My escape is successful.
Once again
Mick greets me with an
uncomplicated Hey.
Once again
he points the Avalanche
away from town, heads
into the countryside.
Once again
he leaves it to me to roll
and light a fatty. Has it only
been a few days since I last
indulged this not-so-bad habit?
Once again
we engage in easy sex,
hardly a word exchanged
between us. We are so not
about conversation, and only
body-to-body communication.
Once again
we clean up the obvious,
straighten our clothing, pop
a few breath mints, and start
back toward school. Only
this time, Mick’s erratic driving
draws unwanted attention.
He Announces the Problem
With a most eloquent
Holy fucking shit.
It is then I notice the flashing
red and blue lights coming
up fast behind us. Holy
fucking shit is right.
Down go the windows,
nothing obvious about that,
but the damn truck smells like
a den of promiscuous skunks.
Mick doesn’t have a choice
except to pull over.
This could go a number of ways,
from a simple ticket to a trip
to county lockup. I hope
it’s Option Number One.
But as the cop—
a burly deputy sheriff—
strides purposefully closer,
my heart slides down into my gut.
Poor Mick is white.
Do something!
Do Something?
Is he talking to me?
“Like what, exactly?”
I dunno. Tell him
you’ll give him head?
Hmm. Nah. “Just shut
up and don’t panic.”
Believe it or not, he shuts
up. As the cop reaches
the window, he sniffs.
Uh, license and registration.
Mick digs for his wallet,
reaches too quickly toward
the glove box. The cop’s hand
dives in the direction of
his holster. Easy now,
he urges. Open it slowly.
What? Is he thinking gun?
“No problem, Officer,” I say.
He looks across Mick, to
me. Instant recognition.
Hey. Aren’t you Kay
Gardella’s daughter?
Damn news conference!
What can I say? “Mm-hmm.”
This, Too, Could Go
A number of ways, depending
on how the guy feels about Mom.
Maybe even how he feels about Daddy.
Both of my parents carry plenty
of baggage—both good and not so—
with local law enforcement.
See, before Mom ran for Congress,
she was a county supervisor.
Not everyone was always happy
about the decisions the board
made, especially when they
involved money. Still, she has always
been a fan of law enforcement.
As for Daddy, his decisions aren’t
always favorable toward the arresting
officer, although Mom is right. He’s
a reasonable judge who does the best
he can within the structure of the law.
So, depending on too many variables
to have a clue, the outcome of this
particular encounter is unpredictable.
And beyond all that, it just may come
down to how much of a tight-ass
this particular cop happens to be.
Unfortunately
It’s so tight it squeaks
when he walks. He takes
Mick’s information back
to his patrol car. We watch
in the rearview mirror as
he radios in. This is not
looking particularly good.
Back he comes, hand
and what’s attached to it.
He stands back from
the door. Please exit
the vehicle.
Okay, really, really not
good. We exit the vehicle
and Mr. Policeman gestures
for us to move to the front
of the truck. I am an idiot!
Holy shit. My dad is so
going to be pissed!
I noticed a definite odor
of marijuana in your vehicle.
Have you been smoking
pot this afternoon?
Can’t see how lying is going
to help at this point, but I’m
not real keen about admitting
it either. I shake my head
just about the time Mick
is dumb enough to say, Yeah.
Which seems to amuse Deputy
Dawg. I should probably haul
your ass in just for being so
stupid, Mr. Moron….
That’s Morona, with an a, replies
the moron(a) in question.
The cop pretends to look
at Mick’s license. Oh yes, I see
it now. Well, Mr. Morona, you
wait right there for a minute.
Ms. Gardella, would you
please come with me?
Not Sure Where
This is headed, but I trail
the deputy to his car, out
of earshot of Mick.
The cop gives me a hard
glare, then softens. What
exactly do you think
you’re doing? This is
too stupid for words,
you know that, right?
I nod and finally glance at
the name pinned to his chest.
Deputy Carson. Familiar.
Okay, here’s what I’m
going to do. You go
get whatever is stashed
in that pickup. I’m going
to write Mr. Morona
a ticket, sixty in a forty-five…
Holy crap. He’s going
to let us walk. My eyes
must betray my disbelief.
I’d probably do things
differently, but Kay
deserves to win that seat.
Won’t happen if the press
gets hold of the news that
her daughter is a stoner.
Kay? Sounds terribly
informal. Exactly how
well does he know her?
The man is good at reading
body language. Yes, I know
her. We met eight years ago.
I was a highway patrolman
then. First on the scene
at a certain accident….
I stare hard at his face,
try to erase several years,
and sure enough, it swims
into view, just as it did
in the backseat of Daddy’s
wiped-out Mercedes.
I Rejoin Mick
As Deputy Carson writes
the ticket. When I break
the news about his pricey
ounce, he actually gets mad.
What? No way! That cost
three bills. Add the fine
for speeding, I’m out more
than five hundred dollars.
“Shut the hell up, would you?
At least you’re not going to jail….”
And I’m not going to juvie, and
my parents won’t be involved.
As the deputy hands Mick
Moron his ticket, I’m feeling
all warm and fuzzy, until
his final admonition.
I know the last eight years
cannot have been easy.
But hanging out with losers
won’t make your life better.
I’ve come to believe that people
who survive accidents like that one
are either just plain evil, or saved
for a reason. Which are you?
Most of the Time
I don’t feel evil. But saved
for a reason? Like what?
I guess I’m pretty good
at sex, but I don’t think
because the world needs
more (even better) sex.
Maybe Deputy Carson
is completely full of it.
