A Common Pornography Part 11

Afterward, we went to a place called O'Malley's, a cheap family restaurant connected to a bowling alley. Dinner was a variety of chicken strips, fish and chips, and hamburgers.

I stayed with Mom and Mark at Elinda's trailer park home. The decor was as seventies as it looked from the outside, with fake-wood paneled walls, fluffy carpet, and one narrow hallway that led to two cluttered back bedrooms. The bathroom was full of dollar-store items. In the kitchen, Elinda showed me the cupboards, packed full of boxes and cans of nonperishable food. She also had a freezer full of more food that she showed us with a proud smile.

Outside, there was a small shack at the end of the driveway that they called the smoking room. Instead of smoking in their home, they smoked in this shack. It was just large enough for a card table, some shelves filled with board games, a TV, and a boom box. One of Elinda and Chris's friends was staying with them this same weekend and all three of them sat in the smoking room most of the night while Mom and Mark and I stayed in the trailer watching the Mariners get sh.e.l.lacked by the Baltimore Orioles. I looked through some photo alb.u.ms that were out and kept asking Mom who people were when I didn't recognize them.

There were a couple of photos of Mom and a pretty little girl that I wondered about. "That's me with Elinda," she said. I had to stare hard at them to recognize Elinda. She was thin and happy looking, a little glint of mischief in her eyes. Probably about thirteen years old. "That was before she left," Mom said.

I turned the page and there was another picture of Elinda. In this one, she was much taller and bigger, but still young. Maybe about eighteen. She was slouched against a bench somewhere outside and her head was tilted. Her mouth was slack and open and her eyes looked faraway and helpless.

I put down the alb.u.ms and went out to visit Elinda and Chris and their friend in the smoking room and noticed that there were no windows, no ventilation in the thing. At first I thought it was funny, but then I grew appalled. "You should get some windows put in this thing," I told Elinda. I felt like I was lecturing them a bit. They puffed and coughed and nodded their heads like it was old news. "Or get an air purifier or something." I could barely stand in the doorway without feeling sick. They sat in their own haze, playing cards.

That night, I slept on one of the couches in the front room. Mark slept on the other, snoring loudly. There were several lights on in the room that were keeping me awake, so I got up and turned them off. In the middle of the night, I was woken up by Elinda and her friend stumbling around and wondering if the electricity had gone out. They turned all the lights back on and went back to bed.

The next day we were at a Kmart and I looked at air purifiers, thinking I would get one for Elinda and her smoking room. Her birthday was two days away. I talked with the manager of the pharmacy area and discussed my concern with him. He told me that an air purifier would do very little to help. He said they should install some windows and fans to blow the smoke out, but even that was probably not enough. He asked how old Elinda and her husband were and I said, "About sixty."

He shook his head and said, "The best thing for them to do, really, would be to quit smoking. If they don't do that, you probably can't be too much help."

I knew he was right. I bought her oven mitts instead.

Farewell Tour

Right before Halloween 2008, I went back to Kennewick for maybe the last time in my life. Russell had convinced Mom that she should move out of the Tri-Cities finally. He was going to get her set up in San Antonio soon, near his daughter's family and closer to Houston, where Matt lives. Russell and his wife were planning to come back to Texas as well, after he was done with his current job in Korea. 2008, I went back to Kennewick for maybe the last time in my life. Russell had convinced Mom that she should move out of the Tri-Cities finally. He was going to get her set up in San Antonio soon, near his daughter's family and closer to Houston, where Matt lives. Russell and his wife were planning to come back to Texas as well, after he was done with his current job in Korea.

My girlfriend, Barb, took the trip with me. It was a short visit and we spent part of it just driving around, looking at places from my childhood. We parked and walked around my old neighborhood and along the ditches where the floons used to be. I pointed out Willie's and Todd's old houses. We walked slowly by the house I grew up in, the house that caught fire. A woman was in the yard playing with a dog and then noticed us looking at the house. I wanted to say, "I used to live here and I'm writing a book about it." But I would have felt like a dork. Instead I just made it blatant that we were talking about their house by pointing to the window where my bedroom used to be.

We went to the Mayfair Market even though it's now called the Red Apple. Even twenty years later, I thought I might recognize someone.

We got back in the car and drove up Garfield Hill to the house that my friend Matthew grew up in and I saw that their last name was still on the mailbox. I hadn't talked to Matthew since those days in Spokane, and I wanted to go up to the door and say h.e.l.lo to his parents, but I chickened out.

When it got dark, we drove by my high school and saw that there was a football game going on. We stopped and snuck in the back gate and watched for an hour.

It was like a farewell tour.

Back at Mom's place, I looked through more dusty boxes of photos and artifacts. A few old letters caught my attention. There was one addressed to Mark at a correctional inst.i.tute that he was in while I lived in Spokane. He had been convicted of a drug crime that I didn't know about. I also found two letters for Dad from someone named Marie who was living in Portland. They were both postmarked 1956, before he and Mom were together, but I wondered why he had kept them. They were both very romantically written and addressed to him at a place called the Welcome Hotel in Arlington, Oregon. At the bottom of one of the boxes, I was also surprised to find evidence of Dad's creative side. There were a couple drawings of horses and one of a woman's profile that looked like Judy Garland. They were pretty clean and well done, almost as if they'd been traced. But the paper was thick and Dad had signed his name on them. Some brittle papers were filled with rhyming poetry. I wondered if this was a clue to his life. If he had wanted to be an artist or a writer and just gave up hope on those things as more children and more problems piled up for him.

