wow nurfed ui

Fix
by
Justin Atkinson
A creative project submitted to
Sonoma State University
in partial fulfillment of the requirements
for the degree of
MASTER OF ARTS
m
English
Sherril Jaffe, Chair
July 11, 2014
Date
Copyright 2014
By Justin Atkinson
11
Authorization for Reproduction of Project
I grant permission for the print or digital reproduction of this project in its
entirety, without further authorization from me, on the condition that the person or
agency requesting reproduction absorb the cost and provide proper acknowledgment of
authorship.
Signature:
11l
f
Fix
Project by
Justin Atkinson
ABSTRACT
A young man's journey separates him from his childhood home, where his family,
his job, and his girlfriend have pushed him to a breaking point. He travels to locations
that reconnect him with his past, and he attempts to reclaim a version of himself that is an
active member of a meaningful community. To his dismay, the communities where he
once belonged have shifted in his absence, and he comes to realize that his attempt at
reconciliation is flawed not because those communities are somehow fundamentally
different, but because he is looking for something different.
Chfilr:
Signature
MA Program: English
Sonoma State University
Date:
iv
~ JI )"1-" I 'f
Table of Contents
Chapter
Page
I. Critical Introduction
Vl
II. Fix
Chapter 1
1
Chapter 2
24
Chapter 3
67
v
Critical Introduction
Every writer probably thinks that his or her work defies categorization. No one
likes to be put in a box and give credence to the academics or the critics or the bookstore
clerks. I can't say that I thought much about genre while writing this novel. I'm not even
certain this is a novel. But I did consider the opinions of two men throughout this entire
process: James Agee and Tupac Shakur. The fact that one is a musician and the other
made his living as a movie critic does not help clarify which genre this work might be
considered. However, the voices they create, the characters they construct, the ways they
employ the word "I," certainly did shape my work. I did not attempt to recreate or
appease either of these men when I constructed my narrator. First off, they are both dead,
but more importantly they were both wrong, at least in my estimation. Each had very
different stated goals, which I will describe shortly, and both of them claimed to live
those goals in their real lives. But, like me, they were using their work as a way to search
for something that was missing: a father. There is nothing original about this experience.
Every man must come to some reckoning with his father, or the lack there of, in order to
move past adolescence. But we (I group myself with Agee and Shakur not because I
consider myself their equal, but because I think we share this singular experience) try to
use our personas to make ourselves into something more than we are, the way a father is
supposed to make his son into a man. And, as far I can tell, each of us, in this own way,
has failed.
When I was a kid, I wanted to be a poet; then I discovered rap. For some reason, I
thought there was a difference. Poets, I imagined as sensitive introspective types,
Vl
completely self-involved, and they never seemed to become famous until they were dead.
Rappers were hard, masculine (even the female ones), and real, or at least they said they
were real over and over again. It took a long time, but eventually I began to see the
discrepancy between their lives and their rhymes. With that in the back of my mind, I
began writing fiction.
I read a lot as a kid, and I always kept a journal, but I didn't attempt fiction until I
started reading writers' biographies. Palahniuk, Baldwin and Nietzsche became real life
characters to me, who turned out to be just as fascinating as the characters they created. I
remember imagining what they were thinking when they wrote this line, what insecurities
this scene revealed, what dreams that character fulfilled. My favorite authors always built
these narrators that were so strong, even in their weaknesses. But none of them wrote
memoirs, per say. Their work was very personal and often came directly from incidents
in their own lives, but none of it was burdened by too many facts. When I finally started
to write, I fashioned my work after my idols, with strong personal narrators, a
commitment to my real life experiences, and an obvious exploration of my personality.
I've always begrudged poets because they are allowed to have personas. My
favorite poems start with "I." The "I" always seemed to speak directly to me, and I
assumed that even if the "I" is some small, dark part of the poet; it must live somewhere
near her center. Otherwise, she would name it, and not allow it so much power. I started
writing this novel in the first person because I thought I wanted Mason to be intimate,
like a persona. I originally set him in a seedy, dangerous locale (New Orleans) because I
thought that would make him powerful. I gave him an addiction (heroin) because I
thought he might overcome it, pull himself out of the muck, and prove everyone wrong.
Vll
But the truth is that I don't know anything about that person, and I had made the mistake
of writing what I don't know before.
I used to think that writing was about changing things, sparking the revolution,
drawing plans for the new world we would inhabit after the decadence of our time had
lain itself to waste. "Preachy" was one of the nice comments that I received over and over
again. The truth is that writing has always been a way for me to explore what I wished I
would have done, a way to catch and rewind the moments that slipped through my hands,
a way to fill those ringing pregnant silences in my memory. For a long time, regret held
me in place, and in some strange way the narrator of this novel has helped loosen that
gnp.
My narrator does not accept laments. His judgment, and he is most certainly a
male, more specifically a disapproving father, is stifling at first. I realize that Mason isn't
exactly a likable protagonist, and in the early chapters, it isn't easy to wade through the
narrator's tone, what with the constant criticism, the subtle belittling, and the overt lack
of respect. But what I hope to achieve by the end is an authentic assessment, a wellearned respect, a handshake, man-to-man between Mason and the narrator.
In order to get there, I couldn't start with a kind, understanding persona, which is
why I couldn't write in the first person. It was too familiar, too soon. My third person
narrator doesn't want to draw attention to himself. He wants to stand on the sidelines,
arms crossed, coldly surveying the field while his son sputters and falls over himself,
again and again. There could be no warm hug at the end of the game, with a pat on the
back and a, "Well at least you did the best you could." That is not to say that the narrator
wants Mason to fail. No, he will be there no matter what, waiting patiently for Mason to
Vlll
pick himself up.
Without knowing it, I've been interviewing for the role of narrator most of my
life. First I considered rappers because they prefaced everything with sayings like, "Keep
it real Son!" or "On the really real!" or "I'm the realist mother fucker alive!" And then
they would proceed to tell a completely unrealistic story about how many people they
killed, or how many drugs they sold, or how many women they slept with. As a kid I
believed them, especially the ballads. Yes rappers do write ballads. In the early 90s, the
average gangster rapper could get away with a maximum of two ballads per tape. One
was usually about his mother, who is always a savior battling the odds to buy Christmas
presents, and the other was about the fallen homies, who always choose to die standing
up, never on their knees. According to Tupac "A real nigga will pick his time to go,"
which confused me as a kid because if I were a "real nigga" I would live as long as
possible considering all the bitches and liquor that purportedly abounded in the thug
lifestyle ("Me Against").
Like so many of my suburban, private school buddies, I was attracted to the fast
life, the girls, the cars, the romantic deaths, but where the average white kid wanted
money and prestige (something their fathers could respect), I wanted power (something
my part-time father also longed for).
Tupac was my favorite because he also had a part-time father, admittedly more
interesting and decidedly more part-time than mine. Billy Garland was a former Black
Panther, a convicted felon, and as far as Tupac knew he was dead. Tupac learned that his
mother had lied to him, when after being shot five time he awakened to see "A nigga that
looked just like me" standing over his hospital bed. This experience couldn't have been
IX
further away from my life, but for some reason Tupac's personas always seemed to invite
me into their world (Powell).
That's not to say that Dr. Dre, Snoop Dogg, Jay-Z, Puff Daddy and the like didn't
invite white kids to participate in their lifestyle. In fact they still use their rapper personas
to hock all the accoutrement, from baggy jeans to rolling papers, that a white kid would
need to play rapper for a day. But Tupac promised something very different, something
more permanent: a revolution.
His mother was a Black Panther who was a political prisoner for most of her
pregnancy (Lazin). In 1995 (my Freshman year of high school) he wrote the
quintessential mother ballad, "Dear Mama" ("Me Against"). I remember playing it for
my mother on Mother's Day. I can't imagine what my 100% Irish Catholic mother
thought when she heard, "And even as a crack fiend Mama, You always was a black
queen, Mama." But to me that was the epitome of realness. He was simultaneously
sensitive and scathing, awash with contradictions: a thug from the Baltimore School of
Performing Arts, a convicted rapist who called himself a feminist, a drug dealer who
wanted to uplift the community (Lazin). His second album was called "Strictly 4 my
N.I.G.G.A.Z." (an intentional misspelling of nigger and an acronym that stands for Never
Ignorant Getting Goals Accomplished) ("Strictly 4"). The title, an obvious affront to
white fans and rap's growing commercialization, should have given me pause. But I was
looking for the rugged and raw realness that I couldn't find in my single mother
household, and I relished all of the controversy that resulted.
The album's contradictions were glaring, but that only drew me further in because
it added depth and complexity to Tupac's persona. Two tracks from that album "I Get
x
Around" (a celebration of the player lifestyle where bitches and hoes are worn like
jewelry) and "Keep Ya Head Up" (an anthem for every downtrodden single mother) were
on heavy rotation at the same time ("Strictly 4"). I connected with these clearly desperate
personas because I found similar contradictions in my own life: a white kid who loved
rap, a poor kid who went to private school, a football player who wrote poetry.
In fact, this novel probably would have become a rap album if Tupac hadn't let
me down. For all his complexity and sensitivity he was at the core a rebel, which is why
America, especially suburban white kids, loved him. He started out rebelling against the
stereotype of the young black male by being articulate, politically minded, and interested
in more than just status. In a song he wrote at the age of 19 entitled "Words of Wisdom"
he puts America on trial and reads the verdict "AMERIKA, AMERIKA, AMERIKKKA,
I charge you with the crime of rape, murder, and assault for suppressing and punishing
my people. I charge you with robbery for robbing me of my history. I charge you with
false imprisonment for keeping me trapped in the projects. And the jury finds you guilty
on all accounts" ("2Pacalypse Now"). Admittedly this is not the most poetic verse, in fact
Tupac speaks this portion, which creates the feel of a Black Panther Rally. Not
coincidentally, a Black Panther Rally was one of the first venues where he ever
performed live (Levin). The song was part of his first album "2pacalipse Now," which is
his rawest album, but I mean that in all the best senses of the word ("2Pacalypse Now").
Still a teenager when this album was produced, he is experimenting with many personas:
a suicidal criminal, a convict's brother, a guilty single father, the hard working friend of a
drug dealer, a teenage mother/prostitute ("2Pacalypse Now"). None of his story lines are
one dimensional, and he often raps each verse in a different character's voice. Some of
XI
these alter egos are distinguished by altering the recording, usually to make Tupac' s
voice sound older, hardened, and wise. In the future I would like to use this technique on
an audio book version of my book. Listening to the voices creates a different experience
for the audience, an intimate conversation, one that Tupac mastered as his career
progressed.
On his next album he begins to create an older, alter ego that has made an
indelible mark on my work. The track is called "Papa'z Song" and it begins with an aged
voice saying "Daddy's Home" ("Strictly 4"). An argument ensues with a teenage
persona, who is expectantly angry, "You've been gone a mighty long motherfuckin time
for you to be comin home talkin that "daddy's home" shit nigga" ("Strictly 4"). There is a
great deal of anger from the teenager, but there is also a vulnerability that creates an
unexpected foil and adds depth and maturity to an otherwise cold and one-dimensional
character. "Had to play catch by myself, what a sorry sight, A pitiful plight, so I pray for
a starry night, Please send me a pops before puberty, the things I wouldn't do to see a
piece of family unity" ("Strictly 4"). The teenager ends his verse by telling the father off
again, "So don't even start with that "wanna be your father" shit ... Now that that I finally
found you, stay the Fuck away from me" ("Strictly 4"). The next verse starts with a
literary reference, "Man Child in the Promised Land couldn't afford many heroes"
("Strictly 4"). Man Child in the Promised Land by Claude Brown is a seminal work of
the Civil Rights movement that catalogues Brown's childhood growing up in Harlem
during the 1940's and 50's, a work that reflected Tupac's connection to the movement for
which his mother, his stepfather and so many others sacrificed their freedom (Lazin). As
the verse deepens, the teenage voice becomes protective of his mother, ''Ask about my
XU
moms like you loved her from the start. Left her in the dark, she fell apart from a broken
heart" ("Strictly 4").
But the real genius of the song is that Tupac doesn't end by simply writing the
absentee father off. The final verse is the father.'s, gravelly voice giving his side of the
story. "I wanted to make some dough so you would grow to be so strong, It took a little
longer than I thought, I slipped, got caught, and sent to jail by the courts, Now I'm doin
time and I wish you'd understand, all I ever wanted was for you to be a man" ("Strictly
4"). Like all of Tupac's early work, there is a pervasive moral code. Personas commit
horrific acts, but they always acknowledge their guilt. The listener gets to see the chaos
surrounding these impossible choices, and by the end of "Papa'z Song" we hear an
unexpected reconciliation in the chorus. From the start the chorus is a male singer
repeating "I'm so sorry for all this time ... " over and over again ("Strictly 4"). But as the
song fades out we hear the teenage voice start to sing along with the chorus, as if he
listened to the father's story and now feels some kind of remorse, or at least a connection
to the old man ("Strictly 4"). It is the only time we hear the teenage voice say anything
that isn't dripping with vitriol, and as the music fades the teenage voice remains, off the
beat, an acapella whisper, I'm so sorry, I'm so-I'm sorry ("Strictly 4").
Like most of the personas on those early Tupac albums, neither the father nor the
son escapes unscathed. Everyone is judged by the same code. The absentee male father is
so hard to depict because the son has to acknowledge his connection, has to claim a man
he doesn't really know, as a part of himself. In many ways, that is what I was trying to
accomplish with Mason's relationship to the narrator. There is no room for forgiveness,
only acceptance.
xm
In middle school, when I bought this tape with my allowance, 1 wasn't looking for
a narrator. However, unbeknownst to me, I was already searching for a male role model
that I could respect, someone worth the effort, someone who would accept nothing less
than my best. And it took writing this book for me to understand the meaning of "Papa'z
Song" that sons must forgive their fathers, allow some human faults, if they ever hope to
make a real family. For a long time, I tried to shove Tupac into that fatherly role. I tried
to forgive him his faults and connect, but in the end I was roundly disappointed.
He was always talking about revolution, about following in his mother's footsteps. He
wasn't particularly politically active, but he did give social activism one solid attempt. In
1992, Tupac and his stepfather Mutulu Shakur (a former Black Panther, a leader in the
Black Liberation Army, and a convicted bank robber) gathered members of the Crips and
Bloods to write and sign the Code of THUG LIFE, which was a list of commandments
designed to bring about an ethical lifestyle for gang members and street hustlers (Lazin).
A litany of arrests followed, some were overturned, some resulted in short sentences, but
in 1995 Tupac served almost a year in a federal prison for being present during the sexual
assault of a nineteen year-old girl (Lazin). The rape was committed by two other people
that Tupac allowed in his hotel room, but said he didn't know personally. According to
him, he was asleep during the assault, but the victim did have sex with Tupac the night
before (Lazin). This incident was one of many criminal charges that seemed to surround
every rapper in the 90s. Conspiracy theories abounded about a special FBI task force
designed to break up the Gangster Rap Community the way they did the Black Power
Movement of the 70s, but like the Thug Life Code, that theory gained little traction
outside of a small, closed community of rabid fans (Lazin).
XIV
In jail, Tupac became increasingly paranoid that he was being targeted by the
police, other rappers, and the more misfortune he experienced the more reactionary and
defensive his music became. During that stretch of jail time, he didn't write anything, but
he did sign with a new record label, Death Row Records, one that really lived the
gangster life style they promoted in their lyrics (Lazin). This alliance would have
titillated my middle school imagination, and I'm certain the debauchery he shared with
label mates Dr. Dre and Snoop Dogg was exceptional. But, by that point, I was in high
school, and I was moving in a different direction.
My prep school teachers assigned readings that planted hardy seeds of doubt,
which were sprouting up in all kinds of unexpected areas of my life. As I consumed
Kafka, Camus, Conrad, and Joyce, I began to question all of my allegiances, first to the
Church (where I spent the first eight years of my formal education), then to the urban
culture that seemed increasingly distant. I had a few friends that recorded rap songs, but
my attempts at free styling were dismal, and every time I sat down to write a rhyme it
turned into a confessional poem. My "I" was so much smaller, so much weaker than
Tupac's. Even his personas, the ones that once felt like close friends, began to look
unrealistic, fictional, or at least very far away.
Even now I mourn the loss in this sentimental way, like a man flipping back
through the comic books he once adored, but it was Tupac himself who put the final nails
in my gangster fantasy. Directly after he was released from jail he went to work on his
fourth album, "All Eyez on Me," a twenty seven track double CD ("All Eyez"). I can still
remember unwrapping the plastic. It was a consolatory gift to myself after being rejected
by a freshman girl. I was a sophomore and seriously doubting whether I was going to
xv
make it through another year of prep school. My scholarship was contingent upon a Baverage. My grades and my confidence were starting to slip. So I slid the first disc into
my Discman hoping for another gripping ride through the mean streets of South Central,
but there was no way to escape into the cliches and recycled beats that pervaded both
discs. When he tried to sound deep, it sounded more like a whinnying child, "Only God
can judge me now ... All you other motherfuckers get out my business" ("All Eyez").
Even the cover art was boring and minimal. What kind of gangster wears
suspenders? His fingers were twisted in a salute to the West Coast that was
commandeered by a burgeoning urban media and used to sell a fictitious war between
East and West (Lazin). It seemed impossible to "sell out" in a culture that glorified
money and violence, but Tupac managed to do just that. The worst part was that he
seemed to be completely ignorant to the situation, or at best unable to slow the
momentum. When I decided that my hero had become a victim, he fell harder and further
than my real father ever could have.
To be fair, those albums coincided with my introduction to intellectual inquiry,
which in my estimation is much better at tearing things down than building them up. This
ushered in a decade or more of philosophical flailing. I became fascinated by Kant,
Sartre, Dostoyevsky, and especially Nietzsche. The way he debunked the Catholic
Church was really masterful. As an undergraduate, there was little I cherished more than
the opportunity to call priests "impotent" in class. For that period of time I was happy to
look down upon people with intact belief systems as simpletons. A sense of superiority
kept me a float, but eventually I would have to come to terms with the longing for
structure and substance that has shaped my entire life, not to mention all of my writing.
XVI
I was not abandoned by my father like Tupac, nor was I raised solely by my
mother. I was the only child of a single mother. I visited my father's family sometimes,
and anytime my mom needed a babysitter, I was bounced around between my mother's
numerous brothers and sisters. This gave me an outsider's view into many different
homes. They were my family, and they were kind, affectionate people, but I was never
one of their own. I existed somewhere between guest and ward, and I didn't find the
words to describe that experience until I read James Agee's contribution to Let Us Now
Praise Famous Men.
This work consistently defies categorization. It begins with a photo essay of Great
Depression era tenant farmers by Walker Evans, accompanied by four hundred pages of
Agee's soaring, erudite prose. The impetus for the book was as ridiculous as it was
insensitive. In the summer of 1936 Agee and Evans, both well educated New Yorkers,
spent eight weeks on assignment with sharecroppers in Alabama, for Fortune magazine.
The article that Agee turned in was upwards of a hundred pages, and Fortune didn't even
consider publishing it (Doty 45). The most egregious part was that Agee and Evans paid
almost nothing to the farmers, who fed and housed them for the vast majority of the time
(Leviatin 110). They did take a short excursion to stay in a hotel when the living
conditions became too uncomfortable (Doty 41 ).
Throughout Famous Men Agee writes ludicrous things like, "I could not wish of
any one of them that they should have the 'advantages' I have had: a Harvard education
is by no means an unqualified advantage" (268). As I read lines like this I would writhe
with indignation. How could a man of learning be so ignorant, so devoid of gratitude?
Then I would read another passage where he seems desperately indebted and gracious.
xvn
Agee wrecks his car into a ditch (a luxury that almost none of the farmers possess)
because he is driving heedlessly on a stormy night. He walks to the nearest house and
bangs on the door in the middle of the night. The man who answers the door offers a
place to stay and dinner without any question. Agee exalts the quiet selflessness of this
act. " ... people plain enough take a much more profoundly courteous care of one another
and of themselves without much if any surprise and no flurry of fussiness and a kind of
respect which does not much ask questions" (350). On first read it seemed to me that
Agee's exaltation of this, and every family he meets, is a result of necessity, a gratitude
born from a long absence from luxury, the same way a runner is gracious when offered a
cup of water.
