No, mass destruction has nothing to do with God. It’s all about human lust for sex, for wealth, for power. Easier to lay culpability at the feet of some conjured being than admit such gluttony. Much easier to allow your priest or rabbi or imam to direct your inner murderer toward an agenda. Easiest of all to hide behind your cassock or thobe and order your flock to the killing fields where you can oversee the slaughter.
To blame such zealous hatred for your fellow man on an invention of the imagination is a display of cowardice. Were I to take someone out because of his religious posturing, I would assume full responsibility. Hell, I’d take ownership of the deed. . . .
My Eyes Stop There
Okay, I guess maybe that might
cause a little concern, especially
in this day and age of mass-shooting
scares. And I do own a gun. A lovely,
if totally deadly, Glock. But I only
use it for target practice, and despite
anything I wrote in that essay, or
the odd whim (they always pass by),
I’d never draw a bead on a human
target. Anyway, can’t these people
(who really should know me better)
tell I was just taking a firm stand?
“Really, you guys. I have absolutely
no plans to go off on anyone, not
even the assholes who might deserve
it.” Mom hmphs, but doesn’t comment.
Dad looks so relieved I can almost
believe he was actually worried
about me. But I know he’s just
in a hurry to get back to school
and his warm-ups. That’s good to hear.
You know I don’t care about the God
stuff. But the rest . . . He waits for me
to agree, and I do with a nod. But before
I can say anything, Mom flips out.
Well, I care about the God stuff.
Can’t you act like a man for once,
Wyatt, and tell your son to stop acting
all crazy and such? If you won’t, I will.
No one feels sorry for you, Matthew.
So quit, would you? Stop looking
for sympathy. This time a big, sharp
stick of anger spears me right in
the eye, drawing water. “I never
asked you to feel sorry for me,
nor would I expect the tiniest
particle of sympathy from you,
Mother. Let alone affection. I mean,
why look for any now? Not like
you’ve ever been generous with love.”
I Turn Away
Before she can have the satisfaction
of seeing me cry. Damn, damn, damn!
I am a pussy. I start toward my room, call
over my shoulder, “Good luck tonight, Dad.”
I think he replies, but whatever he says
gets swallowed up in Mom’s meaningless
tirade. She just goes on and on and on,
and what is she so upset about anyway?
There’s so much I wish I had the strength to say.
Like: Hey, Mom, be sure to take a Prozac
before calling your preacher to bitch about me.
Like: Hey, Mom, I miss my little brother, too.
But what he did wasn’t my fault. And neither
was your screwing Dad latex-free and getting
pregnant with moi, so why the fuck do you
keep blaming me for ruining your life?
I Kick Off My Shoes
Consider leaving them there, in the middle
of the floor, one upside down, the other
sideways. But disorder irritates my mother
and downright pisses off Dad, especially after
a couple of drinks. I’ve been raised better,
that’s what he’d say. Which explains why
my bed is made, my tidy desk is dust-free,
my clothes folded and in the proper drawers.
I put my shoes in the closet, toes against
the wall, beside three other pairs of pricey
athletic shoes and one pair of heavy boots.
When I have my own place, will I be able
to leave them askew in the middle of the room,
or will my upbringing forever deny that?
Could I ever plop down on an underwear-
and sock-strewn sofa, settle into a nap?
The thing is, all this external order can’t quite
make up for the internal turmoil that is central
to my parents’ lives, and so to mine. It’s one
reason I need Hayden, who is my daily small
dose of tranquillity. I need her more than ever
with Luke gone. I send her a text, tell her
I love her. Ask her to forgive me for being
such a hothead. I don’t expect a quick answer.
Beyond the Door
The house has fallen silent.
Dad has returned to school
and the one thing he cares
about. Mom is gone, too.
Showing property this time
of day? She didn’t bother
to say, but the static energy
tells me she isn’t here.
For some reason, I’m drawn
to Luke’s room. Everything
is the same as it always was—
pin-clean, like mine, only
painted mauve (his favorite
color) instead of slate gray.
His absence presses down,
tangible weight on my chest.
I lie on his bed, sink
into a bath of eiderdown, turn
my face toward the window,
curtained gray with drips of
rain. “How could you, Luke?”
I whisper. “How could you
leave me alone with them?”