I was hoping I might find some older things of mine too, like the notebook of song lyrics I used to pa.s.s around in middle school. I did find a big stack of note cards with football statistics and player a.n.a.lyses I had written on them.

I put all the boxes back and gathered up the things I wanted to keep. Most of the boxes were old issues of motorcycle magazines that belonged to Mark.

After was.h.i.+ng my hands, I checked out the spare room where Barb and I were supposed to sleep. It was the room where Dad had slept for the past several years, but now a friend of Mark's had taken it over. There was an overpowering cigarette stench in the air that was making our heads ache.

I asked Mom about this friend and she tried to explain that it was a woman who had been kicked out of her place and they were just letting her stay there for a while. I wasn't clear if she was Mark's girlfriend, but I figured she wasn't. Mom said that the woman was staying somewhere else that night, so we could sleep there. I looked around at this woman's stuff and saw photos of a couple of girls, presumably her daughters. There were hair clips all around the bed frame and a cheap old TV with a collection of bad movies on DVD and VHS next to it. I randomly opened a small drawer in the bedside table and immediately shut it.

"Look in there," I said to Barb.

"What is it?" she asked. She could see from my face that it was something serious. "Is it a d.i.l.d.o?"

I shook my head and said, "No. Worse."

She opened the drawer to see a crack pipe sitting there, not even concealed. Underneath the pipe was a letter that the woman had written, or was writing, to someone. It was a sad, pleading letter, begging someone for forgiveness. Asking for a second chance.

I put the pipe and the letter back and we decided to sleep on the living room floor instead.

Home

The next day, we went to the cemetery and found Dad's gravestone. I was surprised to see that Mom's name was on it too. I wondered if they had arranged that a long time ago. Even though they were never affectionate with each other when I was growing up and in the twenty years since I left the Tri-Cities, I guess they formed some kind of bond, or a truce that would keep them together forever. Maybe it was formed out of a mutual stubbornness, or perhaps they were used to each other, even though terrible things had happened between them. Unforgivable things. But maybe the unforgivable things were forgivable after all, for the sake of not being alone. we went to the cemetery and found Dad's gravestone. I was surprised to see that Mom's name was on it too. I wondered if they had arranged that a long time ago. Even though they were never affectionate with each other when I was growing up and in the twenty years since I left the Tri-Cities, I guess they formed some kind of bond, or a truce that would keep them together forever. Maybe it was formed out of a mutual stubbornness, or perhaps they were used to each other, even though terrible things had happened between them. Unforgivable things. But maybe the unforgivable things were forgivable after all, for the sake of not being alone.

There were some plastic flowers at his grave. I didn't bring anything to leave. I reached down and felt the raised letters of my last name. "See you later, Dad," I said.

That night, while driving the four hours back to Portland, I realized that I probably wouldn't be coming back to Kennewick again. At least not to see any family. I will have nowhere to stay after Mom sells her place. Mark will surely stay in town after he finds a place for himself, but I doubt anyone will hear from him.

Sometimes I think about growing up in Kennewick and how normal and good it was. How I was glad that I didn't grow up in a smaller town or a bigger city. I think about my own son, growing up in Portland, and I know that his childhood, his youth, is very different. I wonder if he'll move on in a few short years and feel nostalgic later. If he'll always think of Portland as home and remember me as a good father. Maybe, right now, he thinks everything in his life is normal the way I thought my life and family was normal.

I realize that nothing is really normal. All it takes to alter normalcy is a death or a birth. Or just some misguided fear, love, or loneliness that never goes away.

Acknowledgments

Parts of this book first appeared online at book first appeared online at McSweeney's, Eleven Bulls, Nerve, Bullfight Review, The Glut, Surgery of Modern Warfare, McSweeney's, Eleven Bulls, Nerve, Bullfight Review, The Glut, Surgery of Modern Warfare, Powells.com, and Powells.com, and Smith Magazine, Smith Magazine, and in print in and in print in Sleepingfish Sleepingfish and and Igloo Zine Igloo Zine.

There are many people who have supported and encouraged me in my writing life. Your love and friends.h.i.+p mean the world to me, especially in the past two years. Thank you: Stephen Kurowski, Andrew Monko, Elizabeth Ellen, Erika Geris, Dayvid Figler, Joe O'Brien, Mike Daily, Laural Winter, Magdalen Powers, Riley Michael Parker, Gary Lutz, Pete McCracken, Reuben Nisenfeld, Melody Owen, Melissa Lion, Zachary Schomburg, Patrick deWitt, Brian Christopher, Joseph Lappie, Bob Gaulke, Melody Jordan, Ritah Parrish, Jenn Lawrence, Chelsea Martin, Martha Klein, Suzanne Burns, Emily Kendal Frey, Zoe Trope, Frank D'Andrea, and Elizabeth Miller.

