ROCKY RACCOON
Was Jesus a woman? The mother of God? Something’s torn down the fences in my mind and got me thinking like this.
Fences make good neighbors. A frosty reception when you cross the property line from one part of your mind into another, armed with a picnic basket full of grenades. Grandmother Wolf took a bum rap. Little Red Riding Hood was out to get her.
Do you see what I mean? No? It doesn’t matter. Step aside or get trampled. No time to say hello, goodbye–hello? Damn,she hung up. If you think you’re confused now, keep reading.
I’m the stenographer of instinct, an Asian bride to take home to your Presbyterian family. At first they won’t like me, but once I do my table dance and slip into your father’s lap, their feelings will become mixed.
“She’s not all that bad,” dad will say.
“Hell, she can sleep in my room,” says little brother.
“That woman cannot stay the night in my home!” says mom.
Sister Jane slips her a note that says meet me behind the garage after midnight.
***
You check the bi-line of this story, and it’s a man’s name. So how can I be an Asian war bride? Who said there was a war on?
Life is full of riddles. Life is riddled with questions. Life is like a heart that keeps pounding long after it’s been sliced out of the body. I’m a mild-mannered reporter who every time he steps into a phone booth turns into Superman. It’s not a personality transfer, it’s just a job. The voices in my head say Asian bride, and I jot the words down.
***
I like my job. Once I punch in I’m free to do as I please. It’s punching out that brings the roof down.
Rocky Raccoon decks his foe halfway through round ten. He turns in little circles ring center, one gloved fist raised in triumph. The crowd goes wild, and inside Rocky’s head a tornado of pain rips out fences. His father goes twirling by with an Asian girl on his lap, and Rocky’s fist floats down in a wave.
It feels like there should be more to this story, but there isn’t.
