Bona Fide

Today his mother told him to never go into the basement.
“Why?” he asked.
  “Because I said so,” she replied.
  “But I’m 13 now, I understand things. Is it toxic? Haunted? You can’t just say ‘never’ without an explanation.”
Long silence.
“Ask your father.”
  “For fuck’s sake.”
  “Jackson! I told you—never again.”
  “Everything’s never now.”
His mom quietly folded the last pair of dryer warmed undies. “I will always love you.”
“Love you too. Is it because of the still?” he quipped before obliterating his chocolate chip cookie in one satisfying bite.
“Like I said.”

~

At 5am he walked into his parents bedroom and poked his dad’s fleshy deltoid with a broom handle.
“For FUCK’S sake!” his father roared.
“Pops. I want to learn how to make corn liquor. I need a job that pays, man, so I can buy a Mac and wax Promethean. I’m focused, resolute. I can clock before school, after school, weekends. I want to be your deputy. POPS! You awake?”
“Now I am. Meet me in the kitchen. Five minutes.”
Jackson ran out of the bedroom, brushed his teeth, donned the yellow hard hat and safety glasses his Uncle gave him for his birthday, snapped on some green rubber gloves and a COVID mask, and skipped down the hallway with bona fide momentum.

⌘

Do What You Love

How can we survive another day?

I recently read Uncle Tungsten: Memories of a Chemical Boyhood, which is an affectionate and detailed memoir by Oliver Sacks. And now—I must acquire a wall size periodic table of the elements so I can memorize the noble gases. The idea of reading a book and learning something new lifts me from the gravity of stagnation.

I wasn’t a doomsayer at birth, but I was born reluctant.

Everything has always been slightly fuzzy to me. I am constantly practicing the ninja warrior feigning sleep pose, which embraces the power of sublime ignorance.

Today is fresh produce. If I bought it yesterday it would be unripe. If I bought it tomorrow it would be decadent.

I love the scene in Silver Linings Playbook where the Bradley Cooper character throws the Hemingway book out of the window because he wasn't satisfied with the ending.

"The world's hard enough as it is guys. It's fucking hard enough as it is. Can't somebody say, hey let's be positive, let's have a good ending to the story." — Pat Solitano

Ok Pat, let me be that somebody. Here’s my enchanted finale.

My bedridden grandma was an avid reader. When I visited her in the convalescent home I would always bring her two things: a pint of bourbon and a mystery novel. I would sit in a chair next to her and we'd both read our books and I'd leave after she fell asleep. On a Friday when the sun was setting low, I watched granny take a nip, then turn a page. Nip, then turn. Nip. Then turn. It was a soothing visual for me, seeing her under the blanket with those rosy cheeks. At the time I was reading The Collected Poems by Sylvia Plath, which trained me to focus and read slowly. I was immersed in the poem "Channel Crossing" which read:

"On storm-struck deck, wind sirens caterwaul. With each tilt, shock and shudder, our blunt ship cleaves forward into fury. Dark as anger, waves wallop, assaulting the stubborn hull. Flayed by spray, we take the challenge up, grip the rail, squint ahead, and wonder how much longer such force can last."

When I finished the verse I noticed a peaceful silence. I lifted my eyes and looked at Grandma's gentle face. Was she? … Oh no. The mystery slid out of her hand, bounced off the comforter, and thudded against the dusty wooden floorboard. Her bookmark, freed from the deckled pages, fluttered beneath the hissing radiator, disappearing amidst the fur balls and the dust bunnies.

I stared at her glassy eyes: absent of desire or suffering.

⌘

Instead of Vengeance

Mercy! She felt better after a toke. Was it naive to be redeemed by a puff a smoke?

When he drove the beltway between Baltimore and the District of Columbia he invoked an inner mantra: Do not engage the serpent.

Her prose was a retelling of countless yesterdays. But she eventually grew tired of that approach. Nowadays she conjured voices for an infinite self. It didn’t matter if she told the truth anymore.

When he smoked weed he couldn’t read books. He could read, but he kept reading the same sentence over and over, which was annoying. So when he read, he’d sip a slow brewed dark roast instead.

She thought failure was a hoax so she removed the word from her lexicon in 1999.

He drove the distance between Maryland and Virginia countless times and he always succumbed to road rage. He couldn't shake it. He was seduced by anger and increasingly concerned. Driving was a miserable test of ego.

She appreciated an amusing page turner but she slowed down every now and again to ponder a bit of gospel.

He never liked the idea of declaring his lack of ambition. "So what do you do?" asked the barfly at the 2-for-1 happy hour in Midtown. His face wilted in reply. But if queried, "What do you obsess about?" He was fully attentive.

She used to drink red wine.

He enjoyed watching the Pittsburgh Steelers but he muted the announcers and the commercials. He didn’t talk to his family much but when he watched the games he thought about them.

She isolated herself from society yet delighted in the quotidian comforts of a liaison.

Temper is revealing, and the last time he drove to DC—he was cool as a cucumber. He practiced self reflection on a QWERTY keyboard and a yoga mat.

They are ready to write the next chapter.

⌘