Impulse Page 11

  What if the wife found out?

  Phillip was one of the brave

  ones who couldn’t stand

  sneaking around. So he

  told his wife, who promptly

  ran off to tell her priest

  and get a divorce, in that order.

  Poor Phillip lost his wife,

  his son, his friends, and his

  church, all within a few

  days. Luckily, the university

  where he taught was in San

  Francisco. At least he kept his job.

  Mr. Hidalgo

  Clears His Throat

  Brings me back to my

  essay: “The Patriot Act,

  Who Cares?” I write:

  I think it’s totally messed

  up that cops can arrest

  anyone they want, just

  because they don’t like

  how a person looks. But

  what, exactly, is so new

  about that? The only

  difference I can see under

  the Patriot Act is the authorities

  don’t have to tell anyone

  they’ve busted the guy.

  They can keep him for days,

  even weeks, and no one

  who cares about him will

  know where he’s gone.

  They call that patriotism?

  And wiretaps? Or investigating

  what a person reads? Who,

  then, gets to decide what

  reading materials constitute

  terrorist training guides?

  When will America quit

  living in the shadow

  of 9/11? When will her

  people decide to stop

  living in daily fear?

  When will they think

  twice about who they

  should be afraid of—

  some would-be terrorist

  a thousand miles away,

  or some U.S. politician, hell-

  bent on peeking behind

  closed doors?

  Vanessa

  Writing Essays

  Is usually easy for me.

  But I’m having a hard time

  with this one, for a couple

  of reasons. The first is Daddy,

  who’s been fighting terrorists

  on their own turf ever since

  9/11 went down.

  Ask him, the Patriot Act

  doesn’t do nearly enough

  to keep America safe.

  Ask him, he’d send every

  “damn towelhead”

  back to where they came from,

  with a stop at Guantanamo

  for a little debriefing.

  The second is Grandma,

  who is quite vocal about

  patient confidentiality

  and the need to keep medical

  records inviolable.

  I know I wouldn’t want

  just anybody to be able

  to take a look at mine.

  Nopey no job for Vanessa.

  She’s crazy, you know.

  I may very well be crazy,

  but the manager at McDonald’s

  doesn’t need

  that information to decide

  if I’m safe to flip burgers.

  Not like I’d freak out and off

  someone because he complained

  the fries were greasy.

  At least, I don’t think so.

  The Third Reason Is Mama

  Everything always comes back

  to her, doesn’t it?

  Plenty of times, tripping

  around town, no meds to stabilize

  her schizophrenic mood shifts,

  she looked like a regular

  lunatic—the kind that sleeps

  in the park, digging through

  trash cans for dinner

  and talking to pigeons

  like they can talk back.

  In fact, she did all those things.

  Sometimes cops will look

  the other way. Other times,

  bad day or whatever, they decide

  to roust “the wackos,”

  rough them up, haul them in,

  whatever their mood dictates.

  Once in a while, if the wacko

  takes offense and puts up

  some sort of a defense,

  the cop goes overboard.

  More than once, Mama

  came home with bruises.

  But what if one of those

  times, she never came

  home at all, and no one

  knew where she’d been

  taken to? She’s got red hair,

  green eyes, no ties to the Middle

  East. But under the Patriot

  Act, everyone is fair game.

  I have no problem with

  increasing security to keep

  this country safe.

  But how do we decide

  who poses a threat?

  And—bigger question—

  who decides?

  Mr. Hidalgo Comes Over

  You haven’t written anything,

  Vanessa. Having a hard time

  getting started?

  I could tell him everything

  I’ve just been thinking,

  but that would take us all

  the way to lunch. “Just

  organizing my thoughts.

  I tend to do most of my

  writing inside my head.”

  He smiles. Okay. But don’t

  let it get lost inside there.

  I’d like a first draft today.

  I glance around

  the classroom. Conner

  is already finished.

  I can tell by the satisfied

  expression on his face.

  Tony is scribbling away.

  Guess he knows what

  he wants to say.

  Others are chewing

  pencils, staring off

  into space. I don’t want

  to look as scattered

  as they do, so I start:

  Once we believed ourselves

  safe from attack, here on our

  home turf, hallowed ground.

