“We’ll know more after the thoughtopsy. Did he have any enemies that you know of?”
I shook my head and wiped my face. “He was such a kind and thoughtful. Into surfing and meditation. He wouldn’t have thought about hurting the thought of a
fly
.”
“Sometimes a thought leads a double life,” suggested the Cone.
I shook my head again. “Not this one,” I said.
The following week I held a funeral in my mind. All of my available thoughts attended. I held it on a Wednesday morning. The body of the thought was displayed in a coffin, and all my thoughts walked past it and thought about praying.
Outside my skull, meanwhile, I was in algebra class. The teacher, a hairy plus sign, was drawing some bullshit on the board. “This makes Y equal—who knows the answer?”
The thought’s mother ambled up to the coffin and collapsed in tears.
“,” said the hairy plus sign.
“My boy,” said the motherthought. “My son.”
“Y equals?” said the plus sign.
The fatherthought consoled his ex-wife.
“Earth to. What does Y equal?”
But I couldn’t answer, because it was that part of the service where they were lowering the thought into the ground in my mind, throwing mindirt over it and saying goodbye forever. It was so sad. A thought with its whole
life
ahead of it!
“!”
“What?” I shouted.
“Do you know the answer?” said the plus sign.
“Who
cares
!” I roared. “Don’t you have any respect for the dead?”
YOU CAN’T DO THAT ON TELEVISION
Like most of the kids I knew, we had televisions watching us in every room, recording our movements and prayers, and praying them out as sitcoms and laugh-out-louds to other families in Appleseed. Our sitcom was called
The Marginals
, about a family that lives really close to the margin. I think back on those times, the times of the show, as some of the best of my childhood. Every day between the ages of five and thirteen I came home from school, looked over my script, and put on my costume: shiny Nike shoes instead of my secondhand unmatching Converse hi-tops, stonewashed jeans instead of vinyl parachute pants, an Ocean Pacific T-shirt over my cigarette shirt from the Salvation Army, a toupee cut in the latest fashion—a tail in the back or pleats shaved into the sides—to cover my bald head. Then I’d open up a closet of smiles in the back room, pick one out, and put it on. Sometimes I’d choose a wide smile, but usually I’d pick a smirk, like this one:
In the story of
The Marginals
I was Scooter LaFontaine, always getting into trouble that led to valuable lessons. My signature lines were, “Who, me?” and “Nice fine good OK!”
Everyone in my family was part of the show. Mysister played Samantha LaFontaine, the town’s tap dancing champion (even though Bri
hated
tap dancing—her real passion was for collectibles, antiques, and junk). My father played a cambridge and my Mom a really kind nurse. And she was great at it. When she was in costume, I saw kindnesses from her that she rarely showed in person. In one episode, I saw her cradle a dying sentence in her arms as if she were its mother. In another, I was crushed by a last-second loss in a swim meet. In the car, she turned to me and said, “You tried your
best
, Scoot. Didn’t you?”
My character, Scooter, nodded.
“And wasn’t that your fastest time ever in backstroke?”
I shrugged.
“Then you won. You did better than ever before. What more could you want, honey?”
The show had certain tropes. Like, every show included a dinner scene.
“How was your day today, Scoot?” my Dad would ask.
With that line and almost every other, we’d hear the laughtrack: our cans in the pantry, chuckling and guffawing.
“We learned about photosynthesis,” I said. “How plants transform light into food.”
Haw
.
“I wish we could transform
this
food,” my sister said.
Ha haw haw ha
.
“Now, Sam,” said my Mom. “It’s just a pleasure for the four of us to eat
I shook my head and wiped my face. “He was such a kind and thoughtful. Into surfing and meditation. He wouldn’t have thought about hurting the thought of a
fly
.”
“Sometimes a thought leads a double life,” suggested the Cone.
I shook my head again. “Not this one,” I said.
The following week I held a funeral in my mind. All of my available thoughts attended. I held it on a Wednesday morning. The body of the thought was displayed in a coffin, and all my thoughts walked past it and thought about praying.
Outside my skull, meanwhile, I was in algebra class. The teacher, a hairy plus sign, was drawing some bullshit on the board. “This makes Y equal—who knows the answer?”
The thought’s mother ambled up to the coffin and collapsed in tears.
“,” said the hairy plus sign.
“My boy,” said the motherthought. “My son.”
“Y equals?” said the plus sign.
The fatherthought consoled his ex-wife.
“Earth to. What does Y equal?”
But I couldn’t answer, because it was that part of the service where they were lowering the thought into the ground in my mind, throwing mindirt over it and saying goodbye forever. It was so sad. A thought with its whole
life
ahead of it!
“!”
“What?” I shouted.
“Do you know the answer?” said the plus sign.
“Who
cares
!” I roared. “Don’t you have any respect for the dead?”
YOU CAN’T DO THAT ON TELEVISION
Like most of the kids I knew, we had televisions watching us in every room, recording our movements and prayers, and praying them out as sitcoms and laugh-out-louds to other families in Appleseed. Our sitcom was called
The Marginals
, about a family that lives really close to the margin. I think back on those times, the times of the show, as some of the best of my childhood. Every day between the ages of five and thirteen I came home from school, looked over my script, and put on my costume: shiny Nike shoes instead of my secondhand unmatching Converse hi-tops, stonewashed jeans instead of vinyl parachute pants, an Ocean Pacific T-shirt over my cigarette shirt from the Salvation Army, a toupee cut in the latest fashion—a tail in the back or pleats shaved into the sides—to cover my bald head. Then I’d open up a closet of smiles in the back room, pick one out, and put it on. Sometimes I’d choose a wide smile, but usually I’d pick a smirk, like this one:
In the story of
The Marginals
I was Scooter LaFontaine, always getting into trouble that led to valuable lessons. My signature lines were, “Who, me?” and “Nice fine good OK!”
Everyone in my family was part of the show. Mysister played Samantha LaFontaine, the town’s tap dancing champion (even though Bri
hated
tap dancing—her real passion was for collectibles, antiques, and junk). My father played a cambridge and my Mom a really kind nurse. And she was great at it. When she was in costume, I saw kindnesses from her that she rarely showed in person. In one episode, I saw her cradle a dying sentence in her arms as if she were its mother. In another, I was crushed by a last-second loss in a swim meet. In the car, she turned to me and said, “You tried your
best
, Scoot. Didn’t you?”
My character, Scooter, nodded.
“And wasn’t that your fastest time ever in backstroke?”
I shrugged.
“Then you won. You did better than ever before. What more could you want, honey?”
The show had certain tropes. Like, every show included a dinner scene.
“How was your day today, Scoot?” my Dad would ask.
With that line and almost every other, we’d hear the laughtrack: our cans in the pantry, chuckling and guffawing.
“We learned about photosynthesis,” I said. “How plants transform light into food.”
Haw
.
“I wish we could transform
this
food,” my sister said.
Ha haw haw ha
.
“Now, Sam,” said my Mom. “It’s just a pleasure for the four of us to eat
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