Impulse
Page 11
What if the wife found out?
Phillip was one of the brave
ones who couldn’t stand
sneaking around. So he
told his wife, who promptly
ran off to tell her priest
and get a divorce, in that order.
Poor Phillip lost his wife,
his son, his friends, and his
church, all within a few
days. Luckily, the university
where he taught was in San
Francisco. At least he kept his job.
Mr. Hidalgo
Clears His Throat
Brings me back to my
essay: “The Patriot Act,
Who Cares?” I write:
I think it’s totally messed
up that cops can arrest
anyone they want, just
because they don’t like
how a person looks. But
what, exactly, is so new
about that? The only
difference I can see under
the Patriot Act is the authorities
don’t have to tell anyone
they’ve busted the guy.
They can keep him for days,
even weeks, and no one
who cares about him will
know where he’s gone.
They call that patriotism?
And wiretaps? Or investigating
what a person reads? Who,
then, gets to decide what
reading materials constitute
terrorist training guides?
When will America quit
living in the shadow
of 9/11? When will her
people decide to stop
living in daily fear?
When will they think
twice about who they
should be afraid of—
some would-be terrorist
a thousand miles away,
or some U.S. politician, hell-
bent on peeking behind
closed doors?
Vanessa
Writing Essays
Is usually easy for me.
But I’m having a hard time
with this one, for a couple
of reasons. The first is Daddy,
who’s been fighting terrorists
on their own turf ever since
9/11 went down.
Ask him, the Patriot Act
doesn’t do nearly enough
to keep America safe.
Ask him, he’d send every
“damn towelhead”
back to where they came from,
with a stop at Guantanamo
for a little debriefing.
The second is Grandma,
who is quite vocal about
patient confidentiality
and the need to keep medical
records inviolable.
I know I wouldn’t want
just anybody to be able
to take a look at mine.
Nopey no job for Vanessa.
She’s crazy, you know.
I may very well be crazy,
but the manager at McDonald’s
doesn’t need
that information to decide
if I’m safe to flip burgers.
Not like I’d freak out and off
someone because he complained
the fries were greasy.
At least, I don’t think so.
The Third Reason Is Mama
Everything always comes back
to her, doesn’t it?
Plenty of times, tripping
around town, no meds to stabilize
her schizophrenic mood shifts,
she looked like a regular
lunatic—the kind that sleeps
in the park, digging through
trash cans for dinner
and talking to pigeons
like they can talk back.
In fact, she did all those things.
Sometimes cops will look
the other way. Other times,
bad day or whatever, they decide
to roust “the wackos,”
rough them up, haul them in,
whatever their mood dictates.
Once in a while, if the wacko
takes offense and puts up
some sort of a defense,
the cop goes overboard.
More than once, Mama
came home with bruises.
But what if one of those
times, she never came
home at all, and no one
knew where she’d been
taken to? She’s got red hair,
green eyes, no ties to the Middle
East. But under the Patriot
Act, everyone is fair game.
I have no problem with
increasing security to keep
this country safe.
But how do we decide
who poses a threat?
And—bigger question—
who decides?
Mr. Hidalgo Comes Over
You haven’t written anything,
Vanessa. Having a hard time
getting started?
I could tell him everything
I’ve just been thinking,
but that would take us all
the way to lunch. “Just
organizing my thoughts.
I tend to do most of my
writing inside my head.”
He smiles. Okay. But don’t
let it get lost inside there.
I’d like a first draft today.
I glance around
the classroom. Conner
is already finished.
I can tell by the satisfied
expression on his face.
Tony is scribbling away.
Guess he knows what
he wants to say.
Others are chewing
pencils, staring off
into space. I don’t want
to look as scattered
as they do, so I start:
Once we believed ourselves
safe from attack, here on our
home turf, hallowed ground.
The events that occurred
on September 11, 2001,
altered our “pie in the sky”
view. The sad fact is, no one
is completely safe. We’re all
going to die someday. What’s
important is how we choose
to live until the day of our judgment
comes….
Conner
Six Weeks in Aspen Springs
The doctors say I’m making
progress, however they
define that. I’m mostly
over Emily, I guess,
so something inside me
has changed. I no longer
feel mad with desire for her,
deranged by my inability
to see her, talk to her. I
haven’t heard what happened
after she broke down, admitted
guilt. Not a single word,
though I’ve begged Dr. Boston
to ignore the rules, confide
details of Em’s self-imposed
destruction. Despite our rapport,
she maintains, You know I can’t
do that, Conner. It could
adversely affect your therapy.
Please don’t pursue this further.
Once I even went so far
as to reach across her desk,
rest my hand lightly on hers,
and say, “Then teach me how
not to care about someone
who was everything to me.
All I want is to know she’s
okay. Is that too much to ask?”
She flinched but didn’t move
her hand. No. But it’s more
important that we talk
; about you. Understand?
The Only Way
To find my answers, learn
anything more, is to do
what it takes to let Level
Three take me out the front door.
Even supervised outings
should give me the chance
to make a covert phone call.
Until then, I’ll play “good.”
I’ve swallowed most of my
pride, dressed down in sweats,
showered naked with creeps,
some of them way too obsessed
with checking out other guys.
It’s worse than any football
locker room, because while
jocks can be crude, perverse
even, they all have girlfriends
waiting outside. These losers
have no one but each other,
one reason I haven’t tried
to buddy up too close.
Still, I stay cordial. No
need to make enemies.
Besides, halfway going
along with the Aspen Springs
game plan has netted me
Level Two. Unimpressive.
