He asked for me at bedtime to tell him a story, but I never felt comfortable. Even though I made a living telling them, I knew few suitable for children. Most bedtime stories I told involved loose women and began with "And she was so damn drunk.…" I finally told him he was too big to be tucked in. The woman cornered me, breathing fire. "If he tells me he does not want me to tuck him in, if I lose that, because of you…" she said, and left the rest unsaid. I thought she was going to cry, or punch me in the nose.
We battled like that, good and evil, for the boy's immortal soul.
I had always loved speed, and as I turned 40, I bought myself one last rocket ship. It was low and sleek and the color of a silver bullet, and James Dean died in one like it. The first time we were alone together, the boy and me, I put the top down, told the boy to buckle in tight, and we left that safe middle-class neighborhood behind in a hot wind. I let the engine roar before shifting, and as I popped the clutch, it felt like we were riding on a pulled-tight rubber band that had been let go. A boy who doesn't thrill to speed could never be a boy of mine, and as we flashed over the asphalt, he oddly raised both hands heavenward, as if pleading for deliverance or a soft landing.
I wanted to twist that engine up to a hundred, to show him how it felt to fly, but it seemed wrong to torture a boy who was calling to the Lord, so I eased off. I knew that if I hurt the boy, the woman would kill me and drag my bones behind a minivan, so I eased off some more. He looked like he had something to say, so I asked him what was on his mind.
"Rick," he said, "why am I here?"
I had just started seeing his mother. I wanted to tell him the bald truth: 'Cause I'm after your momma, son. But I didn't.
"'Cause your momma is my friend," I said. "So I want to be your friend too."
