Anticipating Jesus Since the Civil War
Saturday T told me there was no more oil and therefore no heat in the house. This explained why the glass of water I’d set next to my bed before I went to sleep was cold when I woke up, and also why I was scared to take the covers off of me. It was cold out there. The person T spoke to on the phone Saturday was not compassionate: The trucks have already gone out. I’ll get back to you later.
Monday night after work, there was oil but still no heat. T made another call. Word was that a Dennis would be at the house after he stopped at two other houses. We didn’t know where these two houses were but I hoped they were down the road and not a long thick-traffic drive away.
I ate Ramen while T and I sat in the kitchen anticipating Dennis. T would sing to him when he arrived: I think I love you. I would hug him, I would dance. This was before six in the evening.
After Ramen I went to my room to warm my numb white toes next to the space heater. We talked up Dennis. We would do a Dennis-dance to bring him more quickly, paint our faces and stomp around shouting. We would treat him like Jesus when he arrived under his glowing halo. T ran around and turned on every light in the house to be sure Dennis would know we were home.
We heard a door shut outside and ran to the kitchen. Alas, it was S come home from work. You’re not Dennis, we said.
By 7:30 the plans to worship Dennis like zealots were shifting. By 8:00 they’d turned maniacally black. We would put black hoods over our heads and stare blankly from the kitchen table when Dennis arrived. S would shout phrases in vehement Chinese. I would trill in overwhelmingly foreign tongue, I would cry and tell him I thought we had something and how could he stand me up like that. T would behave as if "challenged". Dennis would know he’d done us wrong.
About 8:30 my mom called to tell me my brother had been in another motorcycle accident. Again he is not hurt, again it was not his fault. I’d like know the percentage of how many times my brother gets in an accident when he takes off in a vehicle. Cars, trucks, motorcycles. That boy needs a hovercraft.
From outside the phone call I heard, Dennis is coming! I told my mom about Dennis:
When he arrives we’re going to treat him like Jesus, I told her.
You’re going to nail him to a cross? she asked.
I hadn’t thought of it like that.
We didn’t nail Dennis to a cross. Neither did we sing or cry. Red face, scruff-yellow curls reflecting his face's red glow, puffy above the torso and not below—Dennis. I’d guess he drinks a lot of beer, some whiskey, and eats a lot of beef. He looks like a cop. You should really think of getting a new heater, he said. This one’s as old as the Civil War.
When he left the scent of oil clung to the kitchen.
Monday night after work, there was oil but still no heat. T made another call. Word was that a Dennis would be at the house after he stopped at two other houses. We didn’t know where these two houses were but I hoped they were down the road and not a long thick-traffic drive away.
I ate Ramen while T and I sat in the kitchen anticipating Dennis. T would sing to him when he arrived: I think I love you. I would hug him, I would dance. This was before six in the evening.
After Ramen I went to my room to warm my numb white toes next to the space heater. We talked up Dennis. We would do a Dennis-dance to bring him more quickly, paint our faces and stomp around shouting. We would treat him like Jesus when he arrived under his glowing halo. T ran around and turned on every light in the house to be sure Dennis would know we were home.
We heard a door shut outside and ran to the kitchen. Alas, it was S come home from work. You’re not Dennis, we said.
By 7:30 the plans to worship Dennis like zealots were shifting. By 8:00 they’d turned maniacally black. We would put black hoods over our heads and stare blankly from the kitchen table when Dennis arrived. S would shout phrases in vehement Chinese. I would trill in overwhelmingly foreign tongue, I would cry and tell him I thought we had something and how could he stand me up like that. T would behave as if "challenged". Dennis would know he’d done us wrong.
About 8:30 my mom called to tell me my brother had been in another motorcycle accident. Again he is not hurt, again it was not his fault. I’d like know the percentage of how many times my brother gets in an accident when he takes off in a vehicle. Cars, trucks, motorcycles. That boy needs a hovercraft.
From outside the phone call I heard, Dennis is coming! I told my mom about Dennis:
When he arrives we’re going to treat him like Jesus, I told her.
You’re going to nail him to a cross? she asked.
I hadn’t thought of it like that.
We didn’t nail Dennis to a cross. Neither did we sing or cry. Red face, scruff-yellow curls reflecting his face's red glow, puffy above the torso and not below—Dennis. I’d guess he drinks a lot of beer, some whiskey, and eats a lot of beef. He looks like a cop. You should really think of getting a new heater, he said. This one’s as old as the Civil War.
When he left the scent of oil clung to the kitchen.
2 Comments:
That is a funny mom reaction that I'd never expect.
Me too. I don't know if she knew just how funny it was. My mom's got a boundless sense of humor.
Post a Comment
<< Home