At first we are the free-lunch kids,
lined up in three lines towards a row of foldable tables,
the PTA, it must be, are stamping cards with rubber stamps
and ink pads, behind them, a file system, of little cards with our names on
them, what medications we are allergic to, eye color, addresses and rotary
dialed home phone numbers, mine doesn’t have a phone number,
I am in the back of the middle line, I look over at a boy in
the adjacent aisle, we will call him Josh, a plump but not fat boy, freckled
with flat rust hair, dull and soft, only showing its redness in the sunlight, he laughs more than anyone I know, knew or imagine,
in the background is the methodical, if not mechanical repetitious thud of the rubber stamp, condemning the children to peasanthood, red ink spelling poverty,
in the background is the methodical, if not mechanical repetitious thud of the rubber stamp, condemning the children to peasanthood, red ink spelling poverty,
Josh speaks to me in faint echoes, as if we are underwater,
drowning.
“I don’t know why we are here, in this line, do you know?”
and as I crane my neck to hear him,
the scene changes
three lines of people, children, teenagers to be exact,
a concrete walkway leading from the barracks, Howard Hall,
to the mess hall, a baseball field on the right and a grassy downhill to a
creek on the left,
St. Mary’s home for wayward boys, its brick buildings are covered
in dew, the grass looks candied, glistening as the sun rises over the shoulder
of Mt Hood to the east, I am a boy with east as an origin, the sun rises like
my family migrates, there are no more western sunsets after this one, am I at
the end of our world, the end to our expansionistic hopefulness? I am at the end of the line.
we are lined up for breakfast, the nuns (there were no nuns
when I was there) pour cold water on our heads from crystal pitchers, the steam
coming off the other boys is sadness, in this still frame, I want control over
my body, the nuns handout little black combs, and as if we all were synchronized
swimmers, parted our hair in unison, and ran the comb to the sides.
A whisper from my left, “Why are we doing this? Am I doing
it right?”
I am so glad to see Josh that I forget how cold I am.
the scene changes again,
a cell block of some sort, an echo filled place, two stories
of cages, like chicken coups stacked at the market,
three lines of people, all wearing orange jumpsuits, a guard
pushes me back into line with the other inmates, we carry our folded sheets in
our arms like firewood, ahead of us the final gate, an unspoken sobbing is
coming from the others, I don’t hear it—I feel it rumbling like a train coming, or a
storm, but we are already in the storm, how can I feel it coming? I am wearing
a bracelet, 105391 is in big bold numbers wrapping almost halfway around my
wrist, I must squint to read the name in fine print, it is not my name, at
least not any more.
There is no forward motion; we are all standing in line,
awaiting an execution that may come from one of the others in line, waiting to
be executed. I am sorry. Sorrowful. Full of sorry. But the guards, jowls like pit-bulls, never
look at me, and my screaming repentance falls on little orange earplugs,
“This line is taking forever! Can you hurry it up already?”
Josh is to my right, I hear him shouting at the guards, but then it just turns
into barking, and we are in the pound, and no one listens to barking dogs in
the pound, even if they are not really dogs,
the scene changes one last time,
it is night and chattering teeth cold, they are checking our
numbers
above us, a distant sky with faint stars, I notice Orion's belt, three stars in line for eternity,
again we are in lines,
lines of people, or children
dressed like people, standing in line, for what?
but there are cattle cars with open doors awaiting us in place
of the tables,
a train, numbers on my wrist,
“Where are we going?” Josh’s voice was weak and pleading, broken of his bark and will.
It feels like this is same line, from before, that I have
always held my place here, as if anticipating my demise,
and I say to him, words,
words that don’t make any sense, as if trying to
make a metaphor of the confusion.
