She walks—
STOP! CUT! C’MON, SON, he screams, with a frown
and a smile at the same time, turning customers’ heads
toward us. Cliché, Cliché, Cli-freakin-ché! Okay, look, this
is how you need to see her. Like she’s a living, breathing,
walking manifestation of art. Pay attention to Floyd . . .
This Is What Floyd Knows about Sam
She laughs like a whip-poor-will sings.
She smells like honeysuckle in summer.
She cries like a soft and delicate rain.
She raises one eyebrow like a rainbow perched on heaven.
She loves mint chocolate chip because it’s got that kick.
She wears her hair like freedom and it captivates you.
She walks like a wave, assured and ready to carry your
heart in hers.
Yeah, I say. That’s what I meant.
The Secret Formula
He closes his eyes again,
looks like he’s back to meditating,
then mumbles something
incomprehensible about
training wheels
and grabs my hands
like we’re both in prayer.
Okay, this is what Floyd thinks you ought to do . . .
Unlock your heart
Take this key, he says, squeezing my hand
so hard my knuckles crack.
Open the door to your destiny,
crash through it.
Enter the house.
Own it.
Own the farm
and the ranch, cowboy.
Saddle up.
Huh? I say to myself, wondering what the heck he’s
talking about.
This is your movie, Noah.
Write a new scene
in her life.
Paint her a new world.
A strong one, that holds
her hands,
brings the light,
makes the darkness cease,
and captures delight.
Do not let your lips become bricks,
your fingers an anchor,
your heart a desert.
Shout it from sea to sea.
She is a wave,
large and looming,
but Floyd will not let you drown.
Paddle for the wave.
Catch it.
Ride it.
Ride it as long as you can.
Right into daybreak.
Unpack your cool,
take the training wheels off,
ride with her love.
Cruise like fire in her sky.
You got that? he asks, opening his eyes, finally.
Yeah, I lie. ’Cause I don’t. Got that.
At all.
Guru Confusion
That was some mind-blowing counseling, was it not?
If by mind-blowing you mean absurd and perplexing,
then it sure was. And why was he speaking in third
person? That was weird.
He’s eccentric.
He’s confusing. I have a headache from all the
metaphors. And, what’s up with the training wheel
stuff?
It’s the podcast. He’s the producer of it.
He produces the Woohoo Woman thing you’ve been
talking about?
I told you he’s a guru.
This just got weirder.
You just gotta listen to it, and you’ll COME ALIVE.
I’ll send you the link later tonight. WOOHOO, he
hollers, as we cross
the street
to avoid
being on the wrong side—the block
he can’t walk on.
We turn down
a winding road
that makes the walk home
extra, extra long.
Yeah, thanks for your help, I say.
You’re very welcome.
I was being sarcastic, Walt.
So was I.
A Sign
Spray-painted
on a stop sign
near his house
is a red-white-and-blue
lone star
with one word
underneath it.
America?
The Meaning
Why the question mark, though?
Has America lived up to its ideals? There’s a debt to be
paid and it’s time to cash the check. Let
You got all that from a question mark?
I’m just saying, the flags are a sign.
Of what?
Of things falling apart.
Your brain is like a mashup of everything you’ve ever read
or seen or heard.
Hey, I’m just being real.
Somebody posted they saw someone in a white sheet
putting the flags up.
What, like the Klan?
Nah, like a ghost literally disappearing into the darkness.
My soon-to-be stepfather thinks Amazon’s behind it. Some
kind of big advertising thing they’re doing.
To sell flags?
Maybe they’re making a play for the US Army?
That’s ridiculous.
Why? I mean, they own everything. The end of the world as
we know it, and it starts with Whole Foods and drones.
Real profound, Walt.
Just real, my man. You want profound, listen to the podcast
tonight. Mind-blowing stuff, Noah. Mind-blowing.
I don’t know if I’ll have time with homework, shower,
and my stomach is cramping up from the milkshake—
Noah, love does not wait.
Come to think of it, why are you so obsessed with my
love life?
Or lack thereof.
Whatever.
Ubuntu.
