup.” “This is for my father, Major Achievement, who felt that money meant merit and told my Uncle Steven, quote, He’s not a pimple on his old man’s ass.” Stephen sang with an aching voice and a family therapy stare that clanked against the side of his texting son’s downcast head. Max texted throughout, and Stephen’s voice quivered as if in response to the buttons Max punched. Perspiration pushed its way out through the pores of his forehead, and the damp warmth flooded Stephen with the recollection of shame at 16 when–awkward, zitted, for the most part unfriended–he was forced to make a public service announcement to a class full of mocking kids. He finished the song and drank water. “Max,” he entreated the texting, smiling boy. “Maxim,” he burst. His son looked up at him with the mild curious gaze of a TV-watcher. Stephen stole a glance at the cluster of folks engaged with his music hoping that they saw, comprehended, and sympathized with him. “Maxie,” he said. “I wrote this song for you.”
Stephen had spent the last year learning to fingerpick like Neil Young over long hours of practice afforded by his part-time assistant optometrist gig. He picked the song well on the Martin he’d saved for ten years to buy. “For you,” he sang, looking down at his son, who slouched languorously on a well-cushioned chair, “to help me sing what I couldn’t say to you,” his voice pure and tender, “to find and renew you, to sing my song loud, to make my boy proud,” his ringing blue-green notes beautifying the lyric of a father-son separation and a personal quest. There was an appreciative reduction of chatter as Sal’s fat bass notes dropped emotional depth charges and Rod’s jazzy brushes softened the hue. Stephen resolved the song with a willowy, elongated “for you” as the sense of fatherhood he had once set aside surged through him again. The sweet applause of hearts in concord further lightened his spirits. “Maybe we forgot to tell y’all this is a record release party.” He brandished the CD he’d recorded over the past eight months. “So if you’re the sort of person who likes to buy this sort of music, this is the sort of music you might like to buy.”
“Or not,” crashed Rod’s cymbal.
“Buy or die,” slurred Max.
Stephen stepped to the table and made a ceremonious gift of his cd to Max as Rod passed the bowler beneath a scattering of bills which he fluffed up like a salad of greens. Max studied the cd case. “Seeking Home? You should call it My Art Lesson Money or My UC Tuition, or whatever.”
Stephen petrified with one arm frozen at a right angle to his body. A woman who had listened intently to the show clasped his wrist in her hand with its bat wing bones. She was trim with short silvery hair that spiked smartly over her forehead, and she looked into Stephen’s dazed eyes with a twinkling gaze of understanding and sympathy. “I’ll take one. That was wonderful.”
Stephen allowed her lightness to lift him. He engaged with her, and was gratified by her questions about his song ideas. He sold the disc to her, made a note to mount her twenty dollar bill on a plaque, sold a second cd to a young woman, then turned and discovered that Max had gone and had abandoned his father’s cd on the table.
Stephen walked to his car under a dark moonless sky obscured further by the sheets of fog jetting in from the ocean. He stepped into his clunker and inserted his cd, and was immediately consoled by the pleasurable sound of the music, the intelligent heartfelt lyrics, the consciousness that he had created it all and had done so with professionalism. And was he not a pro, he mused, having just drawn other peoples’ hard-earned money from a hat, having sold two cd’s? He pulled from the curb, drove to the corner, and rolled right around it. Part way down the block he checked the rearview and glimpsed Ruddy Rod, unmistakable in his bowler hat with his jaunty gait, gesturing wildly at his gangly companion, a tall, rubbery form receding in the darkness who appeared to be Stephen’s son; Stephen couldn’t say.
September 6, 2010
August 27, 2010
Dough Boy
Dear Readers:
Some need speed, Dough Boy needs to knead. I hope you will find this tale worth your time, and please do comment, as I'd love to get a conversation going. Do you relate to any of the characters or situations? Are there similar stories you'd care to mention? Any favorite images, descriptions, or moments in the tale? Your favorite pastry, perhaps? Thanks for reading!
Note: "Dough Boy" has been accepted for the December, 2010 issue of Sugar Mule magazine.
"Dough Boy"
At nine years old, he was Duke for a day.
“Where are you going, Mikey?” A note of alarm wormed into Mom’s voice. Three weeks since moving in, he had not ventured out.
“I’m Duke now. Goin’ a play.” The conk of wooden bats falling hard on the asphalt, the sweet siren song of boys out in the street.
“Out?” Her cookie-dough hands kneaded each other red. She studied her son: his dumpling chin set, his furry brow knit. “Have fun out there. Duke.” The forced note of cheer for herself more than him. She reached for his ballcap to straighten the bill, was shocked when he jerked his head from her hands.
Thus Duke ventured out.
“Duke,” sneered the leader, a crew-cut called Butch. “You’re like, The Duke of Earl, man?”
Duke chewed Dubble-Bubble, stared up through eyes sheltering deep in dark sockets.
“Don’t you like, talk, Duke Man?”
