Loving Life
t's been two weeks so far and no response
to my letter either by post or telephone. It
made me sad, and I started to worry. The letter
went like this:
Dear Dad,
This is the sixth time this month I've stopped by
to see you, and each time I've left notes begging
you to write or call. I need to know that you're OK.
It may not seem important to you, Dad, but you're
all I've got.
Love,
Your Son, Bixbie
Well, that's how the last letter went. I try and
stay positive so I won't worry myself to death.
As alone as I feel, I know there's a lot of other
people in the world dealing with an alcoholic
parent. The biggest fear is the call that will end
the worrying. But I try and never think like
that. I always put my faith in God that he will
keep my father safe.
But tonight, at 12:20, the call came.
"Hello?" I answered.
"Yes, is there a Bixbie Dixon there?"
"This is Bixbie."
"Hello, this is Detective Garcia with the Los
Angeles Police Department."
My heart stopped. I knew my father was
dead without hesitation. This is the call that
I had been dreading. The phone call was
short and precise. He informed me that I
would be getting a call from the Los
Angeles Coroner's Office and that I would
have to go down to identify the body. A note
was found with the deceased; it had my
name and number.
I felt very, very blank and empty. I just sat
there waiting for the call. It never came. I fell
asleep on the couch. Different thoughts
emerged in my head. I tried to remember the
last time I saw my dad. I tried to imagine what
it would be like without him.
The sunlight was bursting through the living
room blinds when the phone rang. It was the
coroner's office. The man's voice sounded
synthetic, absent of feeling. He told me the
location and time and also told me that if I
wanted to be accompanied by a family mem-
ber or close friend, that would be fine.
I hung up. My father was my only family
member and my closest friend. I had a strange
feeling like this was finally it. From here on out
I would be alone.
The bus ride was very sullen. I paid very little
attention to the other passengers. I got off the
bus and walked two blocks. I reached my final
destination. I
looked at the
BY MARK GONZALES
building. This is it, I thought. I
walked up the steps. I always
thought it would be a hospital. I
always pictured him lying in a
hospital bed suffering from liver
poisoning. I never pictured it
this way.
Inside the building, I gave the
clerk my name. I was told to have
a seat in the lobby and that some-
one would call on me..
The lobby was not too crowded.
There was one old man. He
looked in alright shape until they
called his name. He got up and
walked with a bad limp.
The other people consisted of a
lady in her mid-30's. She had four
children with her and one other
adult. I wanted to know what the
two adults were talking about, but
they were speaking in Spanish, so
all I could do was try and imagine
what they were saying.
One of the kids had a balloon
that he kept pushing up into the
air. I guess it was some kind of at
game. The object was to keep the
balloon from the smaller kids and
keep it from hitting the ground.
Another lady in her 30's was
also sitting in the lobby. She was
accompanied by a young man that
was about my age. They spoke
English, but there was nothing to
hear 'cause they were quiet.
Then a man in a dark gray lab
coat came out with a clipboard
and called out, "Bixbie Dixon." I
lifted my hand and began to walk
over to the door. Just then, one of
the smaller kids darted in front of
me. He got hold of the balloon.
He screamed joyfully, looking at
the bigger kid, and squeezed the
balloon until it popped. It was not
a big commotion, but it was a
commotion, nonetheless. The
mother said aloud in Spanish-this
I could understand-"Sientate
aqui!" which means
"Sit here." The four
kids quieted up
quick and sat
next to their
mother. By the
time I looked
back over to
the man in the
dark gray lab
coat, he had his
hand out. We
shook hands.
His was cold,
and his voice
sounded bleak.
"I'm Dr Colby. I
am a coroner."
"Hello, I'm Bixbie."
AFTER BIXBIE
DIXON'S EYE WAS
CUT OPEN HIS OLD
MAN LANDED 13
STRAIGHT BLOWS.
PS: BILLIE-JEAN
KING, MARK TWAIN,
KD LANG, CS LEWIS
IS A SON OF A.....