Huh?
The philosophy of Ubuntu is, I am because we are. I help
my brother, I’m a better person. Simple as that.
You really think Amazon is the apocalypse?
Nah, my soon-to-be stepfather’s an idiot.
Family Meeting
When I get home,
I find Mom and Dad
sitting quietly
on the living room sofa,
eyes frozen
on me,
like they’re about to drop
some seriously bad news.
I’m not sure
if someone’s lost a job,
if someone has died,
or if they’re pissed
because I came in late
on a school night, or forgot
to do something I was
supposed to do.
All I know is
when there’s a family meeting,
it’s usually something grim,
and it begins with . . .
Sit Down, Noah
Is everything okay?
Did you forget something? my dad asks.
I put the recycling out.
Yep.
I should have told you all I was going to be out late
tonight. I’m sorry.
It’s just the considerate thing to do, Noah, my mom adds.
Today was an important day too, Mom says, while Dad
winks at me like a madman, and I wonder, did I forget
something significant?
Still is important, honey. Still is. Noah, don’t you have
something to say to your mother?
Happy Valentine’s Day, Mom, I say, and kiss her on the
cheek.
And? Dad says to me.
Uh, annddd—
Happy Birthday, Mom, Mom says, shaking her head and
laughing.
Oh yeah. I remembered, then totally forgot. I’m sorry,
Mom. Happy Birthday, I say, walking over to her,
ashamed
.
Thank you, honey!
I feel like a real butthole.
You should, Dad says, as Mom slaps him on the leg.
Noah, she says, we’re leaving for Barcelona in a few days.
Yeah, I know.
And there are some house rules you’ll need to adhere to.
I think I’m clear on all the rules, you guys. No parties on
weekdays, no more than nineteen people in the house at
a time, and no beer on an empty stomach, right?
. . . .
Look, guys, I’m good. I’ll check in with Granny every
day. Meals are labeled in the freezer. I’ll mow the lawn
on Saturday. No one is allowed in the house, and so forth
and so on.
Now that we’ve gotten that straight, Dad says, let’s talk
about the dent in my car.
What dent?
Follow us, my dad says, leading me to the garage.
Oh dang.
The Walk of Death
Mom, Dad, and I walk
to the garage
like we’re heading
to a funeral.
Mine.
Dad loves his
Volvo.
He’s had it
middle school, and
takes pride
in the fact
that it has never
had a scratch,
is always polished,
and that it sparkles brighter
than a lake
in summer.
We’re real quiet
walking to the garage.
My mind is racing
through the one time
last month
he let me drive it
to school.
Did I dent it
getting gas, or
did a rogue shopping cart
hit it
at the mall?
Go ahead, open the garage door, Dad says, shooting me a
stern look and giving me a little shove.
I’m screwed.
Twins
There’s a TV preacher
who lives
in our city
named Pastor Mike,
whose kids go
to my school.
Every now and then,
we see him cruising
around town,
always with his wife, Becky,
holding their two bassett hounds,
William and Faulkner,
who hang out the passenger window
of his shiny, candy-apple red
Ford 250 pickup truck
with 35-inch-tall tires
and a license plate
that reads
ROM 12 9.
My granddad had
the same truck—same
color, only older,
dirtier, and smaller,
with 16-inch baby tires—that
has been sitting
in the driveway
of my granny’s house.
Until today.
Two-of-a-Kind
What’s this?
It’s yours, Noah, Mom says. Don’t you love it? Granny
doesn’t drive it, so she gave it to you. We fixed it up, put
some new tires on it, and voilà, you have your own car to
drive around. It’s kind of sporty, like you.
I stand back,
catch my breath.
First of all,
it’s not sporty,
and if this jalopy
is the truck
that is supposed to look like
my kind of car,
I’m in trouble
with life.
Yeah. It’s cool. Really, really cool, I say, wishing my
acting skills were better.
How is it that it’s my birthday, and you’re getting the gift?
Mom says, kissing me on the cheek.
I have something for you too, Mom, I promise. I just
need to pick it up.