“Sure he does.” A blond scarecrow called Skeeter clapping Duke on the arm. “He said his name’s Duke. Like, put up your dukes,” miming boxing moves.
“Right,” Butch grinned, feinting towards Duke like Sugar Ray in close. “You like using your dukes, Dukey boy?”
Duke rooted to the grass, stared up in wonder at Butch.
“Weird little troll, tell you that much.”
“You bat first, Duke,” smiled Pee Wee.
Middle of the street, pitch the rubber ball to yourself. Up ball, grab bat, swing bat, miss ball. Again and again. Then once again, his tongue sticking out. Boys’ mitts on their heads crowning bursting clown faces.
“It’s like, a magic wand,” Pee Wee grinned without malice. “Like that guy on Ed Sullivan, kept those balls in the air without touching his wand, like the wand repelled `em.”
They grinned. He did too.
“What’re you smiling at, dick head?”
“Hello, Duke.” She tried her best to make it sound real.
“I’m Dick now.” He compressed jagged lips, scrunched his dark brow intently. She laid down the spatula, reached for her boy. He collapsed within himself, and she held back fearing an explosion.
“I’m don’t think you should play with those boys, Michael.”
He broke down and trudged into his room.
She bought him a cowboy hat and a cap gun, a chemistry set, a model T-Bird with a full set of paints, a model World War II battleship. The chemistry set took.
Hour on hour, alone at his desk, wearing safety goggles, filling beakers precisely, measuring out powdered chemicals in tiny spoons, making fizzes, colors, sizzles, stinks. The stink bomb freaked the dog, she ran wildly in circles. The invisible ink was runny but worked. Spy notes to his mother, placed in the dog’s collar, ferried to the kitchen. His mom played along, to her way of thinking: Brownies in ten minutes, hon. He cut her reply into dozens of little squares, dissolved them in a phosphate solution, hunkered back down to work.
His dad, in the doorway, was hip to it all. “How’s it goin’ in there, Professor?”
Professor. A jagged grin turned halfway to Dad; then back to work. A rubber band boat propelled by baking soda and vinegar traversed the bathtub and never capsized. Based on all these successes a new mission was born: the launch of a missile from the front lawn. This was, however, an insecure zone. Mission Control postponed the launch. Captain America, Batman, Mad. Tag with the dog. Itching powder upon the dog’s skin, washing her off with hose-water and tears. TV days turned to weeks, school days to school months; then John Glenn flew, and the mission was on. He marched to the front lawn launching pad on a clear-sky Saturday at cartoon time. The rocket thin and red, the launching pad filled with baking soda and vinegar for massive propulsion. The backyard test launches had all been successful. Goggles up, missile in. Three figures on Schwinns soared up the street. He turtled over the launching pad and heard but did not see Butch, Skeeter, and Pee Wee whizzing past, and didn’t see Pee Wee peeling off like a fighter pilot, wheeling towards him in a wide graceful arc up the slope of his lawn.
“Whatcha doin’, man?” A not unfriendly smile.
Without looking up, too intent for distraction: “Missile launch,” and some technical mumbles. He prepared to shake up the launching pad, then remembered his dad’s admonitions. “You gotta back up,” he told Pee Wee. Pee Wee, not wee now just a bit undersized, smiled amiably and backed up his bike. Pleased with his eminence, “The Professor” mumbled a private incantation, shook the launching pad up, and pointed it at the sky. Fizz-whoosh-whizz and up flew the missile but not very high. Foamy vinegar flowed down his fist, acrid smell pinched his nostrils.
“Ai right,” Pee Wee smiled, respecting the effort and the intent. He rose up on the pedals of his red three-speed, piston-charged into the wild blue yonder.
“Is your name Professor?” they giggled.
All girls were from space, but especially these two: pretty and tall, with inscrutable laughter, and a cryptic conversational code. Did they wish to hug him and call him their mascot, like Jill’s giggly high school friends? Or did they simply think him a jerk.
“I’m ... I dunno,” he shrugged.
They laughed even harder, teeth glinting like knives, and pinned him against the hallway wall next to a poster of Abraham Lincoln.
“You told Miss Conners you were the Professor,” chid the taller one with a smile that put him in mind of Catwoman.
“I ... she said it was a good answer,” he told his sneakers. In an unguarded moment, he’d proclaimed to the teacher, and all of the class: “They call me Professor.”
“You’re a professor,” snickered the less tall one with Barbie-blue eyes, “and you got a C on the cell worksheet?”
He withered beneath their Siamese cat gazes, took hope when he saw that Pee Wee was approaching abreast of two friends. “Hey Pee Wee!” he hailed, desperation amping his voice up to audible. A friendly word would set him free.
Pee Wee was Gordy away from the block. “Pee Wee,” one friend chortled. Pee Wee/Gordy flashed rodent teeth. “Hey there, Dick Head.” Then he punched his friend on the arm and led him on a chase down the hall.
