gods with a little g

by Tupelo Hassman

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  for Bradford

  The high aspirations and ambitions of adolescence shrivel as life advances, and because many of its promises are unfulfilled, philosophers have urged that unless there be immortality our nature is a lie.

  —G. STANLEY HALL, Adolescence: Its Psychology, 1904

  I’ll sing to you of silver swans,

  of kingdoms and carillons.

  I’ll sing of bodies intertwined

  underneath an innocent sky.

  —ARIEL’S POEM, Footloose, 1984

  THE MEASURE OF GOODNESS

  If you were flying in a plane over Rosary, California, the first thing you’d see is me, a skinny white girl with messy hair and a big backpack, waving you on. “Keep going,” I’d say. The second thing you’d see, on an afternoon when school was just out and the wind was starting to shift, would be teenagers closing in on a tire yard like bits of metal pulling to a magnet. Until we were all gathered there, negative and positive, and jumping from the force of being near each other.

  If I told you a Genesis story fit for our teenage congregation, it would be just the opposite of the church-and-the-steeple rhyme my mom used to tell, her fingers the multitude gathered for worship. Here’s the church, here’s the steeple, open the door, and see all the people. In this version, the tire yard is the church and the best rhyme for “steeple” is “deep hole.” In this version, you go in when the doors open, and you let them close behind you. As your eyes adjust to the gloom, you see all the Dickheads. And that doesn’t rhyme at all.

  Mo’s brother, Tucker, started working at Fast Eddie’s Tire Salvage two summers ago. Then he started working late. Then he started hanging out later and drinking Fast Eddie’s beer. And the rest of us followed. Tucker begat Mo, Mo begat Bird, Bird begat Cy and Sissy and everyone else stupid enough to have a crush on him. Which would be me. My name is Helen. The Dickheads call me Hell.

  So, which came first, the Dickheads or their girls? Which came first? Beer. The beer begat us all. Bespat us. It called our names. And we came running, flying, climbing fences, breaking curfews, spilling rhymes. Here are the Dickheads going nowhere, here are the Dickheads making dares.

  We dared each other at first just to drink the beer, then to drink more beer, then to get the beer. More beer. Then we dared each other to do more of all the things we want to do but don’t dare on our own. We got drunk together over and over again until getting drunk together became something. Until we became something. And on one of those early evenings as the light in Rosary was fading, back in the early days when the glow from those first beers still warmed us all the way home, we were christened. Sissy said, without thinking, maybe, “See you dickheads tomorrow.” And it stuck, hard. Like we’re stuck, here with each other. The best and worst of everyone we know, doing what we must but shouldn’t, becoming who we are and always will be. Without thinking, maybe.

  Dickheads forever.

  COUNTRY TORE

  Rosary’s skyline is a graveyard. A line of crosses and bell towers march on forever, each taller than the last. It turns out that size does matter, and so Rosary’s founders created an ordinance allowing no structure within city limits to have a higher reach than God’s, as represented by the tallest of the many church steeples erected in His honor. And none does. Except the refinery. Rosario Bay Oil Refinery is exempt from the ordinance because it was here first and because without it, none of Rosary exists. The refinery has a pole rising from its center, higher than any of its smokestacks, which burn all day and all night over the crosses below. A red light flashes at the very top, warning planes away. It blinks there, far above it all, like a message left by God Himself that no one has bothered to check.

  The city of Sky is Rosary’s closest neighbor, just across a miles-long bridge built over the soggy delta and the bay, and it has a real skyline, jagged with buildings competing for the light. Sky also has real movie theaters and real schools. It has the real internet. And real scientific facts. In Rosary, the internet is policed, so we read our porn from books like the ancient peoples did. And in Rosary, dinosaurs and man lived together at the same time and fossil fuels aren’t any of our concern. If the ice caps are melting, that is God’s plan.

  Get thee behind me, Science.

  My dad is a member of the Council for the Peaceful Reconciliation of Rosary and Sky and it is worth noting that everyone on the council is from Rosary. In an effort to bring new business into Rosary, to bring any business into Rosary, the council sends letters to hopeful prospects from Sky and cities like it, explaining why the businessperson in question is being invited. I’ve seen these on our computer at home. They read stiff, the way no one talks. It’s kind of like porn, really, because you can’t believe anyone is going to take a come-on like this seriously. Except in porn, the come-on works. All the lonely, unlikely sex god has to say is hello, and the next thing you know there is a bra on the lampshade. But no legitimate business is jumping into bed with the City of Rosary, especially with an invite like this:

  Mr. Boreal,

  I would like to officially inform you that we hereby invite you, the following individual, Mr. Boreal, to visit Rosary to attend the biannual seminar, entitled, “Dr. Baker’s Scientific Efforts on Faith and the Big Bang,” to be held in Rosary, CA, by the Council for the Peaceful Reconciliation of Rosary and Sky. We would be honored by your participation at our conference, given your work with the Sky Observatory and its resulting tourism.

