Sides
interior gallery opening night
a slender woman in her fifties saunters to the door
her blue hair is wrapped in an orange scarf
this is Trixie
she holds the door open, in rolls a slender woman in a wheelchair, forties
this is Melissa
Melissa
Southern accent
Beatrix, hey!
Trixie
German accent
Melissa, how is your son doing,
our Young Mooney?
Melissa
well, he’s well, he’s in New York now.
Trixie
I want you to give him something, here.
Trixie produces a business-card-sized line-drawing of a nude female, bent over with her elbows resting on the back of a chair face in hands, her perky breasts pointing down
Trixie
I give you this one to give to him because
you see she is young, he will like this,
give him my love.
Casting Call
auditioning for the role of the protagonist
name starts with an H
male, twelve years old, swoop of strawberry-blonde hair
pre-pubescent look preferred, softness
mistaken for girl as toddler
must have freshly divorced parents who, despite not speaking, cannot seem to stop arguing
smartass, shape-shifter but not social outcast, unfocused talent
cry on cue a plus
hoarder of shiny plastic jewels a plus
disabled mother a plus
it’s crucial that he have faith that there is another world running alongside the world we know, and that he is full of the desire to puncture that thin wall between and cross over
the winner of the part will be signed on for a lifelong commitment
green eyes will be given preference
The Living Room
it got dark outside hours ago
but sunlight, artificial and hot, streams in one window behind where I stand
it makes me sweat through hands clasped over my groin, dutiful
and so it’s day, I convince myself it’s day
I tilt my chin up, squint my eyes, and try to look presentable in khakis and a tie
I can’t look at my father but he and the men I’ll never meet look at me
they sit in a circle and quietly discuss
I forget my father’s name, something anatomical, ridiculous
they say he could be the next president, with the right image, finances
they say I could be a star, from choir to opera and beyond
if I were to retain my voice through puberty
I can hear the arias my grandfather blares, Nessun Dorma
but I can’t catch them in my own throat
the scraggly man next to my father says there is a procedure
my inner thighs tingle
I want the false sunlight to switch off, the night to bust through the glass doors
my name is Mooney, Mooney Sunshine
Threesome
so in this scene our protagonist, H, arrives at the estate, reporting
it’s morning in the sprawling house and there are people in bandanas staggering around the grounds
Trixie hands H a pain au chocolat and rescues him from his mother
she pulls him into a TV room and plops him down in front of cartoons
a quick kiss, Trixie disappears
H sits on a pile of blankets on the floor, rubs the kissed cheek, tunes out
the L-shaped couches behind him start to move and H freezes, frightened
he dares to glance back, two feet emerge from the blanketed couch, an arm, two more feet nuzzled up next to a curly head
on the other wing of the couch a shirt slips, an uncovered chest rises and falls, a hand meets a hand, post post-coital snooze
H drops his lower lip
in a flash we see him dart from the room, terrified and aroused, calling for his mother
but then we’re back in the TV room, he hasn’t moved a muscle, he turns his head to the screen
it’s nothing to be ashamed of, this is what life is for him now
he does what Trixie wants, he waits
The Car
the classic black automobile no longer runs, no starter
but it’s moving down a dirt road regardless, I sit on the plush leather back seat
I picture my father in the unoccupied driver’s seat, or would it be a chauffeur
no this is remote, covert, a secret trip, for bonding
so it would be my father
I can see the back of his neck
the whirring noise of a camera overwhelms the rumble of wheels
my mind is full of the dull fact that my scrotum is speeding toward destruction
but I’m not supposed to know that yet
I watch the pines roll by
Sex, Kitten
so in this next short segment Trixie leaves H
with a twentysomething blonde in a black vinyl cap
H approaches this makeshift sitter on the steps of a wooden outbuilding
she smiles, sinister
her cleavage erupts with a tiny black cat
it tussles with her necklace and licks her lips
H recoils, his pants tighten
but this isn’t the moment, it’s almost time for him to imagine
that he’s imagining that he has nothing down there to tighten
H sweats and looks over his shoulder
he sees his parents in the distance, by the flatbed truck that pulls cars
he turns back
the blonde tugs the cat out and it lands on the ground
letting out a warped mew
H looks to the blonde
and then to the space between the cat’s legs
tell me how it feels
The Shack
the wooden hovel looks abandoned but I know it’s not
my father just left me in the car to go fill it
for a moment I exhibit nothing but sleepiness but then put on unease
curiosity
I click open the car door and tiptoe up the creaky wooden stairs
voices
someone is following me but my job is to forget about that
I look over my shoulder but not into the lens
just enough for my eyes to catch the light
I come to the screen door and clasp its side, peer in
a greasy man in a white coat scrapes long metal instruments together
I hear my father’s voice, inaudible
there is a shout from somewhere outside
my father repeats himself, louder, he must be standing just out of view
a beat
I remember that I’m Young Mooney
the greasy man says it’s a relatively simple procedure and mimes a snip snip
scrape, scrape
my fingers leave the screen and this time I whirl completely around
the door slams, more shouts from outside, and I run
my father and the man turn and see me, it doesn’t matter
Sides
interior commuter jet day
engines hum, four miles high
the strawberry-blonde boy of twelve vibrates with anticipation in his seat
he wears denim
Trixie sits across the aisle, one row back, eyes fixed on the boy
she mumbles to her off-screen seat partner in German, the words Young and Mooney are discernable
Trixie leans forward, places her hand on the boy’s shoulder
Trixie
excuse me, little boy?
