All Things Must Pass

Feb 12

2008

During my senior year of college, a therapist will tell me I think too much and ask me to explain what it is like in my head, but right now, we are stuck in a traffic jam on a highway that winds around and over downtown.

We jerk back and forth as the car idles forward. Dad drives ambulances for a living, so he has a “technique”: a foot on each pedal. We are in the right lane, because the left lane is for emergency vehicles only. My brother Jimmy is writing his poetry next to me.

Usually after a bad day at school, he slams the door like a chair shot behind himself as he storms into his room. Jimmy lets me read his books of poetry he collects

this is the way the world ends

and some lines stick with me. I repeat them in my head. For an assembly, a movie director, some old guy with white hair and a high, nasally voice taught us to sit and say things over and over to ourselves. Mediation. I have been trying it every day. Sometimes the phrases like

shall I compare thee to a summer’s day

are things I want to say to girls from school.

“Thou aren’t more temperature?” I will practice in Jimmy’s room later that day. Books and poems and drawings and notebooks will be everywhere.

“Temperate. And it’s art. Like art class,” he will say while putting up a poster of his favorite wrestler CM Punk. His arms are crossed in an X shape across his chest. STRAIGHT EDGE is in big letters at the bottom of the poster.

Back on the highway, the car crawls forward a little bit, and my Dad sighs.

“Jimmy,” Dad says. “Who’s that friend who tells jokes?”

“Winston?” Jimmy says. He doesn’t look up from his notebook and scribbles out a sentence.

“Right. What’s that one joke he does?” He touches Mom’s shoulder. “You’ll love this one.”

Jimmy looks up again and sighs. "Did you hear that George Bush is thinking about getting into motivational speaking after office?"

"No, I didn't."

"Me either." Jimmy looks like it hurts to tell that joke.

Dad chuckles. He looks over to Mom. She is looking out the window. On her side is the tall Dairy Queen sign that stands up out of the water. The roof of the Dairy Queen peaks out above the rushing river water. You can really only notice it if you know it’s there.

"What?" Mom says.

"You know, like, he doesn't think. He's stupid."

"Oh. That’s it?”

“He didn’t really tell it right,” Dad says. He grips the steering wheel, tightening his fingers over the leather. An Anaconda Vice.

“I’ve got a joke,” I say.

“What about the one with the grandpa and his grandson fishing out in a boat?” Dad says. Mom groans. Dad continues. “So, they are fishing on a beautiful day right? The grandpa pulls an apple out of his tackle box and starts to eat it. The grandson looks over and says, ‘hey grandpa, can I have a bite?’ The grandpa looks over and says, ‘does your dick touch your ass?’ ‘No,’ the grandson says. So, then they are out fishing the next day. This time, the grandson takes out a candy bar and starts to eat it. The grandpa looks over and says, ‘let me have a bite of that candy bar.’ The grandson says, ‘does your dick touch your ass?’ The grandpa stands and says proudly, ‘you’re goddamn right it does.’ The grandson then says, ‘Good. Go f–”

“Okay, we get it.” Mom says.

“Oh c’mon, he was getting to the good part,” Dad says.

A month later, I will sit outside of Jimmy’s room and listen to him and Winston bounce ideas off each other. They will laugh. I am not allowed to hang out with them, and they will tell me they don’t want to hang out with a fifth grader. They will listen to heavy and fast stuff yelling

Why don’t presidents fight the war?

and thrash around the room. I will ask Mom why they are like that, and Mom will say, “Highschool.”

Overlooking the flooded downtown, the car crawls forward some more. Mom looks over at Dad. She puts her hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t hold the wheel so hard. We’ll get there,” she said. Dad sighs.

Below the highway, whitecaps roar. The gray and brown water foams around the old buildings. Trash and toilet water floats along with the fish. The news said the river got so high, it started to mix with the sewage water. We keep our windows up because it smells terrible.

“They say that stuff’ll turn you into a fish,” Dad says. He tries to laugh. Mom sighs.

“Who’s they?” Mom says, looking over at Dad.

“I dunno. It just sounded right. In that mixture, who knows what it will do to you.”

“Look at all those houses.” She points out of Dad’s side. Rows and rows and rows of roofs pop out among the whitecaps and crapwater.

“...and FEMA is still crawling towards New Orleans,” Dad says. He smiles at the joke.

“And George Bush still doesn’t care about black people,” Jimmy says.

