Don’t want to try to be clever today. Exhausted. Wish I could go to Starfish & Coffee, little café in the city of my dreams, half concealed off some back alley, only found by getting a little lost, corner of your eye, half a flight of stairs to get you down there, warm glow behind the door to draw you in.
I guess they’re closed on Tuesdays? Since when? So much has changed, is changing, in the city of my dreams. Dream leakage? Interference from other dreams, like a poorly shielded receiver suffering from FM interference?
Sit down on a bench instead. There’s a scruffy willow growing up through an iron grate between the sidewalk and the street. The streetlights are coming on, reluctantly. So tired. Feet ache. Anxious.
A pigeon alights. Walks up and down chaotically. Pecks and picks at stuff around the base of the willow. Double shadow, triple shadow phasing with the passing of a lone pair of headlights. Quiet again.
pigeon
Do I have the most powerful gun here?
Shall we swoop in from a turkey-vulture’s POV? A topographical perspective? Can fatigue assist with astral travel? Nodding off on this park bench by this abandoned sidewalk, quiet as an empty set, between the layers of consciousness friction disappears and we can soar.
Far from the city now. Little rivers and obscure highways vein the endless woods with threads of silvery gray.
Ride in your dad’s F100 out of town, away from the city, away from the manicured hedge, beyond the reach of church and state. Take just the right anonymous road. Cross the river. Take a right. Asphalt ends. Take a left. Gravel ends. Take a right. Walk the rest of the way, along the ridge. Know what you’re looking for. A clearing. A lantern hanging from a nail in an ancient tree. An ashy campfire idling away the daylight hours. Your second and third family. Set up your tent. Be welcome.
You’re a kid, of indeterminate age. Nothing matters here, except the ground, the air, the pines and oaks, squirrels’ nests, great big jugs of water, plenty of food (and just enough of it is junk), the gruff and whiskery voices of old stories, relaxed laughter, a homemade dulcimer (gift from your uncle to his sister your stepmom). This is the only place on earth. Time slows down.
You’re a kid, at home among men and women with guns, and this feels natural and right. You will hunt but only because it’s fun to prowl and shoot, not because of any strong desire to kill an animal. You just like to use your hands to make a noise that makes something happen. A gun’s a percussion instrument, after all (and so’s a dulcimer).
Did your dad give you the .22 yet? Or will that be your next birthday — the gorgeous, oil-dark Winchester semiautomatic — with a scope! (that he encourages you to remove, so you can learn to aim for real).
You’ll borrow other family members’ guns, meanwhile. Shotguns of various gauges. Hold it tight against your shoulder, feel that loving punch.
Your uncle has a .357 magnum. The name of this gratuitous weapon sounds dramatic, cinematic, like a schoolyard brag. But he’s one of the most gentle people you’ve ever met or ever will. Just for kicks, he shoots a gallon jug of water. It literally explodes and everybody screams and laughs.
Your bratty step-cousin? I guess is what you’d call him? Only one here younger than you. Too blonde, too whiny, overmothered by your uncle’s second wife, yeah, he’s a little weirdo but he’s all right, whatever. He has a .410, which even you know is for old ladies to stash under the bed. But it’s his own, and you know that isn’t lost on him, and because you haven’t got your .22 yet, you can admit to being just a tiny bit jealous. Making conversation, wide-eyed and dumb with expectation, he asks his dad, “Is my gun the most powerful one here?”
Well, no; his dad lets him down easy.
Later, you and your brother and your other, older, wiser step-cousin are talking, lightly mocking, walking through the woods on some pleasantly unnecessary reconnaissance. Your cousin laughs, yeah, but in a good natured way, to be fair, he remembers when he got his first .22, he thought that thing would blow anything away! Guess it’s all a matter of perspective. Being excited about newfound power and responsibility.
The last time you saw your younger step-cousin, he was a gym teacher or something, with a wife and kids and christmas presents and all that stuff — still a little weird, but all right, whatever.
The last time you saw your uncle, he could barely swallow because of what the cancer had done to his esophagus. But he was still gentle, still lit up by the presence of family.
The last time you saw your older cousin — but that’s a pigeon for another time. Already feel sad and lost and lonely enough, back on this park bench, trying to make some sense out of what’s becoming of the city of my dreams.
The last time I saw the ridge, I don’t know if I knew to say goodbye. Highways have a way of widening, encroaching; carpets of forest fray, recede. Is that tree still there with that nail in it? Or is that a campfire memory now, echo of a gunshot, harmless power, echo of laughter?