DEME
The year Romulus turned three, I remember a man in a designer pin-striped suit and perfectly polished shoes swinging a sledgehammer at every inch of his Hummer, screaming that he would no longer be part of the problem. And when he’s done, he sits on the curb and points at me to come closer and he says he wants to set it on fire, but he can’t, because he just can’t hurt the planet any more.
He grabs my hand and starts to cry, and he says he’s sorry he’s crying, but he can’t help it and isn’t there some way he could give back the Hummer and the half hour showers for just one more minute with his wife? And then he stands up, wipes his face, tells me the Oil and Water Wars are all his fault, and throws himself onto the freeway below.
(Beat.)
I made that up. Not the Hummer or the hammer or the crying or him taking my hand or the freeway. But the Oil and Water Wars didn’t start for another week, and that’s just what we call them now because there’s nobody to tell us different.