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| classic rock, articles, centerville, news, fastfission, hollywood, body count, business, redmeat, pearl jam, creem, | Rebecca had turned eighteen when the live American visas materialized. It was her chance to make an adult decision. She decided to stay back in Jerusalem and graduate from university. The man had been drizzling liqueur on a glass of cherries as he talked about his daughter. There are no photographs of Rebecca in the house. There is only a painting of her—black and wild frizzy hair, a long nose, laughing eyes, her skin darker live than you imagined. She strikes you as a person who could be at home anywhere. Rebecca’s father asked why, despite the poverty, education is so central to you Indians and you had started to say something about survival and focus and you stopped because all you wanted was to get fucked, roughly, and maybe find love. Carrying the plates to the sink you heard the squeal of a neighbor’s child. At first you thought it was some bird, but there are no birds in a Los Angeles suburb. |
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| You take in the black misshapen rings printed on the curtains. He wants to see your neck, the man says, so you hang your head over the edge of the bed. The valley below his hillside home redmeat appears upside down to you, as does the freeway overpass, like a concrete serpent lunging. Over lunch that he redmeat painstakingly cooked, the man explained how he worked hard to survive in America. He had left Jerusalem with his wife and young redmeat son. And although he didn’t need to, he nevertheless recited his immigration saga to you—about the paperwork and the waiting and the wheezing attorneys. He feels nothing for Israel, he insisted. You didn’t believe him. His only regret, he said, is leaving behind his mother. She refused to leave the land where she has lived for over sixty years. Mother, land, mother, son. You can feel the man’s futile attempt at breaking this pattern, as much as you feel the rhythm of his thrusts. Besides his mother, he also left behind a daughter. |
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