Writing The Child

[Mitch]

[b]"Banging Your Heart (The Child)"[/b]
In Casper, Wyoming. Kid, he?s three years old. Wears glasses. Momma loves him. Momma and daddy aren?t staying together. Daddy and momma are getting divorced.

Kid, few years later. He remembers going to daddy?s one more time. He?s sitting on the couch, watching Lawnmower Man. The TV?s light goes on his face, makes kid look like a pale ghost.

Kid, more years later. Momma?s married a new daddy that loves me really. New daddy?s better. Old daddy still calls sometimes.

?Hello,? says kid.

?Hello,? says daddy. Real daddy. Kid, better be careful. He might be a monster, you don?t know. Monsters eat you.

?How?s school,? asks daddy. ?Getting good grades??

?Yeah.?

?Don?t you wanna get your blood tested? To see if you?re my son??

?Maybe,? says kid. Kid, you?re stupid. You don?t know. Your new daddy?s better. You?re lucky you never got your blood tested. Lucky you had a good momma.

Kid remembers having a dream. It was a dream that daddy came in and strangled me. Kid remembers daddy came in when kid woke up, and kid screamed and was scared. Daddy said he had never came in. Kid could?ve sworn it was real. How thin the line is between reality and fiction. Sometimes.

Kid remembers friend?s brother telling him the devil was gonna get him. The thing with horns, it?ll stab you. Kid would lie in bed, scared. Would cry and cry. About the aliens?the kid could feel the aliens coming. And the devil. The devil was gonna get him. No. Kid would kick and scream.

Kid, closer to now. He knows now. Real daddy only wanted to show that you weren?t his real son, so he didn?t have to pay child support. And it?s getting closer. He lives in Utah now. Ryan Pugh is one of kid?s friend. Phillip too. Phillip had a brain tumor. And Andrew. Andrew McDonald.

Old McDonald had a farm, ei ei o. Andrew was kid?s obsession. He wanted to be like Andrew. Andrew was everything. He had everything. His dad was a veteran of a war. Vietnam? Kid wasn?t sure. His mom was Tamara. They had chinchillas. Andrew was fat, spoiled.

Kid would pray to God that he would be like Andrew. He would pray to be fat, and have everything. You?re so stupid kid. So stupid. Ignorant. You?ll learn. Be broken.

Kid moves to Bismarck, North Dakota. He hates it. Misses all the friends he?d had. Kid?s in sixth grade. He?s fat, like Andrew. Has Mrs. Gilbertson as a teacher. Ms. Woodmansee as an aide. Kid doesn?t like school. All throughout school, the other kids have made fun of him. Kid is ugly.

Kid finds new friends. Ryan Cofell. Adam Anderson. Andy Carlson. The friendship with Andy Carlson ends soon. Andy wanted to be something else.

Time flying by. Mr. Doppler, English teacher. Pulls kid aside one day. ?You?ve got a talent,? he tells the kid. Mr. Doppler tells kid he?s got a great talent at writing. Kid didn?t listen then. Now he does. Now he listens.

Kid stabs Salem Towne in the back with pencil in Mr. Doppler?s class. Blood. The bell rings. Class is over. Kid walks out, to next class. The stab. In the back and blood. Mr. Doppler, days later, telling kid he did wrong. Kid, you?re so stupid. You?ll never learn.

10th grade, 11th grade. It all flies by. Flies on wings. It?s to now. Kid?s being locked in a cage. The kid?s dying. I don?t want him to die. It?s all pushing down on him. It?s all such a Machine.

?Get a job.? ?Get good grades.? ?You?ve gotta grow up, Mitchell.? ?Jesus Christ, Mitchell, don?t you think?? ?You?re a good kid, Mitch.? ?You have no ambition.? ?All you do is sit on your computer and listen to music.? Kid, can you hear? Are you there?

Beep beep beep, beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep. Cardiac arrest. The bars in the cage and the cuffs go around. Heart?s bottoming out. Vena cava?s breaking, ceasing to function. Kid, can you hear? Are you there? Hello?

I jabber on about Bowling for Columbine. We are at Cracker Barrel. Dad?s listening. Man is talking, Kid?s inside the wall. Cardiac arrest. Dad seems to listen. Then he isn?t. He seems to tire of it. He still says he doesn?t want to see Bowling for Columbine. ?I?ve had enough of your psycho babble,? says Dad.

