AWOL

The young man sat down beside me in the aisle seat. He'd stowed a small carry-on bag in the overhead compartment but kept his shiny white Marine cap on his lap. The stewardess came around and asked if she could put the peaked cap in the bin above his head. The young man politely refused and placed it under the seat in front of him, arranged his feet around its pristine edges. I don’t know when we started talking, but he told me that he was a Marine stationed in North Carolina on furlough for two weeks to visit family back in Arkansas. That he was recently married, recently divorced. I asked how long the marriage lasted. He bowed his head and mumbled, “Not long.” He talked at length about the difficulties of living on base as a young married couple; how his wife got lonely and went AWOL, heading back home to Arkansas. “If she’s holed up where I think she is, well, you might see me on tv.” He looked directly into my eyes then went back to fiddling with his headphones. He took his Coke from the stewardess, smiling politely when she handed him the cup and napkin. “Really, I am a pretty calm guy.” When I asked him what size family he was returning to, he smiled and listed off its members. “Mother, sister, younger brother, a couple of cousins.” There was a long beat, then: “And my father...I guess.” A few more beats: “He’s a nice guy when he’s not drunk.” Turns out his dad was a fire fighter, or had been one until “he drank himself out of a job.” He was six years from retirement, on his way to being chief. My seat mate leaned over and shifted his cap a little. Later, as the plane began its gradual descent, the young man told me more about his life in the service. About how he often serves as his platoon’s designated driver. “I drink,” he said. “But only a beer or two. I just turned nineteen. I watch myself.” Lately, they have been training for cold weather action. “I am used to the heat,” he said proudly. “But I am not sure about the cold. I start shivering pretty fast.” I asked him about women in the Marines, thinking of the two women officers I read about who had completed the special ranger training. At first he skirted the issue, shifting the topic. “I love my Black brothers as much as I do my White brothers,” he said. “And my Mexican brothers…” Finally, as we waited for the plane to taxi to its gate, the young man explained to me his bias against women seeing action. “It’s biological,” he said. “Men are just programmed to take care of the female first. I am not saying its right. But it’s true.” The man rose up and grabbed his bag. “And there is no place for that in battle. There’s a protocol.” He shook his head sadly and picked up his cap. He held it carefully in his hands. Then he put his headphones back on and blasted his music until the line started moving. I watched him shuffle to the door.

Table for One

When I am downtown, working in my studio, I often walk down the stairs of the Flatiron Building, step outside on the sidewalk, and walk the few steps to Chai Pani, Asheville’s popular “street” Indian food joint. I usually get a mango lassi, or a local brew, to go with my samosa and the fabulous Chicken Parsi burgers, which always remind me of childhood sloppy joes. Or maybe I walk past Pack Square and head down to Salsa’s—the original hip Asheville restaurant—hoping to catch a stool at their alley bar. I like how I’m right off the street, half-invisible, and how I get to banter with the waitress through the open window. If it’s late enough in the day, I’ll order a drink—a mojito or a margarita—to go with my burrito. But it’s the hot dog stand in the Home Depot parking lot I head to when I am home, like I am today, looking for wire ties to complete a dog fence I’ve been struggling with all morning. This is not your ordinary hot dog stand; all the food is fresh and local, and the menu includes healthy drinks and vegetarian options. I order a chilidog and a smoothie. There’s a bowl of fresh homemade salsa so I spoon some of that on top of spicy mustard and ketchup. Even after a generous tip, I’ve not hit the ten dollar mark. Taking a seat in the small wedge of shade at the side of the truck, I chill out to the flamenco music flowing above me like a breeze. I will take my time getting back to that fence.