But as the scene continues this sense of respect and gratitude becomes something
more intimate. The husband rouses his wife, she cooks, and Agee forces down a meal that
would have fed their entire family. As he eats, they all sit around the kitchen table and
talk. Their conversation wakens something in Agee .
... the feeling increased itself upon me that at the end of wandering and
seeking, so long it had begun before I was born, I had apprehended and
now sat at rest in my own home between two who were my brother and
sister, yet less that than something else; these, the wife my age exactly,
the husband four years older, seemed not other than my own parents, in
whose patience I was so different so diverged, so strange as I was; and
all that surrounded me, that silently strove in thought my senses and
stretched me full, was familiar and dear to me as nothing else on earth,
and as if well known in a deep past and long years lost; so that I could
wish that all my chance life was in truth the betrayal, the curable
delusion, that it seemed, and that this was my right home, right earth,
right blood, to which I would never have true right (352).
I would never claim a right to someone else's home, but I have felt a comfort and a
warmth in the home of others that was lacking in my own home. Like Agee, I have been
"wandering and seeking" that feeling as long as I can remember.
xvm
It seems strange that he would find a sense of belonging in an environment so
alien to him, but that is very much how it felt for me at the home of a crack dealer, a
sentiment that worked its way into the Christmas scene of my book. As much as I
connect with Agee, I am equally wary of his sweeping and grandiose voice. Nevertheless,
there is something profoundly honest in it.
I wish that Famous Men was for sharecroppers and downtrodden, disadvantaged
people in all walks of life, but it was not. It was for people like me, people who feel
ashamed of our privilege. When the children are roused from their beds and forced to
sleep on a wooden pallet, so that Agee can take their bed, he writes, "there are courtesies
you accept, though you are ashamed to" (356). The thing that shocks me is that he
doesn't attempt to help them at all. His shame moves him, profoundly, but not to action.
It is as though he has already struggled with and solved my biggest conundrum: I
thought, like Tupac, that I might be strong enough to actually change something. I chose
a very different route and worked for a variety of not-for-profit agencies, where I made a
small amount of money and an even smaller amount of difference in the lives of the
people that I served. In large part that "sacrifice" if one can call it such, a more accurate
term in my case would be "penance," is the nominal subject of my work.
The first chapter of Famous Men feels like Agee had already seen through me and
my attempts to allay my guilt through service .
... this is a book about 'sharecroppers,' and is written for all those who
have a soft place in their hearts for the laughter and tears inherent in
poverty viewed at a distance, and especially for those who can afford
the retail price; in the hope that the reader will be edified, and may feel
kindly disposed toward any well-thought-out liberal efforts to rectify
the unpleasant situation down South, and will somewhat better and
more guiltily appreciate the next good meal he eats; and in the hope,
too, that he will recommend this little book to really sympathetic
friends, in order that our publishers may at least cover their investment
and that (just the merest perhaps) some kindly thought may be turned
XIX
our way, and a little of your money fall to poor little us (29).
This book was written for people like me, to help us see the hubris of our good intentions.
But reading it now, I still don't believe him. Agee admits that he fell in love with the
tenant farmers, whose homes he inhabited, whose families he desperately tried to join.
. . .that these I will write of are human being, living in this world,
innocent of such twisting as these which are taking place over their
heads; and that they were dwelt among, investigated, spied on, revered,
and loved, by other quite monstrously alien human beings, in the
employment of still others still more alien; and that they are now being
looked into by still others, who have picked up their living as casually
as if it were a book, and who were actuated toward this reading by
various possible reflexes of sympathy, curiosity, idleness, et cetera, and
almost certainly in a lack of consciousness, and concise, remotely
appropriate to the enormity of that they are doing. Ifl could do it, I'd
do no writing at all here. It would be photographs; the rest would be
fragments of cloth, bits of cotton, lumps of earth, records of speech,
pieces of wood and iron, phials of odors, plates of food and of
excrement. Book sellers would consider it quite a novelty; critics would
murmur, yes, but is it art; and I could trust a majority of you to use it as
you would a parlor game (27-8).
And like a good son he is protective of them, even when he is the one who is violating
their sanctity. His only recourse against his guilt is his asinine attempt to capture them
whole, depict them accurately, and put them in the same light as famous men worthy of
the highest praise, bringing his title to fruition. But he can't, not with words or bits of
cotton, or photographs. Would it not be more valuable to bang your fists against a stone
wall, rant against the injustice that pervades capitalism, or make a call to arms even if no
one picks up the receiver?
Agee does none of that. Fifty years later," ... journalist Dale Maharidge and
photographer Michael Williamson retraced the steps of Agee and Evans" (Leviatin 110).
The seething resentment they uncovered was beyond acerbic. "Clair Bell Ricketts said:
'We tried to sue when some stories came out. The judge said we're historical figures and
have no right to sue. I don't have no rights, because I'm famous. If I'm famous, why ain't I
xx
rich? We never got anything out of it. They never gave us any money, never sent us
anything"' (Leviatin 110-11 ). I am not pretending that two urbanites with the best
education and the most virtuous of intentions could have raised even the three families
they visited out of poverty, but the fact that they did nothing, not even a symbolic
gesture, makes me question Agee. How genuine were his sentiments? How valuable is
his work? What kind of a man was he?
I have to admit that his confidence in the midst of absurdity is alluring. Even at
the outset he knows there is something disingenuous about the whole venture, but like my
protagonist, Mason, he soldiers on, attempting to patch together some semblance of a
purpose by explaining precisely what he is not trying to do.
Ultimately, it is intended that this record and analysis be exhaustive,
with no detail, however trivial it may seem, left untouched, no
relevancy avoided, which lies within the power of remembrance to
maintain, of the intelligence to perceive, and of the spirit to persist in.
Of this ultimate intention the present volume is merely portent and
fragment, experiment, dissonant prologue. Since it is intended, among
other things, as a swindle, an insult, and a corrective, the reader will be
wise to bear the nominal subject [tenant families], and his expectation
of its proper treatment, steadily in mind. For that is the subject with
which the authors are dealing, throughout. If complications arise, this is
because they are trying to dealt with it not as journalists, sociologists,
politicians, entertainers, humanitarians, priests, or artists, but seriously
(8).
Trading substance for intensity is something Mason fully understands. Much of Mason's
folly, his misguided attempts at authenticity, are borrowed from Agee's voice. My
narrator would read this passage and slowly shake his head, saddened by all the wasted
effort, and he would chuckle, in spite of himself, at the preface. "The text was written
with reading aloud in mind. That cannot be recommended; but it is suggested that the
reader attend with this ear to what he takes off the page: for variations of tone, pace,
shape, and dynamics are here particularly unavailable to the eye alone, and with their
XXl
loss, a good deal of meaning escapes. It was intended also that the text be read
continuously, as music is listened to or a film watched, with brief pauses only where they
are self-evident" (9). Four hundred pages, read out loud and continuously. It takes a
heaping of ego to suggest, recommended or not, such an undertaking, one that would
make any practical father blush. But we have to remember that Agee was without such
guidance.
At the age often Agee's father died in a car accident. According to Mark Doty's
biography entitled Tell me who I am: James Agee's search for seljhood, Agee searched
for an acceptable male role model most of his life. He did not get along with his
stepfather, which was not a big issue considering that he attended boarding schools most
of his life. His grandfather was certainly influential, but by no means fatherly, "As he
grew older, Agee delighted in his grandfather's blasphemy and agnosticism" (Doty 2).
Shortly after his father's death, the Agee family moved to rural Tennessee where James
enrolled at Saint Andrew's boarding school. "The student body was composed largely of
poor mountain boys, fifteen to twenty percent of whom were orphans" (Doty 5). There he
met Reverend Flye, a lifelong mentor and confidant, who invited James, then known as
Rufus, into his home and provided a sense of stability that was clearly lacking in the
Agee household. "Significantly, while a student at Saint Andrew's, [James] Rufus Agee
was free to visit the Flyes at any time, but was only allowed to see his mother once a
week" (Doty 7). This distance created a sense of vacancy that led to an ambiguous role
for James in his mother's home. "His inability to become the head of the family was
likely demeaning to his masculinity, and in a corresponding way, as an adult 'Agee
frequently experienced this same fear of failing the women he loved"' (Doty 10). This
xxn
doubt is more than apparent throughout his work, especially Famous Men, but, as many
of us do, he balances that insecurity with arrogance.
The collision between Mason's righteous indignation and the insecurity that
drives him away from Pittsburgh is a direct reflection of Agee's inner conflict. Just as
Mason would never demean his vocation (a job he loses because the agency is caught
stuffing ballot boxes) by consciously questioning the selflessness of his motives. Like
Agee, his insistence and the time he spends defending the virtue of his mission belies his
doubts. Hopefully it is clear that my narrator sees through Mason, but it is never clear that
Agee appropriately examines his intentions. The preface of Famous Men, as firm and
beautiful as the prose is, makes me wonder if he isn't questioning himself. "Above all
else: in God's name don't think of it [Famous Men] as Art. Every fury on earth had been
absorbed in time, as art, or as religion, or as authority in one form or another. The
deadliest blow the enemy of the human soul can strike is to do fury honor. Swift, Blake,
Beethoven, Christ, Joyce, Kafka, name me a one who has not been thus castrated.
Official acceptance is the one unmistakable symptom that salvation is beaten again, and
is the one surest sign of fatal misunderstanding, and is the kiss of Judas" (29). The
persistence of Agee's preface makes me wonder ifhe wouldn't benefit from a modest,
cautious father figure. Maybe if he was raised to accept his limitations, he could have
found a sense of satisfaction on those tenant farms. But according to John Updike that
never happened, '"The truth is that we would not think of Agee as a failure ifhe did not
insist on it himself" (Doty 29). Then again, if his appetites were easily satiated we may
not have his work, which is an adroit cautionary tale to every charity worker who
endeavors to reach down and pull their less fortunate brethren from the muck.
xxm
Maybe every do-gooder like Mason and every white suburban Tupac fan should
read that preface. Maybe then we could have accomplished the revolution that Thug Life
and the Black Panthers and the Civil Rights Movement promised. In reality, I don't
believe that we need charming words or charismatic leaders or a revolution (at least not
in this country). I think we need a variety of father figures, strong, secure, disapproving
men to tell us when we are wrong and who will accept us only after we have proven that
we can persevere.
That is not to say that this generation's fathers are solely to blame for the
misguided wandering of their sons. I also blame us, the meandering sons, for fretting over
what our fathers did or did not give us. What we need is more than one man can give. We
need a community, one where we can be some kind of leader, where we can accomplish
something small and significant. I don't know what it means to be a man, but I am certain
that it has something to do with battling adversity and real tangible results. I don't think
Agee or Shakur found what they were looking for. Their work it is marred by a longing
and disappointment, but it also connects them to so many men, including me. Maybe in a
loose sense of the word, we are a community. Hopefully that sense of community gave
Agee and Shakur solace. More likely, they shoved the adoration of fans, the praise of
peers, and a few thousand cartons of cigarettes into that gaping hole. But I respect the
attempts they made, and I still hope to find what eluded them: the simplicity Agee
coveted, the justice Shakur demanded, and the quiet nod of acceptance for which Mason
longs.
XXlV
Work Cited
Agee, James. Let Us Now Praise Famous Men; A Death in the Family, & Shorter
Fiction. New York: Library of America, 2005. Print.
Doty, Mark. Tell me who I am: James Agee's search for seljhood. Baton Rouge:
Louisiana State University Press, 1981. Print.
Lazin, Lauren, dir. Tupac: Resurrection. Perf. Tupac Shakur. Paramount, 2003. DVD.
Leviatin, David. "Review: Framing the Poor." The Oral History Review 19.1 (1991):
109-113. Print.
Nietzsche, Friedrich. On the Genealogy of Morals/Ecce Homo. New York: Vintage,
2010. Print.
Powell, Kevin. "V Vintage [1996]: Kevin Powell Interviews Tupac." 13 Sept. 2010.
Web. 3 July 2014.
Shakur, Tupac. Me Against the World. Interscope, 1995. CD.
---. 2Pacalypse Now. Interscope, 1991. CD.
---.All Eyez on Me. Death Row, 1996. CD.
---.Strictly 4 My NIG.G.A.Z. Interscope, 1993. CD.
Bibliography
Curtis, James. Mind's Eye, Mind's Truth: FSA Photography Reconsidered. Philadelphia:
Temple University Press, 1989. Print.
Encyclopedia of the Great Depression. Farmington Hills, MI: Macmillan Reference
USA, 2004. Print.
Lipsitz, George. A life in the struggle: Ivory Perry and the culture of opposition. Temple
University Press, 1995. Print.
Ohlin, Peter H. Agee. 1st ed. New York: I. Obolensky, 1966. Print.
Poole, Roger. Towards Deep Subjectivity. New York: Harper & Row, 1972. Print.
Quinn, Jeanne Follansbee. "The Work of Art: Irony and Identification in "Let Us Now
Praise Famous Men"." NOVEL: A Forum on Fiction 34.3 (2001): 338-368. Print.
xxv
Rabinowitz, Paula. "Voyeurism and Class Consciousness: James Agee and Walker
Evans, "Let Us Now Praise Famous Men"." Cultural Critique 21 (1992): 143170. Print.
Rochester, Anna. Why farmers are poor: the agricultural crisis in the United States. Ayer
Publishing, 1940. Print.
Rousseau, Jean-Jacques, and Johann Gottfried Herder. On the origin of language.
University of Chicago Press, 1986. Print.
Sontag, Susan. On photography. 1st ed. New York: Picador USA ;Farrar Straus and
Giroux, 2001. Print.
Trilling, Lionel. "Review: Greatness with One Fault in It." The Kenyon Review 4.1
(1942): 99-102. Print.
Ward, J. American silences: the realism ofJames Agee, Walker Evans, and Edward
Hopper. Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1985. Print.
XXVl
Fix
I trade crusades like cards,
Flip issues like channels.
Give me a God.
Give me a rallying cry.
Give me one good reason to die.
-Marty McConnell
Chapter One
Just a Brick (Wednesday 3:21pm)
"What do I do? What do I do?" The blond teenage girl begs Mason for help because there
is a disheveled black man approaching the table. The closer he gets, the more she jabs Mason
under the table with her elbow.
Mason and the teen have been sitting behind a card table all afternoon, waiting for
someone to come and accept the free drug paraphernalia they are supposed to be handing out.
There is a handwritten poster board hanging off the front of the table that reads "St. Sebastian's
Needle Exchange - Sponsored by Your Local Chapter of ACORN." But it hasn't brought in
much business until now. The old man uses his hand to blot out the sun while he walks, that is
until he enters the shadow of the church's steeple.
"It's ok," Mason whispers to the girl. "I'll take this first one." For the last twenty minutes
Mason has been trying to extract a rusted nail from the wooden table top. The nail was half
loosed when he found it, and since then he has been picking at with his fingernails. He's got it to
the point where he can feel the last few fibers of wood letting go, and he is savoring it like a
child tonguing a loose tooth. He decides to leave the nail, crooked and exposed, for a moment
1
while he addresses this first client.
"How you feelin' today?" Mason addresses the elder black man, with the voice of a
concerned mother. At thirty-two Mason is probably closer to the teenager's age than the old
timer's, but he has always felt most comfortable with people that he shares nothing with.
The old timer ignores Mason's inquiry. "Good aftanoon ta you sur, and you, young miss." His
voice comes out slow and cordial, like it is coated in syrup. No chance he is from Pittsburgh. His
accent is nothing like the high pitched Appalachian twang that often seeps across the West
Virginia border. Mason hopes he is from the Deep South: Mississippi or Georgia, maybe even
somewhere really black like New Orleans. From the pocket of his acid washed jean jacket, he
produces a dirty syringe and drops it into the sharps container.
The back sides of his hands are ashen, but his palms are clean and whole, free of blisters
or splintered fingernails. This leads Mason to deduce that this gentleman strictly shoots heroin.
Crack tends to wreck the fingertips. All those hot improvised pipes, made out of car antennas and
aluminum foil, provide little insulation. Proper cocaine is too expensive for most of Mason's
customers, and you don't have to know much of anything to pick out a meth head, toothless,
zombie lookin' motherfuckers, with their faces all sunken and sallow. Mason has no respect for
those kinds. Although he wouldn't mind having one stop by just to freak out the teenage girl.
She is here because St. Sebastian's Youth Group requires all members to complete twenty hours
of ser\rice each semester. Because he is a St. Sebastian's alumni, Mason has hustled more than a
few junior do-gooders into his service. His favorite part of working with these kids is the endless
opportunities to fuck with them.
Junkies are great for shock value, but some are better than others. He would never admit
it, but he thinks that heroin addicts are somehow superior to all the other addicts. Even the name
2
sounds refined and artistic to Mason, who considers himself a connoisseur of just about
everything dark and broken.
When the old black man smiles Mason's suspicions are confirmed, thick rows of
uninterrupted enamel, top and bottom. A hint of yellow nicotine stains, but who is Mason to
judge. Besides a raging nicotine habit might be the only thing the two men share.
The pale faced teenager pulls a white paper bag from the cardboard box and dangles it
over the table. Inside there is a cookie wrapped in cellophane, a condom, and a syringe capped in
fresh, red plastic. "Thank ya miss," the old timer takes the bag and offers her a nod and tip of an
absent hat before accepting the bag.
Mason nudges the girl who has already retreated into her cell phone, pretending to send
an urgent text message. "Oh, you're welcome. Have a nice day," she offers with the apologetic
sincerity of a supermarket trainee. Part of Mason feels obligated to apologize to the man. Instead,
he warms up his original salutation and serves it to the old timer like a reheated frozen dinner.
"How you <loin' today, Sir?"
Again, the old timer ignores Mason's question. "Thank ya,' sur. An' may Gawd bless the
boff of yah."
Mason nods and opens his mouth to say something, but the old timer has already turned
and is headed toward the alley behind the church. Mason sucks his teeth, tosses an excuse at the
oblivious teen, "I'm gonna go smoke a cigarette," and trots to catch up with the old timer.
"Uhhh, excuse me, sir, we are doing a survey for our next project, and I was wondering just how
old you are?" This is one of Mason's favorite games. He loves to ask their age because it always
surprises him. Junkies almost always look ten or twenty years older than they actually are.
The old timer turns his head a bit, but doesn't miss a step. "I wus baun in 1966 so I'll let ya' do
3
the math, my boi."
In any one else's mouth, "my boy," would feel like a belt across Mason's bare ass, but
the drawl softens the switch, and Mason presses on. "So where abouts is you from?" Mason tries
on the old man's vernacular, but it feels foreign and thick in his throat.
Before the old timer can answer, a siren splashes the air. Not the full on, burning building
wail, just two "Whoop Whoops" as the flared nostrils of a new black Dodge Charger Police
Cruiser poke onto the alleyway. Two overweight officers meander around the hood. They all
come in Oreo flavored snack packs now-a-days, Mason thinks to himself, as the white cop hikes
up his pants, and the black one reaches for his cuffs.
The old timer struggles to get down on his knees, while Mason rushes over and tries to
help him to the ground. Instead of taking his hand, the old timer shoves Mason with both hands,
right on the delicate fleshy indentations just inside Mason's hip bones. "I don'tneed no help,
boy." He enunciates "boy" this time, as though he is giving directions to a foreigner. "Naugh git'
the hell on."
Mason dusts off the pleats of his trousers, which were not soiled at all during the
exchange. The white cop positions himself between Mason and the old timer. When Mason tries
to get around him, the cop uses his considerable girth to block Mason's path without actually
making any physical contact. By the time Mason and the cop are done with their little dance, the
old timer is face down, legs splayed out, and the black cop is applying handcuffs behind the old
timer's back.
