—ROLLIN’ AROUND THE BASEMENT FLOOR

 

Himalayas

 

And then, one morning, Gordie’s dad fed us beer after beer, foamy Schlitz Malt Liquor, each can shiny, blue-gray and nearly patriotic, and when we were on our eighth, Gordie’s dad sauntered back into the trailer with a hammer and took the living room apart,  like plucking chickens, using the claw end, wood-panelling, splinters and chunks all flying thunderstruck, easy and violent, like hope trapped in a jug of clear that hadn’t been drunk yet, Gordie’s dad speaking tongues out of the blue, Jesus being the only word I recognized through the babble, Gordie turning all this over in his salty-lizard eyes, his body still as eternity, as if this had happened a million times before, until Gordie’s mom came in with a sack of groceries, reaching in for deliverance, hurling can after can of beans or beef stew at Gordie, nailing him on the forehead finally, like hitting a Carny prize for a full-on knockout and stuffed bear.

“You boys best get the fuck out of here,” she said, ghost-faced, while Gordie stayed down and out and Gordie’s dad clawed a new wall, searching for the Himalayas. 

“Go ahead and fuck each other,” Gordie’s mom told us, letting the grocery bag split and crash over her feet.

“See if I care, she said, as if she didn’t, though I knew she did.

“Just get the fuck out,” Gordie’s mom said, looking at me, only me, eyeball-to-eyeball, since ours were all there, and ever would be. “Get out now, Faggot,” she said, and meant it, I think, even now.