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Show Motherlunge a novel 136 That night-the babysitting night-I did indeed stroll X. to the park, a trapezoidal piece of real estate where several streets converge ih the awkward way characteristic of our historic city. According to the man who steered the motorized aerator around three times a year, the ground in this park is harder than in any other place in the U.S. Only a few other places in the entire world-sites along the road to Mecca, the dirt around Jim Morrison's Parisian grave-have soil so compacted. "And yet," he had told me one day with a raised voice, hand resting on the vibrating bar of the aerating machine, "And yet here we still manage to grow grass. Most places can't grow grass. We grow the grass DESPITE the soil compaction!" The aerator guy wasn't there that evening, of course, though I thought of him as I wheeled the stroller over the turd-like soil plugs strewn across the lawn in a way that made me think of the word aftermath. We headed toward the little pond. I pushed the stroller right up to the concrete-lined edge, and the ducks churned below us as I threw breadcrumbs and X. waved his fat hands in vicious delight. Later, we walked to the falafel truck parked on the north side of the park. I ordered a sandwich, and the guy leaned far over the steel counter to inspect my nephew. "Well, he is needing some bread, too!" the man cried, flipping a piece of pita ) bread like a Frisbee onto X.'s lap, and smiling hugely beneath his impressive mustache. "His beautiful mother cannot be eating everything, and he eating nothing!" i "I was going to share," I said peevishly. "He sometimes chokes," I added, belatedly hoping that it sounded like the non sequitur it was. |