The black cop does a cursory pat down, which yields nothing but the white paper goodie
bag. Mason points at the bag. "That is part of relief effort. We are running a needle exchange
around the comer. I am the supervisor, and this man is just trying-"
4
"Yeah, yeah we know." The white cop says to his partner. "Well at least we got
paraphernalia."
"That's bull shit and you know it." Mason says. "You've got nothing on him. That
syringe is capped and clean. He could be a diabetic for all you know."
"Is that right Pap? You got the sugar?" The black cop asks without looking up from the
goodie bag, which he is rifling through. He removes the needle, unsheathes the plastic, and
cracks off the protective red cap. "Either way, just to be safe I think we should take this evidence
downtown. Hey since we're goin' that way, why don't we give you a ride, Pap?" The black cop
pulls the old timer up by the chain of the cuffs, walks him over to the car, and bends him into an
Sas he shoves him into the back seat of the cruiser.
Mason waits until both of the cops are in the car before he yells. "I've got both of your
badge numbers, and I will taking this matter up with the Superintendent." As the cruiser
disappears around the comer, he imagines a dark wooden door with a frosted glass window, like
the one that led to his grade school principal' s office, but the words "Police Department" are
scrawled into this one. Through the glass he can make out the silhouette of his Uncle Marty.
He's wearing his patrolman's hat, but through the frosted glass he looks like a limo driver.
Mason makes a fist and fantasizes about punching through the glass, grabbing Uncle Marty by
the neck and pulling him out, over the remaining shards of glass.
Instead, Mason reaches into his pants pocket for his cigarettes. With the pack comes
something unexpected from inside his pocket. It falls to the ground, a tiny envelope with a
Chinese dragon stamped on the back. It is sealed tight, but when Mason picks it up he feels that
there is a bulge, a thin line of powder trapped in the bottom.
It reminds him of the stitching at the waist of April's jeans. She always hated belts, and
5
he loved to run his finger inside the seam at the top of her jeans, just barely grazing the edge of
her stomach with his knuckle. She never let him touch her like that in public, unless they were
close enough to hide his hand.
Mason lights a cigarette, buries the envelope in his pocket, and walks back to the table.
Turkey Day (Two weeks before)
"Pass the Gravy, Marty." Margret accepted the gravy boat from her brother with a
ceremonial flourish completely alien to the O'Leary family Thanksgiving. "Why thank you, kind
sir."
Margret, Mason's mother, used to be Peggy, and still is every once in a while when one
of her twelve brothers or sisters forgets. There were at least five different conversations going on
between the forty plus O'Leary relations and the assorted strays they collected on their way to
Thanksgiving dinner, but Margret always required everyone's attention. She ladled the gravy
with the care of a conductor taping his baton on his music stand.
"So, Marty, I hear my Mason paid you a visit last week. How did it go?" She deposited
her gravy into a finely crafted crater in the center of her mashed potatoes.
"Fine," Marty said avoiding eye contact with everyone, which should have been a clue to
Mason, but he was distracted by his mother's insistence on monitoring every aspect of his life.
"Mum, I'm right here." Mason shouted from across the room, "And we already talked
about this." At twenty-six-years-old Mason was still obligated to make a weekly report to his
mother who called him every Sunday at noon.
"Yes, dear, we already talked. Now I am talking to my brother. Thank you." Even when
she wasn't in court she sounded like a lawyer breaking down a witness. Resettling her sights on
6
her brother, she said "Marty, don't you think it is just wonderful what ACORN is doing to
revitalize the East End? I do worry about my little boy's safety, but I know your officers will be
taking special care of my Maceo."
Margret was far from pleased that her son was working for a non-profit. At the time ACORN
was one of the largest social advocacy agencies in the country. They had programs for
everything from healthcare to voter registration to affordable housing. Once when she was
drunk, Margret called ACORN a "one-stop-shop for the moocher-class."
"Seriously, Mum, it's taken care of. And please stop calling me Maceo." Mason was
normally better at hiding his defensiveness, but he sensed his mother was getting ready to guilt
his uncle. That kind of manipulation was unacceptable to Mason on a regular day, but
considering that just last week he had brokered a gentleman's agreement with his Superintendent
of Police uncle, it seemed absolutely essential to maintain the appearance of straightforwardness.
The needle exchange was supposed to be Mason's ticket to a new position with ACORN, and in
order to make that work Mason needed a small, familial compromise with the Police
Department.
For once, Mason did seem to distract Margret from her intended target, "You know that
Maceo is what I intended to call you, after James Brown's magnificent saxophonist, Maceo
Parker. If hadn't been for your father's insistence to the contrary, I would have named you
Maceo Parker Harris. And in a perfect world you would have followed in the footsteps of your
namesake." Margret so rarely compromised. When she married she refused to take her husband's
name, Harris. She passed it along to her children, but she never gave up her maiden name,
O'Leary, because of her legal practice. At the time she was being groomed for partner, and an
English surname like Harris was all too common in her line of work. Directly after her husband
7
left, she often cradled her fatherless infant, and started at her lowly Irish name stamped on blank
letterhead that she stole from the office by the ream.
"Really? So mum, you're telling me you would have been more proud had I followed in
Maceo Parker's footsteps and played second fiddle to James Brown." Mason was feeling the
warm blend of indignity and Single Malt Scotch that he assumed his English ancestors felt as
they subjugated his Irish ancestors.
"James Brown was nothing without Maceo Parker, and Maceo played first saxophone for
George Clinton, Bootsy Collins, even your precious little Ani Difranco." For the first time, she
was addressing Mason directly, and she punctuated each point by thrusting her fork, turkey meat
wriggling between the prongs, in his direction.
Just then, Marty decided to lift his head and hazard a comment. "Look at it this way Peg,
at least Mason chose a career where he, too, can support a wide variety of druggies. You got the
cranberry sauce over there Mase?"
A halfcocked retort came to the top of Mason's throat, but he swallowed it down as he
raised himself from his seat at the kids' table, and walked the cranberry sauce over to his uncle.
Take a Number (Wednesday 9:22pm)
"Name?" A middle aged black woman glares at Mason through wire mesh embedded in
bulletproof glass. Her eyes are so dark that Mason can't distinguish the black of her pupils from
the brown of her irises.
"Unfortunately I don't have his name. He's about six feet tall, medium build, African
American, no visible scars or tattoos. He was picked up outside of St. Paul's Cathedral, on the
8
comer of Fifth and South Dithridge." Mason explains in the most polite tone that he can muster.
"And when was that?" The woman's hair is chemically straightened and pulled back into
a tight bun. He wonders if she can still feel the bum of the relaxer on her scalp or if her nerve
endings have dulled after years of abuse.
"Earlier today, approximately three thirty," he says.
She scans her computer screen for a moment, "That would be Prisoner 329475642. That
will be three hundred seventy three dollars."
Her mechanical tone distracts him from the amount for a moment. He would have hired
her to work the front desk of some shady auto body shop, but he is in no position to have any
kind of shop. Either way he estimates that her talents are wasted working the front desk of the
county lock up. He hesitates for a moment, then slides his credit card through the slot in the
glass. "Please take your receipt to the first floor bailiffs station. Next!"
Mason doesn't want to hold up the line, which he waited in for forty-five minutes, so he
exits the stale, moldy room quickly. He waits for the elevator with three women who clutch
similar tickets. They could easily be waiting in line at the deli counter.
Uncle City Hall (three weeks before)
"There is simply no place to put a needle exchange anywhere near Shady Side. How
about somewhere in East Liberty? That's where the real need is now." Marty has a leaning stack
of files on his desk, and the phone keeps flashing a red light at him, reminding him that someone
has been on hold for some time now.
"Uncle Marty, there are already three exchanges in the East Liberty, and we already have
the venue." Mason slid to the edge of his chair, hands clenched. His style was a bit rusty.
9
Catholic school was almost ten years ago now, but supplication was really a lot like riding a
bike.
"What venue?" Marty's face loomed over the placard on the far end of his desk. It read:
"Superintendent Pittsburgh Police Department - Martin O'Leary."
Mason picked up his uncle's placard. It was triangular, heavy, and shined to a high gloss.
"St. Paul's," Mason said as he placed the placard back on the desk.
"Our St. Paul's?" It wasn't genuine surprise in Marty's voice. It was the tone he used
with his sixteen year old daughter when she called ten minutes before her curfew. "Who?"
"Mrs. Kaiser." Mason leaned back into his chair.
"June Kaiser. You convinced June Kaiser to host your little drug paraphernalia free give
away? Didn't she kick you out of the youth group when you were in middle school?" Marty
leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. His high-backed leather armchair dwarfed his
substantial Irish Catholic shoulders.
"Well, it looks like I might just get reinstated, because she also agreed to bring her youths
out to volunteer at the needle exchange. I think they even have some left over cookies from the
bake sale that they are going to donate." Mason mimicked his uncle by crossing his arms.
"Son of a bitch." Marty's chair creaked as he rocked back and fourth. "Where are you
planning to set up? Right there on Fifth, or Maybe you'd rather head down the block and just set
up right on the fucking Carnegie Mellon Quad or maybe down the street at the Cathedral of
Leaming would that be a better venue." His eyes rolled so far back into his head that Mason
could see nothing but the whites of his eyes for a moment. "It simply cannot happen anywhere
near the colleges."
"Calm down, Marty. No one is selling heroin on Fifth. I'm just handing out clean
10
syringes. Every time we do this, your patrolmen circle my clients like it's a feeding frenzy. I
don't know if they need to fill a quota or something, but your-" Mason searched for a more
tactful way to drive his point home, but the only words that floated into his head were: fuck
diplomacy. "Your storm trooper brigades always mop up the sidewalks real pretty for Parents'
Weekend. Don't they?"
"Do you have any idea how much money those colleges bring into this city?" Marty
tented his fingers over his blotter.
"Well, you tell your trustee buddies that the Student Health Center is about to be flooded
with patients. Do you realize that we have some of the highest STD rates in the country? That's
who I'm targeting here, the students. I'm not asking for a decriminalized zone. All I want is a
little room to operate. Just tell your troops to back off for a few hours so I can get some work
done."
"Work huh? Is that you call it?" Marty looked at the clock on the wall above Mason's
head. "Listen Mase, I'll see what I can do, but I have to be at the Chamber of Commerce in
fifteen minutes."
"Great." Mason hopped out of his chair; feeling like he had just checkmated a
grandmaster. "It means a lot to me that you are doing this." He escorted his uncle out of the room
as though they were leaving Mason's office.
"Tell your mom I say hi." Marty offered his hand to Mason.
Mason took Marty's giant hand, squeezed it and held it. "I will, but she'll say the same thing,
'Why doesn't Marty call?'" Mason caught himself doing a goofy impersonation of his mother,
which made the male bravado he had been building, wilt like a flower.
"Yeah well, your mother of all people knows what it's like supporting a family, holding
11
down a job, trying to keep all the balls in the air. It's work, Mason. There's no way around it.
Life is hard work." Marty had given some semblance of that speech to Mason just about every
time they spoke for the last twenty years. Marty got married and had his kids later in life, which
meant that when Mason's dad left, Marty became something of a father figure. Nothing major,
just little things, like Boy Scout meetings, and father/son basketball games, and such. It wasn't
that Mason wasn't grateful, because he was. There was always a part of him that wanted to
follow Marty. But more than an example, Mason needed someone to defy.
That final handshake lasted a lot longer than Mason intended. "Yeah, I hear you, Marty."
As they walked out the door, Mason patted his uncle's shoulder, just like Father McCreary used
to do after mass, as he pushed his parishioners out into the world.
Gots Ta Be Gettin' Along Ta Work 'Bout Now. (Wednesday 9:55pm)
"So, Reginald, where can I drop you off? The Light of Life shelter is over on the North
Side, or, um do you have a place to stay?" Mason asks. The old timer, Reginald, is sitting in the
passenger seat of Mason's '91 Honda Accord. Reginald hasn't said a word since they left the jail.
The only reason Mason knows the old timer's name is because it was printed on the release. He
wonders if Reginald goes by Reggie or even Reg with his family and friends.
"'You got tha time?" Reginald asks, while he scratches his bald forehead.
"It's almost ten," Mason offers, scratching his own receding hairline.
"Well then, I best be gitin' on thajob."
"Oh, where do you work?" Silently, Mason is cursing himself for assuming that Reginald
doesn't have a job.
"I work the corner down from the Civic Arena right der' on Center. An' tha Penguins is
12
playin' at horn' tonight. Usually a man like myself can't be no wheres near downtown, but if you
catch it just right, when that crowd lets out, it's as good a fishin' hole as I ever seen. They's a
few fellas who ain't even been put out, who durty they selves up, post up on the comers round
the Arena and make a killin' wit a coffee can and a cardbort sign. Specially if dem white bois
win."
"Really. How much can you pull in on a hockey night?" Mason asks.
"Nutin' an upstanding citizen like ya'self would care to sneeze at. But more than enough
for my trouble."
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean-"
"You got no cause ta 'pologize ta me son. You tha one that came to my rescue." There
was a lot more sarcasm than Mason expected in Reginald's voice.
"So what would have happened if I hadn't bailed you out?"
"They might could a turned me loose tomorrow, o' tha next day. Never can tell wit' dat
damned court house. Many a times dey don't even let ya' sleep the night."
"Yeah I could see that." The impending credit card statement starts loom in back of
Mason's head.
"Just pull over here. I can walk."
"Really, are you sure I can't get you something to eat, or maybe-" Mason pulls over.
"Hey, listen, I know a really great detox on the South Side. Would you consider letting
me check you in?"
Reginald gets out, and Mason expects to hear the door slam, but instead Reginald pokes
his head back into the open doorway. "So tell me somethin' young blood, watcha do wit' my
package?"
13
"Package?" Mason can feel his voice trembling.
"Yup, that's what I reckoned." Reginald closes the door a bit harder than gentility would
have allowed.
Dad's Resurrection (Four weeks ago)
The house was dark, which was unusual. Ever since Mason moved out his mother had
been living with all the lights on and the TV constantly blaring. He wandered through the house
for a while following a quiet sound, and eventually he could make out Nina Simone's voice.
When he turned the comer he found his mother wrapped in a monogrammed robe curled up on
the bench in the comer of the breakfast nook, cradling a tumbler of something amber between
her knees. She had that bench handmade, and mounted into the walls before they moved in.
"They" being the short lived O'Leary nuclear family: Mom, Dad, Mason, Erica.
"What's going on, Mom?" he asked as he removed the tumbler, sniffed it, and put it
down on the table out of her reach. She wouldn't need it now that he had arrived.
"Would you call your father a good man? I mean the little bit of him that you knew.
Would you say ... perhaps ... that you carry any parts of him with you?" She enunciated
everything meticulously so as not to slur, and probably to give the impression that she was
considering her words carefully, but Mason knew that she had been rehearsing hours before she
called him.
"Well considering that he hasn't contacted us in twenty years, I'm going to go with no.
Not a whole lot to hold on to there."
"Would you say he affected you, though?" She turned towards him, put her feet on the
ground, and stretched her palms flat on the table. "As a man ... did he affect the man you have
14
become?"
"Um, I guess, I mean I blamed him a lot for everything that went wrong when I was a
teenager, but at this point anything that is wrong with me is pretty much my own fault."
"That's good." She redrew her robe. "I just got off the phone with your uncle, and it
seems that he has come to be a registered sex offender in Texas. Do me a favor and tidy up that
glass. I'm off to bed."
She stood slowly and carefully negotiated the table on her way out of the kitchen. Mason
had plenty of time to respond, enough that he recognized the opportunity and the absence of
inclination. He put her glass in the sink as she ascended the staircase.
The City of Bridges (Wednesday 10:37pm)
Mason leans over a concrete railing no wider than an adult man's hand. There is no snow
tonight, just still air, stars and white breath. When Mason was a kid he would get into his bathing
suit and ride his bike for two hours to get to this bridge. One boy would run as fast as he could
along the railing while the other boys counted how many steps till he fell. They always fell into
the water, which was only about a ten foot drop. The idea was to run as fast as you could, but
there were always accusations about who was dogging it. The little boys always took their time
so they could stay up longer, and they always got it the worst. But no one ever questioned
Mason's run: head down, arms pumping, feet flailing all the way to the water.
He looks down at the water, rips through the Chinese Dragon on the tiny envelope, and
dumps the white power into the river.
Cocktail Parties and Real People (5 weeks ago)
15
"If your father went to Harvard Law and you become a lawyer, you are taking what you
are given. But you could have been a bunch of different shit." The fourth glass of single malt was
making it difficult for Mason to command an authoritative diction. The open bar at the American
Cancer Society's Hope Ball was, in Mason's estimation, the worst brand of decadence, and he
was determined to help drain this particularly well aged cyst. "Ok look at it like, if your father is
a grunt, humpin' sheetrock up a scaf-fol-ding fur like eight twenty-five un haur, and yu be-come
a construction worker too, maybe even an elllec-trician. Y're taking what y're given, but isss
harrrder cause you did't have, very many carrrreeeeer tracks ta explor' b'fore yooouuu settled
down and got ta grunt humpin. "' Mason paused for a laugh. Instead his audience, which
consisted of one, now pregnant, yet still attractive, acquaintance from high school, let out a
muffled sigh, and allowed Mason to barrel ahead. "So yeah. Do I think isss more ad-mir-able to
punch a time cock. Yeah I do?"
The last time he had seen this compassionate conversationalist was at her debutante ball,
which he attended more than ten years ago. The crescendo of his finale was attracting attention,
so she smartly flagged down a female compatriot and headed toward the bathroom. The remarks
she shared with her friend in the bathroom were especially biting, at least the ones that Mason
played out in his head were. He had no way of knowing what they really said, and shortly
thereafter, he wandered out into the street to find a cigarette and real person.
Last Bout Hypothetically (Thursday 1:27pm)
Mason takes an extra hour for lunch today, not because he will make up the time later, or
because his salary is a joke, or because he deserves it, just because he can. He doesn't have to
argue with himself anymore. Although, if asked, he has a wide variety of freeze-dried excuses.
16
Today he sits outside, even though all of the females are covered this time of year. Even
at midday, most resort to knit caps and gloves. They walk like peacetime soldiers, sheathed and
diligent. The air in December is unlike any other time of year. The moisture is frozen and still; it
hasn't worked its way into everything yet.
He should be editing a grant proposal. Instead, he revises the memory of his last fight
with April. It is largely fantasy at this point. The cause gets little attention these days. Now he
starts right in at the action. He is almost certain that at some point she did say, "It's not my job to
make you happy."
"You're right; I do give you too much power over me. I guess I have just always wanted
a partner." For this round, he decided on a Rope-A-Dope style, letting her tire herself out with
the obvious.
"Partner, really? Well you explain to me what part of the dishes you did this week, and
what part of the bathroom you cleaned last night, and explain what part of the laundry you folded
this weekend?" Body, body, head, body.
"Come on April. Laundry, dishes, is that really what we are talking about?" Bob and
weave, back peddle, back peddle, cover up.
"No, Mason, what we are really talking about is you, just like we always do. We are
really talking about your inability to move through the stifling tragedy that is reality. Isn't that
what we are always talking about?" Uppercut, uppercut, straight right hand.
"There we go. Now we're getting down to it. I am selfish. I do use my job as an excuse.
Would it be better ifl pulled myself out of the muck? Ifl got a desk job, and brought home a
decent paycheck, would that make you respect me?" Keep your head down.
She laughs today. He's not sure anymore, if she really did laugh. That part always changes, like
17
the size of the blunt object in her hand. "A desk job?" She throws a book today. That part
definitely never happened, but what would a final bout be without a few haymakers? "Do you
really think you are on the front lines of something? When is the last time you dodged a bullet
Mason?"
"That's not what I mean, and you know it. I need to be in contact with the people I am
serving. I'm done trying to stretch band aids over gaping chest wounds. I'm trying to build
community, and all my credibility rests on my willingness to get my hands dirty." He starts
coming off those ropes.
"Let me see those." She takes his hands, spreads the fingers, and mashes them against her
face.