  The conference will also invite other scholars from various fields to participate in this event. We have appreciated the work you have done and sincerely feel that your participation will contribute to the success of this conference.

  The Council will pay in full for room, board, transportation, and your other sundry expenses in service of the Peaceful Reconciliation of Rosary and Sky.

  Yours respectfully,

  Elijah Dedleder

  Council Member

  The Reconciliation Council’s learning curve, if I’m being generous, is as flat as my chest. There is not a soul in Sky, saved or damned, who doesn’t choke with laughter at these letters, who doesn’t immediately toss them in the trash or the shredder. Sky is done with turning the other cheek. Has had it up to here. The bridge is burned. The ship has sailed. There are no metaphors left for all the ways that Sky is done with Rosary’s bullshit.

  I was just a kid during the election that created the first rip in the seams of this country, this county, even in some families. And with every election that came after, we the people unraveled. The leaders of Rosary stepped right up like they’d been waiting for just such an opportunity and set about joining church and state while separating the rest of us based on race and sexual preference and other things that make them wet their pants with fear. After years of lawsuits from the City of Rosary on the supposed behalf of “minors taken advantage of by the irresponsible availability of unnecessary elective medical procedures in Sky,” the city no longer welcomes any of us. Sky finally found a way to give Rosary a taste of its own medicine, by telling us who they think belongs. And who doesn’t. Rosary citizens can’t go to Sky for any of life’s basics—birth control or an R-rated movie, even if you are seventeen, not for anything at all. Not unless we have a fake ID with a Sky address on it. Or are in documented medical distress.r />
  Believe me, we all try to document our distress around here as carefully as we can. Only, maybe not in the ways you would think.

  INCANDESCENT

  The bulb is bare and hot to the touch. It’s old-school, the shape of a cartoon idea, and throws a brighter kind of light than the new ones that last forever and won’t burn the house down. There is no hiding before it. And that’s good. Mistakes are made in the shadows.

  “Your only job,” Tucker says when I sit down, “is to hold still and not block the light.”

  Then he unwraps a needle. He makes a big show of pulling the wrapper open, the way he’s done with each of the wrappers already empty under his table. Sterility is a sign of his professionalism. I’m the third to sit here tonight, to take off my shirt or pull up my sleeve or turn the chair around and lean over it with my pants down. Now it is my turn to look at the wall and pretend to study the old map hanging there because I am so bored and I feel no pain.

  Tucker dips the needle into black ink, our only option, and as the needle touches the soft skin of my forearm, the motor of his homemade tattoo machine whirs out a word into my skin that is copied from my mother’s own handwriting.

  It starts with a looping l, bent on leaving.

  I feel pain.

  The motor sounds like those in the sewing machines lining the tables in home economics at Rosary High. It’s a gray noise underneath plastic, faint and determined.

  Next, an o.

  I am not bored.

  Then, a comma. Not unlike those that God supposedly favors in place of a period. Not unlike their reminder to take a breath and carry on.

  But this noise is not the one we are used to hearing. The sewing machines with Rosary High girls bent over them—the way our sisters and mothers bent over them before, making the same aprons, napkins, place mats, tablecloths—that sound is the sound of the past.

  The sound of Tucker’s motor is the sound of the future, with a capital F and a capital U.

  LO,

  Tucker saved money from two Rosary summers slinging tires at Fast Eddie’s to buy the parts for this tattoo machine and for secret trips to Sky’s tattoo shops to watch and learn. And then he took off. Whenever he sneaks home to visit, he posts up at Fast Eddie’s, and so long as we pay for the ink and let him take pictures when he’s done, our tattoos are free. Dickhead discount.

  He dips the needle. Starts the second word.

  A small p.

  This is all completely illegal, of course. Because Tucker can’t get a license here.

  A little e.

  And because we’re teenagers.

  A little t and a.

  The very last thing we have control over is our own bodies.

  A little l rising up, like a sail caught in a wind.

  THE LAST WORD

  In Rosary, the kiss of God wetting a babe’s forehead in baptism is the only approved bodily modification. Because God doesn’t make mistakes.

  A small r.

  If He’d wanted those words or flowers or birds, if He’d wanted that arrow on you, He’d have slung it there Himself.

  A small i.

  As the little dot above the i takes the shape of the tiniest flower, I beg to differ.

  An s, an e, an r.

  If God is allowed the postscript of baptism, if He forgot something so important as salvation’s own bar code, who’s to say He didn’t drop a stitch elsewhere? If Pastor Ted is doing His work at the baptismal font, it seems to me like Tucker might be doing His work here too, with his stolen batteries and clean needles, in the dazzling white light that chases out the shadows. This pot of ink might be just another font we dip into to add what God forgot.

  PS

  Tattoos will be outlawed in Rosary soon. Not just creating them but having them. The Rosary Bible Thumpers will get a doctor to say they cause anemia, or are contagious, and he will be believed. They will have to be camouflaged, hidden, the way piercings are. If by some anti-miracle a Rosary High student scores a piercing, it has to be removed before school lest a flash of metal cause a distraction from our studies. We don’t have uniforms, but there are many rules like this at Rosary to make us uniform.