Solace was found in brownies warm, soft, and sweet as his mother, who looked askance when he reached for a second, then softened her look when his eyes pooled with shame. “Have some milk,” she sighed. Milk was good, there was no harm in that. Homework in the kitchen each day after school. Two brownies with milk and no more than two, she drew the line there. He accepted her terms with a sly smile. His belly, face, thighs all rounded like dough. “My Pillsbury Doughboy,” she said with a grin somehow loving and mocking. She jabbed at his belly, he slapped her hand. She recoiled and he swatted the milk glass, flooding the table and soaking his pants. The next day the incident went unspoken. Two brownies with milk, and she too ate brownies as he did his homework. They dipped them in milk, compared milk moustaches, blew bubbles with straws, played follow the leader with fingers fast-walking through trails of crumbs. A little more time and she softened too.
Dad noticed. Was mute. He kept it inside, day on week upon month. “What’s with the damn brownies,” he finally burst.
“Michael’s learning to bake,” she lied upon reflex. “It’s a good thing, to bake. Cooking’s useful for boys. Like on cookouts.”
“Cookouts.” They had never had cookouts. He waved her away with the back of his hand, trudged vexed and defeated back to his den–his principal reason for buying the house.
She gazed at her son in silent communion. He scrunched his brow to mirror her gaze, and she burst out laughing. The baking lessons began the next day.
A plump kid at his high school had not many options. His tenth grade friends, two, were geeks years before geeks were cool, and they murdered each school day with corrosive jibes at themselves and each other, then scurried, relieved, to the safety of home. His home reeked of smoke, for his mom had lost weight and smoked instead, and exercised, hacking, in front of the tube, compliant with Jack LaLanne’s kindly commands.
“I’m gonna make lamb chops tonight,” he said on the landing of the sunken living room. She sat in her leotards, spread-eagled before the TV, gazing up at LaLanne in his snug workout suit, his curly hair mop and his crinkly smile with ineffable longing. “Lamb chops,” he repeated, letting his head droop. She turned to him but did not seem to see. “Lamb chops,” she repeated, as if mouthing a prayer she no longer believed. Her blue eyes sparkled beneath pooling tears, and he thought them the most beautiful eyes in the world, thought her the most beautiful thing in the world. She blinked; tears cascaded. He wished to run to her to kiss her face dry, stood rooted as if at the edge of a pond. She reached out arms like willow branches, but he would not venture into the pool.
He avoided his father whenever he could, not easy to do in a three-bedroom rancher. He craved a TV, Dad exploited the craving: “Tell you what. Bring me A’s in science and math, and it’s yours.” An A in chem but a B in geo; Dad pressed his advantage: “How’s about we finally work a little of that excess poundage off, champ? Lose ten pounds by July, and we’ll get you that tube. Fifteen maybe.”
He ate Weight Watchers with his mom for a month. They watched TV snacking on roasted salt mushrooms and whole wheat toast topped with warm cottage cheese and cinnamon. One night he folded a chocolate-covered cherry from his secret stash into her hand. She was intent on her program, didn’t notice at first, then opened her palm, flung the cherry up into the air as if it were a spider. “Don’t do that, Michael!” Three Kool Menthols finally calmed her down. Two days later the weigh-in came. He rigged the scale and got the TV.
He watched summer TV reruns and news with his proto-geek friends, one gangly, one plump. They hee-hawed at the world while feasting on treats that he prepared nightly from his birthday cookbook: stuffed mushrooms, steak tartare, deviled eggs, and, one night, for a tea party lark, white bread sandwiches with the crusts cut away, putting on British airs, erupting in hysterical cackles and shrieks that pleased his mom in the living room and irritated his dad in the den. He was slicing olives for an encore round of sandwiches when the gangly one, Ted, flounced to his side: “These are just divine, darling” in an emergent baritone, and Michael had to use the back of his hand, still clutching the knife, to wipe the tears that pooled in his eyes. His father appeared, Ted flew like a leaf back into Michael’s room. Michael looked joyfully up at his dad.
“Your friends are weird, Michael.”
No movement save a tightening of stubby fingers on the slicing knife and a rapid dissolution of his gaze into darkness. “You are.”
The plump one, Eugene, was soft in spirit and body. It was he who remained when the summer got long and Ted tired of watching the world on TV, soldiers wading through rice paddies, hippies protesting out on the streets. “Girls Girls! Girls!” Ted had gawked at comely protesters in fringed leather vests revealing flat bellies, had followed them out onto the streets with no plan. Eugene was content to cocoon. The two sat on cushions on Michael’s bedroom floor and leaned back against the bed like a pair of young rajahs. Sometimes they’d drift away and doze. “Keep the door open,” Dad advised, “it’s an oven in there.” Or lean against each other, arms melding like warm dough. “I said open,” Dad snapped before fading away for the rest of the summer.
