September 28, 2004
BANANAS IS THE WIND
I don't care if he changes his name and comes back wearing a dress with a faked handstamp, there is no re-entry for Mr. Crazy Wind. You saw what happened the first time. Buildings threw themselves at trees, players threw chairs at people, and clowns threw pies at each other. And on the last day of the crazy rains, we had the World Series of Crazy. You know the barometric pressure is no joke if L Boogie is returning Wyclef's calls.
In the middle of Weatherstock, I went to pick up my big one from school. I saw a necklace of police vehicles blocking the street. When I got closer, I saw seven cops in riot vests and fabri-coated shields charging up the steps.
"Guy had a fight with the superintendent's son, came back with a gun."
The target was not the school, but an apartment block across the plaza from school. The riot cops left as quickly as they came. Had they combed the whole 24-story apartment building in two minutes? No, but closure had been achieved. The kids were released from school, gripped by questions ("What policemen? What bad guys?") that lasted only until an impromptu game of Cadge Snacks From Soft Touch Parent And Use Hula Hoop As Command Center broke out. So I broke out as well, off to buy shin guards and actualize my role as Soccer Dad.
Team Birmingham (soon to face Blackburn, Chelsea and Tottenham in a league that wears its multinational origin on its backs) was purple and fast. Boys and girls of every shade looped like an escalator chain to take shots on goal. My curly dragon howled "Bring it on, bring it on!" and high-fived a boy he'd never met before. The quick alliance of sports. None of the storied, aggravated Sports Parents were seen, save for a few over-eager coaches taking level 7 shots on level 1 goalies. The mood was bright and open under a heavy and squeaky grey sky, in the shadow of buildings that no longer exist except in everyone's minds everywhere.
That night, we wondered "Why does everybody feel obligated to play live?" And then, "Why does everybody feel obligated to stay?" Well, they paid, and money is an effective meta blocker. Leaving early gave us a chance to discover that Lombardi's has colonized the block down to the near corner, adopting a TGIF-style Wild West typeface for the awning while holding constant the same great and floury pizza, the pizza we order for every birthday party we throw.
Later in the week, the ram's horn blew and somebody somewhere was blown all to fuck. We wombled home to end the day with a small version of the hunt: "Chase the handsome dog!"
An attempt to go out and be alone, together, produced this phone call:
“I’ll go searching out in the dark of New York City if that’s what I have to do to find you.”
“I’ll tell you this: do you know how un-used to my loft bed I am?”
“I don’t want to be mean and say I don’t like my bed? But I think I have to be older than 7 to have a loft bed. I think I have to be 10 or 18 to have a loft bed. I know I’m really good at sports and that makes me seem like I’m really old, and sometimes people just forget that I’m just a kid.”
“What are bullets made of, fire?”
[No, steel.]
“So it can go through out skin, or our hearts, because they’re squishy? But not a door? Why didn’t you tell me that? I feel so much better! Because pretty much all a robber wants is food, or a home. So we could get a new home, because you have a job. And we could teach my friends that trick. I really like that conversation, do you know why? Because it will help me go to sleep.”
“Now can I say night night to daddy? Because the big idea was daddy but I ended up speaking to you.”
[Phone handed to little brother.]
“Who is this? Speak up!”
Posted by Sasha at September 28, 2004 11:38 AM | TrackBack