  For now, tattoos are discouraged in the usual boring ways, with laws and licenses and red tape. Tattoo licenses aren’t issued in Rosary. Period. A rig like Tucker’s can’t even be built here unless instructions are brought in from the outside. The batteries used to run it are the same as those used for fire alarms and children’s toys, but they are still kept locked up in every store across this city, just like condoms and cans of spray paint.

  * * *

  This is my first tattoo. Right over the thin blue vein running up the inside of my left forearm, the one you would have to break open if you were ready for the mother of all spoiler alerts. That’s not my style, but like anyone kept in a cage long enough, I know the escape routes by heart. This one is the perfect place for a reminder to myself, a modification I think God would approve of.

  My mother existed once. And here she lives again, in these letters on my skin.

  The cursive is traced from her tiny handwriting in the front pages of our Bible. Not that she ever wrote this exact phrase. The lo, comma included, is hers, from her favorite verse, Matthew 28:20, her favorite line, copied in the front of the Bible under my birth date, “And, lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of the world.” This is the lo she would use when she looked out the window and saw the sun rise, or heard a bird sing, the small prayer she uttered for any of a day’s moments, her reminder to wonder at them.

  The rest of the cursive I gathered from the letters in the names and birth dates she had written down over the years. Gathering them into two words that I could imagine her saying, words I wish she had said, to finish that prayer she was always in the midst of. Her reminder to pay attention to the wonder of my own creation.

  LO, PETAL RISER

  I make flowers out of paper. There, I said it. The first step is admitting you have an arts-and-crafts problem. Pages from old books, sheet music, recipes, you name it, I can fold them in complicated and precious ways, until they look like all the best flowers do. Temporary. The best flowers don’t last. They open early, call the world to their scent, and fade.

  Just like some people.

  My bouquets last forever, though, just like Mom taught me to make them. She and I, on every rainy afternoon, bent over squares of wrapping paper, my fingers clumsy with the folds at first, skipping important steps. When I was ready, we moved from wrapping paper to construction paper to art paper, then to anything, coupons, letters, medical bills. And after she died, for a while, to no paper at all.

  But I missed her. And this. Growing new life from old paper. And now I make flowers on afternoons at the Rosary Psychic Encounter Shoppe when I’m supposed to be working, but I’m really eavesdropping on a session. I make them during class when I’m supposed to be studying, in my bedroom at night when sleep has forgotten me. I wrap different weights of paper together for depth, use different sources for meaning, a textbook or the phone book, a flyer from a telephone pole, for proof that meaning is what we make of it.

  And then I throw them away because the person I am making them for is gone.

  FALLEN

  There is a body in the dirt and weeds of Rosary’s empty lot. The lot is near the end of the main drag, where something important should be, something to save Rosary’s failing economy. But it has sat there empty for at least my entire life. Except for that body. And I might be the only one who knows, who sees it there. As the afternoons wear on into the future, I imagine myself lifting up and away from here, taking a god’s-eye view of a place God has refused to keep His eye on.

  There’s the cluster of churches at the other end of San Pablo Boulevard, Rosary’s main road, and in the midst of them, Rosary High, a movie theater, and the Country Store, whose S was lost to gravity or apathy years ago. Putting all of that in your rearview to come down this way, it feels almost like escape, especially sinc
e San Pablo runs more and more parallel to the freeway as it goes, until chain link and stubborn bushes are all that is left between them.

  Our city is in love with that freeway, the houses push up against the businesses, the businesses push up against San Pablo, San Pablo pushes up against the chain link, and the chain link pushes up against freedom. On the other side of the freeway is Rosario Bay, with its small beach no one goes to, its single bridge no one drives on, and up above it all, Rosario Bay Oil Refinery. The bridge to Sky and the freeway intersect right beneath the refinery’s eternal red light. And that’s it. Nothing to see here, especially right here, on the other side of town from God. But then, in the empty lot.

  Furrows and ridges of dirt and some forgotten plant life conspire into the shape of a human form. Barely human. Making it out is like finding pictures in the clouds on a windy day, like reading fortunes from tea leaves at the bottom of a cup. It requires a good imagination and a loose focus as the shape drifts, shifts, and settles. As it becomes less human and more monster, a monster with wings.

  One wing reaches toward the squat stucco building painted the color of shadow, the one with me inside of it. The other wing brushes into the narrow parking lot of a bright white building across the way, the color of sugar. It is like the wings will knock our buildings down. Or, it is like they want to gather them up, hold them tight.

  It is like this monster, destroying and terrible as it is, is more of an angel. Or was, once. When you fall, you have to land somewhere.

  The angel’s eyes are two concrete blocks half buried in the ground. Above them rests a halo of discarded metal bent jagged as flame. As I’m trying to decide if the tire tracks below the wings are a heavenly robe or a hospital gown, the shadow of a plane cuts like a knife through its side. And it’s gone.