My children disappoint the crap out of me. I haven’t done anything wrong.
Cliff tried to teach his children to be normal. As toddlers they crawled across the carpet, sniffing furniture, licking up bugs and lint. When the children grew to teen-size, their behavior was no different; they refused to be human. A reasonable urge, or anti-urge—the limitations of being a person among people can seem, to the unenlightened citizen, an overrated pursuit. No argument there. His daughter said she wanted to be a butterfly, a hopeful declaration; and his son pretended he was a side of beef, or was it a vampire? Something having to do with veins, arteries, and pools of blood.
Like any perplexed father challenged by parenthood, marriage, and middle-life dilemmas, Cliff was going through some changes of his own. For instance, he didn’t want to be heterosexual anymore. His petite, lemon meringue−flavored wife no longer ignited his oil spill. He wanted a foul-smelling male ogre to wreck his sorry ass, a wild boar that might rekindle long-buried passions.
Cliff’s daughter confined herself to a caterpillar existence, lying around all day on the couch drawing pictures of wings. Not ready for butterflyhood. Maybe never. Hard to say. “I’m fine, really,” she said, daily, to anyone who asked, “I love my daddy.” She was only 15, with miles of life ahead of her. My son, the boy is 17, hangs upside-down from a meat hook in his room that he has fashioned into a walk-in refrigerator, a brisk 42 degrees. He’s emotionally distant, rigid, pale, currently registered in a low-residency vampire training program in Oregon that I’m paying for in quarterly installments. His incisors are sharpened, but lopsided. The son had this to say: “Damage has been wrought. I am not whole, that is why I am a creature of the night.”
Cliff made it clear to the world that he was the patriarch of the family, Chairman of the Board. He was financially liable, responsible for the family’s every action. If either child used a weapon in a crime, the District Attorney would immediately look to the father. Cliff was to blame.
Question: What about the wife, his dessert-flavored spouse?
Answer: Like most women, she sought shelter, safety, intelligent conversation, and love, which is why she moved away to live with her mother.
Cliff’s reaction: The kids are saying the phrase, Right on, these days, so I’ll say it, too … Right on.
A bushy Eucalyptus tree, whose branches seemed to hold numerous birds and trash-diet vermin such as raccoons, opossums, and flying squirrels, spoke to him.
It was a windy day. Thick branches swayed in slow motion. The tree’s message: “A policeman will pull you over for speeding. He’ll try to rape you. Turn it into love.” Several squirrels jerked their large tails and chirped out a mechanized sound that was secret code for approval. The wise, thoughtful tree, with so much integrity, had been stationed on earth far longer than Cliff.
Fast-forward to ecstasy. Right now I’m very happy, Cliff announced, again, preferring to ride shotgun in this fiction and tell the tale himself rather than be inaccurately profiled. I just had sex with a policeman in the backseat of his squad car, and I am under the impression that Officer Milk and I will see each other again. He asked for my phone number, said he’d call. “No worries,” was how he put it (a figure of speech that induces mountains of anxiety in me, perhaps because I’m Jewish. You’d never hear Kafka say, “No worries”). Cliff fretted that he appeared grotesque and needy. He consoled himself with the thought that desperation is sometimes an appealing personality trait to the cold, waspy, all-American cop type who’d grown up on sports, violence, and meals featuring cloven-hoofed animals and lard.
And another thing: Don’t assume the gentle handling, maneuvering, rotation of a nightstick is heinous until you’ve been on the receiving end of said black oak. After Officer Milk pulled Cliff over and asked if he knew how fast he’d been driving, he requested Cliff’s driver’s license, vehicle registration card, and proof of insurance. It was early morning. A small bird sat on a fence, staring at a field of cows, trying to select which thousand-pounder was best to land on and rest atop for the day. Officer Milk asked Cliff to step out of the vehicle. Cliff noticed the cop’s rosy lips nestled behind a thicket of brown, porn-star moustache. Hello, Fuller Brush man. Talk about cleaning up the neighborhood; that broom could sweep up Calcutta.