They sent him to college to broaden himself. Dad set him up to rush his old fraternity, but he wandered the streets of Berkeley instead: incense, flyers, bookstores, bums. With two days left in Pledge Week, Dad cancelled “a big meeting,” flew up, pressed him into the rental car, drove him in silence to the frat house, and sat in the car watching him trudge up the broad stone steps all the way to the door. He became a Tri-Delt. Although forced upon them, although short and soft, he was accepted provisionally: for when they’d venture to Telegraph, conspicuous frat boys, he was quick with terse quips to fend off hippie jibes; and when they were drunk and couldn’t count change, he’d figure tips and settle bills neatly. They first called him Doc, then Beaver, then Scuzz, but none of these stuck. Then Keith, a querulous jock and a leader, dubbed him “Chuck” with a wink over beer. Although it was senseless it sounded okay, for he didn’t know that act followed name: Late at night, after the first big house party of the year, Keith and some others who had been denied drank hard and bitterly on the deck. Keith pointed his cleft chin at Chuck, and his minions pinioned his arms behind him, pulled his head back, pinched his nose and opened his mouth to a river of beer. They held his head up, the countdown began. “One small step for man” joked one when Chuck stood up with the vague idea of walking to the bathroom; Chuck doubled over as if shot and erupted, fell onto the deck barely conscious. The vile muck pooled under his cheek. One guy placed a laurel wreath on his head, and a sympathetic soul lagged behind to drape a blanket over him. Three days later Michael pulled the washer’s discharge tube from the drain pipe before fleeing the house.
He took an apartment off campus with a slender English major who peered at him wryly as if Michael were Raskolnikov–right there in the room for his amusement. Robert, the English major, was beloved of Noreen, a English major who thought him an intellectual giant, though really he was just more assertive than she. They supped on hors d’oeuvres that Michael created, clutching petits fours with long fingers raised as they supposed they would hold cigarettes at cocktail parties one day. They allowed Michael to listen to the erudite chats, and one night even allowed him to chime in beneath Robert’s indulgent Freudian gaze and the soft gaze of Noreen, whose long, slender fingers, pale as the skin of a veal calf, clutched at his heart to the point of pain, sending him to the bathroom to catch his breath. His desire for Noreen showed in his clumsy efforts not to stare at her, she intensifying his longing with gazes tender with comprehension. Robert too comprehended, called him “Robert Cohn” and “Holden” and alluded unsubtly while drinking gin to The Lord of the Flies’ Piggy and Ratso Rizzo from Midnight Cowboy; then punishing Noreen, Michael, and himself with contrived noisy sex sounds broadcast through the walls to Michael’s next door room.
He took a studio in the flatlands of Oakland and stared at matches burning down to his fingers. There was only a hot-plate, he lost fifteen pounds. Walking through Sproul Plaza, its antiwar rallies and civil rights rallies and leaflets and petitions for every cause that could be labeled “left wing,” his underdog’s heart drew him to the Young Republicans’ table where a girl with a bouffant Trisha Nixon-do stood flag-carrier straight as a pack of hissing leftists maligned her. He joined The Young Republicans on the spot and fell for the girl, who was well groomed and forthright and knew what she wanted, and looked at him with princess eyes that entreated rescue from some lonely castle. He licked envelopes beneath her direction despite the glue’s bitter taste and his well-hidden distaste for Nixon, his puppyish constancy wearing down her resistence. One day she joked that a well-known Democrat was a “secret fag.” He allowed dismay to flood his eyes, she stared at him apprehending a roach.
He disappeared within his studio bunker with matches he let burn down to his fingers, candles in the dark and matching dark music, and Chef Boyardee eaten cold from the can, two or three at a time. He studied sometimes, sometimes he wandered Telegraph silent as a monk on a vow of silence, with a cryptic grin implying he knew. One midnight he walked the cold streets of Oakland beneath the overpass as if daring muggers. He returned home excited but also disappointed not to have been beaten. His mother called often, a frightened shrinking voice. He’d search but not find the power to speak. She’d call him again and he’d watch the match burn down, resolved not to blow the flame out until she stopped ringing; she rang and rang and he burned his fingers. He wrote heartfelt jagged poetry, struggled through five poor sit-ups, cut the phone cord with a kitchen knife and poured himself into letters to his mother that he cut up and burned.
Jill drove down from Oregon and tugged him north. He begged her to drive the long way through the coast redwoods and spoke no further word, which was okay with Jill. “Never you mind,” she said with a lilt she’d acquired since high school. He stared strangely out the passenger-side window as they wound beneath paternal redwoods that enfolded them in protective shadows. She shared a house with four young women studying theater at Southern Oregon University in Ashland, home of the Oregon Shakespeare Festival. She prepped her roommates, and hey spoke softly when he came out of Jill’s room three days after arriving, calling him “Jill’s famous brother,”“M’lord,” “Master Michael” and such so as not to affright him. He sank into the soft couch and cradled his mug of hot cider, and they allowed him to be himself and to partake of them being themselves: hopeful, worried, nurturing, frank. They poked him sometimes with kind, curious eyes.
