slapdash bailout sound like a literary escapade prompted by a lack of funds. I’d get some writing done while working to save up. Then I’ll come back, I told him—though I intended no such thing.
Shirley and I have been talking about that, Walt said, his long spoon scraping the muddy fudge from the glass bottom.
And you’ve decided to donate a million bucks to me, right?
If we adopted you, he said, the college would have to let you go to school as a faculty child gratis.
I lowered my spoon. Stunned, I was, and touched. They’d never fall for that, I said.
I think they’d have to, Walt said, signaling for a check. Shirley talked to a lawyer friend of ours.
Lifelong, I’d been trying to weasel into another tribe. Back in my neighborhood, I was shameless about showing up on people’s porches come supper, then sprawling around their dens till they kicked me out. Wrapped in a crocheted blanket on a hook rug with the game onand the family cheering around me—digging my grubby hand into their popcorn bowl—I could convince myself I was one of them. A few times it almost surprised me when I heard the inevitable sentence: Time to go home, Mary Marlene .
Fishing for his wallet, Walt explained how easy it’d be. He and Shirley had talked it over, and even the kids were all for it. His youngest boy had asked whose room I’d sleep in.
Would I have to change my name? I said. Somehow that would seal my betrayal.
I don’t think so, he said. Or you can petition to change it back.
The sun was warm on us through the plate glass, and I stared at the door, wishing with all my might that Daddy would come striding through to lay his claim. He’d shake Walt’s hand all nice, saying how he appreciated it, but—he’d squeeze my shoulder—he just had to keep me.
The truth was, if it helped with money, Daddy would sign me over in a heartbeat. I was the one who couldn’t bear legally lopping myself off from an upbringing I was working so hard to shed.
So I lied that it would hurt my parents too bad, the same way I used to tell those neighbors I horned in on—right before I figured they’d throw me out—that I had to rush home for a curfew that didn’t exist.
Well, think about it, Walt said. We were at the register by then.
How’ll I ever pay you back? I said.
For what? He limped back to leave a bill under the salt shaker.
All these lunches, dinners, jobs….
You’re not gonna pay me back, he said. It’s not that linear. He pushed open the glass door, and I stepped into spring air.
When you’re in my place, you’re gonna pick up some kid’s check.
The idea that Walt was deranged enough to envision me in the position to buy somebody lunch was maybe a bigger vote of confidence than the adoption offer.
When I asked him to drop me at the health service for the sorethroat I couldn’t shake all spring, he said, Maybe it’s just hard to say goodbye.
I whipped around so he wouldn’t see my eyes fill, since I was dead sure I wouldn’t make it back up there.
But Walt never took his eyes off me. During the time I gypsied around, feebly trying to establish a base, he stayed in touch. No matter where I had a mailbox, his letters sat inside.
Which is maybe why—months after working retail down in Austin—I came back to Minneapolis, where a friend knew a glitzy restaurant where I could bartend. Even there, Walt showed up with other professors to eat the bar’s crappy sandwiches. He always left a book or two or a concert ticket, an article on dream research or memory—subjects he knew I kept up with. He never gave up on me, I only stopped being matriculated.
4
There’s No Biz Like Po-Biz
People should like poetry the way a child
likes snow, and they would if poets wrote it.
—a letter by Wallace Stevens
I n the dim realm of that horseshoe bar, I was boss, credibly lying to wives and business partners who phoned in that my patrons were not in fact sitting before me hours on end, imbibing. Such lies kept my
Shirley and I have been talking about that, Walt said, his long spoon scraping the muddy fudge from the glass bottom.
And you’ve decided to donate a million bucks to me, right?
If we adopted you, he said, the college would have to let you go to school as a faculty child gratis.
I lowered my spoon. Stunned, I was, and touched. They’d never fall for that, I said.
I think they’d have to, Walt said, signaling for a check. Shirley talked to a lawyer friend of ours.
Lifelong, I’d been trying to weasel into another tribe. Back in my neighborhood, I was shameless about showing up on people’s porches come supper, then sprawling around their dens till they kicked me out. Wrapped in a crocheted blanket on a hook rug with the game onand the family cheering around me—digging my grubby hand into their popcorn bowl—I could convince myself I was one of them. A few times it almost surprised me when I heard the inevitable sentence: Time to go home, Mary Marlene .
Fishing for his wallet, Walt explained how easy it’d be. He and Shirley had talked it over, and even the kids were all for it. His youngest boy had asked whose room I’d sleep in.
Would I have to change my name? I said. Somehow that would seal my betrayal.
I don’t think so, he said. Or you can petition to change it back.
The sun was warm on us through the plate glass, and I stared at the door, wishing with all my might that Daddy would come striding through to lay his claim. He’d shake Walt’s hand all nice, saying how he appreciated it, but—he’d squeeze my shoulder—he just had to keep me.
The truth was, if it helped with money, Daddy would sign me over in a heartbeat. I was the one who couldn’t bear legally lopping myself off from an upbringing I was working so hard to shed.
So I lied that it would hurt my parents too bad, the same way I used to tell those neighbors I horned in on—right before I figured they’d throw me out—that I had to rush home for a curfew that didn’t exist.
Well, think about it, Walt said. We were at the register by then.
How’ll I ever pay you back? I said.
For what? He limped back to leave a bill under the salt shaker.
All these lunches, dinners, jobs….
You’re not gonna pay me back, he said. It’s not that linear. He pushed open the glass door, and I stepped into spring air.
When you’re in my place, you’re gonna pick up some kid’s check.
The idea that Walt was deranged enough to envision me in the position to buy somebody lunch was maybe a bigger vote of confidence than the adoption offer.
When I asked him to drop me at the health service for the sorethroat I couldn’t shake all spring, he said, Maybe it’s just hard to say goodbye.
I whipped around so he wouldn’t see my eyes fill, since I was dead sure I wouldn’t make it back up there.
But Walt never took his eyes off me. During the time I gypsied around, feebly trying to establish a base, he stayed in touch. No matter where I had a mailbox, his letters sat inside.
Which is maybe why—months after working retail down in Austin—I came back to Minneapolis, where a friend knew a glitzy restaurant where I could bartend. Even there, Walt showed up with other professors to eat the bar’s crappy sandwiches. He always left a book or two or a concert ticket, an article on dream research or memory—subjects he knew I kept up with. He never gave up on me, I only stopped being matriculated.
4
There’s No Biz Like Po-Biz
People should like poetry the way a child
likes snow, and they would if poets wrote it.
—a letter by Wallace Stevens
I n the dim realm of that horseshoe bar, I was boss, credibly lying to wives and business partners who phoned in that my patrons were not in fact sitting before me hours on end, imbibing. Such lies kept my
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