We were so distracted we agreed to let Lily get her hair dyed purple and it cost $50 plus tip, and I wasn’t even there when she was picking out the color because I was on the cell phone trying to keep an eye on Charlotte, who was getting into the bottles of hair care products, rearranging the magazines in the waiting lounge, circling the cookies. Then I let them have hard candy when it was over, even though they’d just been to the dentist who explicitly said don’t give them anything hard and crunchy, not for two hours. So they agreed to just suck them down and not bite.
The dentist has a long face like a talking dragon, calls out the numbers of the teeth and codes to his assistant — the Class 1 overbite category — removes his glasses, his rubber gloves, addresses me about each of the girls, the diagnosis, but I can’t hear him, I just nod and watch myself pretending to listen.
It takes 45 minutes to wire the money into a German bank for the immigration lawyers we hired and my bank says go to Western Union instead — it costs less, and I get the feeling the branch manager isn’t really up for it, when you get right down to it, it’s going to cost $75 in fees.
I have nowhere else to listen to the new Mark Kozelek CD but my garage. It’s verboten in the car with the girls because of all the F-bombs and Dawn has started putting her foot down with certain artists, like Kozelek or Joanna Newsom, with her harp.
There’s a bracing realness in Mark Kozelek that’s like you’ve walked in on him at some intimate moment, but he’s half-hoping you would, he left the door open.
He’d be hard to date, Dawn says.
I burn sage and point it in each corner of the garage, light candles to keep the mosquitoes away, write a poem about the bats, their uncanny flips in the air, the time between day and night, a changing of the guard.
Even though we live across the road from four single guys in their 30s with like, eight cars in their driveway and two dogs, teams of professional mountain bikers passing through for races, somehow I’m louder than they are — I’m more of a bad male stereotype walking around barefoot at odd times of the morning or night, half-hoping one of them will want to have a beer with me but they never do, they’re busy sleeping because they all have jobs.
Lily’s friend Kamaile gets dropped off by her Hawaiian grandfather who gestures to the garage and says Man-Cave, as if identifying volcanic rock.
You can watch the nail of the moon creep its way behind the trees and reappear on the other side.
There’s really no other sounds out here in the suburbs than the ones I’m making. The house next door got sold at auction, bought by a flipper, resold to a family wanting to sub-divide but it fell through, and now nothing gets watered there, it’s all dying in the back and the grass is knee-high. It feels like we’re really in the country at last.