  The events that occurred

  on September 11, 2001,

  altered our “pie in the sky”

  view. The sad fact is, no one

  is completely safe. We’re all

  going to die someday. What’s

  important is how we choose

  to live until the day of our judgment

  comes….

  Conner

  Six Weeks in Aspen Springs

  The doctors say I’m making

  progress, however they

  define that. I’m mostly

  over Emily, I guess,

  so something inside me

  has changed. I no longer

  feel mad with desire for her,

  deranged by my inability

  to see her, talk to her. I

  haven’t heard what happened

  after she broke down, admitted

  guilt. Not a single word,

  though I’ve begged Dr. Boston

  to ignore the rules, confide

  details of Em’s self-imposed

  destruction. Despite our rapport,

  she maintains, You know I can’t

  do that, Conner. It could

  adversely affect your therapy.

  Please don’t pursue this further.

  Once I even went so far

  as to reach across her desk,

  rest my hand lightly on hers,

  and say, “Then teach me how

  not to care about someone

  who was everything to me.

  All I want is to know she’s

  okay. Is that too much to ask?”

  She flinched but didn’t move

  her hand. No. But it’s more

  important that we talk

 
; about you. Understand?

  The Only Way

  To find my answers, learn

  anything more, is to do

  what it takes to let Level

  Three take me out the front door.

  Even supervised outings

  should give me the chance

  to make a covert phone call.

  Until then, I’ll play “good.”

  I’ve swallowed most of my

  pride, dressed down in sweats,

  showered naked with creeps,

  some of them way too obsessed

  with checking out other guys.

  It’s worse than any football

  locker room, because while

  jocks can be crude, perverse

  even, they all have girlfriends

  waiting outside. These losers

  have no one but each other,

  one reason I haven’t tried

  to buddy up too close.

  Still, I stay cordial. No

  need to make enemies.

  Besides, halfway going

  along with the Aspen Springs

  game plan has netted me

  Level Two. Unimpressive.

  Funny, I never regretted not

  learning Ping-Pong until

  now. Even Stanley can beat

  me, and I haven’t a clue

  how—he’s too fat to move fast,

  so it must have more to do

  with spin. Whatever. Losing

  every game to Stanley

  is beginning to wear thin.

  So I’m Pushing Hard

  To graduate to Level

  Three. I’ve kept my nose

  to the grindstone in school,

  stroked my way past Dr. B.

  Now I’ve just got to convince

  Dr. Starr. The bulldog is

  waiting for me right now,

  sitting as far back from

  the patient’s chair as the wall

  will allow, as if “suicidal”

  were contagious. Working

  the bulldog takes more than skill.

  It takes subtlety. “Good

  afternoon, Dr. Starr. You

  look lovely in that shade

  of maroon.” Okay, not great.

  She grimaces. Let’s get down

  to business, Mr. Sykes.

  When we last left off, we

  were discussing your sister.

  I don’t want to talk about

  Cara, but we’re playing

  by Dr. Starr’s rule book.

  I shut my eyes, see my twin’s

  face, so like my own—soft,

  toffee brown hair; startling

  hazel eyes; skin the color

  of coffee with lots of cream.

  “She’s really very beautiful.

  Takes after our mother,

  outside and in. Meaning

  she’s a bitch.” My heart aches,

  remembering.

  Tony

  Commotion in the Hall

  Voices. Shouts. Shuffling

  feet and the scratch of claws

  against linoleum. Dogs

  can mean only one thing—

  a drug search. I stick my

  head out the door, looking

  for the source of all this

  excitement. Uniforms,

  with real guns attached.

  Two German shepherds,

  sniffing along the

  corridor, asking to go

  inside rooms which, one

  by one, empty. Guys,

  some half-dressed.

  Girls, ditto. Which most

  definitely makes an

  impression on the guys.

  Hey, Dahlia, calls dim-

  wad Stanley. Nice pair

  of tits you got there.

  Hey, Stanley, she

  yells back. Same to you,

  but more of them!

