it causes a lifetime of shrugging.
Which has caused me a lifetime of flipping him off.
When we were still sleeping in the same bed back before Sarah was born, I used to sleep with one hand pointed at the back of his head, finger up. A truce is one thing. But I canât live a lie.
Except I
am
living a lie.
Itâs complicated.
Alleged Earl
Alleged Earl leaves the drawing on the grocery store wall unfinished. I get up and ten-year-old Sarah walks back up 15th Street. She says, âSee you later!â She has her hair in braided pigtails. It was my favorite look. Maybe my mission should be to bring braided pigtails back into fashion. Maybe I can paint some pop art dots of braided pigtails and one day it will sell for forty-five million dollars. Not original, but at least it will be mine.
Alleged Earl puts his box of art supplies under his arm and itâs devoured by his coats and blankets. He shuffles when he walks. Heâs not that oldâmaybe in his fortiesâso I wonder whatâs wrong with him that he walks this slowly. I think about the stories Mom brings home about ulcerated feet and stuff like that. It makes me want to help him carry something, but then he yells out, âI donât have to do what you tell me!â and I just walk a few yards behind him and stay in his shadow.
With Alleged Earl as my pace car, it might take me a half hour to round the corner and walk one block of Spruce Street. I wonder where heâs headed next. I wonder if heâs hungry, because I am.
It takes a whole minute to shuffle past the pizza place. It feels like an hour. My stomach growls. I want to ask him why he left the drawing unfinished. I imagine that I ask him and I decide his answer is
Because I wanted to. Because I can do what I want. Because who cares if I finish it? Because none of your business, girl, go back home to your parents.
Of course, I donât ask and he doesnât say any of these things. He just shuffles and occasionally stops to adjust his tinfoil headpiece or his box of art supplies.
When I see the people in the pizza place sitting at tables and eating, I picture Alleged Earl and me in there one day. Middle-class girl takes homeless man to pizza place = not at all original. I decide heâll say no if I ask him. I can see the viral video on The Social already.
She wanted to buy him a slice for lunch, but what he said will make you cry.
I decide he must know Iâm following him, but he doesnât seem bothered by it so I keep with him all the way to 17th Street where he starts to walk south. Past South Street, 17th isnât safe. Once I see thatâs where heâs going, I split off at Lombard Street and walk toward home. In my head I say good-bye and I decide he says
Good-bye, Sarah.
I decide he says
See you tomorrow.
It feels like the fish in Mexico. Fast friends. Someone to talk to. Except really itâs not.
I think about ten-year-old Sarah and how she said that last thing she said about my parents on the stoop.
They never stopped.
I try to remember them fighting. They bicker over little things sometimes, like who should have called the principal, but I donât remember fighting. I barely ever see them in the same place at the same time. Iâm sixteen and have some sort of parents-fighting amnesia. Bruce said it in Mexicoâ
You can always come stay with me, no matter where I am.
Now ten-year-old Sarah said they fought all the time.
They canât be lying.
Maybe Iâm just pretending like I did with the fish in Mexico or with Alleged Earl today. Maybe I pretend my parents say âI love youâ to each other when they pass each other between work shifts. Maybe I pretend that my family is normal when I know itâs not normal to have a runaway brother. Maybe my whole life Iâve been living inside of an imaginary painting. I canât figure out how I feel about this. But I know I feel uncomfortable. All the time.
Standing in
Which has caused me a lifetime of flipping him off.
When we were still sleeping in the same bed back before Sarah was born, I used to sleep with one hand pointed at the back of his head, finger up. A truce is one thing. But I canât live a lie.
Except I
am
living a lie.
Itâs complicated.
Alleged Earl
Alleged Earl leaves the drawing on the grocery store wall unfinished. I get up and ten-year-old Sarah walks back up 15th Street. She says, âSee you later!â She has her hair in braided pigtails. It was my favorite look. Maybe my mission should be to bring braided pigtails back into fashion. Maybe I can paint some pop art dots of braided pigtails and one day it will sell for forty-five million dollars. Not original, but at least it will be mine.
Alleged Earl puts his box of art supplies under his arm and itâs devoured by his coats and blankets. He shuffles when he walks. Heâs not that oldâmaybe in his fortiesâso I wonder whatâs wrong with him that he walks this slowly. I think about the stories Mom brings home about ulcerated feet and stuff like that. It makes me want to help him carry something, but then he yells out, âI donât have to do what you tell me!â and I just walk a few yards behind him and stay in his shadow.
With Alleged Earl as my pace car, it might take me a half hour to round the corner and walk one block of Spruce Street. I wonder where heâs headed next. I wonder if heâs hungry, because I am.
It takes a whole minute to shuffle past the pizza place. It feels like an hour. My stomach growls. I want to ask him why he left the drawing unfinished. I imagine that I ask him and I decide his answer is
Because I wanted to. Because I can do what I want. Because who cares if I finish it? Because none of your business, girl, go back home to your parents.
Of course, I donât ask and he doesnât say any of these things. He just shuffles and occasionally stops to adjust his tinfoil headpiece or his box of art supplies.
When I see the people in the pizza place sitting at tables and eating, I picture Alleged Earl and me in there one day. Middle-class girl takes homeless man to pizza place = not at all original. I decide heâll say no if I ask him. I can see the viral video on The Social already.
She wanted to buy him a slice for lunch, but what he said will make you cry.
I decide he must know Iâm following him, but he doesnât seem bothered by it so I keep with him all the way to 17th Street where he starts to walk south. Past South Street, 17th isnât safe. Once I see thatâs where heâs going, I split off at Lombard Street and walk toward home. In my head I say good-bye and I decide he says
Good-bye, Sarah.
I decide he says
See you tomorrow.
It feels like the fish in Mexico. Fast friends. Someone to talk to. Except really itâs not.
I think about ten-year-old Sarah and how she said that last thing she said about my parents on the stoop.
They never stopped.
I try to remember them fighting. They bicker over little things sometimes, like who should have called the principal, but I donât remember fighting. I barely ever see them in the same place at the same time. Iâm sixteen and have some sort of parents-fighting amnesia. Bruce said it in Mexicoâ
You can always come stay with me, no matter where I am.
Now ten-year-old Sarah said they fought all the time.
They canât be lying.
Maybe Iâm just pretending like I did with the fish in Mexico or with Alleged Earl today. Maybe I pretend my parents say âI love youâ to each other when they pass each other between work shifts. Maybe I pretend that my family is normal when I know itâs not normal to have a runaway brother. Maybe my whole life Iâve been living inside of an imaginary painting. I canât figure out how I feel about this. But I know I feel uncomfortable. All the time.
Standing in
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