Wednesday, September 30, 2009


Years later, he still heard the gunshots, the chaos of people. He roamed LA for weeks, months, years, went from law school and campaigns to film school to odd jobs to taking orders, flipping burgers. Ironic, working in a kitchen, but this was his penance, circling a reality he couldn’t confront. His old life hazy photos burnt at the edges. The pictures of RFK lying on the ground, head bleeding, the darkness punctuated by bleached light. One day, his father appeared. Both were stunned—it had been years. Son, I paid for you to go to law school. Like he was 10 again, he nodded his head, listening to his father, silent. He wanted to say, I’m a ghost, I was shot and killed that day too. I saw you on tv, pleading for a doctor, and we just knew. Sizzling burgers shrinking, cheese bubbling, the beeping of cooked fries. Things changed, Dad, I’m…this…it’s okay. You have to leave the wilderness some time, son. And he’s back at the podium, anyone that’s a doctor, please, and that young busboy, kneeling in jazzman’s lighting, arm cradling the dying senator’s body, looking to anyone wondering, what. His eyes for years staring at this fractured mirror, seeking a way back inside, just before the gunshots.

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