Psycho babble? This is my heart speaking. . .my heart speaking.

Cardiac arrest. Bottoming out. It?s all psycho babble. Why even say?

?Don?t you think, Mitchell?? Dad standing there. Bleach spilled on bed. It's turning colors. Ones it?s not supposed to be. Feel the tightness in the chest. The Man is there, the Kid?s under cardiac arrest, maybe to never flounder back. The Man explains to Dad that he doesn?t always need to yell. Instead of saying, ?Jesus Christ, I can?t believe you! Don?t you think! You?re worthless!? Dad could?ve said, ?It?s OK, I know you didn?t mean to do it. Just be more careful, and I know you?re beating yourself up about it, but it?s OK.? But no. No.

Mother?s never home. She?s off at the bar. Maybe a cigarette in her mouth. A drink in her hand. She?s just like me?The Man?she wants to be The Kid again. Doesn?t want this here.

Dad, coming in. ?It?s really gonna happen,? he says. Doubt it. How many times have you said you?re going to divorce? Many times.

Still hasn?t happened, but the death of all the good things happens sometime. Everything good?s gonna die.

And still, This Man is just The Kid. A collection of books whose spines are worn, torn, broken. Whose books contain ?psycho babble.? Whose existence is to be a slave to this Machine?this world where you have to work for money that keeps them away.

I wish I could be alive. But I can?t. When I?m most alive, that?s when I?m least heard. When you speak your heart, it?s ?psycho babble,? it?s no concern.

And here you see, in the bowels of me, a kid, in a corner, gazing off, hands held on knees, and he?s afraid. Looking at This Man?this abstract creation of pressure and time?do you see the kid, too? Or am I good enough to hide it? Is it time to tear down the wall? What do you think?

What is there to do when in this world Freedom is Slavery and War is Peace and Death is Life and. And Ignorance is Strength. To be stupid is better. It's the better of the worse. I wish I was dumb. I wish I hadn?t let time do what it has.

"You make mountains out of nothing," my dad says from his chair. Kid makes mountains from nothing. With words. And in the end, it's just banging your heart against some mad bugger's wall.

---

[b]The Child[/b]
Knock-knock
. . .there is a knock upon my door
i lie in bed, tired (for i am sore to it all)
--who could it be, this time?

KNOCK KNOCK
. . .can you not go away? (for i am sore to it all)
i yell, ?GO AWAY? (with tired gesture, flailing of wrist)
but--still you persist
PeRsIsT,and i. want. to just. shut my eyes (for in sleep
there is a better life). . .and my patience is mounting
[i heard once say that patience is a virtue, but to me
it is like a circling vulture, never getting a meal]
. . .and my patience. . .is mount-i-n-. . .g?

KNOCK, KNOCK KNOCK, KNOCK
DINGLE DINGLE DONG
KNOCK, KNOCK KNOCK, KNOCK
DINGLE DINGLE DiNgLe DONG
(sounds like one crazy bird?s gone twittering in song)

yes, yes, i will come (even though i am sore to it all)
why must you PERSIST?
HOW YOU knock THE DOOR,
and HOW YOU CHIME THE DOORBELL
yes yes, i will come (but first, i rustle around the hall,
come to my closet?with scattered things?and find what it is
i need)

shotgun now in hand, i come to the door, yelling politely,
?I AM COMING, WHOEVER IT IS AT THE DOOR,
THERE IS NO NEED TO KNOCK?OR, FOR HEAVEN?S SAKE?
CHIME ANYMORE?

then i come (to the door)
tired eyes (bloodvesseled red)
. .. and only boxers (black and blue),
and I?VE GOT A GUN JUST FOR YOU?(for you)

hand on knob, palm feels in, the turn of the wrist (like a lock to key),
i wonder what it is i?ll see (and ready my shotgun)

and OH would you ******* believe?
there, standing, is me (only younger, a child stares me back)
i ask, ?what can i do for you?? and put my shotgun to my side (for children
are innocent and do not deserve to die)

little voice answers, too small, ?hello, how are you,? (then OH that smirk which appears)
the way his face looks?as it snarls to a smirk.

?how am i?? i spit
?how am i??

