Dirt (2 page)

Chapter 2

W
hen Galen and his mother returned home, Galen's aunt and cousin were waiting. His aunt standing at the door, his cousin Jennifer slouched in the wooden love seat under the oak tree. Like gangsters. Galen's mother pulled up behind their crap Oldsmobile.

His mother went to the door, and Galen walked over to his cousin. This oak tree with limbs stretching out fifty feet in every direction. They'd played here as kids, played endless hours with Barbies and G.I. Joes in the shade.

Hey, Jennifer said.

Galen tried not to look. But she had one foot up on the bench, knee bent high, and a short skirt, and he could see her panties, light blue, could see the smooth skin of her thigh. She was seventeen, and he'd been taking peeks like this for at least four years now, unbearable. He looked down at the ground, at the grass that was up to his shins.

Hey, she said. You're looking good. So hot. I love your “I'm never going to take a shower again” look. The homeless are so sexy.

You take enough showers for both of us.

True, she said. I like how soft my skin feels afterward. She ran her fingers along her inner thigh. It's unbelievable, she said. Do you want to feel?

Stop it, he said, and he walked away, into the house. The parlor, cool and dark, the shades drawn, and he stood in place a moment at the bottom of the stairs. The baby grand that no one knew how to play. The old photos on the walls. The wide dusty planks. He creaked up the steps to his room and locked the door. Pulled out a
Hustler
magazine and lay on his bed.

The pleasure the same as despair, a deep and awful need, and his imagination terrible. Samsara, the world of suffering. So he put the magazine down, stopped moving his hand, left his dick hard. He took his tape recorder off the nightstand, put the headphones on, listened to Kitaro. Closed his eyes to camels in the desert, long journeys across sand and wind and time. Felt his spirit reaching across lifetimes, across incarnations, felt freedom. This body only a dream.

The banging at his door, though, was not a dream, and finally he had to take off the headphones. I'm coming, he yelled. Jesus. The world's not going to end if we don't have dinner.

He pulled up his underwear and shorts, then decided to put on jeans instead. Jeans could hide a boner. Just being near her he'd have a boner instantly. There was no stopping it.

Coming down the stairs, what he felt was dread, the same as any animal being led to slaughter. Meal of a Hundred Humiliations, he mumbled to himself, because it was better to give it a name in advance. That could take away some of its power. He moved slowly, his bare feet on the wood which was almost cool compared to the air.

Why are you wearing jeans? his mother asked.

Felt like it, he said. All three of them looking at his pants.

In this heat?

He sat down. A long, narrow table for twelve. He was in the middle, across from his cousin, only a few feet away. His mother and aunt farther away at the ends. They were already eating, piggies in a blanket. And they'd put one on his plate, half a hot dog wrapped in dough, baked. Side dishes of ketchup and mustard.

You need to eat, his aunt said. Even your eyeballs are starting to stick out.

Galen closed his eyes. They were in an enormous hot valley, a dust bowl, the Central Valley of California, and what he hoped for was a twister, a hot, dry tornado that would build for three hundred miles and come through the walnut orchard to explode the house. His aunt and mother and cousin lifting in their chairs, winging through the air, shattered wood like shrapnel all around, the little piggies flung from their blankets.

Our heavenly father, his cousin said. Give us this day our cheeks and neck and other bits of flesh.

Stop that, Jennifer, Galen's mother said.

I think we should pray that poor Galen be made whole again.

I said stop it.

Suzie-Q, his aunt said.

Fine, his mother said. I won't reprimand your little angel, Helen.

Galen opened his eyes. Now that the crossfire had started, perhaps he was safe.

That's rich, his aunt said. Galen will be at your tit until he's fifty. Don't talk to me about coddling.

Galen smiled. He liked his aunt. She didn't hold back. He thought of himself clinging to his mother's tit, tiny baby gums but an otherwise grown body. He laughed, and then he liked laughing, so he stretched and developed it a bit, chortled and added little yelps.

Okay, Galen. That's enough, his mother said.

But Galen kept laughing, let it bubble forth, and somehow it fed itself and he was feeling much better, lighter and almost free.

His mother got up and left, and without her here to feed it, the laughter slowly wound down. He had tears in his eyes. Ah, he said. That felt good.

You're a freak, Jennifer said. But I kind of enjoyed that. You should consider the circus.

We're already in the circus.

