by Chris Baron
I was mad at myself.
I took it out on you.
I walk over,
sit down next to him,
pull out two fresh sheets
of graph paper,
and slowly I start
filling in squares
until he starts to do it too.
Bigfoot Versus Yeti
Later that night,
on my sleeping mat,
I stare at the darkened shapes
in the old wooden room,
and it hits me, the why of it.
A clear thought like starlight,
the kind that only comes
after something tough happens.
I click on the flashlight,
dig around for a marker,
pull an old picture off the wall,
and start to sketch.
I draw a bad picture of Bigfoot:
brown fur, giant feet,
long arms and longer teeth.
Pick, wake up and look at this picture.
He makes a noise, and I go again.
Bigfoot or yeti, Pick? Look.
And it’s like this for a while,
me holding up my Bigfoot picture,
asking him to decide if it’s
Bigfoot or a yeti.
Pick whispers, in a sleepy
yawn, That’s Bigfoot?
I laugh. What if I tell you
it’s a yeti?
What? Pick says.
It’s a yeti, I say.
It’s Bigfoot, he says.
Look at the brown fur.
Everyone knows yetis have white fur.
It’s a yeti, I say. A yeti. Yeti.
Yeti. Maybe it’s a southern yeti.
Maybe it’s the summer. Yeti all the way.
How can you know? You don’t.
Fine! he yells, defeated. Yeti.
NO! I shout.
It’s Bigfoot!
He looks confused,
sleepy in the dull light.
Do you get it? I say.
Everyone thinks the yeti
and Bigfoot are the same,
but they are completely
different creatures!
If you call something a name enough times,
maybe you just accept it.
Everyone knows that the yeti
is found in Arctic climates, the Himalayas.
He’s the Abominable Snowman.
Bigfoot is a Sasquatch, native to North America!
Everyone knows that they are different creatures,
but they just make them the same
because they don’t even TRY
to look at who they REALLY are.
Fine, he grumbles, fine. Can I sleep now?
and drops down to his pillow.
I let people call me names
because that’s what
they’ve always done.
I let them make me into who I am.
Some of the biggest lies I ever told
were the ones I told myself.
I’m too fat
I’m not good enough
They will never like me
I don’t have to accept that everyone
else says that Bigfoot is a yeti,
when I know the truth.
Each animal is its own self.
There’s a possibility of a different
truth. Maybe I can be someone different
when I wake up.
Not Bigfoot or a yeti.
Maybe it isn’t even that I want to only lose weight.
Maybe I want to find the real me.
Pick
We drop Pick off at the Dolan house,
say hello and good-bye
to his parents.
He gives me
his manila folder,
his graph paper,
an envelope full
of drawings.
Take these, he says.
Work on Alcatraz Base while I’m gone.
It’s the starting point for the players.
Make it solid.
I promise I will.
Later, Pick! I tell him.
Have fun flying
a million hours
to Australia.
Watch out for the bunyips!
People always leave.
At the bottom of the stairs,
one of the slats on the railing
is slightly broken, so it snaps
if you touch it as you walk by.
This time
down the stairs,
I break
the whole piece
right off.
She Doesn’t See It
I don’t see it, you know?
At the breakfast table,
I’m eating eggs and cheese.
Lisa is eating toast.
She tries to eat what I eat,
but she tells me that sometimes
a body just wants some toast.
In my silence,
she gives me more words,
quiet little gifts
that hit the right places.
No, I’m serious, I don’t get it, she says,
the whole fat thing.
I mean, I understand
how you might feel bad
when other kids are idiots,
but why do you let it bother you?
She pauses.
I look down at my eggs.
So what if there’s more of you?
I love all her words.
They have so much power.
She is listening,
paying attention,
like a friend should.
She doesn’t cancel how I feel,
dismiss it
or wrap it up
in a different way.
She lets my pain be real to her too,
but she also makes
me feel strong, like what others
say doesn’t matter at all.
Lisa spreads gobs of butter on her toast,
lifts the knife, and smiles.
