10th grader

“We are victims, casualties, some, of our births,” he wrote in his journal. He continued: “Who we are and what we become is affected most directly, impacted most effectively by that over which we have no control – whom are our parents. This is the one thing that everyone equally shares, this totally arbitrary beginning.” He paused to think, then began, again. “For some, birth is a head start; for others it is, ironically, and sadly, a death sentence.” He paused, again, then wrote: “If you could choose, whom would you pick for your parents? It is an interesting question. It goes to the heart of family and parenting, not to mention genetic engineering. Would a black child choose white? Would a white child choose other? Would a baby birthed in a refugee camp make the expected decision?” He put down his pen. Enough, for today. He had to finish his geometry homework, then read two chapters in “Catcher in the Rye.” Quiz, tomorrow.

angel baby

He lives in his parents’ basement and his girlfriend visits him, there. Her name is Angel Baby, an appellation she bestowed upon herself (feeling she’d outgrown Margaret), but that which caused some redundancy when he might say, “Come to your baby, Angel Baby, baby,” which wasn’t often, but, still, in this case, frequent enough. Angel Baby would sneak in through the back window. It was a tighter fit, recently, what with Angel Baby starting to sprout a genuine set of breasts. His parents, Stu and Laurie, knew all about the assignations, but figured it was better for her to come there than the two of them suffer their consummations in the back seat of the family car on some deserted stretch of Almond Avenue. (Car sex was so uncomfortable.) So, he and she banged away in the basement of the blue-shingled house on Catamount Lane. But never during “Desperate Housewives.” And that was his decision.

sex talk

“I want to have sex with you,” he said.
“I don’t know how to answer that,” she said.
“It’s easy,” he said. “You have two options.”
“It may be that easy for you,” she said. “It’s not.”
“Yes or no,” he said.
“A little bit both,” she replied.
“You’re just playing it safe,” he charged.
“For me and for you,” she said.
“Explain that.”
“If we have sex, there’ll be expectations,” she said.
“That sounds like a threat,” he said.
“It isn’t,” she said. “It’s the way things are.”
“I can handle it,” he said, confidently.
“You only think you can,” she said.
And, of course, she was right.

talking it out

“I need more emotional support,” she said.
“I try,” he said.
“I need more than effort,” she answered.
“Tell me what you need,” he suggested.
“I can’t tell you, exactly,” she said.
“What?”
“Yes, that -- what or when.”
“So am I supposed to be a mind reader?”
“Yes,” she said.
“I don’t think I can,” he said.
“Have you even tried?” she asked. “Ever?”
“I have not,” he answered.
“Perhaps you need to try,” she said.
“Can you give me a hint?” he said. “A signal?”
“I need a drink,” she said.

that moment

There is a time, she knows, during the act when she and he seem to become one. It happens sometimes, and sometimes not. It often surprises her, when it does occur, and brings with it such an intense emotional wash that she begins to cry, weep, actually. She turns away, then, because she’s either embarrassed or she doesn’t want him to see how deeply he’s touched her, how deeply she’s felt him, how connected they are, for that instant. She does, later, struggle to decide which it is, embarrassment or her vulnerability, then, instead, simply moves on because it’s not that important why and maybe some things are best just left alone. Besides, if she really contemplated it, investigated it, owned it, it might tell her something about herself she really doesn’t want to know.

a spirit of giving

At what point, he wonders, do you
pass the baton, and say, “I’m fine
with watching, from here on
out?” Is that resigning, or is
it
being realistic? It is a question
that not only
confounds, but challenges, too, for
if one
gives in and gives over, then who’s to
say one hasn’t
simply
given up? Perhaps, it’s a matter
of
interpretation. Perhaps, it’s a matter
of
rationalization. Perhaps, it’s
a matter of time, because
after all,
isn’t
just about everything?

author, author!

His father lifts him high on his shoulders, raising him into the night so he can see the colorful, flashing wonders of the festival parade. It seems a small gesture, a little thing to Enrique Gomez, the kind of thing a father does for a young son, even after spending a long, arduous day on the docks. A chance to see. Only that. What Enrique couldn’t see, wouldn’t even imagine is that his son Raul’s view from there -- the color, the sparkle, the beauty -- was somehow burned into his memory and changed his life. In 25 years, Raul Enrique Gomez will become the most celebrated, critically acclaimed and popular Mexican-American author in history. His stories and tales will entrance millions, touch millions, change millions of lives and he will trace everything back to the magic his four-year-old eyes saw that night when his father lifted him into the blackness. “It created in me a sense of wonder,” the author will say. And while others will try to analyze and decipher the how and why of Raul Enrique Gomez, disbelieving such a simple explanation, he knows. And he is thankful.