Folded like an old rag
From the back of the motorcycle I saw things. A landscape of dreams more vivid than the cinema sprawl of the Vietnamese countryside. Teleported, I'm back in 1995 on a green soccer field with my old teammates beside. It's a hot Saturday morning. There's Coach Sweed screaming from the sidelines, and there is Big Nate running the center and Antonio with the homemade tattoo on his wrist, the fastest kid I ever knew, and Nolan, already talking about girls and booze and ready to start a fight if he needs to. I was a star then. I thought I was pretty good.
A loud roar, like the MGM lion might sound being sucked through a vortex, a gust of wind twists my scarf around my face, and 10 tons of steel and rubber hurtle heedlessly past. We swerve onto the shoulder toss rocks and dust, cough on the exhaust. There's a dead dog folded like an old rag on the pavement and a boy with teary eyes.
The rumble buzz of our two wheeled steed whines and reaches speed. We curl around the mountain roads and through the pockscared and weary village streets. A slat board house on skinny legs rests on wooden canes and brown skinned children with natted hair carrying wicker baskets on their backs jump and wave as we pass. The hilltops in the distance are prematurely bald from an unhealthy diet of Orange Dioxin. I study the follicles at the base of Mr. Lee's neck until I realize that I'm back in the classroom, standing before a dozen staring kids. How long have I been silent? I try to teach, but I've forgetton what to say. Forty minutes seems eternal. My palms are sweaty as I force a smile and point at the whiteboard. "What day is today?" I ask. Ben raises his hand, he always knows the answer, and even on my first day of teaching over a year ago, when I fumbled blindly through the lessons with all sorts of stupid ideas about children and work and myself in the way, I often relied on him to bail me out. "It's Wednesday, March 12th, teacher."
The pavement levels as we leave town and the hum reaches a steady hypnotic tone. I don't notice the evening fog drifting through the purple mountains. I'm already somewhere else again, away from the slap of the wind and the numb pain in my butt, retracing the dark pathways of memory to people and places I once knew.
