Page 120 of Down Bad

Suddenly it isn’t a thirty-two-year-old man standing here.

It’s a kid who’s still got his dad.

His mom hasn’t left.

He’s got this feeling he’ll never be alone. The world is always around him. His dad laughs all the time and is a happy drunk at parties. Tío Marcos is with him, smoking on the back porch where they think my mom and Tía Lottie won’t find them.

That kid was so fucking happy.

Because his life hasn’t happened yet.

He hasn’t become a teenager, where he started seeing all the cracks in his parents’ marriage. How his mother’s smiles were too tight to be real. She threw parties all the time to distract everyone from what was happening. Smiles and laughter and confetti.

Like my own birthday parties.

Like some clown fussing with his wig, keeping up the illusion that he’s not just a person at a gig making a living.

Even as a teenager, I was becoming less and less fooled by the fantasy that my life was perfect just because my mom could smile through it all, teaching me that kindness is a lie most adults learn how to use to control the world around them.

Then Dad died.

And in a lot of ways, so did she.

I’m not gonna take the next step into the chapel. I realize that right now. It’s a lost cause.

I turn and see myself the fuck out of this place.

Drop my ass on the front step of the church, right at the edge of the shade where the awning ends.

I rub my eyes, then rub my hair, then stare ahead at nothing, not wanting to think about it a second longer.

And suddenly it’s like I’m on a swinging bench.

Choosing not to participate in that crazy party inside.

Enjoying the silence like those two boys were, long ago.

Does Wyatt remember that party …?

“Suffocating, huh?”

I look up.

Some chick’s standing there. Black skirt. Purple blouse. Thick brown hair.

She sits down next to me with a sigh, pats me on the knee like we’re lifelong friends, and mumbles, “I can’t do church. Thought I could tough it out for my brother. Nope. None of that. Not a fan of organized religion. I’m … not sure what that means exactly,” she adds, leaning into me, “but my ex said it a lot, and so I just caught on. Not a fan of organized anything, really. Not even drawers. Do you smoke?”

I shake my head.

“Me neither.” She pauses. “I mean, I used to. It’s my ex’s fault. And if you had any on you, I’d be tempted to start that bad habit right back up today. This weekend is not goin’ the way I wanted. I mean, is it so bad to wanna stay close with your loved ones? We’ve only got so much family left, and the little bit we got seem bent on gettin’ as far the fuck away from us as they can. Oh, look at me, cussin’ on a Sunday. Just throw me in a basket and ship me to the Devil.” She rolls her eyes and hugs her knees, smirking at the sun. “Gosh dang it, I could use a drag right about now.”

“And I could use silence.”

The words fly out before I can stop them.

She laughs, surprising me. “Touché,” she mumbles back with a bit of attitude. “Came out here for silence myself, can’t seem to shut the hell up. Maybe it ain’t anyone in there that’s the problem. I’m the problem.”

“You’re the one who said it,” I mutter, looking away.