He lingers here for a moment. She isn't wearing any makeup today, and her face is
smoother than it ever was. In actuality, her cheeks are pockmarked and almost always filled with
heaping mounds of concealer, which he hates. Once he likened them to the potholes filled with
fresh asphalt in a homemade card he made her for Valentine's Day. He wrote it in the voice of a
concerned citizen begging PennDOT to stop filling the holes in his cobblestone street. His
elderly persona explained how his street, broken and slippy as it was in the wintertime, was all
he had left of his long dead wife, the only part of the neighborhood that she would recognize and
remember.
"This is me. This is real. Stop trying to make life more than it is." A straight right hand
over the top and he is down.
"I want a baby," he says.
"Excuse me?"
"I want you to have my baby." His face bounds up from the canvas for an instant and
18
then settles into a pool of spent saliva.
"Well, now that you put it that way." She definitely laughs at this point, in reality and
always in the fantasy. "You're gonna have to go."
Today, he walks out without a word.
Pay Pal or In Game (Thursday 10:17pm)
"So basically you've got two options. You can go through Pay Pal, which means that you
have to use real money, or you can use manna at the In Game Auction House." Jimmy says while
takes a hit from his glass pipe, then passes it across the desk to Mason. It's swirled like a
rainbow that has been twisted and squeezed by a set of giant hands. Jimmy's got a whole
townhouse, on the freshly gentrified North Side, to himself, but he almost exclusively occupies
the "study,'' i.e. the extra bedroom that houses his computer.
"So Manna is the shit you spend to cast spells right?" Even though he already knows
what manna is, Mason likes to fill the void created by Jimmy's constant snacking; tonight it is
Flaming Hot Cheetos. "Yeah but ever since the nurf, you can buy manna with real money. The
thing is that you can't ever cash it out." Jimmy circles a Cheeto around a bowl of gelatinous
nacho cheese that lives to the left of his keyboard.
"So what you're telling me is the creators of Diablo made it impossible for you stay
competitive without paying for it. What a fucking-" Mason slams the glass pipe down on the
desk next to Jimmy's hand- "Racket!" Jimmy shutters with the impact, snatches the pipe up,
silently inspects it, and relights the bowl. After what appears to be a satisfactory pull he turns
back to his dual monitors. Mason can't detect any distress in the corners of Jimmy's orange
stained mouth, so he continues down his previous course. "What a fucking racket." Mason is
19
constantly checking for signs that he has overstayed his welcome. This being the third week
since April kicked him out.
"Yeah I guess. I mean the barbarian that I've been cultivating since I started playing was
competitive on Inferno." Jimmy responds without looking away from the spiraling gyre of colors
on the monitor.
"What level is Inferno again?"
"The highest level. But ever since the patch he can't survive even the smallest horde
attack."
"And before the patch you were raping faces with this dude right?" Mason quite likes the
gamer language he's learned from Jimmy, especially anything that involves rape. It smacks of
everything that Sister Nancy would never understand. Especially considering that she was the
one who outlawed the last Catholic bastion of corporal punishment, knuckle lashings, when
Mason was in the 2"d grade. Not that Mason would have enjoyed the numerous lashings he
would certainly have earned throughout his tenure at St. Sebastian's, it just seemed more honest
than the countless apology letters he was forced to write for his teachers/pastors/coaches/youth
group leader/mother.
"Yeah, my barbarian is on level 84, which doesn't really compare to the pros anymore,
but is still pretty bad ass. And it's not the creators of Diablo that nurfed my character, at least not
the creators of the Diablo legacy. Just let me kill this boss, and I'll explain it to you."
Mason leans back and tries to enjoy his high, but the paranoia always gets the best of him in this
makeshift bedroom. Jimmy was kind enough to let Mason sleep on the futon in the corner, but he
isn't willing to neglect his virtual wards just to make Mason feel at home.
"Sorry that took so long, after we killed the boss I was talking to this guy in my guild. He
20
just lost his kid?"
"Kid? You can have kids in this game? Do you get to fuck too?" Mason is genuinely
interested for once.
"No, this guy's son died in a car accident three weeks ago, and this is first time I've seen
him online since it happened." Jimmy's eyes are drawn back to the screen. The clicking hastens.
The scalloped finger molds and the plastic barbs on the cord make Jimmy's mouse look like a
medieval weapon. "God damn it! I am just not doing enough damage." Jimmy lights the ashen
bowl and passes it to Mason. "So patches happen in every game. It is the creators' way of
regulating bugs in the system. If they notice that people are beating a level too quickly or that not
enough gear is dropping or there is not enough manna in the economy, they will change it,
usually for the better of the gaming community."
"I'm sure these patches don't hurt the creators' profits."
"Sometimes they do. I mean every game has multiple message boards where gamers spout off
about everything and a bunch of times in WOW the gamer boards blew up over some bull shit
new patch and Blizzard had to bend to the pressure."
"What? How is this game related to WOW?"
"They are both made by Blizzard, which is like the godhead of all the great multiplayer
universes: WOW, Diablo, Starcraft. But I guess a couple of old Blizzard employees decided to
go rogue and bought the rights to Diablo III and created a completely new company: Blizzard
West."
"So Blizzard West put out an inferior product, and ganked the Diablo name just to turn a
quick buck." Feeling like he had finally cracked the case, Mason takes a celebratory hit and
blows it high into the air.
21
"Yeah more or less. But they are going to get screwed when people stop buying it."
"Wait how long did you say it's been out?"
"Like three months."
"And how many real gamers buy anything three months old?"
"Good point."
Mason is so high he can feel the satisfaction rising in his chest. The futon creaks as he
reclines. "So they are just squeezing the last few drops out before everyone gets wise to the
hustle."
"Not exactly. I was reading this blog that said Blizzard West stands to triple the Diablo II
sales, which at the time was the highest grossing MPV of all time."
"Damn man. You know what you guys need, a protest. I mean they fucking overthrew the
Egyptian government on Facebook and Twitter."
"Yeah and look how that is working out."
Mason curls his fingers around the wooden arm rests of the futon, and flexes his biceps.
The frame whines and then splits, throwing Mason to the floor.
Scuttling (Friday 10:35am)
The sky looks like someone spackled over all the interesting bits and left nothing but a
uniform gray from one horizon to the other. The gray seems to color his fellow commuters as he
pushes through the crowded sidewalk outside the Wood Street trolley stop.
He is already rehashing what happened at work, embellishing certain pieces, removing others,
creating a tailored version for each concerned friend or family member. The basic plot points are
centered around a few ACORN officials who got mixed up in a voter fraud scandal, which
22
punched a hole in an already leaky ship. The Pittsburgh office is being jettisoned, so that the
"priority sites" might stay afloat. Rumors had been running around the office for weeks now that
Pittsburgh was on the chopping block, but when the news finally landed everyone else acted
bewildered, like tourists in Grand Central Station searching from one set of eyes to another,
silently praying someone will stop and offer directions. When that final meeting broke, Mason
headed straight to the elevators. No goodbyes, no handshakes, no loose-skinned, squishy hug
from Jan in HR.
Now that he's on the street, a menthol is all he can think about. He quit again, yesterday,
but now is not the time for promise keeping. He leaps off the curb, over a pile of graying snow,
into the street. The slush is inching its way into his Famous Footwear wingtips, but ifhe can
move fast enough he can catch his mark before the water gets through this socks. Across the
street there is a smoker with a Nigerian complexion and baggy pants. With a little luck he can
score a Newport and a light.
"Hey man you got an extra smoke?"
"Naw, this my last one?" His oversized black leather jacket is embossed with images of
Source magazine covers, most of which Mason owned as a teen. Biggie, Tupac, Nas, and Jay-Z
nod their indifference as he shrugs his shoulders.
The only other smoker in sight is obviously a Yinzer, a real Pittsburgher: full mustache, Super
Bowl XL thermos, dirty finger nails. Bad luck. They usually smoke Pall Malls, probably because
they pair nicely with Genesee, Sauerkraut, and Skynyrd.
"Excuse me sir, can I bum a cigarette?"
Without tilting up the brim of his paint splattered Sherman Williams cap to look at
Mason, the Yinzer reaches into the breast pocket of his coveralls, pulls out a pack of Marlboro
23
reds and shakes one to the top.
"Much obliged." Mason says as he takes the decidedly non-menthol tobacco from the
Yinzer. Regardless of his disappointment, Mason still feels a little bit guilty, taking something
from a real person. That's not to say the people he grew up around aren't real, but Mason holds a
special pedestal in his heart for those who aren't given much and accept it graciously.
Release (Saturday 6:35am)
The next morning Mason folds up Jimmy's bedding, stacks it on the futon mattress,
leaves a 20 on top for the broken frame, and sneaks down to his car before Jimmy wakes. His
clothes are piled in the back seat, and his life savings are sealed in a Dollar Bank envelope in the
glove box.
The sun isn't up yet, but an overcast sky is hinting at blue. Snow has been falling all night
long and is swallowing all the usual sounds of the city. At 85mph, the Fort Pitt tunnel is a blur of
dingy artificial orange. The tunnel always sounds the same, like a grinder spitting metal embers
from a dull blade.
The Accord bursts through the end of the tunnel into a wall of fresh white just as
Lauryn's voice strikes the melody. "Dooo Dooo Doo, Do Doo Do Doo Do Do." Then Nas enters
"Life I wonder will it take me under? I don't know."
Chapter 2
Friar
"God wants us to feel our emotions. Do you know what I mean when I say: 'Let yourself
24
feel?"' Hands shot up around the room, nothing like a jolly old man with a white beard to
enthuse catholic school kids.
"My mommy doesn't let me feel myself anymore. She said God thinks it's a-bomb-in-anation."
The Friar laughed gently clutching the underside of his belly. "What's your name, child?"
"Susie Demarco." Her eyes were blue, but her mom had gotten her one of those trendy
haircuts where the bangs hang down low at an angle, so Susie was constantly sweeping them out
of her eyes. Mason could see how painfully annoying it must have been for her, and he hated her
mother for that.
"No child, I don't mean the things we feel with our hands or on our skin. I mean the
things inside. Who can tell me a feeling you have inside?" A sea of hands raised up, so the Friar
cocked his hands into six shooters and rapid fire, bulls eyed each hand.
"Greed"
"Lust"
"Envy"
"Taking the Lords name in vain."
"Happy"
"Sad"
"Crying"
"Tickling"
"Falling"
"Smiling"
Mason had been pulling his right arm up with this left arm, trying to get the couple of
25
millimeters necessary to get called on before somebody took his answer. By the time the Friar
pointed to Mason's hand, it seemed like his shoulder socket might give way. "Wrath," He
announced loud enough to get a look from his teacher Mrs. Wagner, who had been smiling in the
comer of the room.
"Happy"
"Mad"
"Bad"
"Fun"
"I have to pee" The room burst into laughter. Tommy Jorgen was always doing that,
making everybody laugh.
The friar's face got red and he swayed back and forth as a big smile engulfed his face.
"Wait you don't have to pee right now do you?"
"Yeah I do." Tommy said with a smile, but he told Mason and all the other boys later that
he really didn't have to go; he just thought it would be funny.
"Well by all means boy, go. Otherwise, pretty soon we all will be swimin' around the
room." The children broke into hysterics. Boys were rolling around on the big blue matt,
pounding their little fists. Elizabeth Harmond actually did pee herself, but no one knew until the
Friar left because she covered up the wet spot with her jumper. Mrs. Wagner had to tum the
lights on and off five times before everyone settled down. "What I mean is that everyone has
feelings, and some of them feel good and some of them feel bad, but it's never bad to feel those
feelings."
The Friar knelt down on floor, right at the edge of the matt, but not on it. The kids in the
back got up on their knees, leaning on the ones in front of them, squeezing themselves into the
26
spaces between, just to get a closer look at him. "You see my belt." He held up a long thick
white rope that reminded Mason of the ropes that pirates used to swing from one boat to the
other. "I know it's not fancy like some of your belts, but it means a lot to me. You see these three
knots at the end here. These are promises I made to God. They mean I promise not to marry, I
promise not to work for money, and I promise to always obey God's commands. I remember
them like this: No money, No honey, and I got a big boss."
Everyone laughed again but it was quieter this time because no one wanted to miss what
might come next. "And there are times when I want to break my vows. Sometimes I see a fancy
car riding down the street and I think, 'Man what a nice car. I'd like to have that.' Or I' 11 see a
pretty girl alone at a restaurant and I'll think, 'Man it would great to marry her, maybe have a
few kids of my own.' And all that is alright."
"Won't God be mad at you?" Kathy Cormorant said without permission.
"Raise your hand Kathy." Mrs. Wagner said from her stool in the corner.
So she did, but the Friar gently motioned for her to put her hand down. "That is very
sweet of you Kathy. I appreciate you worrying about me and my soul, and you're right God does
punish us for the things we DO that are wrong, but never for the things we feel."
Nietzsche
"The pre-Socratics lived in a time when there were no subjects. They didn't even have a
word for 'I' or 'we' or 'you.' The subject was part of the verb, and each verb was conjugated
differently depending on the subject. So each action has a different inflection based upon who
was doing it, and the identity of the doer is inextricably linked to what he does." Mason pauses to
take a sip from his beer.
27
The girl, that he has cornered at the end of the bar, keeps eye contact with him as he
drinks, but she is blinking excessively, as if she is trying somehow to signal him. He can't
translate the code so he barrels ahead.
"It was right around the time when Socrates came along that the subject broke free of the
verb. Then we got Plato's world of ideals, which was the precursor to the Judeo Christian version
of heaven and the idea of grace, which is the real tipping point of humanity because only with
the advent of God's grace could a man do one thing, and be something else, which is where we
get this asinine idea of' A good man who does bad things."'
"I've got to go the bathroom. Thanks for the drink" Only as she walks away does Mason
realize just how truly lovely the shape of her ass is.
"Are you seriously trying to get into girls, pants with the CliffsNotes version of Nietzsche
again? Wow, you didn't learn shit from college?" Johnathan isn't drunk yet, but he is well on his
way. The closer he gets to being hammered the closer he gets to the person he is talking to.
Freshman year, Johnathan got into a fight with a frat guy because the guy thought Johnathan was
coming in for a kiss. The frat guy was twice as big, but Johnathan whipped his ass. Even half in
the bag Johnathan can take care of himself. "And why are you always hitting on girls with
Mommy asses."
"Yeah you're right. But they just look so good in those jeans, and then you get them
home and squeeze them out of their little denim casings, and they just hit the floor, the asses, not
the girls of course. Ideally there will be a mattress of some sort to cradle the descent of both."
Johnathan's laugh is so openly patronizing it feels like love. "Oh shit. He's got his professor
words working tonight. 'Ladies deposit your panties in the manila envelope. They will be graded
and returned to you by Thursday."' Somewhere in the midst of a belly laugh Johnathan signals
28
the bartender, or maybe the barman's cycle is synched up with Johnathan's drinking habits.
Either way a full bottle replaces his empty. "You need anything Mase?" This is Johnathan's
local, just a five minute walk from his house in historic Elon, North Carolina. It could just as
easily be Johnathan's grandmother's basement, a place Mason has actually been. All of
Johnathan's haunts seems to have this warm, worn feeling that Mason doesn't recognize
anywhere else.
"Yeah, do they have a shot that makes you into the right kind of asshole, not like me, I
mean the kind that gets laid."
"Yeah as a matter of fact they do" Johnathan motions to the bartender. "Hey Mick, can
we get two Jager shots over here?" No response from the barkeep, no mention of a bill, just two
shot glass full of black on the bar, and they arrive long before Mason can gather the courage
necessary for this familiar ordeal.
"Fuck you."
"Not tonight. Well at the very least you're gonna have to stand in line." Johnathan puts
his shot back without ceremony, whereas Mason takes a deep breath, clears his throat and shakes
his head before emptying his glass.
Slaying the Dragon
There was an old well house behind the Westinghouse estate, the house that Mason's
mother bought when his father left. The well house was that brand of gray that wood becomes
when time is allowed to strip the paint. Western Pennsylvania winters had dilapidated the shoddy
plywood walls, slanting the tar roof. The leaning was not a result of the snow, but the expansion
of the water that had soaked through the boards. In Pittsburgh, water is everywhere: ice storms,
29
hail, freezing rain, thundershowers, humidity, and the worst of it, that late November sleet that
spits out jagged and sideways because of the wind that is constantly swirling up from the rivers.
At that point the snow is a relief. It comes with a smell, something like burning, that starts to
settle in at night in early December. When the temperature first drops to the point of freezing all
that once was fluid becomes viscous, and tiny little explosions happen within the fibers of
everything wooden. Not enough to topple a structure or break through the surface because the
broken fibers are deep, trapped by more stubborn fibers lain above and around them, but enough
to put a lean into that which started upright.
As her first official act as matriarch of the old Westinghouse property Margret
commissioned a structure to be built around the aging well house. It had an auburn roof made of
terracotta tiles, red brick walls, and a granite arch. The arch didn't surround an entrance; that
would make sense. Inside the arch was just more red brick because there was to be no entry
point, no way for her perfectly formed little children to possibly find harm.
Mason was eight at the time, and he begged his mother to play inside the house. Every time he
asked Margret said, "I built that house to protect you from what's inside." She could have easily
tom down the ramshackle little shed, filled the well, and put an end to the issue, but Margret
always had a grander plan. They moved in right around the time that little girl was rescued from
that well in Texas. Mason was only nine years old, but he still has a vivid memory of the telecast,
and the possibility of real heroes pulling real babies from the ground.
He could see the terracotta roof from his bedroom window. He would stare at it and
postulate about what lay beneath. To justify an expedition, and the impending guilt, he had to
come up with a story, a great story, a story of adventure and honor and purpose, a story great
enough to dwarf his mother's inevitable judgment. So the roof became the scales of a fell dragon,
30
slain by a mythical hero that could wield Thor's hammer, shoot webs from his wrists like
Spiderman and crush the throats of bad guys with his mind like Darth Vader. But the fight had
been so fierce that the hero had been mortally wounded, a gut shot to be precise, that the dragon
had landed with its spiked tail. According to an old dwarf, the only thing that could cure a gut
shot was for the injured person to eat the heart of a dragon whole. Mason, a squire in the service
of our hero, knew that the only thing that could possibly save the hero was the heart of the
dragon, and he planned to cut it out of the dragon corpse.
He knew he would need a good chunk of time to work while his mother was out, which
meant he had to wait until summer. As soon as school let out he began preparing for the
expedition. It was the middle of June before he was ready. The brick walls were pimpled, some
of the bricks set out a bit from the rest, which made it easy to find a foothold, and he was agile
enough to swing a leg up onto the roof. First order of business was to find an entry point. In the
fantasy, that was the hole in the scales created by the death blow that the hero had dealt the
dragon. In reality he figured there must be a loose or cracked shingle, but Margret had spared no
expense on the contractor so the surface was solid. Luckily he was wearing his Batman utility
belt. He had cut up an old clothesline that he found in the basement and tied two knives, one
hammer and three screwdrivers to the belt. When he put it on for the first time, he felt like a
knight/archer/gunslinger.
The first shingle was tough; it basically had to be hammered into a million pieces before
it finally came loose. And he couldn't make too much noise because Veronica his,
babysitter/housekeeper, might hear the hammering. He started at 2:03pm because Veronica's
stories started at 2:00pm, and she always watched them on the TV at the front of the house on
full volume because she was old and didn't hear very well and sometimes it took her a few
31
minutes to find the remote and get the volume all the way up, making 2:03 the perfect time. The
real threat though was Erica, his napping baby sister. She was five, and anytime she heard
anything out of the ordinary she would scream and yell and all would be lost. A little more time
was always all he needed.
After he removed the remnants of that first shingle, he began scraping out the grout in
between using his flat head screwdriver. That way he could remove each shingle whole and
unscathed, surgically, like Mike Romano's mom. Mike was always telling people how she was a
surgeon and she could tear people's faces off and never go to jail, and they would just pay her
like a hundred dollars, and she wouldn't even give the face back, she would just keep them in a
drawer in the kitchen. It didn't seem likely that Mike Romano's mom had a collection of faces in
her kitchen, but just in case, Mason never went over to his house.