Donut

I met Matt outside the stadium. He gave me my ticket and we walked through the gate. “Take Me Out to The Ball Park” blared over the speakers. Ross and Heidi appeared with beers in hand. “Let’s go in,” someone suggested. Joking, I said, “All I ask for is not get hit in the head…” Ross looked at me and laughed. “You set the bar awfully low.” It’s true. I’d made a joke about it to dispel a real worry. When we sat down twenty rows up directly behind home plate, Ross noted that I had a good chance of not getting hit. The batter swung and missed. He foul tipped the next pitch down the right-field line. The next pitch, a fastball, he fouled straight back, over the net, up into the stands behind us. “Damn,” Matt mumbled. Ross looked over me. The next pitch careened over the net too, slammed into the roof, and rained down hard about six or seven seats to our right. The woman sitting below us had heard our jokes and turned to face me. “You’re gonna have to move if this keeps up.” She was smiling. I assured her I would. The next inning was much the same; the ball sailed over the net four or five more times. I ran into the woman during the seventh inning stretch, and she put two fingers to her eyes then flicked them at me. I’m watching you. I bought myself a beer then an Asheville Tourists hat and went back to my seat. People were chanting “Donut! Donut! Donut!” hoping to win No Hit Inning, the night’s promotion. The pitcher retired the side in twelve pitches.

Ramp

Two friendly carpenters took down the ramp the day before. The ramp had been built by friends four years prior, just days after our accident. We’d ridden our wheelchairs onto it, limped our way up and down its gentle slop—first with walkers, then canes, then on our own two legs, hand grasping a railing for support. For the last few years, Avery used it for his skateboard, his scooter. The dogs galumphed up and down its length. So you can't blame me if I watched the men pull down the wooden structure with barely suppressed glee, snapping pictures and cracking jokes. “The dawn of a new day,” I nearly shouted to them as they drove off that evening. Right away, I put a chair up against the front door so no one would open it by mistake and get hurt. It was a two-foot drop onto the hard-packed dirt with two big holes for the new staircase supports. The next morning I opened the door to see again an entrance free of such dark and haunting memories. We’d truly turned over a new leaf, I told myself. It wasn’t an hour later, the dogs itching for a walk, that I walked up to the door, busy with the leashes, attaching them to collars. Crouched there, eager to get out into the sunny day, I pushed the chair out of the way, opened the door and…fell the two feet to the ground: body turning in the air, arms out to brace, one slipping down into a foundation hole. The dogs jumped down after me, sniffing at my face in confusion. What have I just done? I stood up slowly, checking my body for possible breaks, cuts, gashes. My left arm was already aching at the wrist. My whole left side was sore. But no real blood to speak of, no broken bones. I’d missed hitting my head on a cement block by a few inches, narrowly avoided a big rock. I dusted myself off and picked up the leashes and limped my way out onto the road. By the time I got back to the house, I was stiff and sore. I had to slide my body up into the entranceway then maneuver it awkwardly over the threshold.

Team Player

The fathers of my son’s teammates keep ignoring me. I walk up to one pair and say hello. They grunt back “hey” and then wait silently for me to move on. I hear them start back up their conversation after only a few steps. Two more pretend not to see me. Another father, at halftime, stressed by our team’s dire predicament, shakes his head curtly when I say, “This is no fun.” He doesn’t want to hear it. In fact, the only man who responds to me at all nearly jumps when I greet him. He comes over and introduces himself, assuming we are on the same team, and asks me which boy I belong to. I don’t have the heart to correct him. Of course, it’s not that cut and dry. Both the men who keep me out of their circle make efforts later; and the dad who shakes his head at me is generally grumpy, and I should have known better to engage him at such a stressful moment. Though I am not sure the other man being Black does or does not have anything to do with his friendly response. He may have been surprised that a White man he doesn’t know is going out of his way to say hello. (I felt so disenfranchised by the other men that when he looked over at me with an open expression, I turned to him out of solidarity.) Perhaps I am just too sensitive for this crowd. It has been a long drive, it is hot, our team is getting its butt kicked. Maybe these men are just acting like the middle-class American White males they are. Maybe it’s me who doesn’t know his role, his boundaries. Thinking back on it, the two guys do say something to me as I walk back to my car. “You missed it,” one says. They are grinning. It seems that Avery slipped on the cement trying to kick the ball and fell straight on his butt. They are smiling at me. “Man, it was some kind of fall.” I laugh along with them, but inside I am quaking.