To Sit, Unmoving

http://www.shutterstock.com/blog/bridging-the-gap-between-digital-and-analog-with-the-impossible-project

Excerpt from “To Sit, Unmoving:”

On the ride to our dinner in the city my father said, Listen.

He talked of the factories in foreign countries.

You don’t want to know, he said.

But he at least made a filter to help.

He looked at me in the rear view mirror.

Sweatshops, he said. Now they can breathe.

He said, That’s my job.

I looked out the wilted highway palms.

He said, Listen.

In the rear view mirror he was eyes and eyebrows. A piece of forehead.

He said, There’s dangerous dust all around us.

He said, My filter can crush the dust.

It’s a killer, he said pointing his hand like a gun at my brother’s head.

The date picked dirt out from under her nails. Her nails were red and very long.

He said, Do me a favor.

He said, Please don’t talk.

I’m not talking, I said.

He said, Shut your face.

He said, Don’t even start.

Other drivers looked at us. Some were men. Their windows were open, their arms out the windows. Our windows were up.

My father said, What do you know about landfills.

But I wasn’t thinking about the rats. About their sharp teeth chewing straight through the filters. The dangerous dust released.

I was watching a kid in the car next to ours. He was in the back seat like I was. He was watching me through the window too, but then he was gone.

My brother said nothing, reading his comic. We could hear his music.

My father said,  What does she know. He looked at my brother. He said, Your sister’s crazy. He laughed. He nudged my brother’s arm.

My brother was off in his own crazy world. Who knew what he thought. His brain was made of dirt. Or shells. Or rotten fruit.

My father’s forehead was sweating. The back of his neck was sweating. He said, You don’t know shit. He smacked the wheel. He said, You just don’t know.

There was dried grass all along the roadside. Sign for things. Drinks. Chickens, live and cooked.

He smacked the wheel. He said,  What do you know.

Empanadas.  Succulent ribs. Lemon-lime drink.

You know nothing, he said.

Home-style empanadas. Like your mother’s empanadas.

My mother made no empanadas.

We had regular food. American food.

Fried chicken in a bucket. Buttered rolls in a bucket. Regular drinks.

He said, Listen to me.

He said, You don’t listen.

Then he slowly stopped the car in a lane on the highway. The date said something sad in Spanish. Cars screeched to a stop behind us. My father put the car into park. He got out of the car and walked into traffic.