?yes, how are you,??and, those eyes (i know those eyes,
those spheres, those pupils, those circles,)
i know where they spin.
[i?ve heard say the earth is round, but i think it is quite flat,
for it is round to me, but the way things are
have smashed it,have crushed it down]

?i am quite fine, thank you,? i loop,
like the tying of shoes.
my voice reeking sarcasm.
[and i?ve heard say sarcasm is rude, but i just think
that sarcasm is a chasm deep with depth, clever as can be,
and most don?t see it, they fall into its bowels]

?that?s good,? chirps my little self,
putting it all on the shelf. (for chaos is a mess
needing cleaning done best.)
?so, i should get to the point, shouldn?t i??

?yes,? says i the vulture, patience missing (in dismay)
as i circle my prey, wanting a morsel.

?i just wanted to see you again,? he says (the younger me)
?to let you know?I?VE GOTTA DIE?? he screams (the child,
innocent, not deserving to die)
he moves in on me like time,
wraps his hand around my hand,
tick tocks, falters me, pendulums my shotgun,
gets ready to pull the trigger, and he derides (ha ha ha),
it is a sad laugh.
it?s the chime of midnight, the end of this day.

?NO?? i yell, try to rend it from his hands.
?WHY?RE YOU DOING THIS?? and i can?t
get it from his hands.

?you know why,? he says, voice low but powerful.
?you know why. . .?
?. . .i?ve gotta?? cock, click clack,
hand going deeper in on trigger?
??die because?? hand even more
on trigger, click clack???it?s my time. . .?
B -- A -- N -- G. . .

[and i?ve heard say, there?s some moments
that slow down time, make it go to a crawl,
arms digging, eyes wide, like a baby learning to walk.]
i could see the bullets, driving on, from the muzzle,
the proboscis of the shotgun,
(it was sharp to my ears,
punctured into my ear drum)
i could see the bullets pass into his head. some exit.

he crumpled to the ground (like paper crumpled in a hand,
creased and so white and so gone)
i caught him, yelled hysterically, ?I HATE YOU!?
?I HATE?? and, with eyes piercing to the sky,
(and dropping him like a rag doll) and hands pressed to the sky,
trying to touch and bruise, ??EVERYTHING!?

i could feel the pain
some part of me had died (for i am sore)
and i began crying (the tears were red, stained my cheeks)
i went down on the ground, touched the younger me
on the face, brushed back the hair.
(and putting my hand on his heart, i heard the battle
going on. the futile battle.)

?I. . .I?? he tried to speak,
words like a cold dish in a waiter?s hands,
going back from where it came (revenge is a dish best served cold).
i promised myself i?d find that dish someday.
?. . ..I. . .love. . .y . .o. . .u. . .m. . .o. . .r. . . . .e
t. . .h. . . . . .a . . . . . .n . . . .any. . .an. . .y . . . .on. . .on. . .
e. . .. .el. . .el. . .el . . .s??
his eyes twitched (like a dead spider, like the dead cogs of time)
his hands fought up at me, trying to touch what cannot be touched anymore.
his voice cracked (like the cracks in the cement, the broken cracks and lines)
he died.



[and i?ve heard say that love is a flower, and i?ve heard say
love is rain showers, and i?ve heard say love is a beautiful woman,
and i?ve heard say love is a kiss, and i?ve heard say love is a fist,
and i?ve heard say love is something wonderful, beautiful, good and grand,
and i don?t think love exists.
and i?ve heard say love can keep you going, and i?ve heard say
the meaning of life is love, and i?ve heard say it?s worth it to die for love,
and i?ve heard say love is jesus christ, and i?ve heard say
love is all around us, and i?ve heard say love is care,
and i don?t think love exists.
love dies (a struggling thing with wilting sides, an undulating thing that twitches and
dies.)
and i believe what there is of love
is arranged in the part of us that is a child.]

i felt his heart, as it ended, terminated, went away. (sailed to its bay)
and it was a cardiac arrest. (the machine keeping track of his life
would go beep, beep, beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep)
the chains would go around his arms,
the bars go in his cage. (and still i would stand here, how strange.)
the cardiac arrest, and someone
would be reading him his miranda rights.
(?you have the right to remain silent, the right to an attorney. . .")
if death is anything, it is a judge at a trial slamming its gavel down.

i have not been sleeping well
my dreams are full (a wishing well)
and everything, i fear, that is good
must die. (let me just hold you
in my arms before that time)