I Lost

Excerpted from the forthcoming novel, Freight:

I lost sight of the hurdle or I lost sight of my footing or I lost sight of the task so I didn’t make it over the hurdle. I crushed the hurdle with my heel and then the hurdle tangled with my legs and then I was passed the hurdle and the gravel ate my knees.

Boys playing baseball stopped playing baseball and turned to look. They laughed at me. Even the coach laughed because it was something.

The coach I liked. He was bald with a friendly mustache. Maybe he thought I could take his laughter.

The boys playing baseball I didn’t like. I think they laughed because it wasn’t them and they didn’t care if I could take it.

I brushed the gravel from my knees. The gravel was sticky with blood. I smiled and laughed to show them all I could take it. Then I stood up.

I didn’t try to jump over any more hurdles that day, choosing instead to jump over hurdles in the darkness when no one was around, when it was just me and the hurdle. That way if I lost sight of something no one would see, not even me.

***

I lost my first gunfight when I was just a little boy. I didn’t lose because the sun was in my eyes or the other guy was quicker or because my pistol misfired. I lost sight of my footing again like with the hurdle and I fell down a flight of stairs and broke my arm.

My opponent ran home to his mother. I ran home to my mother. I didn’t tell her what happened at first. I lay on the couch. My mother watched over me with a worry that I didn’t understand because I was too young. She watched over me until my eyes closed.

I slept with my broken wing. I dreamed about rainbows and cool grass at dusk. Sometimes it would rain in the summer and I’d watch the rain through the window. When the rain stopped the sun would come out and a rainbow would appear. I’d get all excited and run outside. I’d try to find the pot of gold.

My parents never told me I couldn’t find the pot of gold and for that I am grateful. My parents never told me I couldn’t find it because maybe they didn’t know for sure. Maybe they hoped I’d find it. But even if I did find it I was just a small boy and there would be no way I could drag a pot of gold back home. A few bricks, maybe some coins, but never the whole pot.

So I chased rainbows in my dream while I slept on the couch with my broken wing. It didn’t matter that I’d lost the gunfight or that I’d fallen down the stairs because I was home with my mother watching over me, and mothers, rainbows, and dreams are good. They are good like cool grass at dusk, cool grass I still think about now.

I also dreamed about how in the summer I would take my bath at six o’clock. Then I would go outside and sit on the grass and wait for dusk. I was clean and barefoot and wearing my pajamas. The grass was thick and soft like a big green carpet. My parents were never mad that I was barefoot out on the grass just after my bath. They could remember what I saw and maybe they needed me to see it so they could see it, too, so they didn’t forget. Maybe I understand now why people need children.

My mother woke me on the couch. She was nervous and worried. I knew she was nervous and worried because whenever she was nervous and worried she put her hands on her hips. She asked if I was okay with her hands on her hips. I told her I lost the gunfight. She took me to the hospital so the doctor could extract the bullet.

I wore a little cast on my little arm until it healed. I think that little cast is still around somewhere, maybe in a cedar chest in a plastic bag. Cedar chests are like people sometimes because they carry things around even if they’re not moving. But I suppose they’re moving through time so they’re like people that way.

But cedar chests generally don’t have names, at least the ones I’ve met. Maybe we should name cedar chests because they carry so much and they deserve a good name. I think I will call the cedar chest that carries my little cast Jonathan because Jonathan is a friendly name and Jonathan doesn’t mind carrying things for other people.

“Thank you, Jonathan.”

***

I lost other things, too, not just sight but sometimes sleep. When you lose sleep you win everything else because your body is open and you can’t shut it. You become like an open cedar chest in the dark. Everything you carry is exposed. When you’re awake it can be hard to look at things but sometimes you’re forced to look at things if you lose sleep.

Once I lost sleep and I was open in my bed. Things I thought I’d lost came spilling out of my stomach. I’d tucked them deep and had forgotten they were there. But some things we carry don’t want to be forgotten and we don’t want to forget them either — that’s why we put them there in the first place. But some of these things are hard. We try not to think about them because they hurt.

One thing that spilled out of my stomach was my friend Burt. He died one summer when I was a teenager. The night he died I was only a few miles away. I was with other people and we were drinking a lot which meant maybe we were trying to die, too.

But I don’t think Burt was trying to die that night. I don’t think everyone who drinks is trying to die but sometimes they are.

Burt died in a car accident because he’d been drinking. I found out in the morning when a friend called. I didn’t know what to feel. My body and mind didn’t know what to feel. So I tucked Burt into my stomach. I tucked the last time I’d seen Burt into my stomach. I carried Burt with me as I went about my life.

After Burt spilled out of my stomach he danced in my room. Burt was a good dancer when he was alive and he was just as good now that he wasn’t. I tried to see his face because I wanted to see if he was happy. But I couldn’t see his face very well because he was dancing so much. I took the dancing as a good sign.

Other people spill out of my stomach when I lose sleep, not just Burt. Sometimes it’s my grandfather or my grandmother. My grandfather always sits at my desk and looks out the window. My grandmother offers me gold candy that I can’t take it because it’s not real.

Sometimes it’s my old pets that spill from my stomach. Cats run around the room and dogs shit on the floor because they can’t get outside. But it’s ghost shit so I don’t get mad. Even if it weren’t I wouldn’t mind; it’s always good to see them.

Sometimes it’s people I’ve wanted to lose but can’t that spill out of my stomach. I’m not ready to talk about them just yet.

When you lose sleep I guess it’s like gaining life. Or experience. Or something. It’s a time when you should be sleeping but you’re not. You’re open like you are in a dream. But it’s different. Probably because you’re awake.