“Across the courtesy bay,” I typed, rat-a-tatting the floor with my right foot “the white palaces of fashionable East Egg glittered along the water,” the people two seats behind me murmured at a tone close to the background hum of the bus’s air conditioner and engine, “and the history of the summer really begins,” with each word I felt more tense, “on the evening,” I feel silly doing this, and the angle of the laptop in these small seats is bad for my wrists and for what? “I drove over there,” for nothing, that’s what, this isn’t accomplishing anything, I’m wasting my time here, foolishly “with the Tom Buchanans.” Why am I doing this? “Daisy was my second cousin and I spent two days with them in Chicago.”

“Look,” the man says two seats behind me, “I wanna show you.” The woman laughs. “I wanna show you,” he repeats. The question isn’t a sincere question, it’s rhetorical. I know why I’m...

The rain won’t stop. It falls in drops that look quarter-sized to me as I squint through our fogged windows. The rain lets up, it pauses to catch its breath, but doesn’t stop. Without speaking, the clouds convey through deep-set wrinkled brows that the rain will be back soon to fuck with us. When the rain takes these breaks its sweat soaks the air. The humidity condenses on every glass surface.

Yesterday I found the humidity had turned a fresh pack of sugar cones into soft sponges. My older kid rumbled like the thunder as she agreed to endure the indignity of ice cream served in a bowl. My younger kid nibbled the squishy cardboard consistency of a cone with eyebrows raised and a smile but when I asked her to give me that cone so I could put ice cream inside it she cried. I gave it back, filled, and she smiled again for a moment before shouting that I had to pour chocolate sauce inside...

My two year old was playing with dolls. My wife’s uncle was watching TV. We were in the living room at his house. On TV some dude in a robe walked into the scene and opened the robe to reveal stab wounds all over his body. I’m kinda prudish so I took my kid down to the basement to play with the art supplies. I thought about giving the uncle stab wounds all of his body. I’m also in a shitty mood. Earlier today I yelled at another driver “fuck you you fucking piece of shit I hope you die of cancer!” and thought about how giving other people tumors wouldn’t be a very cool and cinematic superpower but it would be very satisfying. Being more honest, my reaction to the content of that show was really only half the story at most. Really I was annoyed because the show looked stupid, and it was distracting - lots of hoarse whispering and dramatic pauses - while I was trying to read E.B. White...

You don’t wanna fuck with me. I’m a tough macho dude. I’ve been doing pushups and have greater tricep development than I’ve had before. I read T-Nation sometimes. I listen to aggressive music. I drink black coffee. I swear. As in I use swear words, I mean. Seriously I fucking swear so much, like a damn shit-ton of Christ-ass piss curses from hell. I climb on monkeybars, practically daily. And I’m fucking fearless, almost. The only things that make me afraid are the things all tough guys are afraid of, like expressing emotions, and being vulnerable, and apologizing, and being wrong, and embarrassment, and heights, and dying alone, and spiders, and bugs, and the dark, and noises outside my house, and taking risks, and letting down people I care about, and finding out I’m fundamentally inadequate as a person. So back the fuck up.

Specifically, I mean you two lurking there. I see you...

One corner of the fitted sheet is on the bed. I tuck the second, move to the third as both kids barrel into the room - I get out “don’t -” before they dive under the sheet. They roll around, laughing, kicking their feet. I set aside how late it is, the stuff I still have to do once they go to bed, my desire to finish the task I had almost finished, and I just appreciate how much fun they are having with each other and a simple thing like a billowing bed sheet.

Okay, what I really do is mutter “god damn it” a few times and try not to grit my teeth or let any of my exasperation out in my tone of voice. “Okay girls,” I’m trying to be level headed and even-toned here, “pretty soon you need to come out from under there so I can finish putting the sheet on. Plus it’s time to start stories for bed time.”

My wife walks in. My kids pop the sheet off the corners of the bed, one, two, three...

