Home: Part 4

What follows is a work of fiction. Nothing here is either true or relevant. Read at your own risk. Do not expect anything, and that's exactly what you'll get. Oh: This could go on for awhile.

January 1958 

I was born with a flipper attached to my left knee. More precisely, I had no shin or ankle below my knee on that leg, just, as my father said, "a floppy little thing that wasn't good for much." So, just a couple of days after my birth, surgeons removed the flipper and I was then free to evolve in my own way.

Tiger tended to pull on the leash as we walked, and I had to be careful in the snow and on the slick concrete. I was stable, for the most part, but I was also cautious. "Slow down, Tiger." I pulled back on the leash several times before he finally got the point. We did a loop around the block, and half an hour later we sat in the basement and watched reruns of Superman.

Home: Part 3

What follows is a work of fiction. Nothing here is either true or relevant. Read at your own risk. Do not expect anything, and that's exactly what you'll get. Oh: This could go on for awhile.

January 1958 

My mother's voice: "Steven."

Even from under the blankets I could tell it was cold outside, and dark. My parents were frugal, and even in winter they often kept the heat low at night. They believed that an extra comforter was just as effective as running the heater. One night, though, when my mother was gone, I found my father in a chair in the kitchen, the oven door open and the heating element glowing hot. He looked at me. "Go back to bed. Don't tell your mother." He smiled, and I was grateful for the secret.

"Steven."

"I'm awake, Mom."

"Your father and I are leaving now. Remember to take Tiger for a walk. We'll be home for dinner."

"Okay."

 She shut my bedroom door, and I listened as they left the house, as my father started the car and backed out of the driveway. I lay there and let myself fall back asleep until the gap between dawn and morning narrowed to a point that kept me awake. Breathing into my hands, I warmed my fingers enough so that when I got ready to stand up, I could strap my left leg on without missing a buckle. I stood slowly, a lifetime habit, to be sure I wouldn't topple over if one of the buckles was too loose. Dressed, I left my bedroom and walked down the hallway toward the kitchen. "Tiger," I yelled. "Let's go walk in the snow."

Home: Part 2

What follows is a work of fiction. Nothing here is either true or relevant. Read at your own risk. Do not expect anything, and that's exactly what you'll get. Oh: This could go on for awhile.

July 1974
(continued)

The room had a small window, and through it I could look out onto Subic City's early morning. Everything outside appeared quiet. When I lay on the bed again, I watched the ceiling fan rotate slowly above me. The room smelled stale, lived in, soaked in decades of sweat. I wasn't sure if Narcie would return, but I didn't want to wait all day. It was Friday, and I planned on getting out of town before a good portion of the Seventh Fleet was on liberty for the weekend. I had a flight scheduled from Manila to San Francisco via Honolulu on Sunday; being stuck in Subic City until then had no appeal.

Narcie did return. I must have dozed off while watching the fan blades turn above me. "I told you I'd come back." She was lying beside me and caressing my bare shoulder with her fingers.

"How was church?" I asked.

"I had to take my son," she said. "It is his birthday. He has friends there."

"You don't have to explain. How old is  your son?"

"He is five."

"His father?"

She shrugged the question away.

"I have to leave in a little while," I said. "Manila."

"We can eat first?"

"I think that is a fine idea," I said. "But not just yet." I smiled at her.

"You're like a sailor," she said. "Always ready to do something."

I laughed. "I'll take that as a compliment."

She stood up and slipped out of her clothes. Naked, she looked down at me. "What do I call you?" she asked.

"Call me?"

"Your name. I want to know your name."

I thought about it. "Call me Ishmael," I said.

Home: Part 1

What follows is a work of fiction. Nothing here is either true or relevant. Read at your own risk. Do not expect anything, and that's exactly what you'll get. Oh: This could go on for awhile.

July 1974

There are things you should know.

In 1974 I was in the Philippines. The country was under Martial Law at the time, and for the most part nobody was allowed outside between midnight and six in the morning. You could be in a bar, or even in the front room of your house with your windows wide open. But you couldn't be outside. I wasn't. I was in a hotel room after a long night of drinking San Miguel. Narcie, the short Filipina I'd bought out of a bar a few hours earlier, was asleep and snoring beside me in the bed. I liked how her skin felt against mine. She'd fallen asleep as soon as she lay down, so feeling her skin like that was the culmination of our experience together.

Earlier that afternoon I'd found myself with a group of U.S. sailors and marines, which I thought odd not because they were there, but because they were together. The sailors generally got drunk and stupid, while the marines got drunk and edgy. The groups usually didn't mix well, but for some reason they'd put aside their differences and found commonality in the beer I was buying them. We'd started out in Olongapo, in a bar called the Brown Fox not far from the main gate that separated the U.S. Navy from the Philippines itself. At some point we'd all climbed into a jeepney and made our way to Subic City. That's where I met Narcie and decided that I'd rather spend the night with her than with the sailors and marines. I'd like to think that those men remained cordial after I stopped buying beer and led Narcie outside, where she took the lead and guided me to the hotel, but I couldn't guarantee that things worked out nicely.

Narcie woke up just before dawn. She rubbed her eyes and looked at me. "I need to go to church."

"Church?" At the time I found it odd that so many prostitutes could be so consistently religious. Maybe, like a lot of other people, they thought that God would forgive them if they just showed up and prayed on Sunday morning. In the decades since, though, I've come to think that those women were no worse than anyone else, and that when it comes to feeding the family, the table truly is full of options.

Narcie was getting dressed. "I'll come back, okay? Two hours."

"You don't need to," I told her.

"I'll come back," she said again.