“I need a job,” he squeaked in two weeks. Jill found him a job at a preschool for university parents. The kids considered him a kid for his shortness and softness and because he spoke seldom in a voice that was soft except at story time, when he became a whiny toad, and a gruff-but-kind bear, and a know-it-all owl, and a flummoxed giraffe with such conviction that they crawled up close to stare at his lips to see if he really, truly was human. One bold girl padded onto his lap; then the rest of the curious animals clambered up too, each in turn forcing another off the cliff of his knee. The owner stared down at him with some apprehension–she’d checked his background, but what to make of this strange, shy creature who smelled of cookie dough and cried so like a baby elephant that a boy pressed a tissue to his moist eyes.
Miss Miranda Plum, a young would-be elementary school teacher, was drawn to him too, became his kitchen assistant and then his apprentice. Head down over his workspace like a boy preparing to launch a toy rocket, he taught her to make golden wafers encrusted with sugar crystals, Janey Fingers (Janey: the owner) and “Michael’s Famous Brownies” (as Miranda called them), all from scratch and wonderful, though he’d make the brownies only twice a month, for his hips still carried the remnant of his boyhood excesses. To teach her his secrets he had to speak some, but mostly he mimed his instructions, sometimes unfolding in mock comic confusion like Charlie Chaplin mistaken for a baker and pressed into emergency service baking for the king. Surrounded by kids and having no escape, he let them crown him with a white baker’s hat spangled with arts-and-crafts cookies.
On weekends Miranda took him to the woods to a womb-like shadowed glade, a secluded fern dell, a clear river gathering late summer chill. She pointed toes down and plopped into the water, he followed her in with a splayed, foot-first jump that scattered squirrels. His dam burst in hysterics of wild forest howls; her eyes widened to receive him like a vision of nature. She apple-bobbed to him, they came together like a building snowflake and whirled in the water, bobbing, spinning, clinging, squeezing. They enclosed each other, he dove into her essence, fell into her “Baby;” her baby; her own.
Some need speed, Dough Boy needs to knead. I hope you will find this tale worth your time, and please do comment, as I'd love to get a conversation going. Do you relate to any of the characters or situations? Are there similar stories you'd care to mention? Any favorite images, descriptions, or moments in the tale? Your favorite pastry, perhaps? Thanks for reading!
Note: "Dough Boy" has been accepted for the December, 2010 issue of Sugar Mule magazine.
"Dough Boy"
At nine years old, he was Duke for a day.
“Where are you going, Mikey?” A note of alarm wormed into Mom’s voice. Three weeks since moving in, he had not ventured out.
“I’m Duke now. Goin’ a play.” The conk of wooden bats falling hard on the asphalt, the sweet siren song of boys out in the street.
“Out?” Her cookie-dough hands kneaded each other red. She studied her son: his dumpling chin set, his furry brow knit. “Have fun out there. Duke.” The forced note of cheer for herself more than him. She reached for his ballcap to straighten the bill, was shocked when he jerked his head from her hands.
Thus Duke ventured out.
“Duke,” sneered the leader, a crew-cut called Butch. “You’re like, The Duke of Earl, man?”
Duke chewed Dubble-Bubble, stared up through eyes sheltering deep in dark sockets.
“Don’t you like, talk, Duke Man?”
“Sure he does.” A blond scarecrow called Skeeter clapping Duke on the arm. “He said his name’s Duke. Like, put up your dukes,” miming boxing moves.
“Right,” Butch grinned, feinting towards Duke like Sugar Ray in close. “You like using your dukes, Dukey boy?”
Duke rooted to the grass, stared up in wonder at Butch.
“Weird little troll, tell you that much.”
“You bat first, Duke,” smiled Pee Wee.
Middle of the street, pitch the rubber ball to yourself. Up ball, grab bat, swing bat, miss ball. Again and again. Then once again, his tongue sticking out. Boys’ mitts on their heads crowning bursting clown faces.
“It’s like, a magic wand,” Pee Wee grinned without malice. “Like that guy on Ed Sullivan, kept those balls in the air without touching his wand, like the wand repelled `em.”
They grinned. He did too.
“What’re you smiling at, dick head?”
“Hello, Duke.” She tried her best to make it sound real.
“I’m Dick now.” He compressed jagged lips, scrunched his dark brow intently. She laid down the spatula, reached for her boy. He collapsed within himself, and she held back fearing an explosion.
“I’m don’t think you should play with those boys, Michael.”
He broke down and trudged into his room.
She bought him a cowboy hat and a cap gun, a chemistry set, a model T-Bird with a full set of paints, a model World War II battleship. The chemistry set took.
Hour on hour, alone at his desk, wearing safety goggles, filling beakers precisely, measuring out powdered chemicals in tiny spoons, making fizzes, colors, sizzles, stinks. The stink bomb freaked the dog, she ran wildly in circles. The invisible ink was runny but worked. Spy notes to his mother, placed in the dog’s collar, ferried to the kitchen. His mom played along, to her way of thinking: Brownies in ten minutes, hon. He cut her reply into dozens of little squares, dissolved them in a phosphate solution, hunkered back down to work.
