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my wish not to discuss the possibility.
He has, in fact, been pretty darn quiet
for most of this very long ride. When
the radio dissolves into a static dead
sea, though, there isn’t much to do but talk.
And since he isn’t about to initiate
conversation, I ask, “What’s prison like?”
He thinks a minute, says, Pretty much like
you see on TV, I guess. Except until you
experience it, you can’t really understand
what it’s like to live in an oversize crypt.
For ten years? I’d die of claustrophobia
poisoning. “What’s the worst thing?”
He thinks again. Toss-up. The smell—people
stink, let me tell you. That, or the boredom.
Wow. I thought he’d have some racy
stories to tell me. But yeah, I get boredom.
BOREDOM IS AN OVERSIZE CRYPT
Or twenty
straight hours
in a car (sort of a crypt on
wheels, if you think about it)
with someone you don’t know.
Even if that someone might
be your father. I still can’t
think of him that way. (So why
are you here? Stupid?)
I really must stop thinking
parenthetically. Carrying on
a silent conversation with
