looking fly. After church we walk down the block to the parsonage (that’s what the minister’s home is called)—my dad in his platforms and Qiana shirt, surrounded by the Ericson girls, who are all dressed for a Billy Graham Crusade. At home June has a pot roast surrounded by carrots, potatoes, and onions in the oven for Sunday dinner.
Other times Daddy and I go out together, just the two of us. Mostly, we like to drive around. We say we’re going shopping, or fishing, or to the zoo, but what we really do is turn the radio up and roll the car windows down, and get our cruise on.
My dad’s car is huge, with doors so big I can’t shut them by myself unless I’m standing up. The seats are white leather and the windows go up and down automatically when you push a little metal doodad on the armrest. It’s awfully cool. And a long, long way from that new Mercury Comet the Ericsons just bought.
“Can we get some beef jerky?” I ask.
I love beef jerky. It’s salty and chewy and I like to chew on things. It gives me something to do with my nervous energy.
“Absolutely,” my dad says as he single-handedly swings the steering wheel, the size of an extra-large pizza, in the direction of the corner store. “Whatever you’d like, darling.”
I don’t ask my dad for things as much as I put in a request. There’s never any question that I will get what I have asked for, as long as it’s within reason. It’s just a matter of time, which means there’s no need to wheedle and no manipulation necessary. It’s not that he’s trying to buy my love. It’s that he doesn’t see any reason to deny me.
“And can I get some Pixy Stix, too?”
I love beef jerky, but I’m obsessed with Pixy Stix, the powdered SweeTart-like candy that comes in a paper tube decorated with a colorful swirl. Pixy Stix are the crack cocaine of candy. Pure, unadulterated sugar, laced with tangy ascorbic acid. So addictive, you might as well just smoke the motherfuckers. Or shoot them up.
“Sure, little gyurl. Pixy Stix, too.”
We head over to Humboldt Drug, where usually I have to shoplift my candy because I need much more than the Ericsons think is reasonable. In minutes I am contentedly munching on leathery beef as we drive around North Minneapolis, listening to soul music on the radio.
Until my dad and I started chilling together, I didn’t even know Minneapolis had a soul station. “Me and Mrs. Jones” is my favorite song. It has a sad melody that matches the way I feel inside a lot better than Andy Williams’s “Raindrops Keep Fallin’ on My Head” or whatever it is that June is always listening to in her car. I also like“Back Stabbers” by the O’Jays and “Reach Out (I’ll Be There)” by the Four Tops. My musical taste apparently hints at my emotional life—all about lying, cheating, and being left.
“Can we go to the record store?”
“Sure, baby,” my dad says, “we can go to the record store.” It’s just a normal sentence, but when my dad says it, it sounds like he’s about to start laughing. My dad thinks everything that comes out of my mouth is terribly amusing. He has this way of looking at me when I talk—he pays very close attention, much more than adults usually do, and he listens very carefully, smiling but not mocking. The most accurate word for it, I think, is “delight.” He delights in pretty much whatever I say.
I already know what I’m going to get—the new Sonny and Cher record. My dad has bought me every single one of their albums, except for the one from Cher’s fur-vest-and-straight-bangs era, which I don’t want. The new album has pictures of the inside of Sonny and Cher’s Beverly Hills mansion—all blue velvet upholstery and sumptuous furnishings—which I will spend hours poring over, in an early intuitive form of creative visualization. I wouldn’t dare tell anyone this, but what I really want to be when I grow up is Cher. One time I told one of my social workers this and
Other times Daddy and I go out together, just the two of us. Mostly, we like to drive around. We say we’re going shopping, or fishing, or to the zoo, but what we really do is turn the radio up and roll the car windows down, and get our cruise on.
My dad’s car is huge, with doors so big I can’t shut them by myself unless I’m standing up. The seats are white leather and the windows go up and down automatically when you push a little metal doodad on the armrest. It’s awfully cool. And a long, long way from that new Mercury Comet the Ericsons just bought.
“Can we get some beef jerky?” I ask.
I love beef jerky. It’s salty and chewy and I like to chew on things. It gives me something to do with my nervous energy.
“Absolutely,” my dad says as he single-handedly swings the steering wheel, the size of an extra-large pizza, in the direction of the corner store. “Whatever you’d like, darling.”
I don’t ask my dad for things as much as I put in a request. There’s never any question that I will get what I have asked for, as long as it’s within reason. It’s just a matter of time, which means there’s no need to wheedle and no manipulation necessary. It’s not that he’s trying to buy my love. It’s that he doesn’t see any reason to deny me.
“And can I get some Pixy Stix, too?”
I love beef jerky, but I’m obsessed with Pixy Stix, the powdered SweeTart-like candy that comes in a paper tube decorated with a colorful swirl. Pixy Stix are the crack cocaine of candy. Pure, unadulterated sugar, laced with tangy ascorbic acid. So addictive, you might as well just smoke the motherfuckers. Or shoot them up.
“Sure, little gyurl. Pixy Stix, too.”
We head over to Humboldt Drug, where usually I have to shoplift my candy because I need much more than the Ericsons think is reasonable. In minutes I am contentedly munching on leathery beef as we drive around North Minneapolis, listening to soul music on the radio.
Until my dad and I started chilling together, I didn’t even know Minneapolis had a soul station. “Me and Mrs. Jones” is my favorite song. It has a sad melody that matches the way I feel inside a lot better than Andy Williams’s “Raindrops Keep Fallin’ on My Head” or whatever it is that June is always listening to in her car. I also like“Back Stabbers” by the O’Jays and “Reach Out (I’ll Be There)” by the Four Tops. My musical taste apparently hints at my emotional life—all about lying, cheating, and being left.
“Can we go to the record store?”
“Sure, baby,” my dad says, “we can go to the record store.” It’s just a normal sentence, but when my dad says it, it sounds like he’s about to start laughing. My dad thinks everything that comes out of my mouth is terribly amusing. He has this way of looking at me when I talk—he pays very close attention, much more than adults usually do, and he listens very carefully, smiling but not mocking. The most accurate word for it, I think, is “delight.” He delights in pretty much whatever I say.
I already know what I’m going to get—the new Sonny and Cher record. My dad has bought me every single one of their albums, except for the one from Cher’s fur-vest-and-straight-bangs era, which I don’t want. The new album has pictures of the inside of Sonny and Cher’s Beverly Hills mansion—all blue velvet upholstery and sumptuous furnishings—which I will spend hours poring over, in an early intuitive form of creative visualization. I wouldn’t dare tell anyone this, but what I really want to be when I grow up is Cher. One time I told one of my social workers this and
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