Kirby Wright

BOULDER BLUES

 

We sat near the continental air access tunnel. My father wore a Lilly Daché button-up, khaki pants, and blue joggers. Daddyo was upset that my mother and Jen were visiting the airport gift shop. He thought shopping was a distraction and they’d miss our departure to Denver.

Troy leaned against a cement pillar with his arms crossed. He looked away when our eyes met. I knew he’d come only for appearances. He felt I was our father’s favored son. But he was his own favorite child, a force of nature who’d beaten incredible odds to become a success.

My father checked his Timex. He removed his glasses and slipped them back on. He stuck a hand in his pocket and jiggled the change. He re-checked his wristwatch.

My mother had returned a week early to bid me farewell. During her Boston sojourn, she’d discovered a hip Coolidge Corner salon and returned with Jane Fonda’s gypsy shag. Passing pilots had tipped their hats. Her eyes burned with a renewed vitality and I suspected she’d romped like a teenager through Boston. Troy had told me Fletcher treated her to dinner and drinks at the Black Rose Tavern. Jen had filled me in on Gert’s chief concerns, including reminding our mother that a tiny Commonwealth Avenue apartment “couldn’t hold a candle to” a sprawling Kahala ranch house. Her flat was furnished with the melancholy remnants of her former life as a stock broker’s wife. The dining room boasted Baroque end tables and a blue velvet divan. A gold art nouveau chandelier lit a mahogany table for twelve. Serpentine dressers jazzed up the bedrooms and an art deco mirror hung by wires off the pantry wall. A red baby grand gathered dust below a window sealed shut by mold. The apartment must have haunted my mother with reminisces of days gone by. Perhaps that created a distrust in cherished objects and shocked her with the reality of the phantom nature of money. But Boston was still home. She reveled in the clang of passing trolleys, the grind of subway wheels, and the chime of the Chicago World’s Fair clock. This cacophony of nostalgic sounds revived her enchanted past and rekindled her passion for dreams not yet realized.

The lady behind the Continental podium announced boarding would begin.

“Let’s go at last call,” I suggested

Daddyo got up. “Jesus,” he said, “you’d be late for your own funeral.

Now where the hell’s your mother?”

We joined the line forming at the tunnel’s mouth. Troy ambled over and stood beside us.

My mother and Jen hustled out of the gift shop with leis. They took turns dropping leis over my head and kissing my cheek. We hugged. I promised to write once a week.

Troy held out his hand. “Rotsa ruck, Kirbo.”

We shook. I felt the callouses on his hand and felt bad our brotherhood was in shambles. He existed in a land of pain and resentment that made getting close impossible. Being alone with our father made him hate me more.

“Time to go,” Daddyo said.

We entered the tunnel. Going to college was exciting but I felt I bad for my kid sister. The voices continued. The yelling of new nuns had replaced those of the old. The only thing that buoyed her spirits was clinging to the dream of becoming a rock star.

My father found our seats in the middle aisle near the back of the plane, opposite the emergency door window.

“Remove those leis,” my father said. “Why?”

He waved a limp wrist. “People in Denver will think you’re one of those.”

Daddyo had reserved us a room at The Brown Palace, the only hotel he knew in Colorado. He’d stayed there in 1949 during his red convertible journey from Boston and dined on Rocky Mountain Oysters in the restaurant. He wondered if ram balls were still in fashion.

“Full of iron,” Daddyo had told me. 

“How’d they taste?”

“Like Swedish meatballs, but more gamy.”

We taxied over the tarmac between rows of green lights. The jet engines roared, powering us down the runway and up. I spotted the blue rings of La Ronde through the emergency window and the red lights at the Top of the Waikiki. I thought about Laura. She’d left early for summer school at Lewis & Clark and her parents didn’t seem pleased when I showed up at her gate. We’d only dated twice. She hadn’t planned to visit Colorado and I wasn’t heading to Oregon anytime soon.

My father craned his neck gazing over the seat in front of him. He signaled a blonde stewardess. She strutted over, a gold dress hugging her hourglass figure.

“Yes, Sir?” she asked. The hem of her dress was cut mid-thigh and a gold jet pin glistened above her breast.

“May I order a gin martini, Miss?” my father asked.

“Absolutely, Sir. With or without an olive?”

“With.”

“Would your boy care for a refreshment?”

“No, thanks,” I said.

She winked at my father. “Back in a jiffy.”

My father watched her head for the galley. He elbowed me. “Cheesus,” he muttered, “if I were single, I’d really go that.”