By the time he got down to the sticky black tar roof of the original structure, his Casio calculator
watch said that it was 2:29pm Margret got home at 5:15pm and Veronica's stories ended at
3:55pm Erica was the wildcard. Sometimes she slept until 4:00, and other times she was up
running around trying to break stuff by 2:30. So he whispered a quiet little prayer up toward her
room, "Please give me a little more time, just a little more time Errey. Amen." Errey was what he
called her when she was being good.
The strange thing is that with all of his hoping, and planning he had no escape plan. He
knew that his mother would find him, dead or alive, at 5: l 5pm And he accepted her retribution,
which would be horrific, as a necessary part of the experience, a sacrifice that proved his mettle.
Sometimes, Mason even kind of enjoyed his punishments because Margret, was a lawyer and
whenever Mason got into trouble Margret would hold a play trial. Wearing an old black robe and
holding a gavel, Margret would sit in her big leather chair and listen to Mason's opening
32
argument: "It was so big and I couldn't get it into the fridge and it just fell."
Margret would question any witnesses, usually that was Erica. "Mason knowded dat da
watermelon it is too big, and he puts it in the frigerator cause he wants it to break all over the
floor and make a mess like dat."
Mason was allowed to cross examine the witness "No I didn't!"
"Yes you did."
"No I didn't!"
"Yes you did!"
More often than not Margret had to remove the hostile witness from the courtroom.
When everything was quiet she would give her ruling. "In accordance with the Watermelon
treaty of 1874, no watermelons shall heretofore be placed within the confines of the refrigerator.
The prisoner will be remanded into his mother's custody, with time served."
Mason rarely understood the whole beginning part, plus his mom always said it in this deep,
important sounding voice, which made it even harder to translate her words, but he knew when
she ended with "time served." that meant he could go outside and play. He imagined Margret
pulling his lifeless body from the well, propping him up in a chair so that she could read him his
sentence. That made him laugh out loud and then clamp a hand over his mouth when he
remembered about Erica.
Before he started, he thought that he only wanted to stare into the hole, but by the time he
had worked his way through the tar, he was fantasizing about being inside. By then it was
4:15pm, and he was feverish, pounding with the butt of the knife, scraping out the splintering
wood, throwing the knife aside and laying belly down face over the hole, only to uncover a
boring blackness. It took several minutes for him to figure out that in order to see down into the
33
hole he had to lean back and allow some of the sunlight to get in. What he found inside the
dragon husk was a dirt floor with a pile of concrete in the middle. Margret had filled the well
with cement. After that, he never believed anything she said. Only a coward, paralyzed by fear
and caution, could ever cement over a dragon's heart.
Adoration
"Hey wake up. Wake up. Hey you wanna go to Melody's Christmas party?" Johnathan's
bobbing head is intermittently blocking a blinding ray of sunlight that is coming through the
skylight in his living room.
"Who?" Mason says while trying to block out the sunlight with his hands.
"Melody, the chick from the bar."
"The one you banged last night?" Mason gives up, sinks back into the couch and closes
his eyes, which just seems to amplify the pounding in his head.
"Yeah. She left like an hour ago, and she invited us to her family's Christmas Eve Party"
"Wait, wait. You want to meet this girl's parents? Didn't you just meet her last night?"
"Yeah but her parents don't know that. She told them I'm a poor student who can't afford
to go home for Christmas. Melody gets to look like a saint. The parents get reminded how great
of a job they did raising her, and I get head under the mistletoe. Everyone wins. So you coming
or not? Cause if you're in we gotta leave nowish."
"Um no, I'm good." Mason rolls his face into the sofa cushion.
"Cool, there is some eggnog in the fridge, but I'm sure how long it's been there, check
the expiration date on that one."
After a few hours of fevered sleep, Mason wakes confused and disoriented. He surveys
34
Johnathan's house in an attempt to get his bearings. The floors are wooden, unfinished, smooth
and uneven. There is an order to this house, not clean exactly, lived in, but a place for
everything. Everything about Johnathan is functional, predictable and straightforward. There was
no doubt that Mason could find the hiding place for just about everything.
Coffee, sugar, creamer in the cabinet above the coffee maker, trash can hidden under the
sink, ice cube trays full and solid in the rack, top left hand comer of the freezer. Ice water is so
important to Mason in the battle against a hangover. Tepid water forces all the lingering tastes of
last night across the tongue again. Whereas, ice cold water slides into a recently evacuated
stomach almost undetected. He is almost positive that he hit the bowl when he vomited, but he
makes a mental note to double check before Johnathan returns, which he assumes will be
tomorrow: Christmas Day.
A note greets Mason as he goes to open the refrigerator door. "Eat whatever you like. John." Mason isn't sure ifthe note was written this morning or for one of the many couch surfers
that Johnathan is always hosting. Either way, it is comforting to know that helping himself to
Johnathan's gourmet coffee is not just permissible but polite. To reject a meal or an extra helping
or a drink is considered rude here, something Mason forgot that he missed about the South. One
thing he does not miss is the thick humidity that seeps through everything. He loosens the ties of
five bamboo shades that are were neatly rolled above each window and scavenges the walls for a
central air control box. "Fuckin' hippy" he says out loud, though he has been chasing after
hippies his entire life.
Johnathan thinks that modem conveniences, like air conditioning, are one of the many
reasons why Americans are so soft and docile. He does a decent job of living by his ideals,
something that Mason simultaneously admires and resents. When they worked for Americorps
35
together Mason was always the first to get hip deep in the mud during the "Creek Sweeps" they
used to run, but all the while he was fantasizing about the hour long shower that inevitably
happened the moment he got home. Johnathan is quieter about his convictions. All of his coffee
mugs are old jam jars. His dishwasher is nothing more than an expensive drying rack. And he
still volunteers at the Animal rescue, on his own time, without worrying if it is going to help him
network. Even though he is still a volunteer coordinator for AmeriCorps, he doesn't wear a
hemp necklace or Jesus sandals like the rest of his colleagues. His bleeding heart is hidden under
a misogynistic vernacular and a lip full of long cut Skoal.
The water and the coffee in Mason's stomach are coming to some tenuous resolution,
when he sees a framed picture of their old cohort outside of the office, so many faces he
remembers and names he forgets. Johnathan is two years younger, but he was Mason's
supervisor at AmeriCorps. When Mason arrived last night he picked up Johnathan from the
double wide that serves as the Elon University AmeriCorps office. There is a new crop of bright
faced, recently graduated, liberal arts majors manning the station now. Their mission is posted
on a plaque that is nailed to the door, and it is as esoteric as Mason remembered it "To bring
together the campus and the community." The University prides itself on "experiential
education," an idea which Mason sopped up when he started out here. After two semesters of
dragging undergraduates through their "Community Engagement Graduation Requirement"
(each student at Elon has to complete 40 hours of service before they can receive their diploma)
Mason was underwhelmed. He had all the resources he could ever want and none of the drive
that he desperately needed.
Not to mention the fact that after countless canned food drives and blood drives and toy
drives he still didn't feel like he had engaged the community. By the time he left he didn't know
36
a single person off campus. Regardless, downtown Elon was exactly the way Mason
remembered it when he drove through last night. A true to life square in the center of downtown
and some strange sort of post-segregation urban sprawl. Elon has an equal number of trailer
parks, cul-de-sacs, and deserted antebellum mansions. Sometimes Johnathan and Mason would
round up a group of students and hand out blankets to the crack heads that had taken over the big
house of some neglected plantation. Mason reveled in the contradictions. Poor black people
gettin' high and then pissing and shitting and fucking all over some slave master's floors. Mason
said something to that effect in a bar to a group of graduate students who came out for a drink
after a blanket distribution. That night was the first time Johnathan put Mason in his place,
"Yeah well those plantation floors were laid by slaves just as black as most of those junkies. So
basically they are pissing on the sacrifice of their forefathers." It was doubtful that it would be
the last time.
Oddly enough it was difficult for Mason to respect anyone, until they had pointed out
some aspect of his bullshit. All things considered, those nights after a volunteer project were
always sacred to Mason. Long dinner tables, pushed together by the Shoney's or the IHOP
waitresses, are the reason Mason stayed as long as he did. The year he spent with AmeriCorps is
to date the longest stint he has pulled at any one job. There was something warm and inviting
about their low expectations. He felt the same way about his relationship with April. For a long
time she was happy to settle for him.
The midday heat inside the house is too much for Mason, so he decides to go outside.
The moment he walks out the sliding back doors a thick, wet heat fills his mouth, his nostrils, his
ears, all of his exposed openings. He takes his shirt off and lays it over the back of one of those
white plastic patio chairs that come standard with the fenced in back yards of townhouses like
37
this one. He sits down and lights a cigarette. Printed on his box of Koo ls is "True Menthol." A
marketing ploy, but a better one than the "Menthol Flavored" on the American Spirit Menthols
that he used to smoke-a menthol without the fiberglass could never satisfy Mason.
Bathtub
"You are the single most beautiful woman I have ever seen." Mason could feel her eyes
roll, even though April's back was pressed against his chest. "No, seriously, you are something
better than perfect." She squeezed his arms tight to her ribs. The soapy water undulated a bit as
her breasts settled atop his forearms. "You dress like a hippie, but none of your clothes have
holes in them. Your hair is wavy, not frizzy. Your toe nails are always freshly painted, but never
just one color. You don't wear any makeup except for eye shadow, and that always looks like
you picked the color out of a Crayola box." He paused and tightened his grip, pushing her breasts
together. "But your eyes, um, they kind of look like God splashed a puddle of rain water into
them." She pried his arms apart, turned around deftly considering the small bath tub, and looked
him in the eye. "But I can't stop staring into-" She splashed sudsy water directly into his open
mouth. "See that right there is why I love you," he said between coughs and wiping spittle from
his lips. "There is nothing I can't say to you no matter how stupid it is."
"I just feel like the luckiest girl in world right now." They both laughed until the water
sloshed out of the tub and onto the floor.
Alone High
Mason has one of those phones with the talk to text function. He assumed he would use it
to jot down all of the profound thoughts that were usually lost to driving. He might have used it
38
twice since he bought the phone. "Weed is a soft lucid pillow that cushions the barrier between
me and my deepest self' inserts itself into an email that he sends to himself for future
consideration. He checks the message right away though and realizes that the phone translated
"deepest self' as "depressed shelf." He leaves it, taking it as a sign from the universe.
Johnathan's stash was easy enough to find, top drawer of the nightstand, even
considering that Mason had to wade through a swamp of dirty clothes in order to get across the
floor of Jonathan's room. It's amazing the amount of sex that happens in this room considering
its inhospitable state. April would never have stuck around as long as she did if Mason had
presented himself this way. That's not to say she wouldn't have fucked him once and left, which
is probably the point of all the discarded laundry. "What if it's all for show?" Mason imagines
Johnathan with a freshly washed basket of laundry under his arm, strategically sprinkling dingy
socks and underwear around the room before he heads out to the bar.
Sitting bolt upright on the bed, Mason tries to remember the last time he got high. It must
have been a few years, he thinks while his eyes bounce around the room, trying to find some
place to stick. He counts three visible jock straps and wonders, "Who wears jock straps?" out
loud. "Johnathan, you are such an elderly 29-year-old." Laying down in the bed Mason qualifies
the criticism of his absent host, "Then again, you do get laid a hell of lot more than me." Mason
was never really looking for that though. His one night stands usually ended with him begging
for a phone number and the girl making excuses while walking out the door.
Everything was different with April. He waited two months before inviting her to the
studio apartment that he rented after he left North Carolina and moved back to Pittsburgh. The
apartment was above a bar on the South Side. When he moved in, he figured that he would be
able to party and play all the loud rap music he wanted, but the White Eagle turned out to be a
39
bar for solitary drunks, ones who care very deeply about hearing every answer of the game show
playing on the bulky, old TV that hung from the ceiling. Their complaints were numerous, but
polite, and Mason eventually caved to what felt very much like parental pressure.
The night before April was scheduled to make her first visit, Mason scrubbed the
baseboards, behind the toilet, underneath that tray under the refrigerator. He tried to attack the
radiator with steel wool, but the paint flaked off uncovering decades of rust, which prompted him
to buy a radiator cover at the Goodwill. The only problem was that he was on an environmental
kick at the time, so instead of putting it in his car, he decided to walk it back to his apartment,
twelve blocks down East Caron Street. The South Side used to be the center of Pittsburgh's
counter culture, but by the time Mason moved in it had been mostly gentrified by college kids
and ex-hippies turned yuppies.
Still, there was something heroic about his poverty, at least to him. Every little
accomplishment, everything he acquired seemed a little more valuable because for the first time
he really learned to struggle. So he went to the Asian Market down the block and spent fifty
dollars on a lavender speckled orchid, put a bow on it, and placed it on the edge of the hospital
green bathroom sink. April had mentioned how much she loved orchids when he took her to
Phipps Conservatory the week before. She had paused to admire a lavender orchid, just as a
group of school kids hurried past them. He had only meant to warn her about the kids, but his
hand on the small of her back had miraculously turned into a hug that lasted even after the
snickers and ouhhhs of the children turned the comer and died away.
His head rolls back into Johnathan's pillow as he spies a rusted machete in the comer of
the room. The last time Mason saw one of those it was lashed to the end of a bamboo rod, and he
was holding it like a talisman while making his way through thick rainforest. Head swiveling
40
back and forth he prayed not to find the wild boar he and a group of real hunters had been
tracking all day. After college Mason had no idea what he wanted to do, so he signed up with the
Peace Corps and they sent him to Vanuatu.
Mason wanted desperately to please the village elders who had invited him on this
excursion. But it quickly became clear that he was invited as an entertainer, not as a participant.
One of the more portly elders hid in a bush and grabbed Mason's ankle as he walked by. The
scream would have scattered a herd of sloths, but judging by the amount of grain alcohol they
had consumed the elders were more interested in a good time than a bore feast.
Hours later, the underbrush rustled again, and this time the men leapt from the trail into
the underbrush. Mason lagged behind the group, less because of his difficulty breathing and
more because he wanted to ensure that he would not be the first to face the actual animal. He
heard the squeals before he saw the blood, which was good, but the trail of intestine that he
spotted as he rounded a bend was bad, mostly because it was moving, quickly at first then slowly
then not at all, as the squeals built to a crescendo. The eerie silence that followed was quickly
eclipsed by the whispered chanting that ensued. When he finally looked up, the scene was calm,
reverent little brown backs, balled over legs crossed Indian style. He tried to clear a space to sit,
but the foliage was thick, and he was making a hell of a ruckus, until the chief looked up and
motioned for him to come closer to the kill. He gingerly weaved through the crowd and offered
himself to the seated chief in the most honorable way he could muster: back straight, chin high,
machete lance pressed against the bill of his ball cap like a Marine presenting arms.
The chief motioned toward the still oozing carcass, with a gnarled index finger. When it
became clear that Mason had no idea what to do, the chief grabbed Mason's spear and pretended
to stab the bore. Later, another villager explained in broken English that the ceremony was not
41
complete until each member of the party had blood on his blade. Mason never did understand the
significance of the tradition, but he plunged his blade in to the hilt which meant driving it clean
through the carcass and into ground.
Johnathan's machete is old, dull and discolored from disuse, probably a relic from one of
Johnathan's father's trips to the Congo, a subject that is always brought up whenever drunken
females are within ear shot. He picks up the hardware store sword and swings it like a ninja,
reminiscing back to his self-taught Ninjutsu training sessions. Batman had inspired him to take
up the discipline, but a religious devotion to the cartoon series was all the research a
prepubescent Mason thought necessary.
He was always fascinated by superheroes. More precisely, he always wanted an excuse
good enough to wreck havoc on a city. That's not to say that Batman's goal was to create chaos,
quite the opposite, but he was always leveling buildings and flipping over armored cars. Yet by
the end, everyone thanked him for it, which was always strangely inspirational to Mason.
That was the kind of ending that Mason always envisioned for his love affair with April.
In the corner of the room is Johnathan's ancient gray desktop computer. Unfortunately for
Mason, it doesn't have a password protected screen saver. What it does have is a high speed
Internet connection and a bookmark toolbar bearing Facebook's devious rounded blue lowercase
f. Mason unfriended April almost as soon as they split, knowing that constant notifications of her
whereabouts and status would drive him insane. But now he can't help but double click her new
profile picture. She must have taken it herself because the camera is up high and there is no one
else in the picture. The top she is wearing gives just the slightest hint of the weighty breasts
hidden under her conservative v-neck sweater. Her lips are shiny, a reminder of the their first
date when he was too shy to kiss her as she lingered in the passenger seat of his car, hand upon
42
the handle, door not yet open, then the blinding dome light. Even then he expected her to take the
initiative.
He clicks the message button, and his fingers can barely keep up with his thoughts. "I
don't know why you got into this. Security certainly wasn't assured early on. I had almost
nothing, yet you let me move in so soon. I moved in too soon. I didn't really know you yet, and I
guess you were still interested in something about me. My potential, my drive, my idea, what the
hell made you think this would work.....
What made you so sure. spend your life with
me???????? 10 weeks from our first date to the day I moved in. What were you thinking? I had
never lived with someone before. I didn't know what to do. But you seemed so needy, so
delicate, so open ......... But never satisfied. I mean yeah you were a lot younger than me. You
were on the rebound, and I was in a slump. But we lifted each other up for a while, DIDN'T WE---------didn't we hold each other's heads above water. Those first couple of months, coming
home to someone, the food and the way you wore my Steelers sweatshirt. I could have got
through anything those days. I could have packed meat, or humped brick, or dug latrines
HAPPILY, knowing that I would get to come home to the smell of your fucking hair.
It was like fuel to me ............ What happened? I mean I got a real job, and then you got your
own classroom, and it all seemed like it was making sense, this was where we would end up.
How we would grow old, and become one, make little us and raise them up right. IN a world we
built. Where we sweat and cleaned and dirtied agai----------What the fuck happened. And don't
say it was my job because you loved my job. You loved the stories, and the spaghetti dinners,
that watered down sauce and the game where we would guess how many teeth the homeless guys
had. It won't come backkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk I can't get it ou tofmy he ad the smell of you. Now
it just smells like the part of me that I actually liked de com posing. I can't be me without you
43
you fucking BITCH give it back, give it back please please please give it back."
He hits send before he can reread it and think better of it. He sits there just staring at her
profile picture for a long time. The weed has worn off, and the tears are starting to dry and crack.
He needs a cigarette, needs to watch something bum.
Defense of 2Pac & Women as Children
"Don't you get lonely? I mean that's what all the movies tell you about all the players."
Just as Mason gets the words out of his mouth he realizes that all of the movies he is referencing
are made for women.
"What? Lonley? No ... " Johnathan is clearly surprised by the question but his tone
reminds Mason of the way adults sound when a child happens upon a profound question. "I
wouldn't say I'm lonely. Would I like to find someone to share my life with, have a few kids,
build a home? Yeah sure, who doesn't, but I'm not going to change my life for just anyone."
"So how do you decide? Who qualifies as more than just anyone?" Mason leans into his
high backed bar stool. Johnathan's local wasn't open on account of it being Christmas Day, so
they ended up at an Outback steakhouse for a mid-afternoon beer.
"Not sure, but I'll tell you this, the moment they say 'I'm recently divorced' or 'I just got
out of a tough situation' or 'I am going through a lot of changes right now.' That's it for me."
"Changes? Like that 2pac song? Who says that in real life?" Mason ignores the fact that
Johnathan isn't laughing.
"Yeah people still use 'changes' out here. It's an old expression, you know like the 80s
version of that song. Two Pack really ripped off that sample, didn't even change the drums or
anything."
44
"It came out after he died, so somebody else probably produced the beat." Yet another
chapter in an ongoing argument between these two about the merits of hip hop, as a socially
conscious art form. 2pac is normally Mason's bread and butter, but today he is particularly
defensive because he had no idea the "Changes" beat was sampled.
"Strange way of making music, one guy sitting in a room by himself making a beat and
another guy, ages later, standing in a booth recording the vocals." Johnathan signals the
bartender for two more drinks, and even though he has never set foot in this place before the
bartender responds with lightning speed. It took Mason ten minutes just to get this guy's
attention when Johnathan was in the bathroom.
