Swing
Page 3
Everything’s not political.
Actually, everything is. You either uphold the status quo,
or you see what’s wrong and try to change it.
. . . .
Hey, look over there. Isn’t that ironic? she says, pointing
at the two police officers
removing
the cluster
of flags
lined up
like tombstones
along the outfield fence.
Stars and Stripes
Like people
in uniform,
flags salute
everywhere
you look.
They wave,
reminding you
this is America.
They’re the biggest news
to hit our town
in years,
subject of news broadcasts,
letters to the editors,
Sunday sermons,
and daily gossip.
Is it something suspicious
or patriotic?
Littering or
liberty?
It could be a terrorist or extremist group distracting us,
mocking us before an attack, one of my classmates said
last week.
Who cares, another one offered.
I say nothing.
Are they really hurting anyone?
I mean, it’s the flag.
To me, it’s all just
kinda insane,
because no one can agree
on why the flags are here,
who’s planting them,
and whether or not
we should be
happy or offended
that they’re growing
like dandelions.
Batter Up
After an inning
of near-perfect pitches,
Cruz struts
up to bat.
Sam wiggles
in her seat,
bending forward
with a burst of pride.
He hunches
his upper back,
shimmies
his front leg,
ready for a hit
that’ll send the scouts
chasing his tail.
I hate that his swing
is so slick,
catlike.
Smooth like velvet
then lightning fast.
But he misses.
YES! I scream to myself.
Sam hides
her face
in my shirt
then peeks.
He misses again.
C’mon, babe, she whispers. He must be off tonight.
It happens, I say, with
a little burst
of my own pride,
and hope
that he strikes out.
But he doesn’t.
He SLAMS one
to Jupiter
and everyone starts
jumping and shouting,
and the face
that was in my shirt
seconds ago
is now
in the air
screaming, GO, CRUZ, GO!!!
He slides into third base.
At least it wasn’t
a home run, I think,
faking a smile.
A Lonesome Ride
After the game,
Sam and Cruz
take off
like lovers
eloping.
I hop
on a bus
by myself,
single
and discouraged.
On the way home,
I sit
in the last row, stare
out the window,
imagining
the static stares,
the glares
from people
wanting to know
why I haven’t
told her
how I feel.
Did the old guy
sporting the applejack hat
and bushy mustache
just look up
from his newspaper
and shake his head
in disgust
at me?
The sign above
my seat
reads In Emergency Break Glass.
This is an emergency.
I feel broken.
Why haven’t I told her? WHY HAVEN’T I TOLD HER?!
Why haven’t you told her? the old man asks, in my head.
And don’t even think about breaking that window. It’s
illegal. A federal offense.
So is loving someone
for this long
and not doing something
about it.
Phenomenal
Samantha “Sam” Worthington
is a dancing, swaying, prowling contradiction.
She is tough and kind.
Confident and uncertain.
Grounded, but if she had sparrow’s wings
she’d soar off and probably never return.
She does whatever she wants.
To borrow a line from a book we read last year,
She’s a woman, a phenomenally phenomenal woman.
She sparkles.
And I’ve been seeing stars
ever since third grade
when Zach Labrowski—the bus patrol, the dictator
of the big yellow kingdom on wheels—
told me to get out of his seat and I wouldn’t.
So he punched me.
I was the new kid who didn’t know The Rules.
Out of nowhere came Sam.
She pushed Zach Labrowski
out of the seat, then
squeezed in next to me
and offered a tissue
’cause apparently there was a tear.
Or maybe a couple.
Her eyes were like two fiery sunsets,
full of warmth and concern,
and I kinda knew right then I would love her
for the rest of my life.
Phone Conversation
Yo, what happened to you?
My bad, Walt. I kinda got sidetracked.
Who’s Walt?
Huh?
The name’s Swing, remember?
Oh yeah, well, I’m sorry, Swing. I got caught up in
something else.