Mom turns around and glares at Jimmy. Jimmy goes back to his notebook. She turns her gaze to me. She dyes her hair to cover the graying, and the reddish-brown shines in the sunlight.

“So, are you thinking about playing football again?” she says.

“I don’t know,” I say.

“You should cherish this time because before you know it you’ll be a freshman in high school. Remember what the janitor said

you’ll go back to being a baby

to you?” Mom says.

“Yeah,” I say.

Dad flicks on the radio. Through some static, a man starts speaking: "’We're just kind of at God's mercy right now, so hopefully people that never prayed before this, it might be a good time to start. We're going to need a lot of prayers and people are going to need a lot of patience and understanding.’ And that was a comment from the Linn County Sheriff’s office regarding the continuing flooding of downtown-" Dad switches the station to something about sports. The car starts to inch forward a bit more.

It just slips out: “Why does God do this stuff to us?” I say.

The car lurches to a stop. In the rear view mirror, Mom’s eyes are huge.

6 months Later, we are at the wake, we stuff ourselves into an old mansion that was bought out as a funeral home on the other side of town. It will be very hot, like I’m breathing water. I will watch the same video projected on the wall enough that all those memories are engraved in my brain all over again. I’m so small. We are all little kids around a picnic table, middle of nowhere Iowa. All chanting “Row Row Your Boat”. With such enthusiasm and glee about a polar dying or something. I forgot how close we all were. I will still cry when I hear that song.

Right now, my parents are silent. I can see them looking at each other and mouthing something. I don’t know how they don’t know how well I can see the front seat from the back seat.

Then a truck shoots past our car on the left. Dad jumps in his seat.

“Jesus,” he says. “What an idiot.”

“Someone could get hurt,” Mom says.

They start talking about how no one respects emergency vehicles. How people barely get over to the side of the road when a fire truck or ambulance drives by, but when a police car drives by with the lights on, everyone is all of the sudden on their best driving behavior. A police car zooms past in the left lane.

“Hope it was worth it,” Dad says.

I start to feel like they are ignoring me.

“So why does God do all of this?” I say.

I think I hear my Mom sigh. My Dad adjusts the rearview mirror, so he is making eye contact with me.

“Son, I think, this is one of those things that maybe you, you know, just

dont think so much

about it so much, okay? God does things in, uh, mysterious ways,” Dad says. I hear Jimmy crossing something out next to me.

“I’m going to be in sixth grade. I’m not stupid,” I say. “When I watch Monday Night RAW, I know it’s fake.”

“It’s not fake,” Jimmy says. “It’s scripted.” Jimmy boos the guys me and the audience cheer. He calls me a mark.

“No one said you were stupid,” Mom says. “Your dad just thinks that thinking about these things is too difficult right now.” She looks out her window. “I used to live in that apartment right there.” The building she is pointing to is underwater.

“In times like this, we don’t question. We embrace. They say

God works in mysterious ways

When you’re a little bit older you’ll understand.”

Later, at the funeral, I will look up at the priest as he gives a funeral speech about sin and how Jimmy was a sinner. Sin and more sin. We are born in original sin and it will follow us for the rest of our lives. Nothing about the speech will be happy or comforting. I will look over at my Mom and Dad and they will nod their heads. I won’t be able to tell if it is in agreement, but that’s all I will need to see. When we get back home, I will sit outside my brother’s room.

Right now, the car is still.

About 30 minutes later, we will be out of the city, traffic will finally clear, and we will get home. Jimmy will go to his room. Door slammed shut.

A few months later, Dad will kiss my brother’s head as he lays in his coffin. I will look up divorce stats, and the results aren’t good.

On Graduation Day, Mom will pick me up and take me back home for the graduation party. I will go into Jimmy’s room and throw on a CD and sit there, on his old bed, listening

all things must pass

all things must pass away

to the same song he showed me. It was Jimmy’s favorite song, after raiding Dad’s old CD’s from his “Beatles phase”, or that’s what Mom called it. “Mysterious ways” doesn’t sound right. All things must pass sounds right. When I watch RAW, I will cheer for the bad guys and boo the good guys. I’m not a mark anymore.

In college, the therapist will call this a defining moment in my life.

Back in the car, we lurch inches forward and it shakes me out of my thoughts.

Jake Westpfahl

All Things Must Pass

Sinkholes

The Avenue