"Yeah I hear you, but Blacks have a way of turning everything into a party. I've never
seen a video of a recording session where there isn't like ten people in the room smoking blunts
and sippin' Henny." Mason wonders if Johnathan got the reference, but it is difficult for him to
talk about Black people without slipping into their vernacular.
"Ok I guess that makes sense. I'm not sure what it has to do with making music, but point
taken." Johnathan takes a final pull from his beer, and magically the next beer arrives right on
cue. "What were we talking about before? Oh yeah loneliness. lfl even smell it on a girl she's
out of contention for the wifey status.You like that? 'Wifey status' -that is totally some shit you
would say." Johnathan's laugh is completely natural even though Mason is unable to join in
because his long neck bottle is upturned and pressed to his lips. Mason tries to smile, but froth
spills out one of the comers of his mouth and down into his shirt.
"So what happens when they leave the wifey realm? What do you do with them after they
have washed out?" Mason tries to catch the bar tender's eye, then decides to just take a handful
of cocktail napkins from the dispenser and uses the wad to wipe his neck.
45
"'Do with them?' Jesus Christ you make it sound like I'm holding them against their will
or something. We spend the night together and maybe the next day, hell maybe the next couple
of months we stay in touch until she finds a man or figures out her shit. I'm not one of those guys
that fucks a girl once and never talks to her again. Hell just last week I saw this girl that I was
with like a year ago. She introduced me to her boyfriend like I was an old friend."
"So you're like a life coach, for hoes." With nowhere to put the wet napkins, Mason slips
them into his back pocket.
"Fuck you dude. Are you gonna tell me you never got drunk and vulnerable and went
home with somebody. What about that chick from Dallas ... she was your backup for like a year.
Every time your newest true love would break up with you, you'd get hammered and crawl into
her bed."
"Yeah until I realized that I was her backup, and then I finally grew the balls to let her go.
Her name was Diana by the way."
"Oh sorry to disrespect her by forgetting her name. But if you ask me, knocking on a
girl's door at three in the morning and asking her to cuddle is some bullshit wrapped up with a
chivalry bow on top."
"Ok, now we're getting down to it. Really in the end it comes down to respect. Do you
honestly believe that you respected whatever the Chirstmas Eve girl's name was?"
"Melody."
"Yeah, Melody. Do you really think lying to her family equals the respect she needs to
get through whatever tough time she is going through, Dr. Pimpin'?" Mason is sitting completely
erect in his chair and fiddling with the cigarette he plans to smoke the moment he wins this
argument.
46
"I never lied to that girl or her family. And maybe they knew I fucked her maybe they
didn't, but they never ask because she is an adult. Regardless of whether she's bringing a good
friend to Christmas dinner, or some guys she met at a bar, or the therapist she is banging, they
expect her to take care of herself." He downs the rest of his beer and motions toward Mason's
full Coors Light "You ready for another?"
"Naw I'm good. I'm gonna go smoke this." Mason holds up the cigarette like a "Get Out
of Jail Free" card.
Johnathan orders another with a raised index finger and catches Mason's bicep as he tries
to escape, "I'm not healing these girls with my magic dick. I am giving them what they ask for,
and I get as close as possible to what I want." He releases Mason's arm and snorts like an old
sow watching the same old feed pour into the same old trough, as Mason walks out.
Christmas with the Tomlin Girls
Mason is significantly more inebriated than he planned to be when he and Johnathan pull
up to his mother's house. With two full arms of presents Johnathan rings the door bell. Mason is
holding one gift, for Johnathan's mom, and no one seems to notice that Mason's present is
wrapped in the same paper as Johnathan's. It's that kind of acceptance that brought Mason here
first. Plus the fact that Johnathan willfully took the bait when Mason invited himself to the
Tomlin family's Christmas.
This isn't the first free meal Mason has hustled out of Johnathan's mom, Sally, and her
brood of fiercely independent daughters. The Tomlin girls, there are five of them including Sally,
had more or less adopted Mason the first time he sat down to dinner. At the time Mason was
wearing a mustache as part of a fund raiser called "Mustaches for Kids." The idea was to grow a
47
mustache and when people asked, "Why are you growing a mustache, you creep?" the mustache
grower would explain that he was, "Doing it for the kids," and hit them up for a donation. This
was well before the ironic mustache became a staple of the hipster community, and the ploy was
a great attention getter. Mason ignored the fact that five of his uncles had been wearing
mustaches for years in a decidedly unironic way. Not that he would ever ask his family for
money.
The mustache was a utilitarian novelty to the Tomlin girls, a graceful reminder of Sally's
old boyfriends, a way to make fun of mom's age, and a chance to playfully poke at Mason. There
was even a point where Johnathan offered Morgan, the eldest Tomlin sister, a "mustache ride."
The gag got more mileage than it probably deserved, considering that it is revisited every time
Mason comes by, but he never tires of it. One of Mason's favorite qualities about the South is the
endurance of the cliche, to the point that a tired old expression can become a kind of cordial
invitation to set down and stay a while. He makes a habit of collecting the less usual witticisms
and springing them on unsuspecting Northerners. He often says ,"You can't swing a cat in this
town without hitting a lawyer," when he wants to bitch about too many of anything: lawyers,
Starbucks, homeless people, etc. Or he'll use, "That guy was cooler than a polar bear's toe nail,"
when he wants to give someone the highest of compliments. He likes explaining the derivations
almost as much as the confused looks on his audiences' faces.
As the front door opens, Mason promises himself he won't get too drunk this time. He's
learned that the more whisky he puts in one side of his mouth the more colloquial bullshit leaks
out the other side. The Tomlin girls have never been rude enough to call him out on his fake
drawl, but he has noticed them laughing before he gets to the punch line, and he's always
suspected that his adopted inflection is the cause.
48
By the time they arrive, the girls have finished cooking and have settled into the sitting
room. When the boys walk in, there is a fire crackling under a familiar mantle, crammed with
Tomlin family pictures. The usually ceremonial hugging and preening commences, and Mason
drinks it in like a cat licking warm milk on a bitterly cold night. At the end of the rightfully
feminine receiving line there is a decidedly masculine hand extended toward Mason, which he
grabs with a reluctance that borders on rude.
With an understated drawl the man attached to the hand introduces himself, "Welcome
Mason. Nice ta make y'ur acquaintance." He seems to be glowing, that or the fire light is
positively dancing off of his freshly shaven face.
"Good to meet you. I'm Mason." He unconsciously over enunciates his response.
"Walter Wheatly." The handshake is still going, and Mason doesn't want to let go first.
Walter's palm is so weathered and rough that it essentially planes Mason's skin as he pulls his
hand free and wraps it around Lilly's waist.
At 22, Lilly is the youngest of the Tomlin girls, and by far the prettiest. She has a clumsy
mischievousness that Mason always found particularly charming. The way she talks makes it
sound like she stole something of yours and is hiding it behind her back, daring you to chase her
down and wrestle it away. "Oh, Mason, you haven't had a chance to meet Walt yet, have you? I
picked him up at the pound." She says with a deviously, innocent little smile." Lit'raly, we met
last summer while I was volunteerin' at the an'mal rescue. And by the looks of it. .. " she
twinkles her fingers to show off the ample engagement ring. " ... he plans on stayin."'
Mason inspects her belly to see if there are any indications that the matrimony will be a
shotgun affair, but her tummy is flat as always.
"Well I'm very pleased ta meet cha." Mason nods and swallows hard, remembering about
49
the accent. "When' s the big day?"
Lilly answers for them, "End of next March. We hope you'll make the trip down to see
me off."
"I'll do my damndist." Mason says knowing he'll be far away at that point.
"So what brings you dawn our way fur the holidays Mason?" Walter's voice is deep and
casually melodic. Mason can't decide ifhe is more jealous or more enchanted by Walt, either
way the attention he garners is annoying.
"Just trying to avoid the snow, I spose" Mason's mouth feels like a spout now, leaking
sticky sweet insincerity all over a perfectly dry conversation.
"Always loved the snow when I's a boy, probably cause I always had to go hunt for it, up
a mountain top, or some such situation. Guess it's different when it comes and finds you."
"Yeah, I guess so." A cigarette is calling to Mason from his pocket. Mercifully a
manicured hand comes into Mason's view, offering a snifter of something brown and sweet.
"Brandy, Sir?" Sally does her best posh waitress impersonation and everyone relieves
themselves with a ceremonial chide.
"Come on mum."
"What the ... "
"Are you kiddin me?"
"Sally, you know me too well. And this is for you." He picks the poorly wrapped box
from the pile Johnathan set under the tree, and exchanges it for the glass in Sally's hand.
"Oh, Mason, you didn't have to get me anything. You know that, don't you?"
"Are you kiddin' me, I'dve starved twice if it wasn't for you all and your kindness." He
managed to avoid the ya'll, but the effort is stretching him to a breaking point, like the first
so
strand of an old braided rope popping and unraveling.
"I'm gonna put it over here til we finish with dinner then, we can open everything
together. That ok with you, Mase?"
"Oh sure. Not a problem." He paws at his pocket and pulls out a completely silent phone.
"Would ya'll please excuse me just for a ... " Pretending to answer the call, he yells into the
receiver, "Aunt Gladdas, it is so good to hear your voice. Can you hold on for just a sec." He
motions to the deck and continues to yell niceties at his fictitious relation until the sliding glass
door shuts behind him.
His real little sister, would have called this a pity party. Not that she would have been
able to handle any kind of family Christmas party without a fix. Considering the state she was in
the last time Mason saw her, she probably didn't even show up to the family gathering this year.
He almost picked up the phone and called his mother to see, but then he thought better of it. He
is still hoping she will call him. Besides his self pity, he still feels grateful for Johnathan, the
Tomlin girls, and the fact that he can't see his breath. Blowing smoke is never as satisfying when
every exhale produces the same effect.
From outside Mason can see the Tomlin stockings hanging off the mantle and over the
fire, just where they are supposed to be. Margret always put the stockings under the tree, and for
some reason there was always a pack of candy cigarettes inside. It was a strange tradition,
especially for someone who loathed smokers. Erica always bit hers and chewed them up as fast
as she could. Whereas Mason would wait until it was dark, go outside, and pretend that his
frozen breath was smoke. He tried to teach Erica how to do the same, but she only followed him
outside after she had finished all of her candy, knowing that he would give her one, if she played
along.
51
The meal is perfect and Mason does his best to honor the chef by stuffing down three
helpings and a sampling of each of the five different pie offerings. Sally loves to tell old stories
at the dinner table, and each one is familiar to Mason. Johnathan was twelve when his father
Teddy "passed." That's always how Sally says it when she is using it to mark time, "after Teddy
passed," "since Teddy passed," "right before Teddy passed." Mason always wished that his
mom had a nice, neat way to refer to his father's absence. His father's exit was much more a pass
than anything else. Death would have been so much more satisfying; instead, he just politely said
no thank you to a wife and two children, the way a genteel man would indicate he doesn't want
peas as the serving dish is coming round.
After dinner Mason finds himself in a recliner, snifter in hand, watching everyone open
their presents. He waits patiently, drunk enough to completely ignore eye contact, staring at his
present. By the time Sally picks it up, Mason is nodding off in his chair. A gasp startles him
awake, and a sly smile slides across his face as Sally presses a pale pink, cashmere sweater to her
bosom.
"Mason. This is far, far too much." But instead of putting it back into the box she pets the
material against her chest.
"No it isn't," he says quietly, as he slowly shakes his head, reliving the moment he found
that sweater in the back of his mother's closet, tags still attached. He takes a sip and leans back,
basking in the brilliance of his Robin Hood fantasy coming to life.
Pills
"You got dem pills in you boi?" Her breath is warm and wet in his ear, just like the
sweaty backs that bump him every time the bass kicks. For a while, he had been imagining that
52
the beat was gently jabbing him in the kidneys, until a thick black girl with a fine round ass drew
his attention back into reality. She grinds her waist into his and asks again, "Come on Whodie,
tell me, is you on one?"
"Naw,jus a couple beers, shawty." Mason says as he wraps an arm around her waist,
completely unselfconscious about his adopted accent.
She says. "You sho is feelin' right though. Huh?"
"Yeh, everythang feel right 'bout now." His voice feels like syrup sliding off his tongue,
just like it's supposed to.
"Boi, you sho you ain't no snap?"
Offended, he straitens up, which makes him lose the beat, and instantly he mourns the
loss of her crotch rubbing against his thigh. "A what?"
"Oh Lawd. Dis white boi don't even know what he is." Her eyes drift to a lone ceiling fan
lazily rotating over a sea of undulating bodies. "A snap, a white boi come down ta da hood ta cop
some o' dat good good then run back ta his mammy crib."
"Fuck that. I ain't no snap."
"Hump" she snorts again, turns around, and presents him with an ass that a donkey would
be proud to wear to church on Sunday. He takes the hint, presses his palm between her shoulder
blades, pushing her breasts down toward the floor and her behind firmly into his groin. He settles
into the beat as she bounces her cheeks against him. She bucks and looks back once, when his
hand glides too far into the sticky pomade at the base of her neck. He retreats back to her hips
and follows her lead all the way through the next song. "I need ta git up out a here." She takes a
few steps toward the door, turns her head around and shouts over the music, "You comin'?"
He quickly takes her hand as she parts the swaying mass. And they leave together.
53
Sanctuary Monsters
Mason was never much for church, but he was always fascinated by St. Sebastian's
cathedral, especially when it was empty. During the summers he was constantly on his bike, and
anytime he passed the church (technically considered a cathedral by the Pittsburgh Dioceses) he
would stop to get a drink out of the water fountain next to the Sanctuary door. Through arduous
experimentation and heated debate, he and his classmates had determined it was the freshest and
coldest water fountain on the grounds. Even when he was in a hurry, the thick summer air would
force him into the dark, quiet space.
One day, in late August, just before he started the seventh grade, he was drinking from
this fountain when he noticed the door to the Sanctuary was cracked. Through the opening he
had a clear view of Father Pastorious, in his white robe, pouring the diluted body of Christ down
the sacrarium. During the last week of sixth grade Mrs. Warner took his class on a tour through
the guts of the cathedral. They got to see the mosaic of Mary breastfeeding the baby Jesus that
was hidden behind the organ pipes and the inside of the gold encrusted tabernacle. He learned
that according to ancient Jewish scrolls, the first tabernacle carried the Ark of the Covenant,
which contained the stone tablets where the Ten Commandments were written. The Ark of the
Covenant conjured images of Indiana Jones defeating the Nazis with his potent knowledge of
archaic legend.
But Mason's favorite part was the sanctuary where the priests retreat after mass. He
learned that the wafers and the wine that were blessed during mass needed to be disposed of
properly because according to Mrs. Warner, "We wouldn't want the body and blood of Christ to
fall into the wrong hands." The priest is obligated to drink all of the sacrificial wine, but any
54
leftover hosts must go directly into the ground, so the priest makes a thin paste out of the surplus
wafers and holy rinse water. Instead of walking it outside, each church has a sacrarium, which is
basically just a sink with a drain pipe that leads directly into the ground, where the sacrificial
condiments can be deposited into the dirt without the mess of worldly affairs like shovels and
such.
Mason, of course, imagined all kinds of plots where Satan worshipers tunneled under the
church and stood, mouths agape, under the pipe for hours waiting for the priest to dispose of the
blessed paste because it gave them the super strength, which they used to break into Children's
Hospital and eat all the deformed and mangled babies that probably weren't going to make it
anyway, which in Mason's mind was a pretty happy ending considering the circumstances.
Mason had been hatching a plot to sneak in and take a look down that pipe for himself for
some time, and the combination of the stiflingly hot day with the almost deserted church was
starting to seem like a divine implication, when Father Pastorious pushed the door open with his
ample hind quarters and waddled over to the confessional. Then the bell tower chimed three
times and on cue, a row of penitent elderly sinners filed through the door and slumped toward the
pine scented confessional.
Everything in his guts wanted to ravage the Sanctuary, bathe in a pile of white robes, set
all the incense ablaze, piss down the sacrarium, but for some reason his body wouldn't oblige.
Instead he bolted ahead of the terminal confessors and skirted through the curtain that lead to the
screened confessional.
The moment he found himself inside that wooden box he started to panic. Every other
time he had been required to confess, he had ample opportunity to come up with a few standard
venial sins: chewing gum in school, taking in church, crossing in the middle of the street, etc.
SS
He'd blurt out a quick Act of Contrition, bust out his assigned penance, which was usually a few
Hail Marys; then it was on with the rest of his life.
This time it happened too fast. His eyes were still adjusting to the darkness when he
heard "Forgive me Father for I have sinned" leaking through the ornately cut metal grill. That
wasn't how it was supposed to start. The confessor was supposed to start. "Forgive me Father for
I have sinned, is the customary way we begin. How long has been since your last confession
child?" Father Pastorious was obviously in a hurry. He must have had a particularly succulent
meat pie waiting for him in the sanctuary. He was always talking about meat pies.
An image of the portly priest dipping the left over communion wafers into a meat pie
floated into Mason's brain, followed quickly by a brilliant idea: If I disguise my voice, he 'll never
know it is me. Father Pastorious was a regular visitor to Mason's classroom. He had actually
been the one to administer Mason's First Reconciliation, which paled in comparison to the pomp
and pageantry of the First Communion that Father Pastorious also oversaw. There was no
question in Mason's mind that Pastorious could have picked Mason out of a lineup by voice
alone.
"Oh I'm sorry Father please forgive me ... for I have sinned" Mason was going for a
French accent, but instead he screeched out a high pitched girly voice. The pressure in his
temples was making skin tingle. "It has been six years since my last confession." He sucked the
air through his teeth, a dead give away that he had screwed up. Mason made the same sound
when his best friend hit the dirt, face first, after a homemade bike ramp mishap.
"Alright?" Father Pastorious' obvious skepticism forced Mason to dive right into a
hastily conceived confession.
"I swear ... a lot, and I'm always stealing stuff." All of this was true of Mason, but saying
56
the words in a different voice, a female voice, was absolutely liberating. "I also disrespect my
mother and father, all the time. And Father-" A crack in his voice betrayed the femininity he was
trying to convey. "I think about things some times."
"What kind of things child? Don't be afraid."
"Dirty things, Father. And sometimes the dirty thoughts make me do dirty things, you
know, to myself."
The priest coughed, cleared his throat. "I understand, child. Is that everything?"
"Yes Father"
"Your penance will be five Hail Marys, three Our Fathers, and two Glory Bes. "
"Thank you, Father."
"Now to complete your confession you will read the Act of Contrition."
Mason bowed his head and found a print out of the Act of Contrition taped just below his
folded hands and thought to himself that the cheat sheet must be for the long time sinners who
have lost their way. Even though he knew it by heart, Mason read the Act of Contrition from the
sheet, like all the rest. "O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest all
my sins because of Thy just punishments, but most of all because they offend Thee, my God,
who art all good and deserving of all my love. I firmly resolve, with the help of Thy grace, to sin
no more and avoid the near occasions of sin. Amen."
Then Father Pastorious slid into a tone of voice that Mason knew well. It sounded like he
was also reading from a script, but even though he couldn't see the priest, Mason knew he had
memorized all of his lines and could recite them without a single thought. "May our Lord Jesus
Christ absolve you; and by His authority I absolve you from every bond of excommunication and
interdict, so far as my power allows and your needs require. Thereupon, I absolve you of your
57
sins in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen. May the Passion of Our
Lord Jesus Christ, the merits of the Blessed Virgin Mary and of all the saints obtain for you that
whatever good you do or whatever evil you bear might merit for you the remission of your sins,
the increase of grace and the reward of everlasting life."
Outside the sun was shining, and as Mason pumped his pedals toward home, the wind
bathed his face and the sparkle leapt from the granite sidewalk.
The Show. The After Party. The Hotel.
He drives. The girl from the club picks the hotel and the radio station. He pays for the
room, while she takes the key and goes ahead alone. Her excuse about powdering her nose sends
little sirens blaring through Mason's brain. When he arrives at the room, the door is propped
open with the deadbolt, and she is in the bathroom, which could mean anything.
