We drove into Phoenix, trying to find our way back home. The entire desert had been obliterated. Paved. Developed. There weren't even cacti, especially the huge Saguaros that I used to see everywhere, lining the roads anymore. All cut down, all murdered.
I didn't recognize any landmarks, but I remembered all the major streets. I knew we stayed on Shea Boulevard, and the tiny neighborhood I used to live in would be on the right-hand side.
My good hand jumped to microwave-popcorn-mode, kernels colliding.
Little-Rhonda and I sped through mid-day traffic.
"What's going to happen?" little-Rhonda said.
I tried to say something confident, so he knew I'd take care of this, and that there was nothing to worry about. "After it's burned, we'll roast marshmallows in its ashes."
"We don't even like marshmallows," he said.
"That's not the point."
"When was the last time you even had a marshmallow?"
"They're metaphorical marshmallows."
"What's the metaphor?"
"Shut up," I said.
I wondered what would happen if there were people in the house when I got there. Hopefully the house would be empty. Kids at school. Parents at work. All I'd have to do is break a window and climb in and walk around the house with a book of matches, lighting curtains, carpet, clothes. I'd stand there as the fire really started cooking, stand there to make sure that it wouldn't be saved by eager firefighters, I'd search the garage for flammable chemicals, cleaning products, whatever I could find to seduce the blaze into bulging, bloating flames slipping into the house's frame, burning the insulation in the attic, burning the walls that kept Letch's secrets, and I won't let it happen again. I'd flip the gas knobs on the stove to high, drench the coats in the hall closet in hairspray before holding a match to their sleeves. The smell of dying trees. Glass exploding. I'd smile and cough and stagger and watch the house crumble, its support beams withering to sticks and caving in from the weight, wood crashing to the flaming carpet, the house dying: there would never be another atrocity within these walls, the sinister way the walls concealed all that malice.
But what if there were people in the house? What if the mom didn't work or the dad didn't work or the kids were home, swarms of chicken pox pocking their skin? What if they sat in front of the TV, the kids slurping homemade soup, trying not to scratch the pox, don't scratch, if v ou do, they'll never heal, they'll just scar, you don't want to spend the rest of your lives walking around covered in scars, do you?
I'd have to find a peaceful way to lure them out of the house. Because I was not there to hurt anyone. Just the opposite. I was there to protect people.
I'd tell them I work for the city of Phoenix and that there was a gas leak on the block and that they needed to vacate the premises immediately, for their own protection. I'd smile and tell them there isn't anything to worry about, and I'd lead them to the street before I ran inside and lit everything on fire that would catch. Then I'd run out front and try to console them as they watched the spirits of their worldly possessions take off to the sky in billowy shapes, the cremains scattering in an Arizona wind. I'd console them, give them a shoulder to cry on. I'd say, "I know what it's like to lose everything."
Little-Rhonda and I should be there any minute.
The name of our street was El Pasado.
That was the name of the street where the house was.
Our house was actually the first one on El Pasado.
Our house was immediately on the left-hand side.
The address was 7876.
Our house used to be light brown.
It might still be light brown.
But another family might have painted it a different color.
That family may have little kids, and they were the reason I was doing this. The house used to have black pebbles in the front yard.
It used to be my job to rake those pebbles.
Letch used to water the pebbles.
I never knew why he watered the pebbles.
What would water do for pebbles?
El Pasado could be any of the next few blocks.
I drove a little slower.
I braked before each possible turn.
I squinted to read the street signs.
I didn't slow down at the next intersection, though, because a huge shopping center took up the whole side of the street. The sprawling store was painted orange. It was a huge Home Depot. I shook my head in disgust because of its hulking ugliness, and as we passed the street sign, little-Rhonda said, "That was it," and I said, "What?" and he said, "You missed it."
I looked over at the shopping center as we sped by. "Missed what?"
"El Pasado."
"It couldn't be."
"That was it."
"Are you sure?" I asked and moved the car across the three lanes of traffic so I could do a U-turn and find out if littleRhonda was right. He hadn't steered me in the wrong direction yet, and if he was right, my worst fear was confirmed: our little house didn't have a backyard anymore, no access to the desert, but sat there dwarfed in Home Depot's orange shadow.
I backtracked, then turned onto El Pasado, pulled the car over. I didn't look to the left-hand side of the street yet. Not ready to see 7876 El Pasado.
Little-Rhonda said, "Show time, baby" — giving a loud round of applause — "this is the moment we've been waiting for."
I smiled at him. I wanted to say something to let him know I appreciated him being with me. I remembered how comforting it felt when old lady Rhonda had said these simple words so I repeated them now: "My little Crash Man."
"What?"
"Forget it."
I was finally ready to eye the street, to see my stretching house. I looked over at it. To that lair of haunting agony. I looked over to my house, to where my house should be. I looked over to where the house was supposed to be. But it wasn't there. 7876 El Pasado wasn't there.
What I saw instead of 7876 El Pasado was one of Home Depot's massive orange walls.
"Where is it?" little-Rhonda said.
I didn't answer him. Lost in all that orange. Thinking about a gigantic bag of pruno.
"Where is it?" he said again.
"It's gone."
"Gone?"
"Everything's gone," I said, looking up the street. There used to be ten other houses on El Pasado, too, but they'd all been leveled, all demolished, as if they'd never existed.