There’s a clock on the wall
shaped like a train. It ticks
audibly, and now it tells me
it’s the top of the hour with
a low whistle. Four o’clock.
Luke did love trains. When
we were kids, we’d often ride
our bikes along the tracks,
talking about where we’d go
once we got big enough.
We rode bikes everywhere,
especially in the summer
when the treetops nodded
at the urging of tepid breezes.
I close my eyes and find one
of our favorite spots on Mosby
Creek, in the shade of an old
covered bridge. We’d jump
into a still, cool pocket of river,
always wearing old sneakers
because of the goobers who
thought it was funny to trash
beer bottles against the rocks.
Then out we’d climb, teeth
chattering and goose bumps
raising into regular little hills.
And we’d laugh and laugh.
But Always
After the laughter came deep conversation,
at least as deep as it got for preadolescent
boys, meaning sometimes suprisingly so.
One Sunday we had escaped the house after
a visit from our Creswell grandparents. Dad
had gotten into it with them, hot and heavy,
over not making us go to church. He’d told
them in no uncertain terms that he would not
be coerced into indoctrinating his kids with
mythology designed to steal their pitiable
allowance pennies. I remember those words
specifically because I determined to ask him
for a raise in the near future. The only people
in the world Mom won’t confront are her parents,
and that was the case that day. The argument
was well ou
t of hand when Luke and I exchanged
a “let’s get the hey out of here” look and sneaked
out the back door. We pedaled hard, just in case
someone had noticed, and when we finally skidded
to a stop in our usual place, were completely winded
and dripping sweat. “Let’s dive!” I said, and we did.
That Day
After the laughter subsided, we lay,
side by side, on a soft stretch of sand,
caring not at all that our backs
would be plastered with it.
Do you think there’s such a thing
as God? Luke was probably eight,
which would have made me eleven.
“Nope. Why? Do you?”
I don’t know, he admitted. But lots
of the kids at school do. They get
mad when I say I don’t think so.
“People get mad over all kinds
of stupid things, Lukester. Don’t
pay any attention to them. They
don’t know one way or another.”
Yeah, but sometimes I wonder.
Dad says creation all comes down
to science, but he’s a science teacher,
so what else would he say? When I
think on it, I’m not so sure how it
can all be completely random.
Luke always was a little too smart
for his own good. “How what can
be completely random, dude?”
You know. Everything. The universe.
This planet. Life on this planet. How
did it begin? What made it evolve?
Why are people the smartest animals?
“Who says they are?” I tried to joke,
but he seemed totally perplexed.
I thought it over for a few.
“Know what I think? It all
comes down to aliens.”
I was, at the time,
into reading
Isaac Asimov
and Ray Bradbury.
Aliens? Luke read a lot,
but sci-fi for eight-year-old
readers tends to lack
sophistication. You think
God is an alien?
My First Reaction
Was a giant cough of laughter.
But then he looked so hurt, I figured
why not just make up a bunch of crap.
God was fiction, aliens, too. Why
couldn’t they be fiction together?
“What if aliens from the planet
Alphatrypton scanned the universe
for the perfect place to settle down
and create a new generation
of Alphatryptonites? And what if
their gigantic telescopes homed in on
the Blue Planet, which had excellent
water and decent weather, at least
compared to the encroaching ice
age on Alphatrypton?” His eyes lit up,
and he started nodding his head, and
then he added to the tale. Yeah. And
what if they were magic? And when
they got here, they mated with monkeys
and then that made human beings?
Aliens Mated with Monkeys?
He had a better imagination than I, that
was for sure. But what the hell? I went
right along with it. “So maybe we’re not
earthlings at all. Maybe we’re ten
thousandth generation Alphatryptonites.
And maybe we have magic powers,
too, only our genes have forgotten them.”
He was quiet for a few. Then he said,
But you know what, though? What if
aliens came from more than one planet?
And some of those guys sucked. Like, they
were mean and stupid. And when they mated
with monkeys, the people who came from
them ended up being mean and stupid, too.
“That would explain a lot. Like, Mina
Boxer’s probably a ten thousandth generation
mean and stupid alien.” Mina’s our neighbor.
She wasn’t Luke’s worst bully, but she was
his first, almost like she recognized things
before the rest of us did. “But here’s the thing.
You and me? We’re Alphatryptonites. And we
have to try really hard to find our magic. Deal?”