He clicks on a table lamp and turns off the overhead light. He sits on the bed, then stands,
then sits in a chair, then stands again, jittery, when the toilet flushes. The sink is outside the
bathroom, a huge mirror reflecting everything, and when she bends to wet her hands he slides up
behind her. He tries to find her eyes in the mirror, but she is looking down, unwrapping a single
use soap. He is trying to see if her pupils are dilated. If they are he tells himself that he will make
an excuse and bail.
"Ok mister man." She straightens her back and looks at him through the mirror. Mason
averts his eyes before he can get a good look at her pupils. His glance lands on her stomachstretch marks, a slight paunch, and a cesarean scar that pours out of her belly button into her low
rise jeans. "I can suck you off fo' fidy, a suck and a fuck is a hunit, and if you really want it I can
prob'ly git yo' thing into my culo fo' two fitly, but only if you got lube."
58
"Oh shit. I'm sorry I didn't realize that's what this was." He reaches into his pocket pulls
out a ten dollar bill and offers it to her. "This is the last little bit of money I have. I didn't
plan ... ''
She snatches the bill, "What the fuck is you wasting my time for?" she walks out of the
room and slams the door.
He curses himself for not staying another night on Johnathan's couch. Once he had
delivered the sweater to Johnathan's mother, he couldn'tjustify the imposition. Everything is
like that for Mason now, every kindness has a price. The only job he can plausibly imagine God
doing is marking each kindness and each digression in a great ledger.
He throws himself down on the bed and bunches a pillow under his head before he
realizes that the neon "Motor Lodge" sign is hanging right outside his window. He draws the
blinds, but they only cut the light into red slits that fall directly onto the pillow.
Intro to Oakland Shady Side
As a kid there was a street light right outside his bedroom window, but he lived on Fifth
Avenue, so no matter how bad it got there was always the sound of the traffic to sing him to
sleep.
He grew up in Shady Side and almost every day in the summer he would ride his bike to
Oakland. Both neighborhoods are within the city limits, but Shady Side feels like a
suburb.Whereas in Oakland, the sidewalks are full of people to dodge, and the streets have the
kind of traffic that requires either skillful timing and weaving, or constant stopping and waiting.
Mason always hated to wait, and he would do anything to avoid that flashing red hand on the
opposite side of the cross walk.
59
There was always music, and it was never the radio. He grew out of the radio almost as
soon as he learned how to ride a two wheeler, and he made sure he had the latest Sony Walkman
with the biggest head phones possible. Ifhe could hear the sound of the city, it always slowed
him down. Seeing it was overwhelming enough, the signs, the people, the traffic; he needed to
drown it all; otherwise he couldn't dodge it. Whenever his batteries ran out, it felt like the noise
was pulling him back, but a kick drum and a dope MC made him swift, slippery, far too fresh to
hold down.
Mason lived on the comer of Fifth and Morewood. Up past Morewood the noise of
Oakland gets swallowed by Shady Side. Fifth Avenue is always busy, but if you go one block
north or south, trees line the streets; the traffic dims; sidewalks clear themselves of debris, and
only the barking of overfed dogs breaks up the silence. Margret savored the quiet but some part
of her needed to be close to the chaos. "I need to live near my work, for my children's sake." she
always said, but there was something more self destructive that drew her to that comer and the
old Westinghouse estate.
She bought it in the early 80s for half of what it was worth. It had been left vacant when
the mills deserted the city. Six weathered pillars nodded toward something Greek, but their girth
and height implied a more Roman decadence. It was an entrance that an antebellum plantation
owner would be proud to walk though every day. Margret was Irish Catholic all the way through,
and she should have identified with her countrymen who came here fleeing Anglican tyranny,
but the church tethered her to older more alluring despots and their crumbling empires.
There was a back yard, small as it was, surrounded by a black, waist-high, omatelymolded, wrought iron fence. Whenever his mother wasn't home, Mason would convince one of
the Mexican gardeners to play soccer with him on the tiny patch of grass. Their games never
60
lasted long because Mason invariably kicked the ball over the fence and into traffic. By the time
he recovered it, the gardener was always back to work.
The nice part was that his house and his school were both on Fifth, which was helpful
because he was never good at directions. In elementary school Mason could pedal his bike to
school in five minutes, assuming he caught all the lights, which happened only twice in the
thirteen years that he attended St. Paul's.
Hustling
Bang, bang, bang, it sounds like someone trying to break down the door. "Hey mister
man, I fugot sumpthin' in yo' bafroom." The girl from the club, didn't wait ten minutes before
she returned.
"Ok, ok, I'm a comin"' He thinks to himself that a little old timey charm might tum this
whole situation right around.
The moment he cracks the door it is kicked in. The eye of the deadbolt smacks him in the
nose and he stumbles to the floor while a dark, freshly shaven, head pushes its way into the
room. "Where tha money at nigga?" The bald head hunches over Mason, the barrel of a rusted,
revolver dangling casually in his hand. The girl from the club walks in behind him and closes the
door.
The throbbing in Mason's face subsides rather quickly, and he's not sure if it's the
nonchalant way his assailant is holding the old west looking gun, or if it is the fact that he just
called Mason a "nigga," but Mason feels strangely comfortable with these two. "Alright so here
is the problem, I gave your lady my last ten dollars, but I've got some shit in the car that might
interest you."
61
"The car? What is this muafucka talkin' ?" The bald head turns back to his female
accomplice for verification.
"Look like the nigga been livin' out that piece a shit." She smacks her gums.
He digs into Mason's pockets, and Mason's obliges him by straightening out his leg and
turning to one side and then the other. The bald head rifles through Mason's wallet, throwing the
contents on the bed: a Carnegie Library card, a pizza shop punch card two punches away from
getting a free slice, a Pennsylvania drivers license, and three faded photographs with curled up
edges. "Gaut Darnnit Sherane, how the fuck can't you tell the diff rence twene a come up and a
broke ass white boy."
Misses Warner's Treasure Trove
In sixth grade his entire class lined up outside the wooden confessional boxes every
Wednesday. They always smelled like Murphy's Oil Soap, which reminded Mason of the
Spanish songs that his house keeper sung while she polished the furniture. Mason couldn't
understand the words but he knew she was singing church songs because she wore a cross and
St. Christopher medal around her neck, which would hang down low and sway back and forth
with her weighty bosom when she scrubbed the floors.
Every Wednesday, for an entire year, lunch was shortened by twenty minutes so that the
priests could give a solid once over to the dangerously pubescent sixth graders. Boys sat to the
left of the aisle, girls on the right, scooting down each time a child was swallowed by the heavy
velvet drapery that served as a door for the confessionals. A strange choice considering that the
next person in line was only four or five feet away. Mason figured that the church wanted to
encourage whispering during this particularly shameful rite.
62
The average confessor had two options: face-to-face or behind-the-screen. Mrs. Warner,
Mason's sixth grade religion teacher, always advocated face-to-face. She was a Reform Catholic
who came to the Church later in life of her own volition. She often told the children stories of her
first encounter with God, when her husband, an alumnus of St. Sebastian's, took her on a tour of
the Cathedral on their first date.
Mason enjoyed his version of the story infinitely more because in his imagination Mr.
Warner and the soon to be Mrs. Warner defiled the Sanctuary with a particularly violent bout of
humping. He was still a bit fuzzy on the logistics of sex, but he had a strong sense of how it was
supposed to look from Russell Barrett's dad's porno magazines. It's not that Mrs. Warner was
one of those coquettish school teachers, quit the opposite. She was warm and wide, and she had a
very motherly way about her, but there was something aggressive about her honesty that
somehow worked its way into Mason's fantasies. In them, she was always marking Mr. Warner
with long nails or sharp teeth and always demanding "More, More, More." The fact that she
would never tolerate any implication of debauchery from her students made Mason certain that
depravity lurked just under the surface of her floor length skirts and broached blouses.
Her class was designed as a little microcosm of the ideal church: the one she had always
wanted to belong to. She was pushing for a more intimate, more humane brand of Catholicism.
Unwilling to give up on the sentiment of her generation, regardless of the fact that she never
associated with or partook in the indulgences of her hippie contemporaries, Mrs. Warner
believed that if children just got to know the clergymen as people, they would seem less like a
barrier and more like a conduit to the Holy Spirit.
She strongly encouraged face-to-face confession, even to point of bribery. When the sixth
graders balked at the idea of looking a strange man in the eye and telling him all their most
63
shameful acts, Mrs. Warner instituted her "Grace Shop." It was an incentive program with a
point system and a Chuck-E-Cheese style prize booth. Students could earn "Grace Points" for a
wide variety of things, like neat homework, excellent spelling, and good classroom behavior, but
the highest honor, 100 points, was awarded to those who chose face-to-face confession. There
was a variety of prizes and candies in Mrs. Warner's store, but with 100 points a freshly
absolved confessor could wash down his or her shame with a Jolt Cola ("Twice the Caffeine,
Twice the Intensity" was scrawled across the bottle in a font that appeared to be tearing the label
apart). The incentive program was so successful that Mrs. Warner had to start shopping at Sam's
Club just to keep her shelves stocked with Jolt.
Notwithstanding the rush of confession, Mason never really felt Catholic, at least not the
way that Mrs. Warner and all his other classmates did.
The Thickening
"What the fuck you talkin' bout. You see the way he dress. I thought he was one a dem d
boys from Chappell Hill. You know dem paid ass white boys who serve all da school bois." The
girl from the club was quickly becoming a very worldly woman in Mason's eyes. She seemed
well connected and well versed in the local drug trafficking scene, and the idea that Mason might
look like he is connected to such a syndicate was, to him, the epitome of all compliments. He
knew that ifhe just held onto that lime green Coogie sweater and those white Jenco jean shorts
that style would come back around. But the crowing achievement had to be his Jordan 5s. Not
the reissued throwbacks; no, these were his original eighth grade sneakers. The ones he begged
his mother for. The ones he carried in his back pack until he got to school, for fear that some
grease from the gears of his bike would sully the crisp white uppers or the red piping or his
64
favorite part the embroidered 23 on the outside heel. Mason turns his ankle out to give himself,
one last full view of his prize possession, then slips them off along with the sweater, neatly folds
it and places the shoes atop the bundle, and presents it to his captor, head bowed, like a ring
bearer approaching the groom to be.
"Muthafucka I wear a size thirteen." The bald head says.
"I'm sure you do, sir." Mason says with a wink and a glimmer of playful sarcasm in his
eye.
"Whachu got in the car, white boy?"
"Um, quite a bit actually"
The girl from the club takes the sweater and the shoes and the three of them walk out to
the car.
Mason leads the way in his white socks and white wife beater, and lists off his
possessions in descending order of value. "I've got a two thousand watt amp, twelve inch
Pioneer subs in a custom box, a Kenwood head unit, purple Neons under the-"
"Does it look like I'm wearing a tool belt motherfucker? You think I got wire cutters and
screw drivers and shit on me?" The bald head pushes Mason out of the room and toward the car.
For the first time during this altercation Mason looks concerned. "Oh, good point."
"You got a tool belt, bitch?"
Mason isn't sure if he is the bitch in question, but the girl stays silent, which gives Mason
a pretty clear indication that he is in fact the bitch in this particular situation. After an awkward
pause he answers "No, I must have left the tool belt behind."
"Then what the fuck we talkin' bout?" The bald head pushes Mason against the Honda
and snatches the keys out of his hand. He unlocks the door and starts rummaging through
65
Mason's glove box.
"I got a mag light in there, maybe some" A tape deck. Seriously motherfucker you still got a tape deck in this bitch."
"Yeah and a 24 bar equalizer. That shit was primo back in the day. And tons of people
are looking for tape decks now because you can plug an lpod into a cassette tape adapter."
Mason recognizes the antagonism in his voice and reminds himself to tone it down.
"You got an iPod, whiteboy?"
"No. But you're a Duke fan right?"
"What?" The bald head had moved on to the compartment under the arm rest that was
full to the brim with mix tapes, which he was throwing onto the floor, completely destroying
Mason's chronological, organizational system.
"I've got something here that might interest you." Mason starts rooting through the pile
ofloose clothes in the back seat. He finds what he is looking for, pulls it out and unfurls it like a
proclamation written on a scroll. "2003 J.J. Redick alternate all black jersey, with the ACC
tournament patch. Remember when he single handedly won the ACC tourney as a freshman.
Truly spectacular performance."
The bald head extracts himself from the car, stands to his full height, almost a foot taller
than Mason, and spits on the jersey. "I'm a UNC fan. Like everybody else who stay in this bitch
ass town."
A baby cries and Mason turns to see the girl holding an infant, sitting in the passenger
seat of a rusted out Buick Century parked a few spots away. "Baby's cryin' Get yo black in this
car and let's get the fuck from round here, 'for we get knocked."
"I, I'm just saying it might bring a few dollars at a collectable store or something."
66
Mason tries to hand the jersey over. "I mean he is the leading free throw shooter in NCAA
history."
The bald head pulls the gun from his waist band, points it at the jersey and says. "Gary
Buchanan of Villanova still holds that bitch ass record. Your boy choked his senior year." Then
he trots off toward the Buick, hands the gun to Sherane through the passenger window, gets into
the driver's seat, and takes off.
Mason sits in his car, turns on the engine and watches the gas gage climb to less than a
quarter tank. He reaches back into the back seat to make sure that the pickle jar barrel full of
change is still hidden under a pile of clothes. He'll need every penny if he is going to get to
Maryland.
Chapter 3
Snow Covered Lane
The lane is completely covered in snow, which means it takes thirty minutes for the
Accord to make it from the road to Green House, but Mason doesn't mind because he has been
driving all night on impersonal highways fringed in gray slush, and the heavy white trees that
arch over the lane are starting to look like a secret passageway. This sense of awe probably has
something to do with sleep deprivation, but Mason is convinced that this is a common response
for everyone who returns to the Eastern Shore of Maryland after being gone for a long time.
It is just past dawn when Mason pulls into the driveway, so he decides to take a nap
before knocking on the Green House door. He knows it's unlocked because it used to be his
door. As far as he knows, the lock doesn't even work; if it does the key was lost ages ago.
67
He tilts his seat back, bunches up an old pair of Carhartts for a pillow, and pulls his
sleeping bag over him. The wind coming off the Chesapeake sings him to sleep, but the cold
doesn't let him stay down for long. He wakes in a white tomb. It must have started snowing just
after he fell asleep. He cracks the door open and wishes his boots weren't buried somewhere in
the trunk. The snow fills his sneakers at the ankles. Luckily it's a short hike from the driveway to
the front door.
When he worked here, Mason had the option to live on the bluff in the World War II era
log cabins. Some of the staff, the real outdoorsmen, stayed on the bluff all winter, but Mason and
the more timid of his brood elected for running water and reliable electricity. His cohort was
called Lucky 13. The Adults named each group of new staff members that arrived every season
because they had to be taught from scratch. Like a snake, the organism would regularly shed the
old scales and grow anew. Not Johnny Mann though. In ten years he was never discarded, never
took the hint, so he became the collector of the snake skins.
Mason's knuckles are numb by the time they make contact with the The Green House
door. It is a long time before he hears movement inside. Normally he would be annoyed with the
inconvenience, but time has a way of getting lost here.
He could just walk in; that probably would be preferable to Johnny Mann, but Mason
wants him to open the door. When it finally happens, it is just a crack, then the sound of
footsteps retreating back into the house. Mason walks in, heads directly to the wood stove and
starts building a teepee out of the discarded cereal boxes and stray sticks that live underneath.
The smell of strong coffee comes first then a salty voice from the kitchen "Must have
made good time."
"Yeah, I barely hit any traffic on the Bay Bridge."
68
"The Bay is gonna eat that monstrosity one day. I mean who the fuck builds two bridges
right next to one another?"
"People. The only species that wants more than we need. We'll be punished soon enough.
Don't you worry."
Derby
After his fourth unsuccessful attempt to start the fire, Mason was almost certain that the
difficulty stemmed from the amount of faces staring at him. They were all current staff members
at the Echo Hill Outdoor School, and at least twice a week they taught middle school kids how to
build a fire with two matches. Mason wasn't sure why there was so much judgment on their
faces, it wasn't as though anyone was cold. It was almost 90 degrees, and it must have been
nearly midnight. The humidity of the Chesapeake Bay in May has a way of tucking everyone in,
tight and itchy like an afghan, the one Grandma fishes out of the closet for overnight guests.
When the party was thriving, Mason couldn't wait until the sun went down because all of
his favorite memories from this place were always accompanied by a fire, the embers seething
and popping at their own pace, according to their own will. Being back here felt strange. He
remembered everything being easier. Echo Hill was supposed to be this bastion of sustainable
acceptance, but it was different being one of the alumni staffers. They called this party Derby,
and lots of old staff came back every year to reconnect, get hammered, and watch the Kentucky
Derby. It struck Mason as strange, a bunch of hippies dressed up in ridiculous hats and suits they
pieced together from the thrift store in town, shouting at a TV screen, where horses were being
whipped into a frenzy, but it was all part of this place, a tradition that kept everything wrapped
tightly together.
69
It had only been a year since he lived and worked at the outdoor school, but the staff had
almost completely turned over. The only people he remembered were The Adults and Johnny
Mann. The staff, which was mostly freshly graduated undergraduates looking for a resume
builder or some kind of domestic adventure. No one else would be willing to work a 12 hour day
then sleep in a tent with 10 middle-schoolers with loose bladders, who are away from home for
the first time. "Staff Naturalists" is what The Adults called them, which was a lie, considering
that a real Naturalist has a graduate degree in something infinitely more useful than English
Literature or Environmental Studies or Outdoor Recreation. In one sense these were Mason's
people, considering that he managed to finish his bachelor's degree in Philosophy in just under
six years, but in another sense these people were far beyond him.
Mason did his best all night to hide his jealousy of all the new staff and their
unencumbered designs on real adventure. Even though the faces had changed there were still two
fundamentally different sects within the staff. One group was sacrificing a couple of years to
make a real difference before they became attached. Their ambitions included a trip back to
wherever they did their high school foreign exchange program, a dark skinned mate that speaks
English with a British accent, and three, well-documented, brownish children. Then there were
the true vagabonds: the ones that rocked up in a rusted pickup with a cap on the back, the kind
that day laborers use to protect their tools from the rain, not the proper redneck camper with a
bed and shelves. These are the ones Mason came back for, the ones that can't sleep unless there
is a pile of dirty clothes to comfort their mangy little heads.
They look surprisingly similar, these two species of modem hippie, so Mason spent the
majority of the evening trying to sort through them in the hopes that one of the female vagabonds
would invite him to share her Therm-a-Rest for the evening. However, his first priority was to
70
avoid The Adults. They were the reason he had left in the first place. Captain Andy and Betsey
McCowan were married and shared the title of Executive Director. Below them were Kathy
Grigsby, the single mother of an adopted Guatemalan baby and Tommy Briggs, a steamboat
captain that shacked up with a girl from town, popped out a few kids and decided to settle down.
They were the figureheads of each sect, and as such it seemed that they were required to attend
each staff gathering. Kathy always came early and brought her unruly Latino-faced, Englishspeaking toddler; Tommy always arrived late, usually childless and wifeless, and didn't leave
until the beer ran out. All The Adults had come to Echo Hill, like the others, with plans of
running out a few seasons on the Bay and moving on to something bigger or better, but
something happened, love or dedication or something else that resembled the eye of a storm, so
they stayed. And it should have made them better, more understanding supervisors, having slept
in those tents, sneaking the fourth graders who still wet the bed off to the showers in the middle
of the night so that their friends don't find out and torture them. But for some reason they were
bitter or maybe just tired.
Mason figured that it was the constant interaction with the young staff, everything ahead
of them, heading off to Europe or graduate school or back home to a real family. But Mason still
wasn't sure why The Adults seemed so complacent. The idea often nagged at him, that maybe
they had pinned down something about life that had escaped him.