  Despite the situation,

  everyone has to laugh.

  Everyone, that is, except

  Todd, who has just been

  led out of his room,

  face in his metal-cuffed

  hands, by a tall deputy

  and a short German

  shepherd. I thought

  he seemed buzzed

  the last time I saw him,

  but didn’t go there at all.

  As Todd Is Marched Away

  The search continues.

  He may have shared

  his contraband, after

  all. Meanwhile, Paul

  and Kate appear. Half

  dressed or fully clothed,

  we’re herded toward

  the dining room, where

  we’re instructed to wait

  until the operation is

  over. A sting, in Reno’s

  premier RTC—residential

  treatment center.

  The press will love

  this one, not that it’s

  so uncommon. I’ve even

  seen drugs delivered

  to inmates at the juvenile

  detention center—

  left by a Dumpster

  within semi-easy

  reach behind the chain-

  link fence surrounding

  the exercise yard.

  Paul and Kate pace

  nervous circles around

  the loosely grouped

  Aspen Springs flakes.

  Out in the hallway,

  I hear the muffled

  voices of the younger

  kids—all under twelve—

  who live in a different

  wing. Most of them have

  suffered abuse: physical,

  sexual, or (please specify) other.

  Which Takes Me Back

  Home to Ma, a string

  of “uncles” and their

  friends. Reno, small

  as it is, is home to a wide

  variety of perverts.

  Think how many there

  must be on this poor,

  sick planet! The worst

  part is, since scientists

  tell us perverts beget

  perverts, you almost

  have to feel sorry for them.

  Perverts aren’t born—

  they’re created. I wish

  I could give every kid

  the kind of childhood

  I didn’t have—one filled

  with toys, warmth, love.

  Speaking of love,

  here comes Vanessa.

  Not only do I love

  her, but, funny as it

  sounds, I think I’m

  in love with her. Crazy!

  But how else can I

  explain the way I break

  out in a sweat when

  she’s near, the way

  I look for opportunities

  to make that happen?

  Hey, Tony, she almost

  sighs. Too bad about

  Todd, huh? I thought

  he was over all that.

  And as she talks, I

  shiver at a cool hint

  of sweat.

  Vanessa

  I Watch Tony

  Listen to the voices

  of the little kids, out in the hall.

  A strange expression creeps

  across his face. I wonder

  what he’s thinking,

  but my intuition whispers

  it’s one of those things

  he’d rather not talk about.

  At least not yet.

  So I make small talk

  about Todd. “It’s sad how

  people give their lives

  to meth. I mean, if you’re

  going to kill yourself,

  there are faster ways

  than letting something

  chew up your brain

  one lobe at a time.”

  Tony shrugs. Do enough

  crank, your heart will give

  up before
your brain does.

  Most people don’t

  do enough to die, though.

  They just do enough

  to keep getting more

  and more stupid.

  “Like stupid enough

  to smuggle meth into

  a place like this?”

  Exactly. What was

  the guy thinking?

  Now he’ll do serious

  lockup, and that

  ain’t pretty. Trust me.

  The Funny Thing Is

  I do trust Tony. But why?

  A gay guy, from the wrong

  side of town, who I only

  met a few weeks ago?

  Why do I feel like

  I’ve known him forever?

  Were we friends

  in another lifetime?

  I’ve read about reincarnation.

  (Had to hide the books so

  Mama wouldn’t find them—

  she’d have skinned me alive!)

  It doesn’t sound so unreasonable.

  So I ask, “Do you believe

  in reincarnation?”

  Tony shivers. I’m not

  sure what I believe in,

  Vanessa, other than there

  has to be a better reason

  for living than what I’ve

  seen so far.

  Such an incredible waste

  of energy, to work your ass

  off for sixty years,

  then shrivel up, die,

  and be nothing more

  than a memory—if you’re

  lucky enough to leave someone

  behind who will remember you.

  There must be more.

  Don’t you think?

  Well, that conversation

  took a sudden sharp turn.

  I look him in the eye,

  find total sincerity and a need

  for someone to share his

  universal questioning.

  “Sure, Tony. I think

  there’s more.