The stewardess returned with the martini. My father unlocked his tray table and she placed a napkin and his drink in the slot.

“Thank you, Miss,” my father said, handing her a ten. “Keep the change.”

She smiled. “Holler for Linda if you gents need anything at all.”

“I certainly will,” he said and watched her saunter off. He stuck an index finger in the drink, stirred slowly, and the olive spun. He sipped and smacked his lips, as if tasting something bitter. “When do classes start, Kirby?” he asked.

“Monday,” I replied.

“What’s your first subject?”

“Writing.”

“Good. Your professor will make you analyze texts and compose essays. Didn’t you write essays at Punahou?”

“Yes.”

“What were your grades?” “I don’t remember.”

“You don’t remember because your grades were poor.”

Daddyo said my mediocre GPA was proof of my laziness and the CU admissions committee only gave me the green light because they wanted my out-of-state tuition. He was so driven hunting down flaws that he failed to see anything good. I wasn’t his solo target. He considered my mother a birdbrain and a spendthrift. He thought Troy shared my mother’s low IQ and would do little with his life. He believed Jen’s lack of willpower branded her a loser. Hatred was his fuel. He used us as pumps to propel his glorious engine forward, a rage machine forged during his impoverished Kaimuki childhood. I could tell he’d invested in me flopping in academia. But he was oblivious that I’d been studying him. His speech, gestures, and mannerisms revealed someone who took delight in ripping others apart. His soul fed off his never-ending resentment. Daddyo had never praised Troy or me for anything in high school. In his mind, he’d given us advantages he never had but we foolishly squandered his gifts. His contempt was rooted in his hanai upbringing and abuse from his uncles. They’d found his secret place and stole his savings, invited him to pretend dinners at Wo Fats, and tormented him for being a bastard. Uncle Sharkey had thrown him off the dock at Fisherman’s Wharf and called down, “Sink o’ swim, punk.” I grieved for him. But I also realized that, instead of learning from his past, he was punishing our family for his years of suffering.

My thoughts drifted to Troy. He worked a pick-and-shovel job but loved manual labor. He’d said flies swarmed his plate lunches and scorpions crawled the interior walls of the Porto-Potty in Waikiki. Our final summer on Moloka’i had been bittersweet. Troy had been more communicative in the primal setting of Wailau but I realized we were heading in opposite directions

I pulled Jen’s envelope from my back pocket and opened it. It was a Bon Voyage card. She wished me a safe flight and added a special take on an Elton John classic:

Kirby my brother you are older than me

Do you still feel the pain of the scars that won’t heal Your eyes have died but you see more than I

Kirby, you’re a star in the face of the sky

Oh God it looks like Kirby, must be the clouds in my eyes

I tucked the card back in the envelope and folded it to fit my front pocket. I’d pretended those scars no longer hurt and that our father hadn’t killed her innocence. But I knew Creature World and my attempts to save my sister had fallen short. She would return to her pink room knowing I was no longer behind the wall we shared. I prayed that someday in her adult life Jen would find someone to love her big, enough to make up for years of suffering.

 

The pilot said the sun was breaking over the Rockies. I sprung up and looked out the emergency door window. The land below resembled crumpled brown wrap. We flew above jagged ridges and bone-dry plains. Everything felt like a mistake—traveling with my father, heading east to school, and attending a university overrun with strangers. I returned to my seat. Daddyo stretched. He gulped orange juice. His hair was more salt than pepper. His sideburns looked raggedy. He folded his tray, locked it in place, and rattled a cup of ice.

I examined my leis: the plumeria had turned brown and the orchids hung limp. I yanked the garlands off and jammed them into the seat pocket holding magazines.

A chubby steward headed down the aisle. He had red hair and looked grumpy.

“Say, fellow,” Daddyo waved, “what’s Denver’s current temperature?”

“Fifty-two,” the steward answered. “But it’ll warm to seventy-five.”

“They call it ‘The Mile High City,’ don’t they?”

“That’s right, sir.”

My father handed the steward his cup. “Just think,” he said, “a village in the clouds.”

 

We rented a Buick Skylark and rambled to Denver. We ordered omelets at a greasy spoon on Colfax before checking into the Brown Palace. The crimson carpet in our room was threadbare. The room reeked of cigar smoke. There were twin beds side-by-side, a TV with rabbit-ears, and silver ashtrays made of plastic. I flopped on a bed. The springs creaked.

