Look, Up In The Air…

it’s late, and i’m in the tub outside, lookin at stars, dogs, and trying to think out this silly story.

outside. smells like my uncle’s place in georgia, where my father was born.superman. my uncle guy, after whom i am named, told me he was superman. at night, he would call me to the bathroom window.

guy was a strapping man, a soldier who was injured in an explosion in okinawa. he lost an eye and perhaps, his edge. he was tough as nails, but never married, never talked of the war, had a facial twitch dad believed came from guilt. but you’d never know it to meet him, at least to a boy named after him (i’m guy scott). he could have kept a phone booth in the house and i would have thought nothing of it.

‘watch,’ uncle guy says, whenever i visit. ‘i will fly past the window.’

i watch. too dark. so pitch…wait…what was that?…wasthathim? no, couldnthavebeen. couldit?

guy back in a few minutes.

‘did you see me?’

‘no.’

‘i flew right past.’

‘no you didnt! i was watching. do it again!’

‘you didnt see me? that’s funny. i thought for sure you’d see me this time.’

forever like that.

he died a few years ago. or many. all that blurs untilitdoesn’tmatter.

what does matter is that i see him clear as a goddamn sunrise, cape aloft, arms forward, chest barrelled, soaring past the window with a nod and a smile and a wave for a namesake in a bathroom window.

smells like that now, here with the dogs and the music and the crickets and the water and the…

wait.

what was that?

supermanlogo

Queen Kong and the force of will

i love the kong ball. it’s just the right size to drive esme insane.
see, her mouth is just BARELY BIG enough to carry the kong, if it’s dry. it’s funny. it has to be heavier than her skull, and she kind of runs with it with a cocked head, like she’s listening for worms.
anyway, i’ve discovered that, when the kong is wet, she can’t carry it. it slips out. rolls a bit. drives her nuts. she’ll start pawing at it, almost angrily. she’ll rise up on her hind legs and punch it with her front paws. stupid ball.
only because i’m a prick, i like to dunk it in the tub before we play. i’ll toss and call her name when she’s trying to pick it up. make her want it badly. ‘eeeeessssmmmmmeeeeeeee.’ ‘where’s the toy, esme?’ ‘boy, i sure wish i had a toy to throw to a dog.’
she goes berserk. sometimes she’ll begin to sprint to the jacuzzi without it. ‘to hell with that. piece of shit ball. i’ll just go up there and get scratched like i never even wanted that dumb…’
and then she will stop in her tracks, dart back to that delicious orb. ‘i can’t quit you, baby. just roll over for mama. stick that divot up in the air for me.’ and she’ll wrestle and wrestle and wrestle. she ain’t leaving.
the ironic thing is, teddy is right there to help. he’ll stand a few feet away and watch the sumo match. ‘i can pick that…ball?… up and take it anywhere you want. i could even take it to dad, cuz he sounds like he reeeeaaaally wants it. oh, and check out the turd i just left. it’s awesome!’
but every every time he gets near the kong, esme lunges, snaps him away.
finally, she gets it in her maw. trots to the tub. she’s panting hard, so it makes her look like she’s smiling. maybe she is. ‘now try hiding in the grass, sumbitch.’
she’s coming up the stars. the kong hits the third stair, rolls out of her mouth. she watches helplessly as it drops underneath the four-step platform to the jacuzzi.
she ain’t panting now, so the smile is gone. now she’s fucked. she’s gotta wedge her globular head in the wood frame, bat at the ball with her noggin (she couldn’t pick her nose with those deformed little legs, let alone reach a under a stair) and hope it rolls out.
20 minutes. i swear, six songs played on itunes before i heard a thump and saw the kong roll out.
she pounces, picks it up without any problem.
i see why. it is caked in mud, dirt, grass, shit and slobber from her brutal courtship.

 
now she’s got it, though. sisyphus at the top of the hill. she places the crap-covered kong precisely on the ledge, grinningpanting with more vigor than before, and stares at me.
‘throw it, motherfucker.’
to the sheer force of will, even in the face of stairs.