A WRITER'S WIT
I never had much interest in being a child. As a way of being it seemed flat, failed to engage.
Joan Didion
Born December 5, 1934
Orphans
Somewhere in 1957 Ohio
My parents beg me to drive them
To the desert, almost a thousand miles
In three days.
“It may be the last time
I get to see Sis,” Dad says with Mom
Nodding, her tongue
Poised on her top lip—like my sister always did,
Plotting to change the channel when no one was looking.
“Daddy doesn’t see so good anymore,” says Mom,
“And I don’t drive at night.”
“Alrighty, then,” I say.
The last day of touring--
A string of bathroom stops
Between Flagstaff and Phoenix--
Leaves no time for pasta,
Perhaps some poulet,
So we stop at Burger King.
Besides her Coke, Mother
Now begs for a glass of water
So she can gulp
Seven small missiles for the arthritis
Creating speckled claws
That once cinched my Buster Browns.
“But I want it with a lid,”
She whines to my father,
“So I can take it to the room.”
She cocks her head like my sister always
Did before grabbing the last drumstick.
One door and a breath away,
I snap the seal on a fifth of Chivas,
And I summon
A similar stop
At the Blue Ribbon Café
Somewhere in 1957 Ohio.
The fare was gold nuggets of shrimp
Which I relished
While others ravaged their chicken.
“Put a lid on your Coke
And we’ll take it with us,”
Mother had said, rolling
Her eyes as I bubbled the
Bottom with my straw.
That night
In an eight-dollar cabin
That shivered
When semis thundered by,
We all jammed into two beds:
Mom and Dad in one,
Three of us in another,
Arms and legs crossed like
Debris from chicken dinners.
My wayward fingers clipped
Nearby flesh with greasy pincers,
And my sister squealed betrayal.
“Don’t make me
Come over there, Nicholas,”
Mother snapped over dad’s snoring.
“I’ll whale you
Into the middle of next week,
I swear to Christ I will.”
I suppressed one last giggle
Like gas not passed
During communion, and I now
Twiddle thumbs
Over the steering wheel,
Watching two old people
Fiddle with that infernal lid,
On their way out of a Burger King
Somewhere in the desert.
A strand of Mother’s hair whirls
Like silver silk in the wind, and
With head cocked to the sky,
She might be ten. Again
I sigh and ignite the engine
As they fairly skip over to the car.
Dad snaps the back door knob
As I did at twelve—and they
Clamber into my
Rear view mirror,
The children
I never bargained for.
©Richard Jespers
TUESDAY, A STORY
To the desert, almost a thousand miles
In three days.
“It may be the last time
I get to see Sis,” Dad says with Mom
Nodding, her tongue
Poised on her top lip—like my sister always did,
Plotting to change the channel when no one was looking.
“Daddy doesn’t see so good anymore,” says Mom,
“And I don’t drive at night.”
“Alrighty, then,” I say.
The last day of touring--
A string of bathroom stops
Between Flagstaff and Phoenix--
Leaves no time for pasta,
Perhaps some poulet,
So we stop at Burger King.
Besides her Coke, Mother
Now begs for a glass of water
So she can gulp
Seven small missiles for the arthritis
Creating speckled claws
That once cinched my Buster Browns.
“But I want it with a lid,”
She whines to my father,
“So I can take it to the room.”
She cocks her head like my sister always
Did before grabbing the last drumstick.
One door and a breath away,
I snap the seal on a fifth of Chivas,
And I summon
A similar stop
At the Blue Ribbon Café
Somewhere in 1957 Ohio.
The fare was gold nuggets of shrimp
Which I relished
While others ravaged their chicken.
“Put a lid on your Coke
And we’ll take it with us,”
Mother had said, rolling
Her eyes as I bubbled the
Bottom with my straw.
That night
In an eight-dollar cabin
That shivered
When semis thundered by,
We all jammed into two beds:
Mom and Dad in one,
Three of us in another,
Arms and legs crossed like
Debris from chicken dinners.
My wayward fingers clipped
Nearby flesh with greasy pincers,
And my sister squealed betrayal.
“Don’t make me
Come over there, Nicholas,”
Mother snapped over dad’s snoring.
“I’ll whale you
Into the middle of next week,
I swear to Christ I will.”
I suppressed one last giggle
Like gas not passed
During communion, and I now
Twiddle thumbs
Over the steering wheel,
Watching two old people
Fiddle with that infernal lid,
On their way out of a Burger King
Somewhere in the desert.
A strand of Mother’s hair whirls
Like silver silk in the wind, and
With head cocked to the sky,
She might be ten. Again
I sigh and ignite the engine
As they fairly skip over to the car.
Dad snaps the back door knob
As I did at twelve—and they
Clamber into my
Rear view mirror,
The children
I never bargained for.
©Richard Jespers
TUESDAY, A STORY
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