His dad, in the doorway, was hip to it all. “How’s it goin’ in there, Professor?”
Professor. A jagged grin turned halfway to Dad; then back to work. A rubber band boat propelled by baking soda and vinegar traversed the bathtub and never capsized. Based on all these successes a new mission was born: the launch of a missile from the front lawn. This was, however, an insecure zone. Mission Control postponed the launch. Captain America, Batman, Mad. Tag with the dog. Itching powder upon the dog’s skin, washing her off with hose-water and tears. TV days turned to weeks, school days to school months; then John Glenn flew, and the mission was on. He marched to the front lawn launching pad on a clear-sky Saturday at cartoon time. The rocket thin and red, the launching pad filled with baking soda and vinegar for massive propulsion. The backyard test launches had all been successful. Goggles up, missile in. Three figures on Schwinns soared up the street. He turtled over the launching pad and heard but did not see Butch, Skeeter, and Pee Wee whizzing past, and didn’t see Pee Wee peeling off like a fighter pilot, wheeling towards him in a wide graceful arc up the slope of his lawn.
“Whatcha doin’, man?” A not unfriendly smile.
Without looking up, too intent for distraction: “Missile launch,” and some technical mumbles. He prepared to shake up the launching pad, then remembered his dad’s admonitions. “You gotta back up,” he told Pee Wee. Pee Wee, not wee now just a bit undersized, smiled amiably and backed up his bike. Pleased with his eminence, “The Professor” mumbled a private incantation, shook the launching pad up, and pointed it at the sky. Fizz-whoosh-whizz and up flew the missile but not very high. Foamy vinegar flowed down his fist, acrid smell pinched his nostrils.
“Ai right,” Pee Wee smiled, respecting the effort and the intent. He rose up on the pedals of his red three-speed, piston-charged into the wild blue yonder.
“Is your name Professor?” they giggled.
All girls were from space, but especially these two: pretty and tall, with inscrutable laughter, and a cryptic conversational code. Did they wish to hug him and call him their mascot, like Jill’s giggly high school friends? Or did they simply think him a jerk.
“I’m ... I dunno,” he shrugged.
They laughed even harder, teeth glinting like knives, and pinned him against the hallway wall next to a poster of Abraham Lincoln.
“You told Miss Conners you were the Professor,” chid the taller one with a smile that put him in mind of Catwoman.
“I ... she said it was a good answer,” he told his sneakers. In an unguarded moment, he’d proclaimed to the teacher, and all of the class: “They call me Professor.”
“You’re a professor,” snickered the less tall one with Barbie-blue eyes, “and you got a C on the cell worksheet?”
He withered beneath their Siamese cat gazes, took hope when he saw that Pee Wee was approaching abreast of two friends. “Hey Pee Wee!” he hailed, desperation amping his voice up to audible. A friendly word would set him free.
Pee Wee was Gordy away from the block. “Pee Wee,” one friend chortled. Pee Wee/Gordy flashed rodent teeth. “Hey there, Dick Head.” Then he punched his friend on the arm and led him on a chase down the hall.
Solace was found in brownies warm, soft, and sweet as his mother, who looked askance when he reached for a second, then softened her look when his eyes pooled with shame. “Have some milk,” she sighed. Milk was good, there was no harm in that. Homework in the kitchen each day after school. Two brownies with milk and no more than two, she drew the line there. He accepted her terms with a sly smile. His belly, face, thighs all rounded like dough. “My Pillsbury Doughboy,” she said with a grin somehow loving and mocking. She jabbed at his belly, he slapped her hand. She recoiled and he swatted the milk glass, flooding the table and soaking his pants. The next day the incident went unspoken. Two brownies with milk, and she too ate brownies as he did his homework. They dipped them in milk, compared milk moustaches, blew bubbles with straws, played follow the leader with fingers fast-walking through trails of crumbs. A little more time and she softened too.
Dad noticed. Was mute. He kept it inside, day on week upon month. “What’s with the damn brownies,” he finally burst.
“Michael’s learning to bake,” she lied upon reflex. “It’s a good thing, to bake. Cooking’s useful for boys. Like on cookouts.”
“Cookouts.” They had never had cookouts. He waved her away with the back of his hand, trudged vexed and defeated back to his den–his principal reason for buying the house.
She gazed at her son in silent communion. He scrunched his brow to mirror her gaze, and she burst out laughing. The baking lessons began the next day.
A plump kid at his high school had not many options. His tenth grade friends, two, were geeks years before geeks were cool, and they murdered each school day with corrosive jibes at themselves and each other, then scurried, relieved, to the safety of home. His home reeked of smoke, for his mom had lost weight and smoked instead, and exercised, hacking, in front of the tube, compliant with Jack LaLanne’s kindly commands.