My father stripped to his underwear and sat on the edge of his bed. He plucked the phone’s receiver out of its cradle. “I need a wake-up call tomorrow morning,” he said. “Six sharp.”

I shut my eyes. I dreamt I was on a lounge chair at the Diamond Head Beach Hotel. The clouds clung battleship gray to the horizon. I peeled my legs from the straps and stood on a lawn edged with naupaka. A sail cut a jagged path through the whitecaps. A wrinkled man emerged from the coconut shadows and spread his towel over a yellow square of light. His back was as red as a boiled crab. I heard gears churning, rolling. A conveyor belt carried bodies into the flames of a shoreline crematorium. Pipes spewed ashes into the sea. The shallows clouded. A tide moved in and carried the ashes beyond the breakers.

Someone shook my shoulder. “Get ready for dinner, Kirby.”

 

19th Century European warfare was the theme of The Palace Arms Restaurant. Military regalia decorated the maroon walls, including skinny rifles with bayonets and swords from the Napoleonic Wars. There were candelabras, crystal chandeliers, and gold flags with fleur- de-lys emblems. Waiters rushed by in purple tuxedos. My old man was disappointed Rocky Mountain Oysters weren’t on the menu. He ordered a double martini from a French maid waitress. A Hispanic waiter took our order.

“Kirby,” my father said, “have you picked a major yet?”

I tasted my water. “English.”

“Very good. Writing papers teaches you to think critically.” “I like a different kind of writing.”

“Oh? And what kind is that?”

“Poetry.”

His eyes bulged out. “Poetry doesn’t pay a goddamn thing,” he said, “you know that.”

“Some poets make money.”

“Name one.”

“Robert Frost.”

“Only because JFK had him recite at his inauguration. Ninety-nine percent of poets don’t have a pot to pee in.”

“Allen Ginsberg has a pot.”

“Ginsberg’s a Columbia drop-out and a mahu. You’d better not follow in his footsteps.”

“But he’s rich and famous.”

“Look, Kirby, you didn’t come all the way to Colorado to write poetry.

You’ll end up digging ditches alongside your brother.”

“Troy works construction.”

Daddyo pulled off his glasses. “Construction in Waikiki means manual labor. Guess what’s under all that asphalt.”

“Coral?”

“Water, and lots of it. I should know, I draw up all the big contracts.”

“Troy makes decent money.”

“It may seem decent now,” Daddyo said, “but it won’t support a family.

Your brother’s in for a rude awakening.”

“What if he starts his own company?”

“I’ll give Troy one year to come to his senses. If he doesn’t attend college, he’s getting booted out on his okole.”

The waiter delivered trout on white platters shaped like fish. The dinners included rice pilaf, steamed broccoli, and a sprig of mint.

“Careful, gentlemen,” the waiter warned, “these plates are mighty hot.”

“That looks good,'” Daddyo said. “Doesn’t it look good, son?”

“Yes.”

“May I fetch you gentlemen some tartar sauce?”

Daddyo held up his hand. “None for me.”

“Count me in,” I said.

The waiter nodded and left.

My father cleared his throat. “Now, Kirby, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you, something I’ve been noticing.”

I squeezed lemon over my trout and took a bite. The fish was bland compared to mahi-mahi. “What have you noticed?” I asked.

“You’re constantly pulling this wise guy routine, like a jerk with a chip on his shoulder. That might land you in trouble at the university.”

“I’ll avoid trouble.”

“Nobody likes a wise guy. Some big football player might get mad and clobber you.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Okay, but don’t come crawling to me if you get in a scrape.”

“I won’t,” I promised, “even if I end up in jail.”

 

Daddyo snored in our room. I headed for the window and looked down at the traffic on 17th Street. The air smelled of burnt oil. I thought about my father’s childhood days when he slept on a cot in the parlor. Bobby and Granny slept on cots too. Granny’s sons had the bedrooms. Dad Hickman, the gentleman boarder, slept outside under the eave. My father remembered Uncle Carlos, the lawyer brother who’d stolen his grandmother’s land. He’d been determined to make good in school so nobody could do to him what Carlos had done to Granny. He’d watched her roll off her cot, open the screen door, and slip under Hickman’s mosquito netting.

 

We sped for Boulder after a continental breakfast. I’d found brochures in the lobby and fingered them riding shotgun. A brochure sprung open like an accordion. “Let’s see the sights,” I said.

“What sights?” Daddyo asked.

“Pike’s Peak and Aspen. There’s this big brewery in Golden.” “That’s a waste of time.”

