Posted by Atticus on August 11, 2004, at 16:22:32
Why I'm Goin' Straight to Hell, 1978
The Incredible Hulk's gone ballistic,
Face twisted, features frozen
In a molded plastic
Facsimile
Of feral ferocity,
Crooked teeth gritted
Like two uneven rows
Of white picket
Fence posts,
Giant fists clenched
At the ends of
Jointed arms
So ripe with muscles
That they look
Like deflated green balloons
Overstuffed with walnuts.
His shirt dangles in tatters
Over purple pants
Reduced to rags,
And he's staring
Across the floor
Of my bedroom
At his opponent,
The Virgin Mary.I clench
The foot-high
Hulk action figure
With a 7-year-old boy's
Aggressive enthusiasm,
And my sister Julie holds
The painted plaster
Statuette of the Madonna
With equal intensity.
And for a moment,
One that I'll think about
For years to come,
I wonder if this
Is such a hot idea
And whether I,
As the Hulk's cornerman,
Should stop this fight
Before it even starts.Can't remember
Who thought
Of taking Mary
From my grandmother Na's dresser,
But the whole thing's
So screwy,
I figure
It was me.
Julie's tired
Of Ken
Getting his ass kicked
With such frequency
By the Hulk,
So we've enlisted
A bit
Of divine intervention,
Of miracle-makin' mojo
To even up the odds.Hulk rushes forward,
His right arm
Locked straight
As a battering ram.
Julie makes
A humming noise
And I ask,
What's up with that?
"Mary's magic," she replies.
"He can't touch her."
The plaster figure
Of Mary,
Her arms extended
Open-palmed,
A blue veil
Hanging above
Her ankle-length
White robes
Trimmed in gold paint,
Is crushing
A writhing serpent
With a bright red apple
In its mouth
Under her feet,
So clearly,
She's no pantywaist.And suddenly
The Hulk's fist
Connects
With her jaw,
And we hear
An almost
Inaudible snap
As Mary's head
Flies clean off
And bounces
Under my bed.
Our eyes goggle
Wide
With indescribable
Horror,
And Julie's gone
Like a shot
Back
To her own room.I scramble
Under my bed,
Digging frantically
Among tilting stacks
Of comic books,
Amid long-lost socks,
Behind a baseball bat,
But can find
No sign
Of the Virgin's
Missing melon.
Panic shoots
Up my spine,
Sweat breaks
On my brow,
And I figure
Even Jesus
Won't go easy
On the guy
Who knocked
His mom's
Block off.Then I spot it,
Nestled
In my Craig Nettles
Autograph-model
Baseball glove,
And heave a sigh
Of relief
That nothing
Ever seems to get past
The Yankees' third baseman.
I gingerly retrieve
The head, noting the nose
Is chipped
And the chin
Is missing a piece.
I hold the body
In my left hand,
Cradle the head
In my right,
Then try to fit
The two together.
Not impossible, I think.Squeezing Testor's
Model Cement onto
Each side
Of the break,
I glance up
At the large
Wooden crucifix
Hanging over
My headboard,
A piece of long
Dried leaf
From Palm Sunday
Pinned behind it,
And press the parts
Together.
After 10 minutes
Of motionless,
Breathless,
Suspended
Animation,
I slowly pull
My right hand back
And the head stays put
For now,
But now
Is all that matters.
I replace it
On Na's dresser
And slip back
To my own room.
Jesus is still
Watching from
His cross.
Just my luck
The Son of God
Would be the
One eyewitness.I decide
I'll clear this up
In confession
On Sunday,
Tell Father Feenan
About it
From behind the safety
Of the confessional booth's
Screen.
Na hasn't noticed
The crack
In Mary's neck,
And with every
Passing day,
I'm more convinced
I'll pull this off.I slip
Into the confessional,
Hear the murmur
Of voices
As the priest
Finishes up
With the person
On the other side
Of his booth,
Which is flanked
By two smaller ones
For penitents.
I kneel
On the raised
Red-carpeted board
Before the closed
Little window
Between him and me,
The dark confined space
Smelling
Of lemon-scented furniture polish
And ancient wood.With an abrupt thump,
The tiny opening
Connecting
The Father's booth
And mine
Snaps open,
His head a gray silhouette
Behind the mesh,
And I go into
My well-memorized
Spiel.
"Bless me, Father,
For I have sinned.
It has been
One week since my
Last confession."
We work our way
Through the ritual
Until I get
To the preamble,
"These are my sins."I brace myself,
Hyperventilating,
Then begin.
"I was mean
To my little brother,"
(And punched Mary's
Head off, I think to myself)
"I was disrespectful
To my parents,"
(And punched Mary's
Head off)
"I lied, and"
(Punched Mary's
Head off)
"And that's it.
I am sorry
For all my sins."
I get one Our Father
two Hail Marys,
and an Act of Contrition
As penance,
Comparing notes afterward
With Julie
To see what she got."Did you tell?"
I ask, and she says,
"No, did you?"
I answer, "No way,
He'd give me
Two billion whole rosaries
To say."
We file back
To the pew
And rejoin Na
And our parents.
I'm thinking,
That's it,
Game over,
Now I've gone
And lied
To Father Feenan,
Too.
No purgatory
For this boy,
I'm goin'
Straight to Hell.
And the only
Tiny glimmer
Of self-respect
I can summon
Comes from the fact
That at least
I didn't
Rat out
The Hulk.
-- Atticus
poster:Atticus
thread:376506
URL: http://www.dr-bob.org/babble/write/20040729/msgs/376506.html