Nuclear Box

Divorce sucks, but I really think that Star Wars has helped me cope a lot with having a hole in my heart where my father should have been for most of my life. If you’ve seen the films, you know that the entire saga centers on the story of Anakin Skywalker; he’s a hero-gone-villain who, despite being suited for a successful life of power and renown, turns into his own worst nightmare, ruining his love life and destroying the community which raised him.

A little background on myself. I’m a 22-year-old college graduate who still suffers from lingering anxiety and flashbacks to a time when my dad lost himself to pain medications and being bipolar. At no fault of his own, my father lost his dad in a car accident before I was born. That internal struggle, combined with the physical demands of being an electrician, led to back pain and intolerable suffering.

His way of coping? Vicodin. My father wasn’t the same after the pain consumed him. He wasn’t strong enough to battle his inner demons.

“I wasn’t strong enough to save you mom. I wasn’t strong enough, but I promise I won’t fail again.”

My father needed surgery, on top of everything else going on. His health was poor, and he overexerted himself while working long shifts for a power company here in Houston.

But before an extensive operation on his back could take place, he had to kick his addiction. And he did. He says I helped him. A four-year-old reflection asked my father, “When will you stop taking medicine?”

He claims it changed him, that my question and his doctor got him off the meds.

“Search your feelings, father. You can’t do this.”

Back surgery is apparently very dangerous. My father says he nearly died. Whether or not that bit is true, I may never know. But I do remember the plastic shell he wore following the operation. I remember the bed that lifted him up and positioned himself upright, and allowed him to don the brace that led him into a new world, one which consisted of more pain meds. More addiction. Metal screws and staples near his spine.

“He’s more machine now than man, twisted and evil.”

His mom died from cancer a few years later. With little left in way of guidance, he lost himself to the despair of loneliness. And he gave in again, to addiction and to hate for everything around him. 

This time, he took my mother and my siblings with him. We ventured into the dark cave of Dagobah, armed with nothing but our hearts. He lost his job, but he also lost his mind.

“I’m not afraid.”

“Oh, you will be.”

There were bad nights. My younger siblings hid, while my older sister calmed my mom down, and defended her during fights. I stuck with my father. I tried to calm him down. I just didn’t believe he was beyond saving.

“I feel the conflict within you.”

My father was blinded by his hate for a life that screwed him over. He called me spineless and questioned why I was born. He tore away the hand I reached out to him with, severed it and replaced it with something cold. Metallic. Even in my youth, I started to become like him, starting with that hand.

“Use your aggressive feelings, boy! Let the hate flow through you.”

My father’s back was held together with a brace, staples and screws. He wasn’t the same, but I became swayed by his emotional manipulation. I followed him everywhere, fearing he would leave home and never return.

“I have you now.”

And perhaps he did. For a moment, I was a scared child. Eventually he left the house, on legal terms. The story was left unfinished, the pain a lingering illness. I wasn’t just a child though. I had been twisted into believing he had a right to treat my mother the way he did.

I finally muscled up the courage to see through his tangled web. It took me a long time, but one day, I finally broke his spell. He called me one night, and when he finally rambled on enough about excuses for never being around...for failing as a father...I unloaded.

“Only your hatred can destroy me.”

I chewed him out over the phone...I didn’t hold back. Years and years of pain spilled onto him, and I felt...bad. I hated him in that moment. I was furious for the childhood he stole from me.

“You cannot hide forever, Luke.”

I thought yelling at him would make me feel better. Yet, I had to stop myself and think. What was this doing? Was I doing any better than he was? I was becoming like him...letting loss steal my soul. My metallic hand was becoming more than just a death sentence. It was hurting my father and breaking my character apart.

“No...I am a Jedi, like my father before me.”

I decided I wouldn’t become the metal man. I wouldn’t be the dad who wasn’t around. I wanted to be like my real father, the man who I never knew. The one who was around when my grandpa was alive. The one that swept my mom off her feet and raised a stable household. I wanted to fix him, and help him.

“I’ve got to save you.”

I talk to my father on the phone about once every few months. He texts me a Bible verse every morning. It isn’t much. And I really feel like I should follow up with him and save him from the bits of a broken past that still affect us all. Yet, when I think back to how a four year old sparked a fire in his heart, and caused him to look deeper into himself in an era of turmoil, I imagine I am Luke Skywalker. Perhaps I can still save our relationship.