The last thing I did was look to the corner, to where I used to catch the bus to school, but now it was a corral for Home Depot's shopping carts.
Tell Me More
Right eye. It was a different day or month or year, but we were still talking about Letch. About the house. About the house I hated, and I kept saying to Angel-Hair that someone should burn it down. He asked me why I blamed the house. He said, Didn't bad things happen outside of the house. No, I said. Only in the house, I said. Angel-Hair had rolled the sleeves on his shirt up to his elbows. His wrists, so weak, so brittle. He could probably put a watch on too tight and fracture the bone. Left eye. Sometimes good things happened outside the house, I said. Like what, he said. The amnesty bench, I said. The hospital's air conditioning didn't work, and it was summer. Every room smelled like onions. An amnesty bench was where I could say anything to Letch and he wouldn't hit me, I said. I had one minute to say anything I wanted and there wouldn't be any consequences. Why would he do that, Angel-Hair asked. His father had done it to him. In Detroit. His father was a prison guard and told Letch, Even the inmates need to vent. With his sleeves rolled up to the elbows, I couldn't believe how skinny Angel-Hair's wrists were. If he clapped, the bones would splinter. If he sneezed really hard in his hand, he'd lose a few fingers. Right eye. Tell me more, he said. We didn't have a bench in our backyard. Letch took me to the grocery store. There was a wooden bench out front. An awning to protect people from the Arizona sun, but the awning had been tattered, destroyed. I sat down and the bench burned the backs of my thighs. Don't be a faggot, Letch said. What did you say to him, Angel-Hair asked. You've got sixty seconds, Letch said and looked at his watch. Go, he said. We sat next to each other. Letch was all sweaty. Must have been a hundred-fifteen degrees that day. He smoked, too, big pulls on his hand-rolled cigarettes. His body twisted to the side to look me in the eyes. Talk, Rhonda, he said. No second chances, he said. Angel-Hair's shirt was light blue. He sat with his hands clasped behind the back of his head and sweat had tie-dyed the armpits in circular stains. I don't know what to say, I told Letch. Hurry up, he said. Just tell me what you think of me, he said. I couldn't find any words. It was too hot and he was staring at me and I didn't believe there would be no consequences. Left eye. I asked Letch, What did you say to your dad. I told him I thought he was a bastard, Letch said. I think you're a bastard, I said. Good, he said. Angel-Hair brought his hands out from behind his head and folded them in his lap. He asked, What did Letch do. Letch asked, What else. I just sat there. Letch said, Anything you'd like to get off your chest. Letch said, Now's the time, Rhonda. He said, Put your balls into it. I couldn't say anything. I didn't want to say anything too awful because I'd be seeing him later that night. And the next. And the next. Then Letch checked his watch and said, Time's up. He said, You sure fucked that up. He said, There's always next year. Right eye. We walked back to the car and went to Burger King. Consolation prize, he said. The other kids were always talking about Angel-Hair's horrendous limp, but I loved his wrists. If he even tried to clip his fingernails, the vibrations would buckle the bones in his hands. I imagined him with a fingernail file, working carefully, slowly, trying not to hurt himself. Just trying to file them all down without an amputation. And then an entire year went by and Letch took me back to the amnesty bench. Not to the day, but the same month. August. August meant that the Arizona summer was in its agonizing climax. The grocery store had fixed the awning. New Shiny. Stripes, red and yellow The bench didn't hurt the backs of my thighs as I sat down. You remember how this works, Letch said. I think you're a bastard, I said. He slapped my cheek. Not too hard. One of his warning shots. Just a little pop to let me know I was close to pissing him off. We haven't started yet, he said. He checked his watch. Go, he said. Did the bench make you feel better, Angel-Hair asked. No, I said, but at least we were in public. He couldn't really hurt me in public. Left eye. I could imagine Angel-Hair flipping a coin and as it landed in his palm, his hand would fall off from his thin wrist, crumbling. I think you're a bastard, I said. You already said that, he said. Forty-five seconds left, he said. There were lots of people going into the store. Lots of people pushing piled-high shopping carts back to their cars. I wish I never met you, I said. I wish my mom never met you, I said. He laughed. I waited for him to say something nasty but all he said was, Thirty seconds. If I had a thumb war with Angel-Hair, if I pinned his thumb, if I mashed his thumb down as hard as I could, he'd probably start crying. Tell me more, he said. What else, Letch said. I hate you, I said. Good, he said. I hate you and I hate it when you touch me, you shouldn't touch me, I said. What else, he said. Angel-Hair asked, Weren't you scared. He locked his hands behind his head again. The curlicue stains standing out from his armpits. Why, I said. Why would I be scared, I said. Fifteen seconds, Letch said. Why would you believe him, AngelHair asked. Why would you believe that he wouldn't hurt you for the things you said on the amnesty bench, he said. Who said I believed him, I said. Right eye. I hope you die, I said to Letch. Ten seconds, he said. It felt like the last ten seconds in the whole world. I hope you die I hope you die I hope you die I hope you die I hope you die I hope you die I hope you die I hope, I said. Time's up, he said. Do you feel better, he said. Left eye. Letch took me out for a cheeseburger on our way home. He said, Good job. He said, You can get one with bacon.