CARL SANDBURG.
He walked me down a long hall-
way and into a small room. There
laid my father's body unclothed and
vacant. At that moment, it felt
strange to see my father there like
that. He was so still, so motionless.
I started to cry. My nose immedi-
ately began to run. Dr Colby hand-
ed me a box of tissues. I blew my
nose and tried to straighten up.
This is natural, I told myself. My
father is in heaven now sipping sweet
wine and thinking of good times. This
is a part of life. Death is inevitable. It's
something that happens.
WARNING: MATERIAL MIGHT NOT BE SUITABLE FOR YOUR CHILD (ADULT ADVISORY SUGGESTED).
t was the day
after all the trees
in the park got
their branches cut.
Leslie, Lyle, Lovey,
and me were building
a fortress. But it
wasn't the first; we
built them tons of
times. But this one
was by far the best.
It was roomy, and
the branches we used
had tons of leaves on
them, which made it
hard to see inside.
Lovey had snuck
chips, soda and
candy from his
uncle's corner
store, so we had a
good food stockpile...
We were all sitting
around drinking soda
and gabbing until it
started to get dark. Then
Lyle and Leslie decided
they had better get home
for dinner and left. Lovey and I talked about
them as soon as they were gone. Lovey asked me if I thought
Lyle or Leslie would return to the fortress after we both were
gone to raid the food stockpile.
"I don't think so," I told him. "Besides, the fortress is all of
ours, so they would only be stealing from themselves."
"Yeah," Lovey said. "And Lyle's got tons of good food at
his place. He told me he's gonna bring Fruit Roll-Ups®
tomorrow." Lovey popped some PringlesⓇ into his mouth
and crunched down.
Pretty soon it was entirely dark-pitch black. Me and Lovey
weren't talking about anything important. We were just wait-
ing around, sipping sodas, seeing which one of us would
leave first. Then Lovey left. But before he did, he took a
quick inventory of what was there so that when we got back
the next day, we would know if anything was missing.
That fortress was heaven for me. It had great look-out holes
from all directions. I was sipping the last of my drink and
watching some kids goof off on the swing-set. Everyone
seemed to be having a good time until this one kid tried to
jump out of his swing and straight over another. He almost
made it. I think he could have. But he didn't. What hap-
pened next was painful to watch. The kid waiting to
be jumped was kicked in the face with two feet. He fell to the sand
and held his nose and lip. Everything got quiet all of a sudden. The
hurt kid's friends gathered around him. The one that was trying to
jump over him apologized and helped him up. The whole bunch
left the park in a very somber mood.
Being alone and watching from within our fortress made me feel
like a snoop. I know people like to be nosey and get in other people's
business, but this time it made me think that snooping in on people
is wrong, especially if it's a sorrowful scene.
I drank the last of my drink and squashed my can. Then I switched
to a new look-out zone. Now I was watching guys shoot hoops in the
dark. It wasn't that exciting. I couldn't see much-at least, not from
where I was. They were loud, though. I could hear their voices.
Oh, shit-in the distance I saw a silhouette of a drunk guy coming
right towards me and the fortress. I could tell he was drunk by the
wobble in his walk and the sack in his hand. As he got closer, I tried
to understand his mumbling.
"There is perfection," he said. "My bed... bed."
Now he was standing over our fort. I tried to be as quiet as I
could. Oh, no, he's not doing what I think he's doing-fudge! From
the inside I could tell he was crushing the roof in, patting it
down and making it comfortable to sleep on. Shit-he's right above
our food stockpile. I just stayed in there on the other side and lis-
tened to him talking to himself.
"God gave me a bed of branches to lie on, so I'm
lying. The trees are friendly. The big branches blow
in the wind. Here's a toast to the trees. And a toast
to my son, Bixbie. The kid's got his mother's vicious
blood in him. I pray for him..."
The drunk babbled on and on. Part of the time I lis-
tened, and part of the time I tried to figure out how I
could sneak the food stockpile out from beneath him.
66 THRASHER
67