Life Rolled Up: First Communion to the Final Bus Ride
I stood in line, left hand over right. The robed man handed me the stale wafer and I ate it. I was too young for wine so I walked back to my seat. It was my first time and Mom smiled at me. Dad was still standing with the chalice in his hands. I didn’t look long, but Mom couldn’t stop, with those welled eyeballs she seemed to always be wearing.
The ten of us on stage were getting ready to receive the Presidential award. Clinton himself signed it. Mrs. Pottinger fixed my red tie. I insisted on wearing a real tie, not a clip on. Her wrinkled old face was smiling at me like I had done something really important. The seat next to Mom was empty. It was Sunday; he was off somewhere yelling at the men on the TV screen for not playing hard enough or something like that. I kept my eyes on Mrs. Pottinger so I could keep fighting for that smile on my face.
I heard him yell when they called my name at graduation. He called me a son of a bitch and I wish he hadn’t. It didn’t make any sense to say something like that at the time. My girlfriend grabbed Mom’s forearm to calm her down I’m sure. I kept looking at my shoes. My brown shoes that I shined that morning.
I met his new girlfriend at our wedding. She tried her best to seem happy. It came time for the toast and I just prayed to god that he wouldn’t say anything. But he did and I had my first drink that night.
We named our son Charles. Stacey took him to church on Sundays. I couldn’t make it ever. I didn’t like how that place made me feel plus Sundays were for football.
I saw Charles every other weekend for the next couple years, but it seems that turned into every other month, or maybe year, I can’t remember. He asked me what happened to my front teeth. I told him I fell. He asked why I was so skinny. I told him I went vegetarian.
At some point I stopped receiving a paycheck. I guess because I stopped going to work. I was a carpenter, or something else with my hands. I did good work, at least that’s how I remember it. I did some kind of work well.
I stole a tent. And a knife, from Outback. Every so often I got a new pair of shoes from some group around Christmas. I stood there on the corner, shadow-boxing the old ghosts, yelling in between punches. At some point I saw it coming, number 9 headed to San Ysidro. I took those five steps forward. I can’t remember if I thought it would hurt or not.