“I’m gonna make lamb chops tonight,” he said on the landing of the sunken living room. She sat in her leotards, spread-eagled before the TV, gazing up at LaLanne in his snug workout suit, his curly hair mop and his crinkly smile with ineffable longing. “Lamb chops,” he repeated, letting his head droop. She turned to him but did not seem to see. “Lamb chops,” she repeated, as if mouthing a prayer she no longer believed. Her blue eyes sparkled beneath pooling tears, and he thought them the most beautiful eyes in the world, thought her the most beautiful thing in the world. She blinked; tears cascaded. He wished to run to her to kiss her face dry, stood rooted as if at the edge of a pond. She reached out arms like willow branches, but he would not venture into the pool.
He avoided his father whenever he could, not easy to do in a three-bedroom rancher. He craved a TV, Dad exploited the craving: “Tell you what. Bring me A’s in science and math, and it’s yours.” An A in chem but a B in geo; Dad pressed his advantage: “How’s about we finally work a little of that excess poundage off, champ? Lose ten pounds by July, and we’ll get you that tube. Fifteen maybe.”
He ate Weight Watchers with his mom for a month. They watched TV snacking on roasted salt mushrooms and whole wheat toast topped with warm cottage cheese and cinnamon. One night he folded a chocolate-covered cherry from his secret stash into her hand. She was intent on her program, didn’t notice at first, then opened her palm, flung the cherry up into the air as if it were a spider. “Don’t do that, Michael!” Three Kool Menthols finally calmed her down. Two days later the weigh-in came. He rigged the scale and got the TV.
He watched summer TV reruns and news with his proto-geek friends, one gangly, one plump. They hee-hawed at the world while feasting on treats that he prepared nightly from his birthday cookbook: stuffed mushrooms, steak tartare, deviled eggs, and, one night, for a tea party lark, white bread sandwiches with the crusts cut away, putting on British airs, erupting in hysterical cackles and shrieks that pleased his mom in the living room and irritated his dad in the den. He was slicing olives for an encore round of sandwiches when the gangly one, Ted, flounced to his side: “These are just divine, darling” in an emergent baritone, and Michael had to use the back of his hand, still clutching the knife, to wipe the tears that pooled in his eyes. His father appeared, Ted flew like a leaf back into Michael’s room. Michael looked joyfully up at his dad.
“Your friends are weird, Michael.”
No movement save a tightening of stubby fingers on the slicing knife and a rapid dissolution of his gaze into darkness. “You are.”
The plump one, Eugene, was soft in spirit and body. It was he who remained when the summer got long and Ted tired of watching the world on TV, soldiers wading through rice paddies, hippies protesting out on the streets. “Girls Girls! Girls!” Ted had gawked at comely protesters in fringed leather vests revealing flat bellies, had followed them out onto the streets with no plan. Eugene was content to cocoon. The two sat on cushions on Michael’s bedroom floor and leaned back against the bed like a pair of young rajahs. Sometimes they’d drift away and doze. “Keep the door open,” Dad advised, “it’s an oven in there.” Or lean against each other, arms melding like warm dough. “I said open,” Dad snapped before fading away for the rest of the summer.
They sent him to college to broaden himself. Dad set him up to rush his old fraternity, but he wandered the streets of Berkeley instead: incense, flyers, bookstores, bums. With two days left in Pledge Week, Dad cancelled “a big meeting,” flew up, pressed him into the rental car, drove him in silence to the frat house, and sat in the car watching him trudge up the broad stone steps all the way to the door. He became a Tri-Delt. Although forced upon them, although short and soft, he was accepted provisionally: for when they’d venture to Telegraph, conspicuous frat boys, he was quick with terse quips to fend off hippie jibes; and when they were drunk and couldn’t count change, he’d figure tips and settle bills neatly. They first called him Doc, then Beaver, then Scuzz, but none of these stuck. Then Keith, a querulous jock and a leader, dubbed him “Chuck” with a wink over beer. Although it was senseless it sounded okay, for he didn’t know that act followed name: Late at night, after the first big house party of the year, Keith and some others who had been denied drank hard and bitterly on the deck. Keith pointed his cleft chin at Chuck, and his minions pinioned his arms behind him, pulled his head back, pinched his nose and opened his mouth to a river of beer. They held his head up, the countdown began. “One small step for man” joked one when Chuck stood up with the vague idea of walking to the bathroom; Chuck doubled over as if shot and erupted, fell onto the deck barely conscious. The vile muck pooled under his cheek. One guy placed a laurel wreath on his head, and a sympathetic soul lagged behind to drape a blanket over him. Three days later Michael pulled the washer’s discharge tube from the drain pipe before fleeing the house.
He took an apartment off campus with a slender English major who peered at him wryly as if Michael were Raskolnikov–right there in the room for his amusement. Robert, the English major, was beloved of Noreen, a English major who thought him an intellectual giant, though really he was just more assertive than she. They supped on hors d’oeuvres that Michael created, clutching petits fours with long fingers raised as they supposed they would hold cigarettes at cocktail parties one day. They allowed Michael to listen to the erudite chats, and one night even allowed him to chime in beneath Robert’s indulgent Freudian gaze and the soft gaze of Noreen, whose long, slender fingers, pale as the skin of a veal calf, clutched at his heart to the point of pain, sending him to the bathroom to catch his breath. His desire for Noreen showed in his clumsy efforts not to stare at her, she intensifying his longing with gazes tender with comprehension. Robert too comprehended, called him “Robert Cohn” and “Holden” and alluded unsubtly while drinking gin to The Lord of the Flies’ Piggy and Ratso Rizzo from Midnight Cowboy; then punishing Noreen, Michael, and himself with contrived noisy sex sounds broadcast through the walls to Michael’s next door room.