“You already have, Luke.”

Funny enough, his nickname has changed for me overtime. Kylie. Choo-Choo Man. Cowboy.

More recently, Jedi.  

Thank you for buying the limited edition Shitbox 2000, complete with cupholders and expired tags. Let’s walk you through the troubleshooting process for turning off your engine light. 

Step 1: Replace the PCV valve. 

-Substep B: Figure out what the hell a PCV valve is. Install valve

Step 2: Crack the valve connector and scream loudly. Go back to Autozone and purchase several parts you don’t need, and install a different sized valve. 

Step 3: Remove battery. Watch as engine light turns off. Return to life as normal.

Step 4: Admit that nothing is really normal. Receive two job application rejections, drive home from school.

Step 5: Do your best to avoid petty drama. Get involved in petty drama because you’re not in the damn mood today. Watch as engine light turns back on. Immediately regret everything.

Step 6: Find someone in town who knows about cars. Consider driving to the other side of town to meet up with him. Realize that you don’t have time to meet with him. Hate yourself.

Step 7: Sacrifice your weekend for some volunteer event at school. Get free food. Spend your afternoon hunting for a place that will turn the engine light off and inspect the car illegally. Fail to find this place.

Step 8: Remind yourself that good things come to people who wait. Remind yourself that the last sentence was a lie. Remind yourself that you’re poor because you just haven’t worked hard enough, not because you inherited a broken family from a deadbeat dad.

Step 9: Go to work and go to class. Apply for more jobs.

Step 10: Go to a career fair. Speak with recruiters who have preconceived notions about you not being good enough. Provide resumes to recruiters despite knowing they will end up in the nearest trash can.

Step 11: Poetically hand one recruiter a resume in paper airplane form. Tell them you’d rather make it into the trash can with flying colors.

Step 12: Return to Autozone just before closing time. Ask them for a quick engine light scan. Be denied service. Be chastised for arriving late at night. Be told to visit another store. 

Step 13: Leave Autozone. Purchase flowers for mom’s birthday. Feel content. 

-Substep B: Admit that was a lie. Yell a little. Call Autozone. Curse at them and hang up.

-Substep C: Feel slightly better. Drive home. Place flowers on table. Wait for mom to arrive. Hug mom.

Step 14: Apply for graduation. Cross my fingers and toes that I’ve jumped through all the necessary hoops.

-Substep B: Deny the voice in my head that tells me my degrees are worth shit. 

-Substep C: Listen to others tell me that my degree is worth shit.

-Substep D: Deny them all defiantly. Graduate with my communications degree and begin my first entry level nonprofit job.

Step 15: Begin saving up for new car. Save up for new apartment. Help mom move to a new place. Get phone call from dad telling me he’s proud to see me graduate and start my adult life. 

-Substep B: Remember that he was never really there to see it happen.

Step 16: Get pulled over. Get fined for expired registration tags. Give up on engine light. 

Step 17: Drive car to nearest used car lot. Remove keys from ignition. Watch as engine light fades out.

Step 18: Purchase new car. Well, a newer car. 

Step 19: Drive new car home. 

Step 20: Repeat until light remains off.

If you’ve followed these steps correctly, your problem should be resolved. Should you have any future problems with the engine light, please consult the user manual before contacting the manufacturer. Please remember that all purchases are final and that this is just the way it is. 

Last one out, turn off the lights. Let the shadows creep in.

Let the voices of old friends echo on for eons in the ears of those passing by,

But let those memories of missing many people fall to the wayside.

Last one out, lock the door please. Make sure nothing else ever gets in

Make sure nothing erases the way you felt when you sat on that bed and kissed her goodnight.

Make sure nobody else can touch the image of you laughing with your roommates at 3 a.m. with a box of Taco Bell playing poker in that very room.

Last one out, wipe down the mirror, if you can. Clean it of the residue you see staring back.

Get that creep out of my face and replace it with the freshman who used to be there looking deep into my eyes with hope and naïve dreams.  

