He kept his mouth shut for the sake of his rep in stoic but he was having trouble putting up with himself. Riding used to shut down that voice, or knead it, but the only present means was chemical, and less successful, not merely in side- and after-effects. A tank top, mesh-lined shorts, huaraches. It was getting hot, even in his sylvan oasis. Rayban Wayfarers and a Panama hat as sequester from the merciless Aztec Sun. Keen edge of the bronze. He lived fine with people one at a time but as soon as we became three or more he became sullen at an odd one out for the most venial transgressions--a constant peroxide drip--or convinced he was the odd one and the others pitied and contemned him, Caliban. Why? Had one parent laid plot with him against the other? Had his childhood oeconomy been so bilious? He put his truck key and superthin wallet in his pockets. Always hated carrying things. Burdened enough. Tent and duffle, bikes and watercraft already loaded for South Padre. Even Rose was willing to ride the flats a couple days. Mountainbike the beach, stretch in the sun, sailboard the foamy waves. Steamed shrimp, eaten cold, with horseradish sauce. Erika would already be outside, striding the ledges impatiently, those calves flaring like cobra hoods. She'd learned six didn't mean six sharp in this country but she didn't have to like it, at least when she was alone. Well, long as he beat Rose, the superior wheedler. Relaxed as a conditioned athlete. In top form, weeks before the Olympics. While he was tired. Catch-up nap in the truck. If the girls didn't babble. Getting in any vehicle for a trip, even brief, always sentenced him to a certain moment of panic, of sinking fear and isolation. Particularly creepy if it was not his. Had family trips been such a cage? Little Davey already L'Etranger, age three? A toddling Meursault. And why did small boys always touch his heart? as innocent and at risk, as earnest but doomed. He
He kept his mouth shut for the sake of his rep in stoic but he was having trouble putting up with himself. Riding used to shut down that voice, or knead it, but the only present means was chemical, and less successful, not merely in side- and after-effects. A tank top, mesh-lined shorts, huaraches. It was getting hot, even in his sylvan oasis. Rayban Wayfarers and a Panama hat as sequester from the merciless Aztec Sun. Keen edge of the bronze. He lived fine with people one at a time but as soon as we became three or more he became sullen at an odd one out for the most venial transgressions--a constant peroxide drip--or convinced he was the odd one and the others pitied and contemned him, Caliban. Why? Had one parent laid plot with him against the other? Had his childhood oeconomy been so bilious? He put his truck key and superthin wallet in his pockets. Always hated carrying things. Burdened enough. Tent and duffle, bikes and watercraft already loaded for South Padre. Even Rose was willing to ride the flats a couple days. Mountainbike the beach, stretch in the sun, sailboard the foamy waves. Steamed shrimp, eaten cold, with horseradish sauce. Erika would already be outside, striding the ledges impatiently, those calves flaring like cobra hoods. She'd learned six didn't mean six sharp in this country but she didn't have to like it, at least when she was alone. Well, long as he beat Rose, the superior wheedler. Relaxed as a conditioned athlete. In top form, weeks before the Olympics. While he was tired. Catch-up nap in the truck. If the girls didn't babble. Getting in any vehicle for a trip, even brief, always sentenced him to a certain moment of panic, of sinking fear and isolation. Particularly creepy if it was not his. Had family trips been such a cage? Little Davey already L'Etranger, age three? A toddling Meursault. And why did small boys always touch his heart? as innocent and at risk, as earnest but doomed. He
final_triage.docx