[Chocolate Cake for Breakfast]

I went on an unwilling jog this morning.

I ran as hard and as fast as I could. Why I ran isn’t as important as you knowing that I’m a-okay. The one o’clock hustle reminded me of when I learned to drive, stealing my dad’s car when I was thirteen.

I drove up to a cliff and got out of the car. It was muddy under the tires, and under my sandals. It was almost like walking on water when I slid across a puddle hidden underneath a virgin shelf of mud. I fell flat on my face, splashing the mud through the driver side window of dad’s 69’ Barracuda. It was teal, he said, “Shiny as hell,” with black upholstery. I looked upside down on my back, watched the mud dripping down the side of the Cuda. It took me five seconds to collect the thought; it’s time to head out.

As I popped the teal Cuda into reverse its tires spun like a merry-go-round pushed by all the big kids. Mud shot clear up to the oil pan as if someone were smearing chocolate icing on a hot cake.

Mom used to bake a lot. She used to bake chocolate cakes for my birthday, and give it to me in the morning before school. My birthday is January 18, 1976. That was the only day that I was aloud cake and ice cream for breakfast. I could have a soda if I wanted it, and one year I had an Orange Crush float. It tastes like orange cream soda, which tasted like heaven when I was in 4th grade. She also bought me a pair of sneakers every year. That year they were a pair of school busses that laced up the windshield and down the back of the bus. They drug the ground with my disappointment. I had to wear them to school, mom said so. I had to make fun of them.

I had to make fun of them before someone else did. My best friend Louis said, “Happy birthday, Clark.” I said, “thanks.” I told him the day before to tell me happy birthday while our 4th grade teacher had quieted the class down in homeroom. Louis was the coolest 4th grader ever to have Mrs. Bird for homeroom. She would never see another class with such sparkling enthusiasm. I don’t remember. And I found this out at the grocery store just last week.

The widowed Mrs. Bird was squeezing peaches. I was squeezing plums across from her. I was glad she didn’t notice me. I hate bumping into people from the past. It’s like a dog digging up a bone with maggots crawling in and out of like mice through Swiss cheese. So I said, “Hi.” “How are you?” she said. “Mrs. Bird?” I said. You can’t just say ‘hello’ anymore. Once you’re grown up you have to recount the places you’ve been and all the great things you’ve done. And you’re not allowed to talk about all the times you failed as a human being. I wish I’d said I dropped out of high school and ran away from home, and joined a circus before I wound up in the hospital with a tumor. But why lie? Because you can’t tell the truth anymore.

I told dad I didn’t know what happened to his car. He said I’d better get my F**KING ass outside and clean that god damn car. Dad always had the power to persuade me to do things I had no intention of doing. And he had this leather belt that was three inches wide. It hung on a nail in his closet. I used to get it for him sometimes.

My footprints gave me away. He lifted my sole and dropped my foot. So I traced my muddy steps like I was running from a Greek warrior in a drunken rage. Dad just wanted me to know that I had committed the unforgivable sin. That was the last year I remember mom baking me a chocolate cake for breakfast.

Her mom and dad lived in Providence, Rhode Island. I think she liked it up there a lot because she never came back. Grandpa and grandma said I couldn’t visit because me and dad were too much alike. Mom got some new kids anyway. Her last name is Melton now. I called her after I ran into Mrs. Bird over peaches and plums. I said, “Is Carol Melton there?” “This is she,” mom said. She probably thought that we were disconnected because our conversation ended there.

She has a teenage girl and a dog. I got to hear them cooing to her during a long silence, a silence in which my mother said, “Hello—hello—hello?” She always wanted a West highland terrier. “They have the most beautiful hair,” she said, “and they’re safe. They won’t ever turn on you.”

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Copywrite by Joseph Stoops, all rites reserved and sh*t.