In the earnest 1990s, I ran with a pack of good boys who aced AP Physics and fancied themselves feral.
The sincerest member of the stable, with the straightest laces and the thinnest wrists, owned no fewer than ten NO FEAR shirts.
Geriatric millennials remember these vividly: atop the image of some apex predator with its mouth open, were the words, red in tooth and claw: NO FEAR.
These shirts were evergreen on Sam, but they overtook his stick-insect frame in January. This was when I decreed our Banish Winter Campaign, a faintly successful annual attempt to get my best friends to wear their brightest colors each Monday.
But my three best friends, as soft-spoken spokeswolf Sam explained, were boys. And boys. Didn’t. Wear. Bright. Colors.… ...continue reading
On my way to the countryside, I pedaled through what’s known as Hollywood, a cluster of shacks at the edge of town. They listed to the side, had gaps between the sideboards and looked almost as if a stout summer breeze could flatten them. It was said some still had dirt floors.
As I approached the place closest to the street, I could see that the yard was a mess of weeds, patches of dirt and concrete yard ornaments broken beyond recognition. There was a mongrel with swollen teats and a guy sitting on a lawn chair. He had a cigarette pack rolled in the sleeve of his T-shirt and appeared to be soaking his feet in an inflatable wading pool. A young girl in a feed sack dress was playing hopscotch by a wash tub at the side of the road.… ...continue reading
“Wait for me,” Jimmy said to the taxi driver.
Jimmy eased himself from the taxi, careful to put his weight on his right leg. He swung his artificial left leg onto the sidewalk and limped up the walkway toward his parents’ front door. Despite all the therapy and gait training, at times of stress he could not walk without a limp.
His parents’ house looked the same: a square of yellow brick squatting behind a square of dandelion-infested grass. The picture window was still cracked. Duct tape still covered the crack.
Jimmy felt his heart palpitate. “Dear Lord,” he whispered. “Give me strength to tell them.”
Though he lived only a mile away from his parents, he’d rarely seen them since he’d graduated high school four years ago.… ...continue reading
It’s a classy joint. There are white cloth napkins and real glasses. It’s a sharp contrast to the obscene plastic cups of frozen liquor and paper towel grease mops that’ve defined my Bourbon Street experience the last two days. I’m taking a gentlemanly sip of my Sazerac as my appetizer arrives. Boudin balls are fried crisp, stuffed with alligator blood sausage and rice, sort of a bayou arancini.
The upscale nature of the restaurant doesn’t redeem me. I can remember everything about the dancer last night, except her name. I table an interrogation of my post-strip-club self-loathing, trying not to think about it, which only means that I do. I look at my phone and the faces of the other diners, feeling out of place here sitting under the chandeliers, but the rye is helping.… ...continue reading
The role allows him to charge into windmills
with a sly smile: was it a mistake?
He cultivates this persona
with people who don’t expect much from him,
this clumsy gentle giant with soft brown skin.
And when he messes up and smiles
they all laugh:
“Oh, Monster.”
And help him with his errors and work.
Monster cultivates this persona
with people who don’t expect much from him—
they happen to always be White—
because Monster knows they can see his size and skin
in two ways: threat or pet.
He chooses pet
because it’s something he knows
because he doesn’t know what he is with others like him but not
because he doesn’t know what he is
and the idea of being himself,
not acting a part, even as a fool,
is terrifying.… ...continue reading
After a certain point . . . when? . . .
it seems we age at different paces.
See Parkinson’s effect on Don:
scientist, revered professor,
he struggles to say hello
or even hold a fork.
Then there’s dementia—
see what it’s doing to Jan:
once a nurse in the military,
her sweet smile belies her absence.
Supporting them in countless ways,
their spouses hover, preventing a spill,
stopping a fall, pulling them halt-
ingly into our conversations.
Granted some uncertain reprieve,
the rest of us reside in a separate… ...continue reading
It was a blue-sky summer evening and I bounced on my heels and grinned. At seventy, I had finally made it to Paris. My husband and I eagerly waited in line to climb the Eiffel Tower. But the line wasn’t moving.
“I’m hungry,” I said, hoping for a view from the restaurant on the second level.
“Me too,” said Steve. “We’ll be up there just in time for sunset.”
At the ticket window, a Middle Eastern family waved their arms in the air. Nearby, a handful of Japanese tourists milled around wearing puzzled expressions. Then a man in a business suit appeared, shouting first in English, then other languages.
“The Tower is closed temporarily! You may wait at least an hour here or proceed to the exit!”… ...continue reading