“Isn’t Coors beer your favorite?”

“Yes.”

“You can drink all you want for free.”

Daddyo sneezed. The windshield smelled like old sneakers. “Look,” he said, “I won’t drive willy nilly all over Kingdom sightseeing. You’re damn lucky you’re not alone on a bus instead of being escorted to Boulder like a prince.”

We headed through fields of wheat stretching east. A threshing machine resembled a praying mantis. We passed a house with a barn, hay stacks, and cows behind fences. The cow eyes looked sad. There was a big tank on stilts with GAS painted bright red on its side.

“I have responsibilities,” Daddyo explained. “You’ll learn more about that after you’re married.”

He sneezed again. Droplets speckled the windshield. He pulled a handkerchief and blew. It was as if all the joy and wonder had been squeezed out of him, reducing him to the pulpless rind of a man. He’d never believed you could see the moon in the afternoon and, when I pointed it out, he refused to look up. He followed his own set of rules and challenging him was a no-win situation. I switched on the radio, spun the dial, and settled on “Everybody is a Star.”

My father winced. “You like that crap?”

“Thought you liked Diana Ross?”

“That’s not her. Turn it to the news.”

 

We hoofed it around campus, opened a checking account, and lunched on burgers at the Alfred E. Packer Grill. Troy was right. My father’s expectations made me feel as though my life wasn’t my own. We found the Boulder Mall and entered Montgomery Wards. The AC blew hard.

A salesman with a brown tie greeted us. “May I be of some service today?”

“I need threads,” I said.

“What do the college students wear?” Daddyo asked.

“Follow me,” the salesman replied and led us to Men’s Clothing. I pulled on an orange down jacket. It fit snug and felt warm.

“Too loud,” my father said. He dug through the sales rack and found a dirt-brown jacket with a thin lining. “Now this is more like it,” he said.

He picked out boots, two pairs of jeans, and three flannel shirts “Need BVDs?” he asked.

“Got plenty.”

“Good. Let’s find your dorm and get dinner. I’ve gotta long drive back to Denver.”

 

Baker Hall was in the center of campus. I’d been accepted late and it was the only dorm with rooms still available. The building was deserted.

“What beautiful red brick,” Daddyo said, “just beautiful.”

We found the Headmaster’s office on the first floor. A black secretary handed my father the key to my room. She warned us there was no heat.

“My boy can take it,” Daddyo said.

She handed me a wool blanket. “The nights do get cold.”

My room was in the basement. The names of my two roommates— Gary Rennecker and Michael Dyes—were typed on a yellow index card taped to the door. I slid in the key and turned the knob. The door didn’t budge. I slammed my shoulder against the wood paneling—the door sprung open.

My father located the light switch on the wall. A bare bulb on the ceiling lit up a room with beige walls, a single bed, and a set of bunk beds. There was the aroma of disinfectant. Two desks were against the far wall.

I tossed my blanket on the single bed, swung up my suitcase, and unzipped it.

Daddyo watched me stuff shirts, pants, and underwear into a chest of drawers. “This is a good room for studying,” he told me.

Before leaving, my father knocked on the Resident Advisor’s door down the hall. A tall guy wearing a white Izod shirt appeared. He introduced himself as JD Culhane and said he pitched for the Buffaloes.

“Buffaloes?” I asked.

“The school mascot,” JD replied.

“What’s your major, JD?” Daddyo asked.

“English.”

“Plan to become a teacher?”

“I’m applying to law school.”

“Kirby, did you hear that? JD’s going to law school.” JD looked at me and shrugged his shoulders.

“That’s an admirable goal,” my father said. “Your parents must be proud.”

“Doc Culhane would prefer I pursue medicine. He’s head surgeon at the Mayo Clinic.”

“I went to Harvard myself, JD. Take it from me, law school is the place to go, even if you don’t wanna practice.”

“You graduated Harvard?”

“Thanks to good grades and the GI Bill. It was far from a cakewalk but I gutted it out.”

“I’ll keep an eye on your boy.”

“I’d appreciate it,” Daddyo said. “He’s very green.”

“How old are you anyway?” JD asked me.

“Seventeen.”

 

Our last meal was at the Chophouse & Tavern. We took a booth and ordered T-bones from a brunette with a “Mandy” nametag. The bridge of her nose was saddled with freckles and she wore a blue-and-white striped blouse over white bellbottoms. She brought out plates with sizzling steaks.

“Vino?” Mandy asked.

Daddyo studied the Wine List. “You a skier, Mandy?”

“Does it show?”

“You seem athletic,” my father replied. “I’ll have a bottle of the Chablis.”

“With pleasure,” Mandy said and skipped away.

“Gee,” Daddyo muttered, “that Mandy’s a good looker’. If I were back in college, I’d really go for her.” He took off his glasses and stuck them beside the wine glass. “Look,” he said, “this is your golden opportunity to meet lotsa girls.”

I cut around the bone in my steak. “What about Laura?”

“Where’d she go?”

“Lewis & Clark, in Portland.”

“Mainland guys really go for Orientals. They find ‘em exotic.”

I stabbed a piece of meat. “I might transfer.”

“Transfer, nothing.” He cut his steak and forked a piece in his mouth. “With mainland girls,” he advised while chewing, “no shy stuff. If you like a girl, tell her right off the bat you’re from Hawaii. That’ll set you apart.”

“I’ll say I’m part Hawaiian.”

He rested his utensils on his plate. “I’m not sure what your grandmother told you, but you have very little Hawaiian blood.”

“Your eighth makes me a sixteenth.”

“Nobody knows the exact amount. I wouldn’t advertise it.”

“I’m proud to be local.”

“You should be more proud you’re mostly English and Irish.”

Mandy plopped an ice bucket on our table, removed the bottle’s foil seal, and popped the cork. My father sniffed the cork as wine gurgled into the glass.

He sipped. “Nice bouquet.”

Mandy sunk the bottle into the ice. “I think so too.” She left us to wait on a table of bearded men wearing jackets with elbow patches.

My father smacked his lips. “Don’t forget Hawaii. That excites ‘em.”

“Did it excite Mom?”

“Geography was never her strong suit. Why, your mother didn’t even know where Hawaii was. She liked me because I was a good dancer and treated her to lobster dinners and shows. Another thing to remember is never get serious about a first girl. That’ll be Troy. Bet he ends up marrying the first wahine who looks his way. That guy never thinks.”

“Like a chicken with its head cut off,” I said.

“That’s right. Not thinking, not using his brain. Most men who marry that first girl get divorced, like your mother’s father. Play the field, that’s my advice.”

“Did you play the field?”

“Oh, boy,” he chuckled. “Boy, did I.”

After we finished, Mandy stacked our plates. “Dessert tonight?” she asked.

“None for me,” Daddyo said, patting his belly. “How ’bout you, Kirbo?”

“I’ll pass.”

Mandy split for the kitchen. But she soon reappeared, balancing a tray of mugs and two pitchers of beer. She put the tray down on a table with upperclassmen. Mandy filled their mugs. A guy with a white turtleneck rambled on about how our football team could never beat Nebraska and, when the Cornhuskers beat us again, he’d streak the Lincoln sidelines.

Daddyo peeled the label off the bottle. “Dating helps you decide what it is you want in a girl,” he said. “I dated quite a bit in Boston before meeting your mother.”

“She go out much?”

“She liked this effeminate grad at MIT who made her type his thesis. Then along comes this Fletcher character who sells his blood to pay for dinner at the wharf. Can you guess what he did during the date?”

“What?”

“Nibbled breadsticks while your mother ate her lobster. He told her he had a stomach ache but I bet he couldn’t afford two meals.”

“Now he’s a millionaire.”

“Who’s a millionaire?”

“Fletcher.”

“Come on.”

“He invented polyester. Mom said so.”

Daddyo rolled the label into a ball. “That’s what he tells fools in Boston, like your mother’s brother. But I’m sure he played a very small part in its invention. Fletcher’s one of these scientists who makes twenty thousand a year bent all day over a Bunsen burner.”

“Twenty thousand? That’s it?”

“If he’s lucky.”

“Wow. So why’d you choose Mom?”

“June was a wholesome girl.” He leaned over and whispered, “she was a virgin.” He stuffed the balled-up label into the bottle’s mouth. “You don’t want a girl who’s been with lotsa men.” He gazed out the window. Coeds in tight jeans and Kappa Delta sweatshirts giggled by. “Cheesus,” he said, “everywhere I look, beautiful girls. Invite them to good restaurants. They won’t forget you if you take them to nice places.”

I wasn’t sure how I could afford dinner dates with ninety bucks at Boulder Savings.

Mandy brought our bill. “Sure I can’t tempt you?” she asked my father. “We have scrumptious apple pie.”

“I’m too full, Mandy. Say, when’s the first snow?”

“Usually near Halloween.” She waved over at the white turtleneck guy.

His buddies were slamming quarters against the table trying to bounce them into their mugs.

The turtleneck guy winked. “I’m in lust.”

Mandy giggled and headed over. He scooted out his chair out and she sat on his lap. She stroked his hair. He nibbled her ear.

“Exercise vigorously,” Daddyo advised. “That’ll help with studies. No exercise makes you fat and lethargic.”

“I’ll shadowbox and jog.”

“Careful of personal hygiene. Girls don’t like stinky men.”

“I don’t stink.”

“Not sure if you noticed, but your brother has horrible halitosis and horrendous BO.”

Whenever my father was alone with Troy, he’d rake me over the coals. My brother had always been eager to share Daddyo’s laundry list of complaints against me.

“Even stinkers get dates,” I said. “Troy’s problem is no confidence. Things might have been different if you’d praised him once in a while.”

My father’s cheeks flared red. “Kirby, you’re one of these kids who blames his parents for everything and anything that goes wrong. That’s a good way to shirk responsibility.”

“We’re talking about Troy, not me.”

“Funny, I had no mother and no father. Look how well I turned out.”

“You did?”

“Don’t get smart, wise guy. I had nothing compared to you boys but I pulled myself up by my bootstraps.”

“You weren’t an easy father.”

“At least you had one.”

Daddyo paid. We wandered The Hill district, passing clothing stores, art galleries, and a dojo. The moon lit up the oaks lining Broadway. I spotted the Skylark. My father unlocked the driver’s door. A truck groaned up the incline.

My father checked his Timex. “Cheesus,” he said, “late, late, late. Can you find your way back to Baker Hall?”

“Yes.”

He held out his hand. “Well, good-bye and good luck.”

We shook like strangers. I didn’t want to end it that way. I didn’t want my father leaving without saying something heartfelt, something I could carry around inside of me. “Daddy, what are you made of?”

“What?”

“What are you made of?”

“I guess I’m made of iron. That’s it. Iron. What are you made of, son?”

“Steel,” I replied. “I’ve always been made of steel.”

I grabbed his shoulder. He let me hug him before dropping down into the driver’s seat. He powered down his window. “Lose the wise guy stuff. Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Good boy.”

I stood at the curb while he pulled away. The Skylark tooled down Broadway. Jazz came from Tulagi’s Pizza. His car hung a left off Broadway and vanished behind a Texaco station.

I eased between oaks and jogged crossing Broadway. This was my chance to create a new me. I decided to wipe the slate clean skirting the amphitheater. I crossed paths with a pack of coeds heading for The Hill.

“Howzit,” I said.

A redhead smiled. “Go Buffs.”

I reached Baker Hall and took the stairway down to the basement. Boxes were stacked outside the neighboring room. I unlocked the door, shouldered it open, and locked it behind me. I switched on the light. I tested the bunk bed mattresses and considered the top bunk. Instead, I spread my blanket over the single bed and flicked the light off. The moon lit up the door. Laura entered my thoughts. I had this crazy urge to hop a Greyhound bound for Portland. I heard footsteps in the hall. A hinge creaked. I’d come a long way to find someplace lonely but knew that feeling would pass. I imagined my father on the flight home. He’d flirt with the stewardess and order martinis. He’d jiggle change in his pocket and stretch. He’d check and re-check his Timex.

The man of iron was gone. Part of me was relieved. But a bigger part hungered for his approval. I wanted to give him some reason to love me. After all, I was his son.

 

I saw us driving the twilight fields south of Boulder. The radio played “Rocky Mountain High.” I invented a father who was there to pick me up whenever I faltered, a man who gave me credit for trying and never shamed me for coming up short. He pointed at the Denver lights and drummed his palms on the wheel to the beat of the song. He said my future was near those lights, somewhere in the sea of shadows beyond the city.

 

 

 

KIRBY WRIGHT was born and raised in Honolulu, Hawaii. He is a graduate of Punahou School in Honolulu and the University of California at San Diego. He received his MFA in Creative Writing from San Francisco State University. Wright has been nominated for five Pushcart Prizes and is a past recipient of the Honolulu Weekly Nonfiction Award, the Jodi Stutz Memorial Prize in Poetry, the Ann Fields Poetry Prize, the Academy of American Poets Award, the Robert Browning Award for Dramatic Monologue, Arts Council Silicon Valley Fellowships in Poetry and The Novel, and the Redwood Empire Mensa Award for Creative Nonfiction.

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