No carbs, right?
We laugh.
I stare at the toast
for a long, long time.
I imagine the crunch
of bread in my teeth.
How can someone
never have bread again?
This can’t go on forever.
Long, Good Days
Days stretch,
yawning dogs
with straightening backs.
We swim under the sun.
We don’t care who we are.
Today is every day
and tomorrow.
If I could stop time here,
I would pull the cold
handle of the moon
to my face,
order it to
shift its weight
and make
everything
a steady ocean.
Baby Huey
We walk back from the beach,
the sunset behind us.
Lisa and I are laughing.
Jorge hums,
carries his boogie board
on top of his head.
Ahead of us at the crosswalk
of the last parking lot,
beneath a tall redwood,
two older boys are drinking
out of coffee mugs.
Bare-chested, shirts
tied around their waists,
they laugh loudly
when they see us.
They stare at Lisa,
her shoulders back, blond hair
falling over her blue bikini.
Beautiful.
She has told me over and over
that it doesn’t matter.
Silly boys, she always says. Just all silly boys.
I hope they don’t say anything,
but the air is too heavy
for silence,
and the words
creep out
between
of the cars driving by.
What’s up, Baby Huey?
They are looking at Lisa,
but they are talking
to me.
Way to go, Baby Huey. They nod, laugh,
and the blond one comes behind me.
I try to ignore him,
but he’s too close.
When I turn,
he is imitating
my side-to-side walk.
Why don’t you guys leave us alone!
Lisa says without even looking.
Baby Huey’s got a girrrrrlfriend.
How can it be
that just a few seconds ago
everything was perfect?
Jorge asks them to stop.
They call him a beanpole.
When we get to a stop sign,
the cars are climbing away from Stinson,
a long line east on Shoreline Highway.
What did it look like
to the family in the white Suburban
or to that older couple
in the red convertible?
We’re just
grains of sand,
stepped on
or wiped off,
washed away.
I tell myself the familiar
things:
Ride it out. Ignore them.
Let the voices fade.
They’re not going to hurt you.
But I remember the bike path,
feel the bruises all over my body.
The boys keep walking
next to us until finally
Lisa stomps her feet.
Her voice is shrill.
You are so unoriginal. Just go away!
They step back.
The dark-haired boy
looks down,
puts his face in his shirt,
takes a long breath,
then looks at his friend.
Come on, man.
He waves his shirt
toward the road
in a gesture of retreat
or surrender.
He looks at Lisa,
whispers something.
Cars idle in the dusk.
The tide is coming in.
C’mon, leave the kids alone,
the dark-haired one says.
The blond one laughs.
Later, Baby Huey.
Later, a-holes! Lisa shouts.
Jorge hoists the boogie board
back to the top of his head.
I walk as straight as I can.
Later, on the sleeping mats,
I slam my face into my pillow.
I keep seeing it all in my head.
Not just today. All the days.
I try to put everything into the pillow,
crying, laughing, like I’m going crazy.
Lisa walks over to me and kneels down,
puts her hand on my back.
Don’t listen to them.
Don’t listen.
Robots
In the morning,
I’m still thinking
about the walk back
from the beach.
I decide to work on the game
to get my mind off things.
I take out graph paper
from our game-creation supplies.
I squint my eyes
at the paper,
tiny boxes edged together,
turn them invisible,
sketch robots
to scale.
First I draw a car:
four boxes long,
two boxes high.
A truck:
six boxes long
three boxes high.
And then the guardian robot,
five boxes,
its muscular metal leg
the fortified steel frame,
the housing for the pilot,
the cockpit in the helmet,
all rise twenty boxes high.
One metallic arm
reaches out
nine boxes toward the square sun (four boxes).
In the distance,
the guardian robots
watch over the bridge,
steel plates
against their
nuclear hearts.
cO-lec-tOrs
The next day, back at the beach,
the water is perfect,
and we don’t see those boys again.
Sun-beaten and saltwater-bleached,
we return to the nursery before the sun sets.
A man in a silver shirt
shines near a woman in light blue.