Successful people jump at opportunity and take
advantage of it.
Stop with the podcast stuff. It’s stupid.
Actually, that was Sir Mix-a-Lot. I saw him on Ellen.
. . . .
So, why’d you bail on me?
Sam and I went to the mall.
WOOHOO! Are you serious? Why didn’t you lead with
that?
It was nothing. We just talked, and I helped her pick out
some dresses for prom.
Wait, you helped your soulmate pick out dresses to wear to
prom with her boyfriend? On Valentine’s Day, no less?
. . . .
Are you even aware of how ridiculously muddled that
decision was?
Look, it all happened so fast.
You’re fastly becoming her forever friend, and once that
happens, there’s no upgrade available.
Upgrade?
Friendship is like the Great Wall of China, dude. Once
it goes up, you’re never getting to the other side.
. . . .
We really need to go see Floyd. It’s getting crucial.
Tomorrow.
Tonight.
Seriously, I just got home, and I haven’t eaten yet.
And, Ms. Miller gave me until midnight to turn my
paper in.
Trivial details. We will eat at Dairy Queen. Ms. Miller
extends extensions all the time. Just tell her you’ve been
stressed ’cause your parents are going to Barcelona and
you’ll be alone.
I guess.
Spain
Each year,
the International Hotel Association
holds their week-long conference
where hotel managers
talk about hotels
from sunup
to sundown,
then get drunk
and post videos
of horrible, late-night
karaoke sessions.
This year,
it’s in Barcelona.
My parents
were chosen
to represent
the local chain
of hotels
they manage,
and they’re staying
an extra three weeks
to celebrate Mom’s birthday
on a twenty-one-day European cruise
they asked me to join them on,
and which I politely declined
for obvious reasons.
La Quinta
Yo, let’s get a luxury suite at La Quinta and have a
party. Throw the biggest jam of the year.
How about there are no luxury suites at La Quinta.
Doesn’t matter. We can do a poolside party. I’ll DJ,
try to get my Aunt Barbara to make mini-quiches and
wiener rolls.
How about NO.
What’s the point of having hotel moguls as parents if
you can’t floss?
They manage three hotels—they’re not moguls. Plus,
nobody’s ever flossed at La Quinta.
C’mon, Noah, they’re gone for, like, a month. In the
history of child-rearing, nobody’s parents have ever left
for a month. This is a historic moment. The universe is
saying yes to us. We must represent for all kids, or this
may never happen again. Ever.
. . . .
We must fast track cool. We must throw the dopest party
imaginable.
Not happening.
Your loss.
I can accept that.
I’m on my way. Be ready.
Fine.
Tattoo
Walt is sloth slow
when it comes to
going somewhere,
primarily because
of his hang-ups,
or superstitions;
like he can’t walk
up or down
the same side of the street
on the same day,
or in and out
of the same door
when he’s coming
or going somewhere.
Today is no different.
I sit and wait, until
my gangly best friend
walks up in a muscle shirt
with no muscles,
wearing
throwback headphones—playing
jazz, no doubt—
and something
dark and blue
affixed
to the skin
on his left shoulder.
Inked
WHAT. IS. THAT?
I got a tattoo.
When?
When you bailed on me earlier, he says, peeling away
the wrap to reveal . . . WHAT THE?!
Dude, if you were going for the Tupac look, you
missed terribly. They left off the T, and you need
them to fix it ASAP before you get roasted over an
open pit of hell at school come tomorrow.
Nah, bro. It’s not a mistake. I didn’t want THUG Life.
I wanted—
HUG Life? Have you lost your mind?
I haven’t. I am more enriched today than yesterday.
Woohoo Woman has taught me more than I ever
dreamed I could know about life and—
Did your mom see it?
Not yet, but my new soon-to-be, almost stepfather did.
He took me to get it. We’re bonding. Hug Life. Get it?
You’ve gone overboard.
