Sloping Downward

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I just took Gordon for his final evening walk and it’s before-a-storm windy outside.  It smells like rain and dust, but I can only feel the dust.  Phoenix in the summer time will give you two hundred days of lung crushing heat.  The kind of heat that makes you hold your breath when you get in your car after work.  The kind of heat that makes my dog tip toe across the asphalt, pulling me fast towards cooler grounds.  Two hundred, two million days like this and about a handful of days consisting of purple skies and sweeping dust, with a muggy warmth that makes your palms sticky.  But tonight, when I walked Gordon, it was almost cool outside, it smelt fresh, right before the clouds are due to roll in.  I walked him longer than I normally do, and he perked his ears up at the thunder in the distance.

 

I visited my family in Northern California.  I walked around the block in my parent’s suburban neighborhood with my older brother pacing me on a bike, wearing his work clothes, an untucked dress shirt and a tie, with loafers and dark brown slacks.  It’s weird to see him so grown up.  A house right out of a fucking Kincaid painting, an RN wife, a grill, others poking fun at him for not tending to his lawn enough.

 

“I hate that job.” He says, as he rides next to me, suit and all, down the residential Sac streets.

 

“So quit.” I say, kicking up rocks and leaves ahead of me.  He doesn’t have to work, he’s finishing his Masters and his wife makes enough to support both of them until he graduates.  He speeds up and zig zags across the asphault.

 

“I should just stick it out.” He says, slowing as I approach him.

 

“No,” I say. “Eight hours a day of hating your life is not worth it.”

 

“Need money.”  He says, even though he doesn’t.  I roll my eyes.  The perpetual dynamic of my brother and I, the only thing linking us is our fucked up sense of humor and competitive nature, which is why I am poor, and he is not, while I aspire to have fun more than have money.  Why his wife decorates their perfect little house with black framed photos of them at their wedding, them with friends, them with their dog, them on the beach, them kissing, them laughing.  And I walk along the yolk colored hallway and admire how pretty they are, and how perfect it all seems.

 

My parents are not nearly as perfect as him, and the frames to their photos never match the frame of the photo next to it.  I have long talks with my Mom sitting on the kitchen counter and smoke a Newport with my Dad while he works on his truck.  I wear a pink dress to an anniversary party by the lake that seems somewhat cinematic, and accidentally laugh during the massive champagne toast.  I get great hugs from my Grandma, and she tries all weekend to give me stuff; blankets, towels, pillow cases.  I steal her Tramadol and get felt up by the Ob/gyn, who tells me her thoughts on Facebook while sticking steel objects up my vag.

 

I have fun and am pleased and satisfied to see everyone.  My distant relatives seems to have stopped asking me what I’m doing with my life so much, and my Mom always drinks a few beers with me, even though she has to work early.

 

My parents drive me to the airport and we eat at a Denny’s.  I order a salad and it’s mostly dressing.  My Mom always gets sad when I leave, tears always well up and she says, “I miss you Jaime, when are you moving home?”  And I smile and tell her I’ll be back in a few weeks a

nd that’s really not that long.  My Dad gives me a big, tight hug and brushes the hair out of my face, he says, “I love you Dodes, be careful.”  I’m never quite sure what he’s referring to when he tells me to be careful but I say, “I will, Dad, love you too.”  I make my way down the sectioned off ropes to the security check and they watch me disappear.  Every time I go home, I think about moving back.  I sit on the plane with my head against the rubber seat and entertain the idea of moving to San Francisco, trying to get an editing position there, submit some freelancing work.  I always think it, but then I get home and Phoenix sucks me into routine; work, boyfriend, Gordon, the comedy show, sketches, beer, movies… and those ideas of moving closer get muddled until they disappear.

 

After confessing his hate for his job, I ask my brother if he’ll let me ride the bike.  I feel like it’s been ages since I rode a bike.  He sweeps across the roads and taunts me, asking me if I want the bike, getting really close, then speeding off, in true older brother nature.  Finally he succumbs to my whines and I climb onto the bike, which is too tall for me.  The road is sloping downward and the wheels start taking me without peddling, crunching over dead leaves I begin to peddle and swerve the bike around on the street.  It feels nice, like discovering an old book you forgot you had.  The California air smells sweet and whizzes by me and I inadvertently smile. 

 

“Is that fun?”  My brother asks, poking fun at my grin.

 

“Yeah,” I say, “it’s really fun.”