I haven’t seen daddy for a little while—but I’m distracted—SWAT cops are running around in all directions. When no one’s watching, I sneak behind the dumpster at El Pueblo. I wriggle into the silver lamé gown. It’s more work than I thought—the damn thing fits me tighter than a straitjacket. But whatever. The price is right. I’m looking good. Wig or no wig.
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It’ll be a wonderful Christmas—I just know it. Never mind the heat. The rats in the palm trees. Or Dalton. Or Rudy from Muscoy’s mania. None of that matters now.
Delighted with my silver lamé gown, happier than I’ve been in ages—my blood sings—I’m veering into Pioneer Park when something brushes my shoulders. I look up—cheese is raining from the skies. I lift a hand—a ten-dollar bill attaches itself to my fingertips. All at once I see Robert F. Kennedy in the park. He’s in gabardine slacks, a white dress shirt, no tie. His mussed auburn hair is movie-star perfect. Brandishing a fistful of twenties, he declares: “There is fear we will never be truly free from hunger and want, from illnesses which eat the soul, that we are nothing but fodder in history’s mouth. Yet we are nearing Jerusalem. If not this season, then the next. For the meek shall inherit the city.”
His voice fades into a Prolixin hiss. I hike the gown’s hem and shuffle to E Street. One step, two steps. The sidewalk glimmers with smashed Christmas lights, gold tinsel drips from palm trees. I’m nearing Seventh Street when a northbound bus passes by with a naked man on board. He’s banging away at a tambourine like some kind of escapee from Patton.
I blink twice. Oh, daddy. What are you doing?