Get yourself a Clorox wipe, if you have one, and disinfect the image of yourself, because the past four years gave you a lot more than just the freshman 15. The extra weight you carry isn’t physical, and won’t show up on a scale. But it shows up in that uncombed hair in the reflection.

Last one out, unplug the coffee maker. Pack it up gently so it doesn’t break.

Pack it up and place a particular mug underneath it, the same one you used during those all-nighters sophomore year. Pack it up and perfectly protect that glass like it’s your life, because once upon a time, in the middle of midterms, it was. But the glory days are over.

Last one out, ensure the deadbolt is secure. One you’ve stepped out of the threshold, wiggle the door a little to make sure it feels right. Wrap your hands around the handle like your wrapped your arms around her body as you danced with her into the night, and cried when it was over. Wrap your arms around that handle like you wrapped your leg with bandages in that same dormitory when that prank freshman year went wrong.

Last one out, say I’m sorry. Say I’m sorry for not treating you right, for not taking in the moments like I should have. For staying in and studying when I should have been out making memories, and making out with the girl I’ll never see or talk to again. Say I’m sorry for being on a full ride to college, making the grades, but never being great. Having the right grade point, but never getting the point. Say I’m sorry for letting it slip by without taking care of what really mattered.

Last one out, return the keys. This isn’t your home anymore.

“Very good, dear” he says, raising another spoonful of chicken broth to his lips. They part ways and allow a thick stream of savory soup to slide in, and open even wider to allow a piece of breading to make its way through to the eagerly awaiting tongue inside. They close rapidly to keep the food concealed like a deep, dark secret. The process is repeated until the porcelain bowl is empty. ​     “It was easy” she says, raising a glass of cold milk to celebrate the occasion. It’s all part of the joke. The chef is supposed to thank the crowd for cooking a wonderful the meal, and the dinner guests are supposed to humbly accept the compliment.     It isn’t snowing here. It isn’t even cold. If anything, winter feels like the summer in Texas. The freezing New Jersey Decembers are a thing of the past, but the warmth of dinner still makes her feel like a Yankee. Grandpa cleans the dishes and the kitchen as usual, while the aroma of the meal still ventures throughout the house like a lost soul, looking for a vacancy sign on any nostrils to call home. It’s a lingering scent, even after dinner. It’s a reminder that she’s home, enjoying an evening with the ones she loves. His whistling fills her ears, making its way from the kitchen into the living room like a feather floating through the wind. ​     ...     “Very good, dear” my older sister says. She’s a 7-year-old with a lot of attitude, but has a braver tongue and palate than my own. I glance at my brother’s chocolate milk in disgust, and move my eyes toward the bowl of soup and dumplings in the bright blue bowl at my left.     “It was easy” I say, but the irony is my plate of chicken nuggets and ketchup. Mom asks me to take a spoonful of her chicken, just to try it. I defy her as usual, making it known that I’m perfectly content with my crispy tenders and strawberry beverage. She’s always trying to make me taste something, and this dish is a specialty; I recognize it as something she only makes a few times out of the year. Yet, I rebel and refuse. My sister finishes her meal, and I sit at the table blowing bubbles through my straw until I’m bored and full of microwaveable meat.   ​     ...     It’s a cold evening here in Manvel, which is unusual in October. The heater is broken again, so I surround myself with a fortress of blankets as I camp out in the living room. I’ve conquered the living room television, playing Xbox until the call of dinner takes me away from the remote. I sit at the table, moving over a pile of papers and unsorted receipts to make way for my meal. Mom hands me a bowl, and asks me to try it. I consider the request, and decide to dive in with my spoon. I’m immediately rewarded for my bravery. The combination of warmth, cooked chicken and fluffy bread makes me feel as if I’m chewing on a pillow. I swallow, and soon discover that I’m going back for seconds.     “Very good dear” she says, taking a seat on the living room couch. There’s not enough room at the table for all of us, but she ensures her children get food and seats first.     “It was easy” I say, but I’m a little too focused on my bowl to notice my dad entering through the backdoor. He’s upset again, and he places his guitar set down on the kitchen floor with a loud sigh. Without saying hello, he grabs a bowl and scoops in some broth. He goes back for three dumplings, placing them like floating buoys on top of an ocean of soup and chicken.  Like a phantom, he seems to float away; as quickly as he’s entered, he leaves the scene to take refuge in his room. My mom gets up to clean as my siblings chew on in an awkward silence. The lingering smell of dinner distracts me from the tension, up until my dad comes out of his room to place his bowl in the sink. He starts to raise his voice at my mom for no reason in particular, and picks up his musical devices like a suitcase and coat. He leaves through the backdoor, slamming it shut as we all look on in an anxious flurry of emotions. My mom just shakes her head, grabs another bowl of dumplings, and begins to package up the leftovers.     ...     It’s been 8 years since grandpa passed, but visiting the cemetery reminds me of the sight of the military woman wearing an indigo suit. A 21-gun salute by several soldiers brings back a memory of a man I barely knew, but one that my mom learned her culinary skills from. I still hear him whistling in the kitchen, and I see his face behind a pair of rectangular glasses. ​     As I look down at the grave site, and my grandma places the flowers down, I’m reminded of how quickly things went wrong. Leg pain, followed by cancer, took away the family’s chef. I’m filled with anger at my father for not attending the funeral; he’s since left my life to pursue a career of music and “worship,” and I only see him on holidays. But his absence is not the one haunting me in this moment.     I ask myself why good men like my grandfather die from cancer, while bullies like my father get to live. We head back to the car and return home, and my mom says she’ll prepare the special meal that brings us all a sense peace. ​     “Very good dear” my mom says, passing us each a bowl of dumplings and broth. I’m barely paying attention and almost spill my drink as my textbook bumps into a cup of sweet tea. I escape my thoughts for a while and allow the taste of chicken to ward off my worries of school and fading memories. My lips part ways, creating a tunnel for the soup and bread to enter. They close again, and I swallow the broth.     “It was easy” I say. The thunder outside is loud enough to shake the windows, and the vibrations cause our cats to jump away from the table in terror.     “Grandpa must be bowling again,” my older sister says. We laugh, and all agree. He’s probably getting strikes and spares with Jesus up there, having the time of his life as the scent of the dumplings rise up towards his place in the heavens.     ... ​     I park my car, and turn off the lights. I’ve had two exams this week and there’s a school event that I’m hosting on Friday that I haven’t even prepared for. I have three meetings to worry about on Monday, but none of that matters right now. It’s a Saturday night, and my sister is back from Austin with her boyfriend. My brother has already pulled in from his late shift at Home Depot. I’m the last one to arrive, but that same powerful aroma hits me as I open the backdoor to the house and make my way past our swarm of pets.     “Very good dear” my mom says, placing a bowl of chicken and dumplings in front of my brother.     “It was easy” he replies. I lock the door and take my seat at the kitchen table, and the whistling of my sister’s significant other from the living room fills my ears. Grandpa will never be gone. Like the scent of the dumplings, he lingers here, giving us warmth and comfort when we need it most.