At first he desperately wanted them to be his communal parents. Captain Andy and
Betsey had three boys, and they seemed to flow through the school like streams, feeding the
swamp and the Bay and their parents with this genuinely rejuvenating energy. Mason thought he
might be able to do that. All of The Adults had accepted him so completely, and he thought
maybe, simply by being himself, he too could nourish this place. As time passed, opportunities
71
were passed around the table and gobbled up by a more ambitious, younger staff member. When
he arrived, Mason was already one of the oldest staffers. His stint in the Peace Corps gave him a
certain degree of status, but unfortunately his training in Philosophy, only taught him to examine
things with no practical application. When asked to hammer a nail or paddle a canoe it quickly
became clear that he was a liability, and it wore on him daily.
The kids often call him a counselor, as in "camp counselor," and he never corrected them
because he figured that was close enough to the truth. Everyone else on staff insisted that the
kids call them "teachers," because all of them had paid their dues at countless summer camps
before landing a job at Echo Hill. In the seventh grade Mason had washed out of a luxurious
summer camp in the Poconos within a week, which prompted his mother to keep Mason indoors
and close to home for the remainder of his adolescence.
Margret and Echo Hill had very different ideas about the proper treatment of children.
When a load of anxious, already awkward middle school kids pulled up the lane for a week long
field trip into the brush, they were herded off the bus, directly into an old cow paddock, and
given a long orientation speech. The first thing that was hammered into them was, "We are not
here to babysit you. This is a school, and you need to respect your Echo Hill teachers just as
much as your school teachers." Once, Mason was awarded the duties of making that
announcement, and he accidentally said "You need to respect us Echo Hill teachers as much as
your real teachers." He was quickly and permanently removed from that post.
His favorite job was leading Night Hikes. It was the last activity before bed, and each kid
was required to surrender his or her flash lights to Mason. Then he would lead them down a path
into the forest until their night vision kicked in. The idea was to see how it feels to be a nocturnal
animal. In the beginning, Mason's Night Hikes were the talk of the camp. He would make his
72
tribes howl at the moon and chase after frogs and hunt each other in pack formations, until one
too many teachers complained that a kid had taken Mason's famous Night Hike then stayed up
all night long pranking the other kids.
Failure
Betsey was one of the faces watching Mason fail at making a fire for the fourth time at
his first alumni Derby. When he looked up and saw her soft understanding smile, he prayed for a
lashing across his bottom, or a blow to the head, or at least a cantankerous comment, but she just
smiled and went back to her conversation.
It reminded him of the day she came over to the Green House, sat down on Mason's
unmade bed and explained to him in kind quiet words why he needed to change his lesson plan
for his Night Hikes. Mason stopped himself from crying in front of her, but he could feel his
mouth getting tight and the tears creeping toward the comers of his eyes. She hadn't been cruel
or condescending or wrong, but at that moment he decided that she did not and could never
understand him. So his Night Hikes became militant, silent marches, that usually included an
unscheduled trip to the swamp because Mason had tried to cover too much ground and gotten
lost again.
That was the memory he was reliving when Johnny Mann took the lighter away from him
and reformed a proper tinder box out of his leaning teepee. "I got you, my nigger." Johnny said
as the flames leapt up and under the structure. It always pissed Mason off, when Johnny Mann
called him that, not just because Johnny Mann was also white, but because he thought he knew
something about hip hop. He knew enough to call it hip hop and not rap, but he also thought that
Jay-Z was the height oflyrical profundity.
73
"This is your first Derby as an alumni, Right?" Johnny Mann asks as he places a log atop
his blazing pile of kindling.
"Yeah. It is weird, not working here anymore, you know."
"Yeah I hear you. I mean, shit, is there anybody else here that you actually worked
with?" Johnny man says while he bums the end of freshly rolled joint and passes it to Mason.
"Naw, man, I mean other than The Adults, not really." Mason takes a pull and passes it to
the random person sitting to his left.
"Yeah I guess we had kind of a mass exodus after last season. Sage went to Brazil to
study spiders or some shit. Gethan went back to Australia to finish up his doctorate. Adam has
been dirtbagging around Joshua Tree since like December. And Amber, sweet sweet Amber
moved back to Colorado to work at that boarding school. I guess she's got some sweet rec leader
type of job at this legit outdoor school. They don't do field trips man, they are full on, 24-7
learning it by doing it."
"Yeah she told me. She seemed really happy the last time I talked to her." Most of the
reason he came here was the prospect of seeing her. It was Mason's way of blowing on that last
ember of hope that things might finally work out. Amber was the only one that Mason tried to
keep in touch with after he left. Johnny Mann was like the Bay itself, he would always be there,
but Amber had been a moment, a cool summer breeze, the reason kids chase after jack rabbits,
not because they really want to catch them, just cause they want to run. "She's teaching there,
right?"
"I don't think they call her a teacher. I think she is like the dorm mother or some shit.
Basically she shows them how to survive in the backcountry, then she fucking tests 'em for like
weeks at a time. And the kids do all the navigation, and if they wanna hike off a cliff she fuckin'
74
lets 'em. And then shows the rest of them how to pick up the pieces. It's crazy real shit."
Amber stopped calling Mason shortly after he told her that he loved her. She was a
couple thousand miles away at the time, and he was a couple fingers deep into a bottle of
Bushmills. "Wow I haven't heard from her in a long time."
"Yeah you always had it bad for her, huh?"
"You could say that."
"Well, my friend, it is a new day here. I don't know if you've noticed but at the moment
we're sitting on a 2 to 1 ratio of chicks to dicks. And there are a few who have gone so far as to
claim the next eligible dick that pulls up on campus, sight unseen."
"Is that right?"
"Yes sir. So if you were gonna ask me, and I think you should, I'd say it's about time for
a little forgettin' and lot of not rememberin."'
Swamp Boardwalk
"It was wrong, and I just wanted to say that I am sorry."
"What the fuck are you talking about?" Johnny Mann stops hammering for a minute to
look up at Mason.
"That day when one of the kids shit on the floor in the latrine, and you asked for
volunteers to clean it up and nobody stepped up."
"When was that?" Johnny Mann resumes a steady rhythm of hammering.
"Just forget it man. Pass me a handful of nails, would ya?" Mason has a habit of
apologizing for things that everyone else has forgotten about.
"So were there other people there? Or did I just ask you?"
75
"You gathered us up. It was like the second week of the season. You seriously don't
remember this."
"Um no, and ifthere was a bunch of other people that bitched out, why do you still feel
responsible?" With only two swings, Johnny Mann sinks another nail into the floor board of the
swamp boardwalk, which is a mile and a half walkway made of wooden planks that sit about a
foot above the surface of the swamp. The walkway connects a series of platforms where classes
on ecology, wildlife, water quality and decomposition are taught during most of the school year.
"I don't know. I guess I just wanted to apologize for not stepping up and helping you out
more while I was here."
"Wow, there is a bunch of shit you gotta let go man." Johnny Mann hops over a rotted
section and reaches into his tool belt for a fresh nail.
"Yeah I think that's what I was trying to do." Mason walks out onto the middle of the
rotten plank, jumps up and down until it collapses under his weight, dunking him into the frigid
marsh, and pulls the broken pieces from the muck. This time he only sinks in up to his belly
button. Luckily Mason is wearing chest waders today.
"Too bad you're not tall." Johnny Mann says with a smirk.
"What you don't want to rush me back home, shower me up, and feed me chicken noodle
soup like yesterday. I'm telling you, man, you'd make a fine night nurse." During the winter
break most of the staff goes home. The Adults and Johnny Mann stay on to make repairs. This
year's project is to replace the parts of the sagging, rotten parts of the swamp boardwalk, which
is always in some state of dangerous disrepair. The anchors are concrete, but each floor plank is
only 8 inches wide. They added a handrail at some point in the 80s when a kid fell into a patch of
leeches. The Adults have a way of passing off these kinds of incidents like they are a natural part
76
of the Echo Hill adventure. They do the same thing with the rats that live under the tent
platforms, the dilapidated latrines, and just about everythingjanky and old on the property,
which was just about everything. The truth is that Echo Hill had been on the verge of bankruptcy
since the day it opened, but they somehow find a way to make it work, one plank at a time.
Best Day Ever - Amber
"Would you ever want to be famous?" Mason had a cache of conversation starters that he
had developed over the years to combat awkward silences.
"So what kind of famous do you think of me as?" The fire light licked Amber's face like
a dog reunited with its owner after a long trip.
"Um I think you'd want to be a pop star. Like your boy Michael Jackson or Price or all
that other shit you listen too."
"Shut the fuck up. You love Prince," she said with a coquettish little smile.
"Yeah you're right about that."
"No, I would never really want to be a star." Amber had a way of guiding the
conversation away from his agenda.
"What? You seriously would take a pass if L.A. Reid just walked into the Green House
and said here's a check for a couple of mil? All I ask in return is that you tour the world, make a
bunch of people super happy for like two hours and then go to another amazing location where
you get do it all again."
Her eyes got so big that he could see the fire reflected off of them, "quit talking so loud,
you're gonna wake the kids."
It was the last week of the summer, and Mason had finally landed a canoe trip with
77
Amber. During the summer Echo Hill stopped being a school and the staff turned into tour
guides for boat trips that ran up and down the bay. Mason had pushed for an early bed time for
the middle school participants because he desperately wanted some alone time with Amber.
"Oh, shit, my bad. Was I being that loud?" He was crushed momentarily, but as soon as
she started talking again he completely forgot everything.
"Ok, so I see it like this right. Even in a job like that, really I think this is true for artists
of any kind, they are kind of providing people with a feeling, right? A good feeling most of the
time, or a way to express a bad feeling which leads to a good feelings down the road right?"
As she spoke Mason noticed his jaw slackening and quickly tightened it up for fear that she
might notice his overwhelming sense of awe. "So basically a pop star makes like 20,000 people
happy for like 2 hours. And then those people go home to their everyday lives?"
"Yeah I guess. I mean I think there is the occasional concert that just blows your whole
perspective askew, and you have to do something, change something in the fundamental make up
of your everyday life." He paused and checked for any sign of encouragement. "It's kind oflike
a great concert can make it impossible to go back to your normal life."
"Ok ... " Her pause and her scrunched up face made Mason retreat back into himself.
"Have you been to a lot of those kinds of concerts?"
"I have, once or twice."
"Oh yeah tell me about it." It didn't feel like she was challenging him; she never did that
when they were alone. It felt like she really wanted to know.
"Um it's not really .. .it wouldn't sound right ifl told it." He wasn't lying or exaggerating
either. He had been to concerts that had changed him; he just wasn't particularly proud of what
he'd become since then.
78
"Hump." She said as she curled the left corner of her mouth in a way that reminded
Mason of the tunnel a wave makes right before it crashes into the sand. "Ok, so let's say a
quarter of the audience feels that rush of self revelation, and they genuinely go home and change
their lives somehow. Why is that more valuable than those two hours?"
"What the fuck are you talking about?" He worried that it sounded too insulting, what he
was going for was playful, but more importantly he needed to know the answer, so he leaned in
and shut up.
"Like the times we are making for these kids right now. I mean, yeah, maybe they go
home and recycle a little bit more because they saw a stray bottle caught in the reeds as we
paddled by, but really, what are they going to remember from this trip, once all the names and
the faces start to fade ... " She gives him the opportunity to answer, but he has nothing. "Joy, pure
joy. That's what makes it all worth it."
"Yeah, I hear you, but think about this. These kids are like twelve or thirteen years old
right, and they are changing and developing every day in really dramatic ways. I mean they are
basically deciding who they are going to be right now, and we get to be part of that. We get to
nudge them a little."
"Really, you want to nudge these kids. First of all that sounds so creepy, second calm the
fuck down, we are here to show them how much fun it can be out here. I mean, the stakes ain't
that high man. Sometimes it's just about havin' a good time." She tucked an errant strand of hair
behind her ear, picked up a stick and spread out the fire, so that the flames died and only the
coals were exposed.
"Yeah, I hear you. It is important to make sure their initial experience in the wilderness is
positive. I mean being out here can be hard, but if we put it in the right context-"
79
"No, no context, no nudging, it's not any harder to be out here than it is to be out there."
She's stood and unbuckled her belt. "And you get to look at this every night." She tore down her
pants, picked up the latrine shovel, put it between her legs and pissed a stream off the spade and
directly onto the coals of the fire. The smell and the smoke was putrid for a moment, and then it
cleared, and they both were struck dumb, staring up at a dome stars.
A Real Future
"So when do your Steelers get their shit together and win a few games." Captain Andy
puts a hand right behind Mason's triceps and squeezes it twice, just like he always does. The
gesture is almost as warm as the Blue Bird, the only bar in Worton, Maryland. It looks exactly
the same as Mason remembers it, not just the bar but the town too.
"You're just saying that because Raven's fans finally have something to brag about. Caw,
seriously. Caw is the best battle cry you can come up with," Mason says. Every man from Echo
Hill starts every conversation with football, which is fine by Mason because football has always
been his go to in uncomfortably masculine situation. Nevertheless, Mason does wonder ifthe
Captain remembers anything about him other than the fact that their teams are bitter rivals.
"Ok, so maybe it wasn't a great idea to name the team after a literary reference to
jealousy and spite. But you have to admit, our boy Flacco can heave the pig skin around." The
Captain was the only man at an all women's drama school before becoming a captain and codirector of Echo Hill, which means there is always a bit of dramatic old timey flair to whatever
he says.
"Yeah, he's the truth. And I have to admit I am a little bit jealous. I'm not saying I would
want Fiacco, but it would be nice if the Steelers didn't have a rapist at the helm." Mason caught
80
hell when the Roethlisberger rape scandal broke, which was more than five years ago now, but
he still remembers a few scathing comments from Captain Andy.
"Yeah, there is that." Captain Andy is wearing the same Carharttjacket that he wore
when Mason worked for him. Andy was never a real captain, not in the sense that he ever lived
off of the fish he caught. But just about every day, for the last thirty years, he motors a work boat
out into the Bay and drags a trawl net across the muddy bottom. What he brings up, the random
Blue Crabs, Pumpkin Fish, American Eels, and old shoes, etc., they become his text books. The
first time Mason assisted with the Captain's Bay Studies class, he was terrified. Standing on the
stem, hauling that battered net up onto the deck, anything could have come out of that murky
brown water. The ten kids huddled at the bow were right there with Mason, right where Captain
Andy put them. "Stand back boys and girls, this part can get a little bit fishy." He would shout at
them, right before the womb of the net came up over the rail and splayed its flopping, wiggling
bounty all over the deck. There was that time when a hungry osprey swooped down and plucked
a fish right out of Captain Andy's hand, or the other time when an eel tried to find refuge up the
pant leg of an overly curious little boy. Mason wasn't sure if these stories were true or just
cautionary tales designed to keep the kids in line. Either way he missed them and thought about
them often, even now, when he was close enough to see the man and smell the National
Bohemian on his breath.
"So I want to thank you, Mason, for helping out around here these past couple of weeks.
It has been really great having you around again." The Captain says with another signature arm
grab.
"Thanks, Cap, that really means a lot to me. And I have really appreciated you giving me
my old room back and letting me raid the kitchen with Johnny Mann."
81
"Yeah, well, you know how it is around here. We don't have a lot of cash, but we've got
enough frozen burgers to feed an army." Captain Andy pulls him close. "Why don't you come
back, work the season and just see how it goes."
Mason wants to stop and really consider what the Captain is telling him, think it through
and really let the idea settle. Waiting out the winter by the wood stove in the Green House, three
square meals a day, a new batch oflonely girls, it all sounds so nice, but he has already played
out every possible scenario out in his head, and all of them end with a soft, warm compromise.
Mason left because he was looking for something harder, something hard enough to break him
and someone kind enough to put him back together. "Wow, Cap, that is a generous offer, and
Johnny Mann told me that you guys are short staffed, but I just don't think I can hack it, not now,
not after so much time has passed."
"It's like ridin' a bike, son. I'm tellin' yah. You just jump back in the saddle, and it'll all
come back to ya."'
Mason steps out of the Captain's grip, "I'd love to, I really, really wish I could." He can
feel the words sticking in his throat. "Thanks for the beer. And it was great to see the boys and
you and Betsey, but I gotta go." And with that Mason walks out the door, toward his car.
Rockfish
"Front door or back Door?" Amber asked.
"Front Door!" Mason yelled, taking the safe option.
"Back Door!" Amber yelled louder, then took a full beer down in one gulp.
The idea was to shock or surprise or tickle your opponent with the answer to the opening
question, then to chug a beer and flip the empty cup upside down as fast as possible. Mason tried
82
to keep up, but he was still choking, and spewing beer through his nose by the time Amber had
successfully flipped her cup upside down. Flip Cup was one of many drinking games that were
staples at Rock Fish, the party that celebrated the end of the Fall season at Echo Hill. The end of
the season was a great relief to Mason. This was his third season working at Echo Hill, and he
was coming to terms with the fact that he never really liked the unfiltered outdoors.
"You son of a bitch." He put a finger in Amber's face and let a smile slide over his own.
"You know that is some grade A bull shit. You never let anybody through your back door... Did
you?"
"Bull shit?" Amber asked incredulously. "There's a lot you don't know about me
anymore, Mr. Mason."
"So you're telling me that in the three short months since you left us, you have turned
into a butt fucking, Rocky Mountain climbing, bass ass."
"First of all, I have always been a bad ass, and yes, I have been climbing a lot, and I don't
remember any mention of butt fucking. I'm pretty sure the question referred to a door." The
Echo Hill version of Flip Cup game always started with an overtly innocent, but obviously lewd
question designed to throw the more squeamish off his or her game. Mason was normally better
at keeping his wits about him and his beers inside him. After a fifth one-sided victory all of the
other players decided to disperse and try their luck at one of the other more forgiving games that
Rock Fish had to offer, which gave Mason the coveted one-on-one time with Amber that he had
been angling for all night.
"It's all rich kids at this boarding school of yours, right?" She was taking a drink, so he
waited for her to look up at him and nod. He would always remember the way her green eyes
looked, peaking out above the rim of that red Solo cup. "So how rich are they?"
83
"Oh no, don't start with your shit about how I should be serving a population that really
needs it. The truth is that we are making a real impact on the future leaders of the country and
showing them a different way to think about-"
"No, no no, no I wasn't thinking that at all. Every kid deserves a good time. They don't
choose who their parents are. And regardless-" Mason loved it when she cut him off. He never
could wait to hear what she said next.
"Wait, don't ruin it." She put down her drink, raised her hands and pretended to gather
everyone around. Nobody else was even looking in their direction, so she cuddled her shoulder
right into his arm pit, forcing him to put an arm around her shoulder. Then she put a finger in her
ear, made a fake microphone out of her fist, and put it up to her mouth. "Hold on Bob, I'm
getting word that we have a breaking report. It seems that Mason O'Leary, world class cynic,
and champion bullshitter, has made a completely uncomplicated comment." She took a moment
to listen to her imaginary ear piece. Mason tried to catch a glimpse of her eyes again, but they
were hidden behind her flaming, red curls. "That's right, Bob, we are making history as we
speak. I'm going to try and get a reaction from him right now." She put the microphone fist
under his mouth "So how does it feel to-Ouch!" He bit her fist, a bit harder than he had
indented, but he got the response he was looking for: a belly laugh with all the head shaking and
hair tumbling that he had hoped for.
"I've been meaning to thank you. I like it a lot better here, now that I'm not trying to
spark the revolution, with every Night Hike."
She palmed his cheek. "Why are your eyes always so sad? Even when you smile?" He
gently pushed his face back into her hand, trying not to divulge the fact that he desperately
wanted her to keep her hand right where it was. "You don't have to give up the revolution you
84
know. You just have to find a little bit of somethin' somewhere along the way."
He couldn't help the tear that settled down between her fingers, and she didn't seem to
notice, so the shame didn't have a chance to set in before she twirled away in a flurry oflong,
layered skirts and bouncing, auburn curls. He wanted to say something like thank you, but he
never did, and he never touched her again. There was something about her though, that he was
able to keep. And after a long while, he came to realize that the something wasn't even hers
anymore.
85