Now Think About Your Dad
I wrote my first piece of fiction for a contest held by Mac Demarco's Fan Club. Never heard back about who won, so I figured I'd leave it here for y'all.
Wispy white clouds silently glide over golden hills. Orange butterflies dance around bushes covered in bright fuchsia flowers. All is calm, all is peace in sunny Silverlake, California. In a hammock strung between two sycamores, Mac Demarco furrows his brow. His upper lip is beading with perspiration as he thrashes around in the netting. A light breeze ruffles his hair, and his mind finds itself in a strange predicament.
A moment ago, he was dreaming the usual: walking along an unknown shoreline with his lady and his pals, shooting the shit and feeling groovy. But the dream ended abruptly, strangely.
The shore became a faint line as he felt his body soaring towards the sky. Like a plastic figurine a child has plucked out of the toy chest to play with, Mac Demarco’s arms and legs flopped and flailed as he was guided upwards towards some unknown destination. The blue of the sky gave way to a rich crimson; the wind that blew all around him calmed. When the speed at which his body moved began to slow, he rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, noting the syrupy quality of the matter through which he traversed.
A dense forest of cylindrical, crimson objects or beings (who’s to say?) suddenly appeared in the foreground. ‘Looks like coral or worms or a bunch of those blow-up waving tube guys they got outside of used car dealerships,’ he thought. The forest became nearer and nearer until its fingers reached into every orifice on Mac’s face.
When he finally opened his eyes again, he felt pressure against his chest and hands. He craned his neck to find he had reached land. Pressing against a shaggy, deep red and wholly worn carpet, Mac Demarco stood up.
In a large white bed, a young boy with a neat Afro and a purple vest sat. His gaze pointed downward as he turned over and over a small, silver object in his hands.
“I sure hate to interrupt, but got a smoke?” Mac asked as he sat down on the bed next to the boy.
He didn’t look up or stop the motion of his hands when he answered. “It belongs to Joseph. He didn’t notice when it flew off the belt,” the boy said in a breathy soprano. “I sure felt the difference. It’s safer to have it here with me.”
“Why does he do that to you?” Mac asked, staring intently at the piece of metal. “I thought dads were supposed to protect their children. Care for their children.”
“In order to love someone else, you have to love yourself,” the boy said. “If he never learned love, he can’t teach it to us.”
Tears began to roll down Mac’s cheeks. The boy patted Mac’s knee reassuringly. “Use those tears. Our pain is all we have, but what they don’t know is” -- he pointed towards the hotel room door -- “our pain brings us to the truth.”
Someone rapped loudly on the door. “Don’t make us late, Michael! Tonight’s a big gig for all of us, little boy!” With great care, Michael Jackson placed the metal object under a stack of two gigantic, crisp white pillows. Keeping his eyes on the crimson carpet, the boy walked out of the room. Like quicksand disappearing into a hole in the earth, the air around Mac evaporated. Into the viscous void he went again, the tears pouring out of his eyes obscuring his vision.
A car horn wails somewhere nearby, and Mac sits up like a shot, wondering what in the hell he ate that would give him such intense nightmares. Groggily, he fumbles his way out of the hammock and sticks a Marlboro Red between his lips. Reaching into his pants pocket for the lighter, he pulls out a tarnished metal belt buckle. No longer sure of the nature of time, space or reality in general, Mac looks up into the sky. Not a cloud in sight. He squints as he drags deeply.
“Well, shit,” he drawls in a baritone.