He took a studio in the flatlands of Oakland and stared at matches burning down to his fingers. There was only a hot-plate, he lost fifteen pounds. Walking through Sproul Plaza, its antiwar rallies and civil rights rallies and leaflets and petitions for every cause that could be labeled “left wing,” his underdog’s heart drew him to the Young Republicans’ table where a girl with a bouffant Trisha Nixon-do stood flag-carrier straight as a pack of hissing leftists maligned her. He joined The Young Republicans on the spot and fell for the girl, who was well groomed and forthright and knew what she wanted, and looked at him with princess eyes that entreated rescue from some lonely castle. He licked envelopes beneath her direction despite the glue’s bitter taste and his well-hidden distaste for Nixon, his puppyish constancy wearing down her resistence. One day she joked that a well-known Democrat was a “secret fag.” He allowed dismay to flood his eyes, she stared at him apprehending a roach.
He disappeared within his studio bunker with matches he let burn down to his fingers, candles in the dark and matching dark music, and Chef Boyardee eaten cold from the can, two or three at a time. He studied sometimes, sometimes he wandered Telegraph silent as a monk on a vow of silence, with a cryptic grin implying he knew. One midnight he walked the cold streets of Oakland beneath the overpass as if daring muggers. He returned home excited but also disappointed not to have been beaten. His mother called often, a frightened shrinking voice. He’d search but not find the power to speak. She’d call him again and he’d watch the match burn down, resolved not to blow the flame out until she stopped ringing; she rang and rang and he burned his fingers. He wrote heartfelt jagged poetry, struggled through five poor sit-ups, cut the phone cord with a kitchen knife and poured himself into letters to his mother that he cut up and burned.
Jill drove down from Oregon and tugged him north. He begged her to drive the long way through the coast redwoods and spoke no further word, which was okay with Jill. “Never you mind,” she said with a lilt she’d acquired since high school. He stared strangely out the passenger-side window as they wound beneath paternal redwoods that enfolded them in protective shadows. She shared a house with four young women studying theater at Southern Oregon University in Ashland, home of the Oregon Shakespeare Festival. She prepped her roommates, and hey spoke softly when he came out of Jill’s room three days after arriving, calling him “Jill’s famous brother,”“M’lord,” “Master Michael” and such so as not to affright him. He sank into the soft couch and cradled his mug of hot cider, and they allowed him to be himself and to partake of them being themselves: hopeful, worried, nurturing, frank. They poked him sometimes with kind, curious eyes.
“I need a job,” he squeaked in two weeks. Jill found him a job at a preschool for university parents. The kids considered him a kid for his shortness and softness and because he spoke seldom in a voice that was soft except at story time, when he became a whiny toad, and a gruff-but-kind bear, and a know-it-all owl, and a flummoxed giraffe with such conviction that they crawled up close to stare at his lips to see if he really, truly was human. One bold girl padded onto his lap; then the rest of the curious animals clambered up too, each in turn forcing another off the cliff of his knee. The owner stared down at him with some apprehension–she’d checked his background, but what to make of this strange, shy creature who smelled of cookie dough and cried so like a baby elephant that a boy pressed a tissue to his moist eyes.
Miss Miranda Plum, a young would-be elementary school teacher, was drawn to him too, became his kitchen assistant and then his apprentice. Head down over his workspace like a boy preparing to launch a toy rocket, he taught her to make golden wafers encrusted with sugar crystals, Janey Fingers (Janey: the owner) and “Michael’s Famous Brownies” (as Miranda called them), all from scratch and wonderful, though he’d make the brownies only twice a month, for his hips still carried the remnant of his boyhood excesses. To teach her his secrets he had to speak some, but mostly he mimed his instructions, sometimes unfolding in mock comic confusion like Charlie Chaplin mistaken for a baker and pressed into emergency service baking for the king. Surrounded by kids and having no escape, he let them crown him with a white baker’s hat spangled with arts-and-crafts cookies.
On weekends Miranda took him to the woods to a womb-like shadowed glade, a secluded fern dell, a clear river gathering late summer chill. She pointed toes down and plopped into the water, he followed her in with a splayed, foot-first jump that scattered squirrels. His dam burst in hysterics of wild forest howls; her eyes widened to receive him like a vision of nature. She apple-bobbed to him, they came together like a building snowflake and whirled in the water, bobbing, spinning, clinging, squeezing. They enclosed each other, he dove into her essence, fell into her “Baby;” her baby; her own.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)