When Officer Milk first brought the baton into their sexual conversation, Cliff thought, Let’s save the nightstick for jail and the last three minutes of my life (he didn’t actually think words). I was gripped by horror in its purest form. I was frightened and nauseous. Then I thought, Just go with the flow, Mr. Rigidity, and believe it or not it was actually a perfect fit, you know, like when all the muscles in your legs and torso are totally relaxed … I just kept looking at the happy bird on the big cow … Plus, a nightstick is what, like three and a half fingers wide? No biggy.
Cliff heard Officer Milk back there spitting in the general direction of his bum, missing badly, wads of saliva, intended to be a natural lubricant, all over his backside, a gesture which gave this encounter a very contemporary feel since it was the new macho rage to spit at the orifice. With his eyes closed, he imagined a loud hippo or a water buffalo back there playing a loud juicy game. Being a naturalist or a humanist, it’s hard to say which, and a regular consumer of pornography, Cliff was fond of guttural bile. Sometime during this 40-minute tryst, Cliff opened his eyes and noticed a large paisley-shaped leaf flutter through a backseat window. The leaf landed on the driver’s-side headrest and murmured, “It’s just another part of the human animal.” The leaf was curved like a pale green smile. He pictured football players roughhousing on grass, spitting everywhere. I am a gridiron.
Yes, the ass is a 24-hour civil disturbance. “Fight crime,” Cliff purred into the upholstery as the nightstick inched its way through him. Choking, too, when applied in small doses, has its place in lovemaking. It tells the partner in no uncertain terms that this exact moment is life or death. How come Officer Milk never choked him or cuffed him or burned him with his wonderful-smelling Dominican cigar?
This is all good to know, and useful in taking your mind off the aforementioned wayward children and separated wife.
I am a homosexual now. The transformation is complete. A member of the other church.
I spent the night in a motel and woke up disoriented but happy. I could feel it. The idea of love returning to my life, driven through me. I could feel it like a stake in my heart, or wherever, in my bottom-heart. I was actually bleeding.
Officer Milk never called like he promised.
When the children were young I had trouble sleeping. I used their beds with them in them. First one, then the other. There was a lullaby in my head. My intent was to hum, to make their sleep sound. To remind them how tight our family is.
Without warning, apropos of nothing, the children taught me things, contradicting my forecast of doom. For instance, I asked the daughter what the greatest artwork of the 20th century was and without hesitation she said the train. Her answer mesmerized me for days. My son, member of the undead, dreamer of jugular veins, sucker of human flesh, said he’d prefer being called Count. The name change suited him. He said that sunlight and garlic didn’t bother him at all. When he was an infant, I used to call him Skipper. His big round head made me think of sailors.
There are days when no matter how fast or how badly you’re driving a cop is nowhere to be found, and, if he does appear on the horizon, he isn’t especially interested in your misconduct. Cliff had been driving erratically for a solid hour, on freeways and down main boulevards, in search of a hunky cop. When he finally spotted a black-and-white cruiser coming the other way, he waited until the two vehicles were very close before he hit the brakes and spun out. The two cops, who were both sporting fiery mirrored shades, drove by slowly, shook their heads in disbelief, and laughed. They passed a large messy burrito back and forth that they appeared to be sharing, taking giant bites and saying something that only made them laugh harder.
Wow, two hotties, and they won’t pull me over?
Cliff was not their type, simple as that. Before the cops drove away, they tapped the horn twice, a little toot-toot, and the officer in the passenger seat leaned over the driver and gave Cliff a mocking demi-wave with his fingertips. Then at the last second, he tilted his head to the side and stuck out his tongue.
Fucking little flirting fucks. Think you’re so tough with your badges and uniforms. I’ll ram you with my rear end. How’s that? You can make your inbred love in a hospital.
Cliff threw his car into reverse but the engine stalled. He took a deep breath and grabbed the steering wheel like it was a life preserver. He looked up and watched the cop car disappear down the street in his rearview.
Settle down there, little lunatic. I’m not hysterical. I think we’re just trying too hard. Don’t attack the policemen and wind up with bullet holes in your face. That’s not our objective today.
Cliff, naked in the bathtub, an hour after the hot water has been turned clockwise (off), chin on chest, staring at his penis: It’s lost cartilage or tissue or whatever substantive things generate meaning, muscle, oomph. It really is just a pissing device at this point. Now I just inhabit the earth. There was a time when I used to really be here.