Funny, I never regretted not
learning Ping-Pong until
now. Even Stanley can beat
me, and I haven’t a clue
how—he’s too fat to move fast,
so it must have more to do
with spin. Whatever. Losing
every game to Stanley
is beginning to wear thin.
So I’m Pushing Hard
To graduate to Level
Three. I’ve kept my nose
to the grindstone in school,
stroked my way past Dr. B.
Now I’ve just got to convince
Dr. Starr. The bulldog is
waiting for me right now,
sitting as far back from
the patient’s chair as the wall
will allow, as if “suicidal”
were contagious. Working
the bulldog takes more than skill.
It takes subtlety. “Good
afternoon, Dr. Starr. You
look lovely in that shade
of maroon.” Okay, not great.
She grimaces. Let’s get down
to business, Mr. Sykes.
When we last left off, we
were discussing your sister.
I don’t want to talk about
Cara, but we’re playing
by Dr. Starr’s rule book.
I shut my eyes, see my twin’s
face, so like my own—soft,
toffee brown hair; startling
hazel eyes; skin the color
of coffee with lots of cream.
“She’s really very beautiful.
Takes after our mother,
outside and in. Meaning
she’s a bitch.” My heart aches,
remembering.
Tony
Commotion in the Hall
Voices. Shouts. Shuffling
feet and the scratch of claws
against linoleum. Dogs
can mean only one thing—
a drug search. I stick my
head out the door, looking
for the source of all this
excitement. Uniforms,
with real guns attached.
Two German shepherds,
sniffing along the
corridor, asking to go
inside rooms which, one
by one, empty. Guys,
some half-dressed.
Girls, ditto. Which most
definitely makes an
impression on the guys.
Hey, Dahlia, calls dim-
wad Stanley. Nice pair
of tits you got there.
Hey, Stanley, she
yells back. Same to you,
but more of them!
Despite the situation,
everyone has to laugh.
Everyone, that is, except
Todd, who has just been
led out of his room,
face in his metal-cuffed
hands, by a tall deputy
and a short German
shepherd. I thought
he seemed buzzed
the last time I saw him,
but didn’t go there at all.
As Todd Is Marched Away
The search continues.
He may have shared
his contraband, after
all. Meanwhile, Paul
and Kate appear. Half
dressed or fully clothed,
we’re herded toward
the dining room, where
we’re instructed to wait
until the operation is
over. A sting, in Reno’s
premier RTC—residential
treatment center.
The press will love
this one, not that it’s
so uncommon. I’ve even
seen drugs delivered
to inmates at the juvenile
detention center—
left by a Dumpster
within semi-easy
reach behind the chain-
link fence surrounding
the exercise yard.
Paul and Kate pace
nervous circles around
the loosely grouped
Aspen Springs flakes.
Out in the hallway,
I hear the muffled
voices of the younger
kids—all under twelve—
who live in a different
wing. Most of them have
suffered abuse: physical,
sexual, or (please specify) other.
Which Takes Me Back
Home to Ma, a string
of “uncles” and their
friends. Reno, small
as it is, is home to a wide
variety of perverts.
Think how many there
must be on this poor,
sick planet! The worst
part is, since scientists
tell us perverts beget
perverts, you almost
have to feel sorry for them.
Perverts aren’t born—
they’re created. I wish
I could give every kid
the kind of childhood
I didn’t have—one filled
with toys, warmth, love.
Speaking of love,
here comes Vanessa.
Not only do I love
her, but, funny as it
sounds, I think I’m
in love with her. Crazy!
But how else can I
explain the way I break
out in a sweat when
she’s near, the way
I look for opportunities
to make that happen?
Hey, Tony, she almost
sighs. Too bad about
Todd, huh? I thought
he was over all that.
And as she talks, I
shiver at a cool hint
of sweat.
Vanessa
I Watch Tony
Listen to the voices
of the little kids, out in the hall.
A strange expression creeps
across his face. I wonder
what he’s thinking,
but my intuition whispers
it’s one of those things
he’d rather not talk about.
At least not yet.
So I make small talk
about Todd. “It’s sad how
people give their lives
to meth. I mean, if you’re
going to kill yourself,
there are faster ways
than letting something
chew up your brain
one lobe at a time.”
Tony shrugs. Do enough
crank, your heart will give
up before
your brain does.
Most people don’t
do enough to die, though.
They just do enough
to keep getting more
and more stupid.
“Like stupid enough
to smuggle meth into
a place like this?”
Exactly. What was
the guy thinking?
Now he’ll do serious
lockup, and that
ain’t pretty. Trust me.
The Funny Thing Is
I do trust Tony. But why?
A gay guy, from the wrong
side of town, who I only
met a few weeks ago?
Why do I feel like
I’ve known him forever?
Were we friends
in another lifetime?
I’ve read about reincarnation.
(Had to hide the books so
Mama wouldn’t find them—
she’d have skinned me alive!)
It doesn’t sound so unreasonable.
So I ask, “Do you believe
in reincarnation?”
Tony shivers. I’m not
sure what I believe in,
Vanessa, other than there
has to be a better reason
for living than what I’ve
seen so far.
Such an incredible waste
of energy, to work your ass
off for sixty years,
then shrivel up, die,
and be nothing more
than a memory—if you’re
lucky enough to leave someone
behind who will remember you.
There must be more.
Don’t you think?
Well, that conversation
took a sudden sharp turn.
I look him in the eye,
find total sincerity and a need
for someone to share his
universal questioning.
“Sure, Tony. I think
there’s more.