Was I saved,
or was fate simply too
damn busy killing other
people that day to catch
up to me, too?
I don’t
let myself return to that
backseat very often. It’s
the place every waking
nightmare began. I
know
(think, anyway) that had
that day gone any other way,
nothing would be as it is
now. Right? Right? I guess
I really don’t know.
Kaeleigh
PE Today
Could have been ugly.
My leg is swollen, the cut
raw and inflamed. Jean germs?
I was saved,
believe it or not, by a bomb
threat. They evacuated
the whole school. Turned
out it was just a prank.
Was I saved
or was it only a fabulous
coincidence, one that kept me
fully clothed (hippie style) but
shivering in the pale afternoon?
I don’t
think rescue is a big focus of fate,
or whatever (whoever?) may
or may not orchestrate history’s
page turns. I’d like to
know
that I have the ability to
mold my own future, that if
I work really hard, I can turn
it all around. But truth is,
I really don’t know.
Maybe Life Is Random
No fate. No God. Just time.
The concept of God escapes
me. Some all-powerful being,
who rules sometimes gently,
and often not so, all in the name
of love? Who dreamed that up?
I see people who really believe
in God, in hope, in charity.
Mostly, they look pretty happy
and, on the surface, satisfied.
Christian. Like Christ. So why
are so many Christians unlike him?
We don’t go to church, but in
my search for personal answers,
I have explored the Bible some.
(Weird, I know, but when you get
no answers at all, you reach.)
The Old Testament is scary,
filled with misery. That God
was pretty creepy, all in all.
But Christ’s testament asks
for patience, harmony. Not war,
nor ostracism. Not hate crimes, lies,
or offering plates filled to the brim.
I wonder if there’s really a place
in heaven for hypocrites
who preach love, all the while
kicking the downtrodden.
Still, I might have bought into
the essence of Christ, except,
according to the scriptures, he
also asked for understanding
and forgiveness, even of our
enemies. And if he really expected
that, I could not pass muster.
Some people I’ll never forgive.
It Was Greta
Who first turned me on to the Bible.
Whenever my life takes a wrong
turn, I look there for direction.
I went there often, she said, when
I was no more than your age and
the Nazis overran my country.
The Bible, she said, offered comfort.
But it couldn’t save the Jews who
were marked for execution. It took
people to do that, and my people,
Lutherans, were not afraid to
interfere. Every life is precious.
The Bible, she said, gave no solutions.
But it did let us know God
helps those who help themselves.
In our Danish eyes, Lutherans,
Jews, and all in between were no
more nor less than Danes.
Comforted, validated, they went to work.
Once we got word the Germans
were definitely coming for our
Jewish brothers and sisters,
we smuggled them to safe houses
along the eastern coastline.
And, to make the original “fisher of people” proud,
Mostly at night, but sometimes
day, we put them on fishing boats
and took them safely to Sweden.
We lost four hundred, but saved
thousands from the camps.
They lost more than their Jewish friends.
At first the Nazis took little
except food, but with the Resistance,
they confiscated property, possessions.
The freedom fighters they caught
went to the camps. Or disappeared.
Some were even martyred on the spot.
Many of us were just children.
I saw a friend gunned down in
the street. But we were doing
the Lord’s work, and we reaped
his mercy from that time forward.
She Believes That Too
Must be nice to have that kind
of unshakable belief
in a merciful higher power.
I believe in a higher power,
but you can’t call
it merciful. No, not at all.
It’s the power of my father, all
will and rules and law,
and governed himself by
Deadly Sins, chief among them
avarice and lust.
The only two that don’t apply
are sloth and gluttony. That last
one I lay claim to, and
before I go to work, I plan on
giving into it wholeheartedly.
Gluttony interrupted
leads to Gluttony, with a capital G.
No Time for a Major Lovefest
I’ll have to make do with
a sugar OD, leave the five
food groups for next time.
Look at me, already plotting
a next time. What’s up?
Stupid question, Kaeleigh.
What isn’t up? You can’t
maintain a relationship
with the only guy in
the world worth loving.
Your father’s a freak,
your mother is invisible,
your friends don’t get
you at all, and you for
real like it that way.
School used to be an escape.
Now it’s just another place
with too much pressure,
too much confrontation,
and so not enough joy.
Your entire life is joyless.
Go ahead. Eat. Pig out, in fact.
Food is real, too much
of it the only thing you feel.
(Except the razor.) So feel.
Still Feeling It
As I pedal my bike up the hill
toward the Luthera
n home.
Several days until the time
change, it shouldn’t be too dark
when I leave. But I’m going to
have to figure out a better way
to and from this place once night
falls when it’s still afternoon.
I despise the short days of winter.
Don’t even like the holidays,
and why would I? The only good
thing about them is the omnipresent
food. But all that phony good cheer?
Spare me. Or jump me straight
from Halloween to Easter.
I definitely do candy, so I’m great
with those noncelebrations.
Halloween is actually stupid,
unless you’re under twelve.
I know some adults like to dress
up (or down) in costumes,
drink too much, and ogle
one another. I remember Mom
and Daddy doing that when
Raeanne and I were little.
But I totally think everyone
past middle school really ought
to give it a break. Except maybe
witches and vampires. I don’t
believe in werewolves. But moon
worship, bonfires, and—oh yeah,
especially—a little bloodletting
seem like reasonable things to me.
I doubt anyone here at the old
folks’ home would want to play
those games. But they are having
a Halloween party. William, dressed
up like a pirate? Greta, maybe
a French maid? Ha! Too funny.