His aunt smiled—or what was a smile for her, anyway, lips pulled straight back—and looked up toward the far corner of the ceiling, her arms folded. Well, she said. Well, well, well.

Galen looked down at the little piggy. He was vegetarian. He was also starving, deep cramps in creases that folded and stapled him from the inside. It hurt so much he had trouble sitting up straight. His mother knew he was vegetarian, and she had served him this. Red nub of hot dog poking out of dough. The side dishes condiments.

You do realize, his aunt said, that at some point you'll have to become something. You'll have to go to school or get a job or do something. You can't remain a child forever.

I don't know if that's true, Galen said. Look at my mom, for instance.

His aunt laughed. That's true, she said. That is true. Little Suzie-Q.

You're a trip, Galen said. I like you.

Well, his aunt said.

The pantry door opened and Galen's mother returned. Are we through now? she asked.

We've only just begun, Galen sang.

Jennifer smiled and put her foot up on his crotch under the table. Her bare foot on his jeans, held there lightly, feeling his boner grow.

How was Mom today? his aunt asked his mother.

She was fine.

Any details?

You should go yourself if you want details.

It's not enough that you're the favorite? And that you get to live in this house and collect the checks? You also have to be snotty?

You're not going to be invited to this house anymore if you behave like this.

No empty threats, please.

Jesus, Galen said. Listen to the two of you.

It's the only sound in the world, his aunt said. How could we hear anything else?

Jennifer pressed harder against his boner, pleasant at first and then it kind of hurt. He put a hand down to try to push her foot away, but she was too strong. He looked at her and she was smiling. Mascara put on too heavily, a child's makeup. Blue eyes bright as marbles. But what he always noticed most was the down, the actual down along her cheeks and neck. He could see the tiny blond hairs, so soft. Something he wanted to feel against his own cheek.

What are you two up to? Galen's mother asked.

Just a stare-down, Galen said. First one to blink has to stay here at the table and talk with the two of you.

Stop it, Galen's mother said. Jennifer, you look like a little tramp. And all of you have to stop it. Why can't you just be normal? Why can't we just be a family?

Galen sighed. Okay, he said. May I have the plate of piggies, please?

Thank you, his mother said. And she passed the plate. A dozen piggies in their blankets. Galen slid them all onto his plate and then he stuffed them in his mouth with both fists, hot doughy intestinal meat with the taste of butchery floors and tongues and hooves. His cousin laughing and his mother gone again and he kept stuffing and chewing and swallowing the little abominations until there were only shards on his plate, the ruins of the feast, and then he bent down to lick his plate clean, left the table with his stomach heaving and lurched up the stairs to his room and bathroom to vomit into the toilet. When he was done, he folded his arms on the toilet seat, his mouth acidic, and he took a little nap. Closed his eyes and slept on the toilet with the unclean water below, thought about dipping his head in for a drink, and he would have done it if his mother had been watching.

Chapter 3

W
hen Galen woke it was dark. The house silent. The time of peace. The way he wished the world could be. No people.

He had to shake his arm to get it to wake up. He flushed the toilet and brushed his teeth. Then he walked barefoot down the stairs, stepping as softly as possible, trying to walk with no weight. His body lifted in the air, gravity gone. This world a dream, the house made of memory. His mother as a child walking these same steps.

Out through the pantry, he walked beneath the enormous leaves of the fig tree, could smell its fruit, let his jeans and underwear and shirt slip to the ground, stood naked. The moon nearly full, and as he stepped around the farm shed into the walnut orchard, he saw the array of bones. Long rows of white trunks and branches all turned to bone in this light. Every branch hollow and too large, luminous. The leaves as shadows too insubstantial to cover.

Galen ran as he had read in the Carlos Castaneda books, let his bare feet find their way in the night, their own path, closed his eyes and held his arms out to the sides, palms up. The clods of dirt crumbling beneath his feet, rocks hard, small branches, leaves. All of it hurt and made him slow down, but he wanted to be lifted free. He wanted to drift over the ground without sound or feel, his feet held just above the surface by a kind of magnetism. Instead, his feet sank deep into furrows, stumbled and jolted, and he never knew what was coming next. He opened his eyes and slowed to a walk, put his arms down.

The moon the brightest of bones. Dark patches forming the open mouth of a snake, a small man sitting below, meditating. Always the same moon. It never revolved, never changed. Always this snake head and small man etched on a disc of bone.

