Papa Donkey

The F train back to Manhattan is empty. I’ve got an entire album of music nagging my head, although my earbuds are not in my ears. The Music won’t stop. I give up. I won’t try to make it stop, I’ll just let it play.

What a busy head I’m in. Brain racing, train clanking, heart pounding—thoughts are an ailment. A wall between me and what the world around. I can’t se or experience properly with thoughts. I’m too smart, that’s the problem. Too conceited about being too smart. Too smart and conceited to stop thinking, so I think on and on—connecting dots, reliving the day, killing my enemies in fantasies, killing myself in fantasies, apocalypse apocalypse APOCALYPSE!

Phew.

I decide, the best way to deal with this racing mind of mine is to pay attention.

The man across from me is wearing a denim jacket over a black shirt. The black shirt’s too short so his bulbous belly spills out over his lap. Im afraid to stare at his bellybutton. What if he catches me? I often stared at my father’s round belly moving slightly rising slightly with each shallow breath as his body sunk into the couch. His posture has always been atrocious. Mamá called him maletudo—which sounds like maleta—so in my mind I imagined my dad carrying a bundle of luggage on his back like a mule.

When I was 9, my friend Sebastián was over for lunch. My dad joined us for the meal, after which Sebastián chortled, “your dad eats like a mule.”

My mom had a talk with his mom and I don’t remember hanging out with him again. Even though I agreed; dad did chew with his mouth open and made smacking noises with his lips.

My father the mule.