Luke Agreed
But he didn’t stick around
long enough to find his.
A train wails a mournful
dirge. Train? I twitch awake.
The clock on Luke’s wall
whistles again. Six o’clock.
It’s dark in the room, only
the small night-light on
by the door to remind me
of the way out. Of this room.
Of sleep-induced memory.
Sorrow bleeds into the joy
of reliving that day. And, as
always, anger taints it all.
I flip on the light switch
so I can see to straighten
the covers on Luke’s bed.
“Wouldn’t want you to come
back for a visit and think
I’ve lost respect for you,
little man.” Great. Talking
to ghosts now. Out loud, even.
As I reach for his pillow, I can’t
help but notice an evil waft
of stink emitted by my armpits.
Kind of disgusting. Guess I’d
better take a shower after all.
Stench-Free
Hair combed and clothes hanging
mostly straight, I check my phone
for messages, find what I’m hoping
for: DON’T WORRY. YOUR HEAD’S
PRETTY FROSTY MOST OF THE TIME.
LOVE YOU. SEE YOU TOMORROW.
It’s almost eight by the time I leave.
I’ll catch a burger before I pick up
Marshall. When I open the front door,
Canopied by the porch awning, Mom leans
against the side of the house, drink in one
hand, cigarette in the other, watching
the drizzle. Dad hates when she smokes,
which is why she does it outside. Don’t
think he cares much about the gin, in
or out. Mom glances sideways at me.
Where you goin’? Not her first drink,
or maybe she did, in fact, use it to
chase a Xanax. “Gonna grab a bite,
then see if I can track Hayden down.”
She Takes a Deep Drag
Exhales slowly. Yellow smoke
clouds the damp evening air.
You’re being careful, right?
I grin. “Caution is my middle name.”
But, wait. “What do you mean, careful?”
She can’t be talking the condom talk.
You know. With that girl. When you . . .
“Now, hold on. Hayden and I aren’t
doing that. Go—” Her eyes go wide
and I drop the d, modify, “Gosh,
Mom, why would you think so?”
Don’t lie to me, Matthew. All boys
your age are doing that. It’s nature.
“Not lying to you. I love Hayden
with all my heart. But, nature or no,
condoms or no, we are not having sex.”
The furrows between her eyes tell
me she doesn’t believe it. Before
this conversation can devolve, I’m out
of here. “You should go in. It’s cold.”
Those Six Words
Slide out of my mouth,
soft as meringue. I think
we both choke on them
a little. I keep my eyes
straight
ahead, even after
Mom calls, You smell good.
But Matthew, please be careful.
Okay, we’ll call that a draw.
I can’t believe she’s so
positive I’m boinking
Hayden. Of course Mom
doesn’t know my girl
very well. In fact, she
doesn’t know her at all.
I avoid mixing downers
(like Mom) with uppers
(like Hayden). What’s
the point of dropping
low right before working
yourself up? I suppose
that’s what I do, dating
Hayden. Work myself up.
One thing abstinence
education doesn’t teach you
is how hard it is to maintain
an intimate relationship
that doesn’t include actual sex.
Frustrating, that’s what it is.
But I love Hayden so much
I have no choice but to respect
the boundaries she puts in place.
Problem is, the lines she draws
aren’t always real straight.
Gut complaining, I head on
over to Carl’s Jr. No lunch,
so what the hell? I order
the Memphis BBQ Six Dollar
Burger, with Pulled Pork (two
p words in one) and onion
strings, add guacamole for
vegetable matter. Plus fried
zucchini. I’m in the mood for z.
Eight Thousand
Greasy calories later, I’m ready to party.
I pull up in front of Marshall’s and he sprints
to the truck, jumps up inside, bounces on
the seat. “Chill, dude. What’s with you?”
Nothing! One word and it’s obvious he’s lit.
I borrowed a couple of my sister’s diet pills.
Lainie’s coming tonight and I wanna
be sure I can, you know . . . no problem.
“Lainie Brogan? First of all, in what
possible universe would Lainie want to
‘you know’ a little squeak like you? And
second, do you have regular dick problems?”
I’m keeping both eyes fixed on the road,
but I’m pretty sure he just clenched his fists.
Bet he’s about to pop a brain vein! My dick’s
A-OK, thanks. Adipex just keeps it up longer.