J. Alan Nelson
My dad starts party conversations the same way:
"Did the white tiger attack Siegfried or Roy?"
Many now don't catch the reference.
He wears an open-collared shirt, Bermuda shorts,
and black dress socks.
He consumes French fries and white vinegar.
He drops his wine glass
then spills French fries
as he reaches down.
"How now brown cow?" he shrugs.
"I played basketball and soccer."
He pours more wine.
He eats the fries retrieved from the floor.
"Certain sports don't fit together very well.
But I wasn't one to shy away from odd combos."
We realize he speaks of high school
thirty years ago.
"The seasons overlap," he says.
"Few athletes attempt to play both.
But after a fist fight, my basketball coach
and soccer coach worked a deal. I'm that good.
Sometimes I'd jog from the gym across the street
to the soccer field for two games in one night.
One day I scored the winning goal twice,
winning the basketball game with a free throw
after hitting it for the soccer squad."
We move to the backyard
but Gary's spiel continues. He claims
Dewey really defeated Truman,
that a secret conspiracy denied him power.
He says auroras give him energy.
He calls astronauts fellow travelers.
Gary forever needs relief from his true self.
The stories are a break
from his empty house.
"Four times," he says,
"I walk to the shore,
and throw a line in the water
and catch a fish
with a wedding ring in its gullet.”
A woman's diamond ring
and three men's bands
are framed in a shadow box over the hearth.
No one comes to see them.