<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0When was it? \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0When was it? \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 Summer in Minneapolis, near Lake Harriet, eighty-five degrees. \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Right, a tattooed group preceded us through the fifty-odd rows of roses, skin tanned and curlicued, bestial designs pouring out of their tank tops<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":384,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":[],"categories":[],"tags":[21943],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/libblogs.luc.edu\/requited\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/273"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/libblogs.luc.edu\/requited\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/libblogs.luc.edu\/requited\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/libblogs.luc.edu\/requited\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/384"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/libblogs.luc.edu\/requited\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=273"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/libblogs.luc.edu\/requited\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/273\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":1933,"href":"https:\/\/libblogs.luc.edu\/requited\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/273\/revisions\/1933"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/libblogs.luc.edu\/requited\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=273"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/libblogs.luc.edu\/requited\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=273"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/libblogs.luc.edu\/requited\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=273"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\n \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 Summer in Minneapolis, near Lake Harriet, eighty-five degrees.
\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Right, a tattooed group preceded us through the fifty-odd rows of roses, skin tanned and curlicued, bestial designs pouring out of their tank tops and black knit shorts. They paused at each row. They were drunk on roses.
\n\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 You speculated they were dialing back through memory on purpose, plumbing their psyches.
\n \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0I overheard a woman, stick-skinny, with a blue mountain tattooed across her back, speak in quiet reverence about smells, amygdalas, the limbic system. I\u2019m guessing it was her husband\u2014the big man, bald and hairy\u2014who got down on one knee, sank his nose in a yellow bloom, and wept. The group, nine or so, leaned in and palmed his wooly shoulders. I remember your noting that.
\n\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0Yes, and \u201cWhen the man rolled to the ground, collapsed on a mound of black bark and mulch, everyone seemed happy.\u201d
\n\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0Incredibly happy.
\n \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 Dazed, even.
\n \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 Later in the car, my daughter Lil said the garden lacked an \u201cappurtenant array\u201d of pre-modern tea hybrids.
\n \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 Lil would go on and on about those tea hybrids.
\n \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 Evie was there.
\n \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 Yes, Evie, her friend. Evie was shy.
\n \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 Evie passed away.
\n \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 Yes, in June.
\n \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 Years earlier, in Roanoke, without Lil and before your mother died, we were at a costume party where an astronaut spoke plainly about girls in pink clothes.
\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0His name was Hector, or Herman.
\n \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 An eloquent drunk.
\n \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 Somewhat. He was maudlin.
\n \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 What I loved most about that party was the crystal chandelier hanging from the living room ceiling.
\n \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 I liked the bartender who poured drinks from a collapsible bar near the window.
\n \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 The place was quasi-rococo, heavily curtained.
\n \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u201cIt\u2019s supposed to be like a vagina,\u201d the astronaut told us, \u201ca womb-like color to attract mates.\u201d Whenever the astronaut drank\u2014I believe it was scotch\u2014he raised the mirrored shield of his helmet and tipped his glass inside.
\n \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u201cA straw is like a little penis,\u201d he added.
\n \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 That night, back at the hotel, in the mirrored bathroom, I tore off your Mary Poppins outfit. Four paper quote marks fell off the wire hangers around my shoulders. The remnants of \u201cmyself\u201d and Mary Poppins like a constellated code of sewn wool and paper on the cold tile grid.
\n \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 You put it so nicely.
\n \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 Which reminds me, in Wyoming, the tomb of Dick Cheney. His disembodied voice crooning at us.
\n \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 Like an icy birch tree, as you put it.
\n\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0I offered the apparition a drink and he said, \u201cWe were just kids then, our lives were intact, the radio transmitted true lo-ove.\u201d
\n \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 Wow.
\n \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 Then the police came.
\n \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 Booked, I lay in white rubber slippers, coarse orange jumper, eternal lighting, a combination of body odors. The call was collect; you refused\u2014I told you everything in that pause where the name goes.
\n \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 Next morning you were stellar in the courtroom.
\n \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 The judge said, \u201cThere\u2019s no camping in the cemetery\u2026 city ordinance.\u201d
\n \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u201cYou\u2019re kidding,\u201d I said.
\n \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u201cNope, no littering, no trespassing, no slurping with ethereal statesmen, get outta here.\u201d
\n \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 A helicopter ride over Charleston. My uncle Leo asked me to transport a small rifle to Murfreesboro for a talent show\u2014a bolt action .22 named Judy. \u201cLeo,\u201d I said, \u201cI don\u2019t get it. I mean Judy. How does she do it? How does she dance that way?\u201d
\n \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u201cWell, the routine goes \u2018Pretty Fair Damsel,\u2019 \u2018This Land is Your Land,\u2019 \u2018Acadian One Step,\u2019 then she closes out with \u2018I Wish I Was a Mole in the Ground.\u2019 There\u2019s a lot of faith involved, which is key.\u201d
\n \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 That year Judy won first prize in the Middle Tennessee Firearms Talent Competition, as I recall.
\n \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 But Leo never saw the ribbon.
\n \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 Right. Brain tumor that August.
\n \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 Yes, brain tumor. Always a brain tumor.
\n \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 Well, not really always. Sometimes it\u2019s other things.
\n \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 Most of the time, though, it\u2019s a brain tumor.
\n \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 I guess so. Those fucking brain tumors.
\n \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 Can we talk about something else?
\n \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 Of course we can.
\n
\n
\nJosh Collins<\/strong> teaches at Texas State University and serves as book review editor for Front Porch<\/em>, editorial staff for Southwestern American Literature<\/em>, and fiction editor for Precipitate<\/em>. He also has work forthcoming in Quick Fiction<\/em>. <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"