This recipe was originally cooked by my grandpa and grandma. My mother has made her own modifications to the recipe. It continues to be a meal that she makes on special occasions, typically when we are not feeling well or when it is cold outside.

Ingredients (1 big pot, feeds 4 people) -Pack of 4-6 chicken thighs -Chicken bouillon -Salt and pepper -Garlic -Italian seasoning -Bisquick baking mix 

Despite my terrible parking skills, I managed to fit my beat up Ford Explorer into the small lot on the side of AvantGarden’s dimly lit patio. After fumbling with my phone, paying the $5 cover charge and getting a nifty little sticker for following “Write About Now” on Instagram, my hand was stamped and I was motioned into a backyard area filled with small little chairs, smaller little tables, and the smallest little crowd. I had arrived at 7:30 on the dot, but quickly realized – in the midst of cigarette smoke, background chatter and clinging bottles of alcohol – being on time meant you were early here. Nobody was in a rush.

I found a seat two rows from the patio’s stage, towards the entrance. Plopping down on the black chair in front of me, I pulled out my pink sticky pad and started to take in the scenery.

Okay, Chinese lanterns on the ceiling. Hip. Bird cages full of glass ornaments. Odd. Big metal tower with a big red button. Weird.

“Excuse me, have you been here before?”

Someone had shown up in the row behind me, along with an impressive crowd that started to wind its way towards the stage. Some people sat, some stood, and a handful waited patiently for what I assumed would be a signup list for the night’s event. I turned around, facing a middle-aged woman with light brown hair.

“Yes, but it was a long time ago,” I replied. “Last summer actually, but I really enjoy poetry, and I’m working on an article about spoken word. You?”

She took a moment to reply, leaning back in her chair with her hand on her chin as if her mind was in the process of rewinding an old VHS tape that had just finished playing. She leaned forward again.

“I found this event randomly. I really like poetry but I’ve only heard it performed once, in an Uber actually! I was high on Shrooms and my driver just started telling me that she performs and started spitting out lines.”

She placed her hand on my shoulder, which was a little startling. I didn’t think too much on it, however, as she soon explained that she was a massage therapist of some sort. Her smile and gestures seemed genuine enough for me.

“My name’s Chris, I do massages for people, so personal touch is a big thing for me. What’s your name?”

“I’m Kyle,” I replied as she removed her hand, her eyes looking up towards the stage as the MC for the night took hold of the microphone. She leaned back in her chair once more, and the odd exchange of words came to a close as the man at the mic began to speak. Another guy with a red hat sat next to me.

Is everyone here as open as her?

“Welcome to ‘Write About Now,’ where everyone is welcome unless you’re racist and orange, but nobody wants to judge here!” I made a mental note of how many Trump jokes the host made, and each one left the crowd laughing and clapping in unison. “This is our ‘new shit’ night, so if you have a new poem you want to read, come up and sign the list and we’ll get started shortly.”

Sure enough, the event was underway 30 minutes later, another indication that this slam was made up of people who honestly didn’t want to be held down by the clock. Ironically, the chosen poets for the night were allotted a brief two minutes to speak, but this was more out of courtesy for the audience I felt; there would be several rounds of poems, the MC explained, and winners would be chosen from each round to advance.

“Before Trump bans free speech, let’s give it up for Jason!” The crowd laughed and applauded, while the MC motioned to a twentyish-year-old Asian guy with glasses in the front row. The man strolled onto the stage like he’d done this before. I was certain that he had, as his verses came out as smooth as silk and left the crowd in awe. He spoke about heartache and loss, telling the crowd that you “can’t nurse a burn if you hold onto the fire.” His arm outstretched, a cell phone in the palm, Jason continued to pour out his heart amidst the snaps of thumbs against middle fingers. The scent of cigarette smoke lingered from earlier, dancing in my nose but also giving weight to the words of this man’s emotional struggles.

His time was up, and a girl appeared on stage. “New shit,” she yelled, and the crowd yelled back. It was a common practice, a ritual for these people; when a poet was performing a new piece, and said the magic words, it was the obligation of the audience to echo back. Her poem was clever and sarcastic; it was a list of rules for women on how to survive in a world dominated by presidents who want to grab women in the crotch. The judges shared my sentiment.

Race-based lyrics, fast-paced rhymes and body shaming poems followed, but one stood out among the others. A large woman with a Super Mario hat came onto the stage, taking the microphone and beginning a heartbreaking piece about her struggle with weight.

“I’m a weirdo,” she sang. A Lady Gaga verse was intertwined within the piece, creating a pitiful bastardization of song and free-verse lines that were emphasized with her raised voice and occasional screams. The judges gave her good scores, but the haunting feeling she left behind as she left the stage was intriguing. It made me wonder why, and how, someone in such a vulnerable state would want to speak so openly and so beautifully to a crowd of strangers about her Achilles’ heel.

Several poets followed, but few matched her raw emotion. One poet’s piece about not being gender-binary stood out as one of the best of the night, but the screams and voice of this woman still flooded my ears and refused to leave. Despite this, I found one overarching commonality with the pieces presented; there was a desire to be heard, and not be ignored. There was a deep desire among the poets to be understood, to have a chance to speak on a stage before the world and explain “imperfections” that nobody else cared to examine in greater detail. Before leaving, I said goodbye to Chris the massage therapist, and took a picture with her and the man at my left.

Among the sad parts, some happiness and hope could be found in one of the final verses I heard from a Hispanic man towards the end. “There is a space for pain and joy...I don’t always have to explain myself but I will.”