You must embrace life with a metaphorical hug, and
sometimes a literal hug, to really squeeze the life juice,
the goodness, out of living.
I’m done.
No, we’re just beginning. Dairy Queen, here we come!
Wanna hug?
Dairy Queen
Walt struts in
like this whole thing—
our whole life—
is a movie.
And he’s the lead.
He orders
a garden salad,
chili cheese fries,
plus a Cappuccino MooLatté
like he’s ordering
vodka on the rocks.
Please, don’t mix all three.
Please, don’t, I say to him.
His cousin Floyd swaggers
in from the back
with a smile
bigger than Orion,
locks that nearly drag
the floor, and
two huge front teeth
as white as the shake
freezing my brain.
He takes a few orders,
makes a few cones,
then sits down
across from us
and starts nodding
like he’s the principal
and we just
got sent
to the office.
Walt begins to talk,
but Floyd shushes him,
waves his finger,
closes his eyes,
and starts tying his hair
into a bun.
Apparently, weird runs
in this family.
Conversation
Floyd’s got dates tonight, so let’s giddyup. What’s up,
little cousin?
Everything’s copacetic, Walt says.
I see you’re still wearing those pop bottle glasses. Didn’t I
tell you, the ladies only dig them if they’re fresh?
I’m working on it, Floyd. I’m saving my paper for some
nice frames the chicks will love.
Hold on there, partner. Floyd cannot school you on your
feminine consciousness if you’re using that language.
Ladies, women, yeah, but never, EVER chicks. That’s
sexist. Tell ’em, kid, he says, looking at me with one eye
open.
Yeah, I guess, I say.
My bad, Floyd.
You still listening to the podcast, right?
Indeed.
Good, ’cause that’s the textbook to a richer life for ya.
Those sisters are preaching the gospel! The heart of a
woman beats like a raindrop on a crag. You understand,
right? he says, looking at both of us with his eyes wide
open now. I nod my head, pretending like I do.
I heard there’s a wedding. Floyd didn’t get an invite, but
Floyd may crash it. You pumped, little cousin?
Her guy wants me to be his best man.
Well?
It’s peculiar at best. At worst, creepy.
Do you like him?
I don’t dislike him.
You talk to Uncle Albert?
I haven’t talked to my dad in months. He’s got a girlfriend
in Texas.
Giddyup, then.
. . . .
Your future stepdad is a lucky man. Aunt Reina was
always fine as full-bodied wine.
. . . .
. . . .
. . . .
What? It’s not like Floyd’s trying to Oedipus your mom . . .
Anyway, what’s up with you guys?
I keep telling my best bro, Noah here, that he needs to hear
from you how to talk to a chi—woman. From a real-world
romance guru. He’s got the love for her, but he can’t tell
her. The words get
in his way.
Dig it. Just call Floyd Casanova.
June 4, 1798. Died in a library. Was reading a book, then
BAM!
Huh?
He knows how famous people died, I say.
Real talk, cousin?
It’s a gift.
Like anybody?
Anybody famous, infamous, or noteworthy.
How about Bob Marley?
He was playing soccer, and he injured his toe.
He died from a toe injury? C’mon, really?
No, but they found a cancerous growth on the same toe,
and then it spread to his brain and lungs, and then BAM!
That’s so random, but intriguing. Marilyn Mon—
Uh, I gotta get home soon, I say.
Right. Sorry, Noah, my dude. You’ve come to the right
place. So, tell Floyd about this young lady.
What do you want to know?
How does she wear her hair, what kind of music does she
listen to, any piercings, name of her perfume, last book she
read, vanilla or chocolate, how she makes you feel—you
know, the crucial happenings in her day-to-day world?
This Is What I Know about Sam
She laughs, I smile
from ear to ear.
She smells so good,
I can taste it.
She cries and I want to make everything better.
She raises an eyebrow and I quiver.
She loves mint chocolate chip ’cause she’s sweet.
She wears her hair like a queen.