Oliver Benjamin
CHAPTER 1
“Show me on the map,” my brother prodded insistently.
“No, Jesse. I don’t have time. I’m going to be late for the
shuttle,” I replied, trying to stuff more underwear into my new
backpack.
“Why are you leaving?”
“Why not?” I said. An answer most six-year olds understood
well.
“Are you coming back?”
“Not if you keep bugging me. Fuck! I should have gotten a bigger
pack.” I took out a few shirts and finally managed to get the zipper
closed.
“Mom says you’re going to go see Charly in Africa.”
“Not Africa. Europe. I gotta go. Do what Mom tells you.”
“Bye,” he said.
“Yeah. See you.”
I ran out of the room and down to the airport shuttle, not
looking back at my brother. I never paid him much attention. Kids
could see too much. Those beady little understanding eyes.
On the plane, I tried to gaze out the window from my seat, but the
old lady next to me was blocking my view. Nevertheless, I could see
in her everything I might otherwise see outside the window: patches
of unruly white fluff perched above a wrinkled, spotted terrain.
Errant growth here and there. A huge body of water. She was a
scenic nightmare. I should have asked for a window seat.
Come to think of it, I probably should have asked to sit in the
no-boasting section of the plane. Old Madge sure had a lot to be
proud of. She couldn’t remember my name, even though she asked
me a hundred times (“Excuse me, Jock, what did you say your name
was? Jobe? So what do you do for a living Jeb?”), but she displayed
no problem recollecting the starting and current salaries of every one
of her relatives all the way back to the one who played golf with
Lyndon Johnson (“A very nice man. Did you vote for him?”).
I felt myself nodding at the barely-perceptible ends of her
sentences, and grinning heartily in agreement at cousin Sherman’s
latest achievements, but my mind was numb with irritation. I could
7
 |
 |
 |
 |