Bona Fide

Today his mother told him to never go into the basement.
“Why?” he asked.
  “Because I said so,” she answered.
  “But I’m 13 now, I understand things. Is it toxic? Haunted? You can’t say ‘never’ without an explanation.”
Long silence.
“Ask your father.”
  “For fuck’s sake.”
  “Jackson, please. Never utter that tripe again.”
  “Everything’s never now.”
His mom quietly folded the last pair of undies. “I will, on every relevant occasion, love you.”
“Is it because of the still?” he quipped before obliterating his chocolate chip cookie.
“Like I said.”

~

At 6 a.m. the next morning Jackson 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 wanna learn how to make corn liquor. I need a job that pays, man. I’m fixin’ to buy a Mac and wax Promethean. I’m focused, resolute. I can clock before school, after, in the dead of night, 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 room, brushed his teeth, donned the yellow hard hat and safety glasses his Uncle gifted him for his birthday, snapped on a pair of rubber green gloves and a surgical mask, then skipped down the hallway with bona fide momentum.

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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 so I can memorize the noble gases. The idea of reading a book and learning something fresh 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 Bradley Cooper throws the Hemingway book out 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." — Pat Solitano

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 whodunit. 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. 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 inspired me to be patient. 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 as the mystery slithered 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 from view.

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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 tedious. 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.

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