The Plot

skateboard fall     The yang twin hit his head while straddling two skateboards going down one hill at one time. Even he would admit at some later date that it was not the best technique to strive to master.  He was found knocked silly at the bottom of the hill by the mailman who was an aspiring historical novelist.  I think the time and place re-created was fantasized England, with religions and fairies running roughshod. I knew enough not to ask the reason why. Then the doctor in the emergency room told me what I already had assumed to be true and that was a big relief.


The yin twin who accompanied us to the emergency room said, “Mom will blame you.”

I said, “No doubt.”

“I don’t know what he expected.”

“Your brother is all zen all the time when it comes to many profound areas of expectations.”

“Does that mean all or none?”


“That must be why he loses balance and falls so much.”

“Why ask why?”

It turned out to be true without a shadow of a doubt that the mother did blame me.  The mother embraced the ethos of blame like a politician slogging in deep shit. I had to pay my evil divorce lawyer a criminal sum in order to explain circumstances beyond my control. Fucking justice was plenty demanding.  A sneer that approximated a grin was attached asymmetrically to the divorce lawyer’s thin lips and her feet that were too big for her heels were planted like a succulent on her desk.  Unless that was a bromeliad.  And was that a dab of K-Y jelly attached in a neutral corner or was it only Preparation H?  She also received more money that came grudgingly from me while speaking on the phone. I had no desire to hear either side of the story.  She was speaking to a counterpart who looked like Porky Pig. Unless that was Elmer Fudd. I ‘m glad it was not a speakerphone. I feel much the same way about my divorce lawyer as the tawny owl feels about carrion eaters.


“It makes me regurgitate prematurely every time I realize that I’m part vulture, too.”

The next day, the yang twin stayed home from school to sleep.  I was supposed to be observing him, which I did, sort of, but there were understandable periods where I played partial hooky in the nearby vicinity.  While he was supposed to be resting he was watching death and destruction on an electronic device.  It was a standard means of escape for him and served a similar purpose as sleep.  Unless that was part of the conspiracy.  Or its alternative. The plot seemed to be about the same points as usual. Unless those were dots. We both knew the connections by heart.

I suggested as a new alternative he might explore the reality of figure-eight rotations while balancing on a medicine ball.  Were he to do so while listening to John Coltrane on Locomotion there could be the potential for major attitude adjustment.

He said, “What attitude?  This is no attitude.”

I said, “Drink some water.”

“That’s not water.”

“It’s wet enough.”

He said, “You’re giving me a headache again.”

I said,”I know you’re just saying that.”

He said, “Who else is here but you and me to be saying?”

I said, “That’s not what I’m talking about.”

He said, “No, what you’re talking about is all the crazy shit you’re always talking about.”

I said, “You sound like your head is getting better.”

When it turned out that all the money extorted from me was not enough, I had to appear in court to answer the charges of neglect, willful, potential, fantasized, fictitious, hallucinated, plotted, or otherwise.

Once again, the same sad story revealed a hackneyed beginning, a middle, an end.  No fizz, no whiz, no sizzle, no shebang.  Only a familiar smell.

turd 4

At $350 an hour, there should at least be some hot and explosive special effects.

About marclevytoo

writer of fiction
This entry was posted in culture, parenting, Uncategorized, writing and tagged , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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