somewhere between
Riverside and
Needles
they stop
at a diner
she wants a booth
for her son
to watch
the tumbleweeds
blow
across the desert
the father sits
at the bar
she follows
puts her son
on the stool
between them
the kitchen is loud
sweaty, steaming
bodies over burners
and aprons
bouncing around
with silverware
one apron
stops
takes their order
the father first
then the mother
and the son
startles
no longer dreaming
of moonlit mesas,
white wastelands
warm and infinite
in the night
“Breakfast sampler.”
the son says
“And to drink?”
“Diet coke.”
the mother says
“Water.”
the father says
and the apron leaves
knowing which one
to bring
on the way
out
the father pays
then walks
to the car
while the mother waits
for her son
to finish
in the stall
in the ladies room
“Let’s go.”
she says
“Your father’s outside.”
as they leave
together,
a long haul
trucker
holds the door
he’s all fat
and hair
and grease
with a hat bent
and snapped
at the bill
he looks down
at the son
at the mother
nearly falls over
“You’ve got a
special boy
there, Miss.”
“Thank you.”
she says
“He’ll be better
than all of us.
You’ll see.”
then the car starts
she knows
he’s waiting
she knows
that it’s time
to go
one last trip
across the desert
There were three times
she got mad
three times
I remember
The first,
I was twelve
and we were
on our way
to school
I had a stick up my ass
about something
and said something
that really got her
going
I can’t remember
the words
but I still see
her frown
hanging there
from the overcast
like a burnt out
bulb
The second,
I was twenty-one
and she made turkey
and it took hours
and I took Christina
to a steakhouse
by the freeway
I wanted to get laid
She was yelling
yelling YELLING
I’LL JUST MAKE SANDWICHES!
FUCK IT!
I’LL MAKE SOUP!
I got her a card
and balloons
I love you
they all said
and
FUCK IT!
I FINISHED THE SOUP!
The third
was the morning after,
that horrible morning after,
when Dad locked himself
in the study
and she
was at the table
I was twenty-five
rusty-knuckled
and shaking
Don’t you ever
do that
again
she said
It’s none
of your business
what
HE
does
I got mad
after that
it was the first
time
I remember
Nathaniel Sverlow is a freelance writer of poetry and prose. He was born in 1983 in San Diego, California and moved to Northern California at the age of three. Since then, he has graduated from Sacramento State University and spends most of his time hunched over his computer hunting the Word. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Beyond Reality Zine, Typehouse Literary Magazine, and Map Literary. He currently resides in the Sacramento area with four roommates, three cats, and one incredibly supportive girlfriend.
–Art by Jan Rockar
–Art by Plamen Stoev
–Art by Joel Hohner