Read Online Hydroplane: Fictions by Susan Steinberg - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Susan Steinberg
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coming to get you, but the boys are younger and running like dogs, spitting, get you get you, and the boys are the fastest, clanging their poles down and down and again and again and the boys yell, get you, big deal , gonna get you, and your father says, stay put, I'm coming to get you, and you thrust yourself to the hips out the window and look them all deep in their crazy dog eyes, just like a bride, and say, hurry.
To Sit, Unmoving
A man grabbed my father by his shirt. Then he punched my father's face.
My father fell backward into the street.
The man stooped in the street to my father. He pushed his fingers into my father's pants pocket. He fished out my father's wallet. Then he ran.
This was on the island. Puerto Rico. In the city. San Juan. On a street in the city. I don't know which. But the street was a low-lit street. And nothing was open on the low-lit streets that late at night but bars.
My father couldn't tell much of the man. There was a ski cap he said. A dark coat he said.
The fist before it reached his face.
What else, I said.
I mean I would have said.
I mean you would have said had you been sitting at the table in my father's office the following morning.
What I mean is had he been your father.
But there was nothing else.
My father fell backward into the street, his hands moving up to his eyes.
In the city were wild kids shooting up. Hookers poking from doorways.
This we heard from the man with the mustache who stood at the desk in the lobby.
The concierge, said my father to me and my brother, and he said it slow like, con-ci-erge.
The hotel limo wouldn't take us to the city. It would only take us to my father's factory and to other hotels that looked like ours. But my father said that this was stupid, that we were from a city and big deal this one he said.
I'll rent a sports car, he said. A red one, he said winking at my brother who lay on his side on the lobby floor.
In the city were wild dogs. Low-lit streets.
The concierge pulled his mustache in a way that looked like it should have hurt. But his mustache looked fake and I knew my brother would piss his pants if I said this.
You'll get stabbed in the city, the concierge said looking at me. He pulled on his mustache, and to my brother I said, Look, and pulled on the skin above my lip so it looked like it hurt. My brother laughed and rolled onto his back.
My father said, Stabbings. Big deal.
Stabbings, he said. We've got stabbings at home.
We had shootings as well. My brother and I heard shots at night from the park.
People walked over my brother and my brother tried to grab their legs.
My father said, We're from Bal-ti-more, and made his hand like he was holding a knife, ready to stab.
The concierge said, There are private restaurants here. In the good parts, he said. Keep to the private beaches, he said.
There was a Chinese restaurant in the hotel lobby and the inside looked like China. The Mexican one looked like Mexico and the music in each was different.
The lobby stores sold watches and gold chains and suntan oil. They sold American papers and American drinks. We liked the American drinks. We were Americans, and in America, or the States as my father told me and my brother to say, we drank regular drinks. We did everything regular in the States. We weren't stuck in the States in a dull hotel. We could walk after school to the city park. We could walk home alone at night.
My father threw some dollars to the desk. He said, Sports car. Red. My brother thought this was funny. This, because my brother's brain was wired wrong. He wasn't retarded. But his brain told him to do things other ways. Like sometimes it told him to laugh a lot. Sometimes it said to be silent. There were days we could poke and poke him in the ribs and he still wouldn't say one word. Those days he wore his headphones. He listened to metal and my father said, You'll rot your brain.
My father nudged my brother with his foot. He said, Get up, son, and my
To Sit, Unmoving
A man grabbed my father by his shirt. Then he punched my father's face.
My father fell backward into the street.
The man stooped in the street to my father. He pushed his fingers into my father's pants pocket. He fished out my father's wallet. Then he ran.
This was on the island. Puerto Rico. In the city. San Juan. On a street in the city. I don't know which. But the street was a low-lit street. And nothing was open on the low-lit streets that late at night but bars.
My father couldn't tell much of the man. There was a ski cap he said. A dark coat he said.
The fist before it reached his face.
What else, I said.
I mean I would have said.
I mean you would have said had you been sitting at the table in my father's office the following morning.
What I mean is had he been your father.
But there was nothing else.
My father fell backward into the street, his hands moving up to his eyes.
In the city were wild kids shooting up. Hookers poking from doorways.
This we heard from the man with the mustache who stood at the desk in the lobby.
The concierge, said my father to me and my brother, and he said it slow like, con-ci-erge.
The hotel limo wouldn't take us to the city. It would only take us to my father's factory and to other hotels that looked like ours. But my father said that this was stupid, that we were from a city and big deal this one he said.
I'll rent a sports car, he said. A red one, he said winking at my brother who lay on his side on the lobby floor.
In the city were wild dogs. Low-lit streets.
The concierge pulled his mustache in a way that looked like it should have hurt. But his mustache looked fake and I knew my brother would piss his pants if I said this.
You'll get stabbed in the city, the concierge said looking at me. He pulled on his mustache, and to my brother I said, Look, and pulled on the skin above my lip so it looked like it hurt. My brother laughed and rolled onto his back.
My father said, Stabbings. Big deal.
Stabbings, he said. We've got stabbings at home.
We had shootings as well. My brother and I heard shots at night from the park.
People walked over my brother and my brother tried to grab their legs.
My father said, We're from Bal-ti-more, and made his hand like he was holding a knife, ready to stab.
The concierge said, There are private restaurants here. In the good parts, he said. Keep to the private beaches, he said.
There was a Chinese restaurant in the hotel lobby and the inside looked like China. The Mexican one looked like Mexico and the music in each was different.
The lobby stores sold watches and gold chains and suntan oil. They sold American papers and American drinks. We liked the American drinks. We were Americans, and in America, or the States as my father told me and my brother to say, we drank regular drinks. We did everything regular in the States. We weren't stuck in the States in a dull hotel. We could walk after school to the city park. We could walk home alone at night.
My father threw some dollars to the desk. He said, Sports car. Red. My brother thought this was funny. This, because my brother's brain was wired wrong. He wasn't retarded. But his brain told him to do things other ways. Like sometimes it told him to laugh a lot. Sometimes it said to be silent. There were days we could poke and poke him in the ribs and he still wouldn't say one word. Those days he wore his headphones. He listened to metal and my father said, You'll rot your brain.
My father nudged my brother with his foot. He said, Get up, son, and my
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