the boy turns and drinks in the blue hair, ruby lipstick
Trixie
is this you first trip to New York?
the boy nods
Trixie motions toward the front of the cabin, where Melissa sits
Trixie
is that your mommy?
the boy turns his head to look at Melissa, looks back at Trixie, then back at Melissa, then back at Trixie
he does not nod, he does not speak
Trixie
will you ask her if you can be in a movie?
Two
my father is a cutthroat politician
my father proofreads photography books
my father has a young blonde driver in a black vinyl cap
my father keeps a prism dangling from the window in his study
my father glad hands
my father glad hands
my father’s name is Jaw Alibi
my father’s adopted first name is my adopted last name
my father bathes in silver
my father bathes in sepia
my father was fellated by a masked woman with a gun
my father wasted no time between wives
my father was photographed into a scandal and splashed with newsprint
my father rarely submits to writing contests but when he does he cleans up
my father was ruined
my father keeps the fridge stocked with orange drink
my father plotted to have me castrated
my father drove me home after I ran away forever
my father’s son kept his voice without surgery
my father’s son found it in silence
Montage
so this next sequence spans time
Trixie hugs H and hands him a check for a hundred dollars, one day’s work
and with that, he’s a professional
he puts his mother’s wheelchair in the back of her car
and watches Trixie retreat to the house
now it’s a full year later and a party
credits have rolled and black and white flashbacks have come and gone
Trixie puts her arm around H’s shoulder
and introduces him to her protégé, the grand novelist’s daughter
whose eyes are already chewing H’s lips and spreading lies
finally a wine-drenched event
the same party eight years in the future, an adult H
being introduced around as H
and for a few minutes he’s reunited with Trixie
she clasps his hands and shows his height off to others
introduces him as Young Mooney
Many
my mother is a German artist
my mother is a wheelchair-bound Southern belle
my mother is a gourmet chef for billionaires
my mother is the wife of my father’s boss
my mother is my godmother and she smells like wine and cigarettes
my mother tells me about every freak tragedy that happens to anyone
my mother is at a rehab facility in the Virgin Islands
my mother was picked for rags by twins on the pages of Vogue
my mother was cut in half by a falling car
my mother is a trickster
my mother was a mop
my mother is my fake aunt
my mother sends me to therapists
my mother plucked me from the sky to be a star
my mother gave me a kiss for catering so well
my mother’s son collaborated with her on a screenplay
my mother’s son fled her as soon as he was able but keeps coming back
my mother’s son was on a cliff when a wave rose and the ocean ate him
my mother is anyone but my mother is anyone
Uncanny
I’m riding a skateboard, a teenager, showing off,
and Old Mooney flies by in a convertible, opera blasting
I stare too long and my friends call fag and I fall
my first date with the girl I’ll marry
waiting outside the coffee shop for her to finish in the bathroom
anticipating sticky movie seats
Old Mooney exits his hair salon to close up
we lock eyes
softly down the steps of a bed-and-breakfast
the morning after my wedding night
Old Mooney sets up a mic stand to sing light jazz to the brunchers
that voice testing testing
I’m overwhelmed with a phantom absence
I finger the business-card sized line-drawing by Trixie that rests in my pocket
Spotted
H, or as he’ll be known soon enough, Young Mooney Sunshine
fresh from filming the upcoming Hearts’ Lonely Hunters
in the third row of sixth period math at Buford Middle
sporting a black leather jacket and a vintage T-shirt emblazoned with the phrase another parent who cares
students say he snorted when a crush pointed out the tent in their teacher’s pants
news of the nature of his role leaked to classmates
and they emptied the contents of a pencil sharpener on his head as the bell rang
laughs and hi-fives
and then
in the bathroom for the better part of an hour brushing out his hair
he refused the assistance of a concerned bystander, blaming
the price of fame, saying
this is what life is for me now
The Woods
branches almost scrape me at every turn
but I’m exhilarated, at a sprint, doing my own stunts
telling myself not to look back at the shack disappearing
although no father, no greasy man, is following me
they’re sipping coffee on the sidelines, watching
I know that this is the end for Young Mooney no matter what
despite escape and despite freedom
I don’t get to grow into Old Mooney
Old Mooney will become a blonde-wigged transvestite singer
plotting a return to his father’s estate in the middle of the night
an archer friend will assassinate the yapping guard dog
and Vivaldi will bounce out of Old Mooney’s mouth and off the walls
still as pristine as a little boy
his wreck of a father will come downstairs, drop his gun, weep
I foresee all this or I read it somewhere or Trixie told me
I get to the decided spot, clear of the brambles, and turn
a bandana man with a camera waves me on into the fields and out of frame
I grow up to be someone else entirely