The trees arrayed in obedience to the moon, lined up, reaching upward. Even the furrows responding to the pull. All of the earth extending, trying to close the gap. The air so thin, what was keeping the earth and moon apart?

Galen sat cross-legged, his lower back braced by a furrow, and stared up into the moon. His palms open on his knees. Long exhale, and breathe in deep. Exhale again. No thought, only this shining disc, this mirror.

But then he was thinking of his cousin, of the inside of her thigh, of her lips, of her foot pressed against his crotch. Samsara always there, always intruding. But perhaps it could be used. Perhaps it could provide some power.

Galen rose and put his hand on his boner. He stroked it a bit and then tried to run like that down the furrow, stroking with his right hand, his left hand held outward to the side, palm upward, a meditative pose, his eyes closed. He tried to let his legs guide him, tried to let the boner guide him, lift him above the furrows toward the moon. And his feet did feel lighter. He was gaining speed, the dirt falling away farther below, the air gaining a presence, and maybe that was the key. Not some sort of magnetism from the earth but a pulling from the air itself. The air was the medium, not the earth.

He tried to leave his body, tried to place his consciousness outside, to see himself from far away. White bone-legs running, like the tree trunks come alive.

But his breath was ragged, holding him to the world, pinning him here when he wanted to lift free. Tall weeds ripping at him, lashing him, a snag between his toes and he almost went down. He had to open his eyes and jog to the side to get around the worst patch. And this was the problem. Always an interruption. Whenever he was getting close to something.

So he stopped. Stopped running, stopped stroking. He tried to never come, because he'd read that a man lost his power when he came. But he really wanted to come. And he was tired of just his hand.

Galen lay down in the hollow between two furrows, curled on his side. Breathing heavily, wet with sweat, the air cool now on his skin. His forehead in the dirt. The world only an illusion. This orchard, the long rows of trees, only a psychic space to hold the illusion of self and memory. His grandfather giving him rides on the old green tractor, the putting sound of the engine. His grandfather's Panama hat, brown shirt, smell of wine on his breath, Riesling. The feel of the tractor tugging forward, the lurch as the front wheels crossed over a furrow. All of that a training to feel the margins of things, the slipping, none of it real. The only problem was how to slip now beyond the edges of the dream. The dirt really felt like dirt.

G
alen woke many times in the night, shivering. The moon a traveler, crabbing sideways through the stars. Galen on the surface of the earth. The planet not to be believed, spinning at thousands of miles per hour. There should be some sound to that if it were true. Some thrumming or vibration. But the dirt was soundless, and it felt too light, as if the earth's crust were only a few feet deep. What Galen wanted was for the crust to crack so that he could fall through, fall thousands of miles flipping through empty space toward the center of gravity, accelerating, and then fall past the center toward the crust on the other side and feel himself slowing as gravity took hold. Until he'd reach the underside of the other side of the world and touch it lightly with his fingertips, then fall backward again. His feet would never touch ground, and that would be good.

Galen was so cold his teeth were chattering. But he didn't get up. He fell back into sleep over and over, and the night was an endless thing. Each night a lifetime, including the wait for the end.

And when the end came, finally, when the sky lightened, the black become blue, Galen was not yet ready. Too quickly the air would bake, the earth would bake, and the day would repeat itself. There'd be tea with his mother and the visit with his grandmother and the visit from his aunt and cousin. Galen didn't feel he could do it again.

He had to pee so badly he finally rose, sent an arc of piss toward a tree, then hooked his thumbs under his armpits and crowed a
cockadoodledoo
loud into the dawn. He strutted around naked, flapping his arms, warming up, calling in the day. His stomach an empty cavern, a pit shrinking him from the center. But he kept strutting, broke into a low run through the trees, then over to the main house. Stood beneath his mother's window, crowed as loudly as he could and stomped his feet in the grass.

Damn it, Galen, he finally heard. I'm up now, and you know I won't be able to fall back asleep.

Galen felt a smile, the real thing, happen across his face, his cheeks pulling themselves up. No stunted thing, his face not broken. He stopped crowing, walked over to grab his clothes from under the fig tree, and went in through the pantry. Quiet up the steps to his room, and he closed the door, took a shower to be clean finally, then buried himself under the covers, a warm nest, and fell deeply into sleep.