Derek White
Derek White once tried to kill himself by eating a jar of maraschino cherries in one sitting. He lived to tell these tales, which are part of the collection O, Vozque Pulp, which he did in collaboration with Carlos Luis.
What the Irreversible Free Path Delineates
There are a lot of cities near bays, but only one they call The Bay Area. Many times I would fish in the murky waters that I never once saw anyone swim in. I didn’t bother to bait my hook. It was just an excuse to be in the company of others who were also waiting for something they couldn’t define until it struck.
The other strangers on the pier called me a punk because my hair was not a natural color. I wanted to stand out, but at the same time I was terrified of being affiliated with any groups. I was perpetually conscious of being a poseur, so I was.
On weekdays I drove a ’66 Volkswagen Bug in the rain with no windshield wipers, trying every exit along Bayshore freeway. The car was black, but it was so faded you could tell it was red underneath, and beneath that you could make out the gray primer. The car had a funny smell that I grew to like. I don’t remember breaking the jar of maraschino cherries in the backseat, and I never bothered cleaning up the mess. Memory can be corrosive if you let it.
A lot of time was also spent at the airport even though I never traveled anywhere. I collected baggage carts and returned them for quarters—not because I needed the money, but because I needed something to occupy myself. The more people I met, the more people I didn’t know.
Red Snapper
She kept calling them Huachinango, but I knew they were Red Snapper. She was also a virgin. I was deep-sea fishing for the first time somewhere off the coast of Mexico. I was thirteen and didn’t know yet how my body would respond.
Even though she told me to watch the horizon, I was sick. My line was way down. After I threw up, I reeled it in. Despite the absence of any father figures, I felt the machismo pressure to suck it up and be a man.
“Not so fast,” she said, “or their eyes will bulge.”
My instincts told me I didn’t actually have anything. Sure as the sun will rise, there were five identical red snappers with brains popping out of their eyes on each of the five baited hooks.
I was sick again and fell asleep right there at her feet.
The Lifelines Left by the Lathe
My father cheated and carved his totem poles with a chainsaw. I never knew what his driving force was, but for the most part they were reproductions of animals. Before I left the Pacific Northwest, I was under the impression that everyone’s father made totems to fill the clearings in front of their homes.
We used to take field trips to the nearby Indian tribes as if they were convalescing relatives. The men clutched spears in their hands and chanted, but it never looked like their hearts were into it.
I lived there because my parents lived there. My parents lived there because our grandparents lived there. My grandparents had run out of lives to escape. The Columbia ran into the Pacific.
Cross-Breeding the Sickle Cell Nodes
During Carnival I lent her my fishnet, but was quick to change my mind. The Rio Grande where they crossed (to free themselves) was a stream of disconnected puddles. The symbolic fish became so condensed in the diminishing pools that it was a free for all. The birds overhead were in a frenzy, mapping the function of fight to flight—for each fish there was a corresponding bird.
I couldn’t see clearly through the ash on my eyelid. The smell of mustard and lentils rose from my clothes into my nasal membranes. Her shyness was only an act that had gotten her this far. Now she would have to cross on her own without my help. Then we could talk, face to face.
Accumulating from the Deck Up
It is raining steadily now on the fountain outside our window. The resonance is driven by the stream of trucks filled with debris that keep pouring up (or down) 8th avenue. The nightly din comes in between shifts, as they accelerate from the green light, and then again as they decelerate before Columbus Circle. Notwithstanding this anomaly, the traffic moves continuously in one direction, gambling from an incomprehensible sum.
My Idols Won't Support Hanging Weight
My Figa never left home without his aviation sunglasses and his unsung secrets. While he was out flying, the second woman he married would sit me down on the organ seat and teach me “I Walk the Line” by the numbers. My Figa’s red-tipped cane never once raked the bars inside a cell. He eventually drowned in his own blood without a cent in his pocket.
A generation later I would learn “I Will Follow” on two strings and scale cliffs by making a fist.