They wear sunglasses inside,
lean on the counter,
turning pages
of print portfolios,
talking low.
Lisa turns to me. Who are they?
I nod and whisper,
with a long o sound,
cO-lec-tOrs.
Lisa nods, smiles a little.
Well, she says, pursing her lips.
I seeee.
My mother
glides in
holding a pink bottle,
champagne and glasses.
She talks as she pours.
The foam bubbles up and over,
and she wipes the counter
in one stylish movement.
She believes that champagne
is the drink of a queen,
sophisticated, transformative.
We sit in the courtyard near Melinda,
watch the feral beach cats walk
the top of the fence.
The collectors ask questions.
The Artist answers,
disjointed and familiar phrases,
names of sculptures:
The Ice Priest is a reincarnation of the Mother Spirit.
The Lotus Keeper is the guardian of the sacred flower.
There is an opening in the head of the creature
for the life force to come and go as it pleases.
More champagne.
She clears her throat, signals us
to get salami and crackers.
In the back, we pull Ritz from boxes
and arrange them in a semicircle
on a floral platter.
We build a cheese tower,
place salami in a red sea around it.
I fold cheese squares and salami into my mouth
with my left hand. With my right,
I hold a cracker to my nose.
I can feel the golden flakiness and crunch
on my tongue.
The woman smiles.
We are interested in the entire collection.
My mother shakes her head in disbelief.
This is what she’s been waiting for.
They talk for a long time.
Later,
the Artist walks them to the gate.
She smiles, closes it behind them.
The sun is down now.
Did they buy it? I ask.
No, Ari, they did not. She sighs.
But they might? She puts her
hands on my head.
I’m taller than her now,
but I still fit in her hands.
It’s not that simple, Ari.
She breathes in and exhales words with no air.
Your father should be here.
He does the business. Closes the deals.
Her body moves past me.
I try to think of excuses for him,
but there aren’t any.
Headlights of cars
filter through the gate.
I watch the soulless
face of the Lotus Keeper.
His eyes are closed,
his cracked terra-cotta hands
domed over
his perfect clay flower.
She’s right.
He should
be here.
Two Champagne Bottles
Half-full,
<
br /> pink and bubbling,
cheese tower, salami,
rising under the moon,
the Artist asleep in the back room.
The gate to the outside world is locked.
Lisa takes my hand.
Champagne, on average,
holds between three and twenty grams of carbohydrates.
But I am not thinking about The Diet Book.
I am thinking about Lisa,
still in her navy-blue bikini, white
button-down shirt over her shoulders.
We are sprites in the dark kitchen.
I hold a glass near my nose,
watch bubbles squeeze, pop,
and explode into my nostrils.
I stare at the pinkish liquid.
Lisa stands on the other side of the counter.
Cheers, she says,
holds her glass toward me in the air.
She is giving me something that is just for us.
She smiles. Her lips form around the edge.
Drinks are not new for her.
Once, the doctors told Lisa she should never drink,
that she might get sick like her mother.
I drink.
It burns.
I cough.
The bubbles jam my throat.
I hold it down until it turns
into pops of laughter,
our hands over our mouths,
champagne on the counter,
on the floor. I feel my fingertips,
like they are separate from my body.
We try to stay quiet, pour glass after glass.
Lisa can drink it so fast. I take one sip at a time.
We laugh until we knock the salami and cheese
to the floor. We scramble to the far side
of the counter. Did we wake her?
I hold my breath, but trying not to laugh
makes it harder. We huddle close,
her hands on my shoulders,
now my knees,
her blond hair
in my hair now,
and she looks me in my eyes.
The fire, the champagne, the fear makes me numb
until I feel her grip, close above my knee,
and I squirm, tickled into uselessness,
but she doesn’t stop.
Her hands are on my body.
I feel her fingers climb beneath my shirt,
reach over my love handles, onto my stomach.
No one has ever touched my stomach.
For a moment, I feel shame like cold water,
and I turn on my side. She doesn’t stop,