I’m a great napper. I can do it upright or leaning on a window in an airplane or bus or train seat, in an office chair at work, in an easy chair or on the couch during a family gathering. And if I can stretch out, god damn, then we’re in business. I’ve napped outside under trees, on benches in public places, on the floor at work and in my living room, on couches during soundchecks for bands at punk clubs, and with my head in my hands at tables at libraries. I’ve recently discovered coffee naps - a quick cup then trying to get to sleep as fast as possible and waking up after about twenty minutes, extra refreshed by the combo of caffeine and a little sleep. It’s awesome. It’s a distant second, though, compared to dozing off with one or both of my kids, one of their heads on my shoulder or chest, or holding one of their hands, or both. It’s cozy and I love them so much, I feel happy and...

“Daddy!” Her bare feet slap the floor as she runs to me across the living room, her smiling mouth sing-songs “let’s make a fairy house!”, announcing with those five words that my saturday is fucked.
“Uhhhh… sure baby, we’ll do that!” I squat down - ow, shit, what’s that twinge in my back? - “Let’s have a good morning hug!”
“Okay!” She wraps her arms around my neck while I cross my arms under her legs and stand.
“Good morning!” I kiss her forehead.
“Good morning Daddy!”

I carry her toward the kitchen, trying to look past the cloud of brown curls that shoot out of her head in all directions in order to watch for when I need to kick some item into to some other corner of the room, rubble redistributed to save my feet and prevent falls. The debris in our living room contains multiple traps. Some are sharp cornered – wooden blocks, plastic Duplo blocks, Barbie dolls, and hardcover books...

For years I bought books in heaps, carried them home with my pulse pounding with the urge to read, stacked them on the floor or my desktop with heart evening but still excited, shelved them with interest but no thrill, then left them unread. Of course I read some of them, just never as many as I bought. I bought aspirationally. I bought books on things I wanted to know about, but even more I bought books for selves I wanted to be. I wanted to be the sort of person who knew about Ukranian peasant uprisings and about sight singing. Really, I wanted to be the sort of person who wanted to know those things. After while my desk, floor, and shelves got cluttered, my aspirations got dusty, started to smell like mildew. I got tired of stubbing my toe on the pointed corner of a hardcover edition of someone I never managed to turn into or having my foot go out from under me as I slid after...

“And we’re off…” He said that every time he drove me to school, every time he drove me anywhere in his big red car with the cracked and yellowing white canvas top. The cloth skin of the ceiling inside had come off before I could remember, leaving exposed dark red dry foam rubber type stuff underneath. I used to dig my fingers into it, carving my name and smiley faces permanently there. He scolded me for it, a loud gruff voice that I ignored, and he laughed when the dust fell in my eyes and stung. “Serves you right!“

“And we’re off…”, he would turn and smile at me.

I don’t know why but this phrase bugged the hell out of me. “Don’t say it!” I would shout, “No!” The unfinished phrase would hang in the air, a storm cloud waiting to break, a spanking anticipated (“just wait until your Dad gets home!” )
“… like…” I would cover my ears and sing or shout “lalalalala.” I don’t know why...

“Tell ‘em ‘aww simmer down, I ain’t the snake that bit ya.’” Grandpa holds his cigarette so the smoke blew out the truck cab’s slightly open window.
“What?”
“Tell those guys to simmer down, say ‘I ain’t the snake that bit ya.’”

I click the button on the CB’s handheld microphone. “You simmer down. I ain’t the snake that bit you.”
Grandpa’s crackling laugh bursts out.
“Now just a god damn minute,” a voice comes back.

“Well, time to turn it off. You got ‘em riled now.” He turns a knob until it clicks. The CB goes dead. “You hungry?”
“Yeah.”
“Me too. I’ll pull in at the next truck stop. I want pancakes.”
“Scrambled eggs.”
“Sounds good.”
“And a milkshake.”

We sit in the smoking section. The waitress calls me darling, brings my shake out with the metal cup, asks if I can finish it.
“I’m good at eating icecream.”
She and grandpa both laugh.
“You gonna share that with your grandpa?”
I...