I didn't even feel his hand when he slipped the bills into my pocket. Did my father ever pick any pockets in his childhood? It's a certain sleight of hand that can't be taught, only learned.
They didn't order any food, but were content to sit down and watch me eat half of a free burrito. Oh, we already got food. It's in the car. We have to get to the airport soon.
Munch munch munch.
Maybe my father is some sort of anti-pickpocket, like an antielectron, a positron. He is robbing me of something, but moving backwards in time as he does it. He is a tachyon thief. By the time I'm born, I'll have nothing left.
I have to go back to work soon, but there's still a little time for some parting words, some advice and consultation. Make sure you see a dentist. Don't forget to look into apartments in Chicago for the fall. Please write.
Munch. I wipe my mouth.
My mom pulls me aside on the sidewalk and slips some bills into my hands, drawing her head in close in that way she always does, as if she's telling me a secret. It is in Vietnamese anyway, so we are being doubly secretive. If my father is the tachyon thief, my mother is temporally backpedaling con artist. She'll look me in the eye and deftly snatch up the meagre allowances I had put aside for my oncoming childhood.
I am already ten minutes late getting back to work, and the door is a handful of strides away. My mother is reminding me again to see a dentist and to take care of myself, not yet releasing her grip on the folded bills, her hand still resting in mine. This is from your dad's parents. They said they think you're too thin. They asked if you were on drugs.
I do nothing. I take a step into the doorway of my workplace.
Sam is smiling at me and holding her bike. She has not yet gotten her new haircut, and is wearing her helmet. My family is walking across the street to their rental car with West Coast license plates. Sam is amused to have seen me interact with my family. She loves my mother. For once, it is my family sealing themselves off in a metal carriage to be machined away. I finger through the bills in my pocket and discover the ones that my father slipped in. He is gone before the crime has even been committed.
Sam rides her bike to the bookstore downtown and I return to the backroom, where I face a bicycle with a tire robbed of air. Once, I patched a hole in my tire with a dollar bill, forgetting about it until I sold my bike to a friend. I realize that I too am a tachyon theif.
Money flows like eye glances, disappearing behind irises. I remember that my mother told me to put my money away into my wallet so I wouldn't lose it.
I get off work and ride my bike to the bus station. I want to return their money. I want my father to be a real theif, moving forwards in time like a normal person. I want my mother to sell me dreams and hopes as I drop bills into her hand.
I try to buy a ticket, but I would have nothing left to return when I arrived.
They didn't order any food, but were content to sit down and watch me eat half of a free burrito. Oh, we already got food. It's in the car. We have to get to the airport soon.
Munch munch munch.
Maybe my father is some sort of anti-pickpocket, like an antielectron, a positron. He is robbing me of something, but moving backwards in time as he does it. He is a tachyon thief. By the time I'm born, I'll have nothing left.
I have to go back to work soon, but there's still a little time for some parting words, some advice and consultation. Make sure you see a dentist. Don't forget to look into apartments in Chicago for the fall. Please write.
Munch. I wipe my mouth.
My mom pulls me aside on the sidewalk and slips some bills into my hands, drawing her head in close in that way she always does, as if she's telling me a secret. It is in Vietnamese anyway, so we are being doubly secretive. If my father is the tachyon thief, my mother is temporally backpedaling con artist. She'll look me in the eye and deftly snatch up the meagre allowances I had put aside for my oncoming childhood.
I am already ten minutes late getting back to work, and the door is a handful of strides away. My mother is reminding me again to see a dentist and to take care of myself, not yet releasing her grip on the folded bills, her hand still resting in mine. This is from your dad's parents. They said they think you're too thin. They asked if you were on drugs.
I do nothing. I take a step into the doorway of my workplace.
Sam is smiling at me and holding her bike. She has not yet gotten her new haircut, and is wearing her helmet. My family is walking across the street to their rental car with West Coast license plates. Sam is amused to have seen me interact with my family. She loves my mother. For once, it is my family sealing themselves off in a metal carriage to be machined away. I finger through the bills in my pocket and discover the ones that my father slipped in. He is gone before the crime has even been committed.
Sam rides her bike to the bookstore downtown and I return to the backroom, where I face a bicycle with a tire robbed of air. Once, I patched a hole in my tire with a dollar bill, forgetting about it until I sold my bike to a friend. I realize that I too am a tachyon theif.
Money flows like eye glances, disappearing behind irises. I remember that my mother told me to put my money away into my wallet so I wouldn't lose it.
I get off work and ride my bike to the bus station. I want to return their money. I want my father to be a real theif, moving forwards in time like a normal person. I want my mother to sell me dreams and hopes as I drop bills into her hand.
I try to buy a ticket, but I would have nothing left to return when I arrived.