Yeah, right, Dad says, jangling the keys, then tossing
them to me. Let’s take it for a spin, give it some get up
and go.
The Jalopy
We spin
and sputter
around
our neighborhood streets.
There is no get up.
Or go.
I want to be grateful.
I want to be thankful.
But I’m embarrassed.
I hope no one drives past us
and waves.
What are you going to name it? Dad asks. Sam?
I laugh and say, Maybe, just to be agreeable.
But I would never
name it Sam.
It’s not hot
and it absolutely
has no style.
At least Pastor Mike has rims
and booming speakers
that blast
his sermons.
The upholstery
above my head
is torn and tattered.
And, beneath my feet,
the bottom might literally fall out
at any second.
I think I’ll name it Granny, I say.
Good plan. Make sure you call her tonight and thank her,
Dad says,
picking up
the sun visor
on the passenger side,
which he doesn’t think
I saw fall
into his lap.
Three-way Conversation
Guys, I got a ride.
WHOA! A NEW CAR, BRO?
A truck. New to me.
That’s awesome, Noah.
Thanks, Sam.
YO, CAN I GET A RIDE TO THE MALL?!
Walt, how about we let him enjoy the moment first.
WHO’S WALT?
What are you talking about, Walt?
TELL HER, NOAH, Walt hollers.
And, why are you screaming? Pipe down, fella.
He doesn’t go by Walt anymore.
Oh, really, Sam says, rolling her eyes through the phone.
The name’s Swing.
Swing? How’d you come up with that?
Tell her, Noah, he says again.
Nah, you tell her, Swing.
’Cause I’m hitting it out of the park next year. That’s why.
Baseball, girls, cool.
Good luck with that, uh, Swing, Sam says.
So, guys, I do need to get my mom a birthday gift. So
maybe the mall—
OKAY, I’M ON MY WAY OVER!
Nah, man, tomorrow. We just got back from Dairy
Queen. I can’t go back out tonight.
Wait, y’all went to DQ without me? You know how much I
love a dipped cone.
You don’t really hang with us like that anymore, Walt says
to her, nonchalantly.
Seriously, guys.
AM I LYING?
. . . .
We had a meeting, Sam, I say, trying to make things a
little less awkward, even though Walt’s right.
A meeting? About what?
. . . .
Helloooo! What kind of meeting?
JUST A MEETING, SAM. MEN TALK!
You’re an idiot, Walt.
Uh, guys, I gotta run, I say. My dad’s calling me.
YEAH, I GOTTA GO TOO! I SENT THE PODCAST,
NOAH.
What podcast?
. . . .
You guys are acting real strange. This isn’t finished, jokers.
LATERS, SAM.
Text me later, Noah.
Uh, okay, Sam. Walt, after Sluggerville, let’s hit the mall
tomorrow.
Don’t leave me out. I’m going too.
You sure Cruz won’t mind?
He’s my boyfriend, not my boss, Walt. Geesh, guys, why
are y’all trippin’ a
ll of a sudden?
. . . .
WE JUST WANT BETTER FOR YOU, SAM.
Boy, bye!
First Attempt
I’m gonna do it.
I’m gonna sit down
and write her a new world,
maybe a love song
or a sonnet.
I’m gonna write it
like a boss
like I’m BruNoah Mars.
Tell her exactly
how I feel,
channel the love wizard, Floyd,
and make her swoon.
I scratch the pen
against the paper,
but nothing
appears on the page,
just spirals and spirals
of spinning anxiety.
My mind’s a blank
block of cement
and my palms
a sweaty swamp
of nerves.
In desperation,
I turn to
a couple
of women.
WOOHOO WOMAN Podcast #1: Who’s at the Controls?
Do you want better? Better friends? Better jobs? Better
kids? Better Love? Better you? Better YES? And less NO
in your life? Then you’ve tuned in to the right place. I’m
Jackie, and I’m Marj, and this is The Woohoo Woman
Podcast.
JACKIE: WOOHOOO!
MARJ: We’re back for the last half hour of Woohoo Woman,
hopefully with a little less profanity in this segment.