Special thanks to Michael Johnson, who took some of these stories and created songs from them (long live Reclinerland).

Extra special thanks to my family for their help in piecing this together, especially: Mom, Elinda, Terry, Russell, and Matt. The good outs.h.i.+nes the bad. John Elton Sampsell: Rest in Peace. Zacharath: I am proud that you're my son, and I hope I've learned enough to always be a good father.

For my friends at Powell's, the best bookstore in the world. Chris Faatz and Meredith Schreiber are like guardian angels. Everyone on the Publicity team (hi, Frances!) and in the Blue Room, especially Linda Watson, whose cookies and hugs have saved me a few times.

Many times to my always growing publis.h.i.+ng-family tree. The writers I publish on Future Tense continue to inspire me. My friends at Akas.h.i.+c, Manic D Press, Chiasmus, and Word Riot have made me a better editor and writer.

Thanks to all the writers I've met over the years who have offered their friends.h.i.+p, writing secrets, blurbs, and support: Sam Lipsyte, Dan Kennedy, Miriam Toews, Jonathan Ames, w.i.l.l.y Vlautin, Jami Attenburg, Robin Romm, Davy Rothbart, Steve Almond, Jon Raymond, and Sean Wilsey.

Jeffrey Yamaguchi is one big reason this book exists, especially at Harper Perennial. A couple years ago, he introduced me to Carrie Kania, Amy Baker, and others at the New York office and he told them to pay attention to me, to keep me on their radar. Thanks for that push, Jeffrey. Your kindness cannot be measured.

For my agent, Michael Murphy, and my editor, Michael Signorelli-two men who were always encouraging at the right times and endlessly understanding. For Gregory Henry, Jim Hankey, and the others who help bring this book to readers.

For Barb Klansnic, you've kept me going during the hardest and most confusing times and you've elevated my happiness during exciting times. I'm lucky to have you, and I love sharing my life with you.

P.S Insights, Interviews & More...

About the author My So-Called Real Bands About the book Visual Aids Read on Future Tense Books: A Timeline of My Micropress

About the author My So-Called Real Bands

ALTHOUGH MY DREAM of being a famous DJ or pop star never came true, at least I did get to enjoy some time in a few "real bands." Here's the short list.

Drill: Drill consisted of two or three friends who would make noise behind me when I started to do spoken-word performances in Spokane in 1990. Drill consisted of two or three friends who would make noise behind me when I started to do spoken-word performances in Spokane in 1990.

The Girl Scout Cookies: My friend Vince from Drill decided we should try some rehea.r.s.ed songs instead of just doing improv behind my poems and rants. We stole drum beats from hip hop instrumentals that Vince played guitar riffs over. We played two shows in Spokane before I moved to Arkansas in 1991. My friend Vince from Drill decided we should try some rehea.r.s.ed songs instead of just doing improv behind my poems and rants. We stole drum beats from hip hop instrumentals that Vince played guitar riffs over. We played two shows in Spokane before I moved to Arkansas in 1991.

Love Jerk: In Fort Smith, Arkansas, I became friends with two rocker kids from the local high school, and we formed a three-piece rock band. This was happening at the same time that Nirvana was. .h.i.tting it big, and I was able to turn these guys on to other bands like Beat Happening and Teenage Fan Club. Phillip slashed around on his guitar, Jason pounded his drums hard (he was still into Metallica), and I tried to sing. We had one song that was an ode to Florence Henderson. We played two shows before I moved away. In Fort Smith, Arkansas, I became friends with two rocker kids from the local high school, and we formed a three-piece rock band. This was happening at the same time that Nirvana was. .h.i.tting it big, and I was able to turn these guys on to other bands like Beat Happening and Teenage Fan Club. Phillip slashed around on his guitar, Jason pounded his drums hard (he was still into Metallica), and I tried to sing. We had one song that was an ode to Florence Henderson. We played two shows before I moved away.

Moon Boots: I reunited with Vince a couple of years later in Portland, and we decided to do a two-man band. I reunited with Vince a couple of years later in Portland, and we decided to do a two-man band.

I played a minimalist drum kit like Moe Tucker, and he played electric guitar and sang. We played three really fun shows with actual bands that I liked, but Vince stopped smoking pot and decided that he wasn't interested anymore.

G.o.d's Favorite p.u.s.s.y: This was more of a cabaret act. Five hot Portland females lip-synching to cla.s.sic hits while in full costume (wigs, roller skates, Viking outfits, etc.). I was a "go-go dancer" for them. On the night that GFP opened for Deee-Lite in Portland, I stayed home tending to the early birth of my son. This was more of a cabaret act. Five hot Portland females lip-synching to cla.s.sic hits while in full costume (wigs, roller skates, Viking outfits, etc.). I was a "go-go dancer" for them. On the night that GFP opened for Deee-Lite in Portland, I stayed home tending to the early birth of my son.

"We played three really fun shows with actual bands that I liked, but Vince stopped smoking pot and decided that he wasn't interested anymore."

Visual Aids

HERE ARE PHOTOS and artifacts of some of the people and places that show up through the book: