sandy brown





“Dad,” I said, saying so, “Shea Stadium and Yankee Stadium make

two stadia in New York.” (Hell is two dogs fighting over water.)

“No, nope,” he said, saying so, “two stadiums in New York.

Stadiums.” (Hell is a conundrum involving a sump pump, with

water.) “Dad?” I said, feeling so, “In the struggle to be free to

strife I am bound.” Whereas Dad, in his dadlike way said, “You

must be leaving football out for a reason.” (Hell is a funnel in

which Deirdre drowns.) And not to be ousted, in so doing in doing

so, said I, “Two stadia plus two stadia equals an horrendous day

for gladiators in the Latinate arena.” Dad said, I mean, he said,

“You always got what you wanted when you were little, brat.”

(Hell heretofore bears no resemblance to Bratwurst, nor to any 

German cuisine. (Hell is a barrel filled with water floating down

a logging river.)) Dad cut a V in it then lit up his cigar. “You

can’t always get what you want,” said he, doing so. “Can’t,” said

I, cantor queen of decanter fogdog, “as in can but not, as in not

yet, as in can too, can 2.” Then said I (under my breath (for

hell is a parachute on a Pekinese)), “Water pearls on my upper

lip like the come of a sailor’s son.” Dad puffed on the

cylindrical cigar. I took off my T-shirt to show him where a

sweater worn without a bra had rubbed my nipples raw. (Hell is

two dogs in a duel over water.) I said “Two red lights atop two

stadiums on two Saturdays mean rained out games.” Dad said, as a

dad is wont to do, “Wrong you are.” (Hell is dried bourbon on the 

bar.) “I shall have had been going to get there this past fall,”

he said, “and it is stadia, after all.”