Canyon Road (eBook)

It was Sunday, and like every Sunday morning, thirteen-year-old Caesar was walking the two miles to church by himself. He wore a wrinkled plaid sport coat, sweat stained white t-shirt underneath, and gray dress slacks that he’d grown out of long ago, hiked almost up to his shins. His thick, matted brownish-black hair was slicked down with water the best he could.

He walked by a narrow beige house, squeezed in between all the other narrow beige houses. There was a younger kid sitting cross-legged on the sidewalk out front playing with his Hot Wheels collection. Caesar eyed the shiny, brand new miniature cars with envy—the red Corvette, the ambulance, the vintage police car, the 18-wheeler and the holy grail of Hot Wheels—the ’68 rust colored Camaro catching the sunlight in that moment. Caesar smiled salaciously at the Camaro like other boys his age looked at nudie magazines.

The kid looked up and his eyes swept up and down, taking in Caesar’s appearance. He started to laugh, mocking Caesar, calling out, “Hey I know YOU! You’re say-ZAR! Hey say-ZAR! Where you goin’ say-ZAR?”

Caesar stopped walking, took his sport coat off, neatly folded it and hung it over his arm. Then, flashing a crooked, forced smile he walked over to the kid, standing over him and staring. The kid looked up at him curiously.

“It’s pronounced CEEEEEZER, not say-ZAR,” Caesar said, his dark eyes boring holes through the kid’s face.

“Sorry,” the kid said, shrugging and returning to his toy cars.

“Wanna give it another shot then, sport?” Caesar said, in his best Father Knows Best imitation from the TV reruns.

“Give what another shot?” the kid asked, looking up at Caesar with one hand shielding his eyes from the sunlight.

“Saying my name correctly,” Caesar said patiently, teaching.

“What’s the big deal?” the kid asked, irritated.

He looked around to see if someone more interesting might come along. The street was empty. Everyone in the burbs was either at church, watching cartoons, or asleep. The neighborhood marched to its own predictable drumbeat.

“You think names aren’t a big deal?” Caesar demanded.

“It’s just something you’re born with,” the kid said, ramming the corvette into the 18-wheeler and making crash noises.

“You are not BORN with a name! What’s the matter with you?” Caesar said, trying to shove the disturbing video reels out of his mind.

“What’s the matter with you? Why won’t you act normal like the other kids?”

Caesar’s mother’s voice screamed inside his head.

At his feet, the kid was looking up at him nervously, holding the 18-wheeler in one hand, the corvette in the other.

Caesar gave him what he felt was a reassuring smile and crouched down, picking up the ’68 Camaro.

“Oh I’m sorry, may I?” he asked.

“Whatever,” the kid said.

“Do you want to play?” Caesar asked him.

“Aren’t you a little old for this?” the kid asked.

Caesar thought of his childhood, almost completely devoid of playtime. An only child, his roles included part time cook, housekeeper, marriage mediator, and punching bag.

“I don’t mind,” Caesar reassured the kid.

“How about cops and robbers?” the kid suggested, grabbing the police car.

“Sure why not? I guess I’m the robber then,” Caesar said.

He stood up and carefully laid his sport coat over the porch railing before returning and squatting down to keep his pants from getting dirty.

“Are you sure you want to play? You’re not wearing play clothes,” the kid said, getting on his hands and knees and preparing his police car for the chase.

“I only have a few minutes anyway. Besides I want to finish telling you about my name,” Caesar said.

Are you serious? The kid rolled his eyes.

And then the chase was on, with the kid scrambling on his hands and knees down the front walk out toward the street pushing the police car. Caesar hunched over awkwardly, waddled comically down the pavement in his squat, guiding his Camaro in front of the police car.

“MY name was given to me by a great man, a heroic man, a man who fought for our great country and all he got in return was screwed. He named me Caesar after one of the strongest men in history, Julius Caesar, a misunderstood man,” Caesar lectured.

The kid made vroom-vroom sounds with his mouth, keeping up the chase.

“Did you know that the great Julius Caesar was once kidnapped by pirates at sea and held prisoner?” Caesar continued, awkwardly scuttling down the walk like a crab.

The police car was gaining on his Camaro but he barely noticed, wrapped up in his speech.

“Well the whole time he was the pirates’ prisoner, he never showed any weakness. He acted like HE was in charge! When they sent word back to shore, demanding ransom, the great Julius Caesar told them to ask for twice as much because he was insulted that they thought he was worth so little. Also, while he was their prisoner, the great Julius Caesar promised the pirates over and over that once he was free, he would have them killed. The pirates laughed at him. Laughed! Like you laughed at me earlier, underestimating me based on my appearance. And do you know what happened?”

The Hot Wheels chase reached the street and the kid stopped, looking at Caesar in surprise that he was still talking.

“Well Caesar did escape, he put together a fleet of ships and men, and chased down those pirates and then—had their throats cut,” Caesar said, imitating the motion by running his index finger across his own neck.

“What’s the matter with you anyway?” the kid said, standing up.

Caesar unfolded his bent legs and stood, marching in place to shake sensation back into the lower half of his body. He was no longer towering over the kid, who was about the same height.

At the other end of the walkway, the front door of the house swung open and the screen door slammed shut behind the enraged man who was now storming down the steps.

“What the hell did I say about having friends over on Sundays? It’s family day, you little shithead!”

The man, wearing only his undershorts, towered over both boys. Caesar thought the kid might piss his pants right there on the spot.

“Who the hell are you?” the man demanded to Caesar, taking a threatening step toward him.

Caesar froze in place and saw his own father standing there instead, in his green army issue t-shirt and camouflage pants, bottle of Jack Daniels in one hand, cigarette in the other, drunk out of his mind and not recognizing his own son.

Nobody gives a SHIT about me! I’m a third class citizen! You and everyone else are all against me!

Caesar’s stomach clenched into a tight wad of terror at the memory.

“It wasn’t him, it wasn’t him, it wasn’t him…” Caesar started to repeat under his breath to calm himself.

“Are you some kind of mental or something?” the man in his underwear demanded of Caesar.

“I was just leaving,” Caesar said, averting his eyes, quickly grabbing his sport coat from the railing, and turning around to walk away.

On the porch behind him, the man’s hand made contact with his kid’s face, the sound of the sharp slap echoing around the silent street. Caesar stopped, digging his fingernails into the palms of his hands. That’s how he realized he was still holding the Camaro.

“C’mon you’re grounded!”

Caesar turned and saw the man dragging the kid back into the house. The kid looked back at Caesar tearfully, one side of his face already developing a black and blue welt, as the front door closed in front of him.

Caesar’s feet felt like anvils, weighting him down to the sidewalk. He wanted to burst into that house, and clobber the unfit father in his ugly fat face. Unfortunately, he didn’t have any physical means for pulling off such a superhero feat. So instead, Caesar stood glaring at the front door, contemplating how any sort of decent God could allow such a dirt bag to be a father. Once he found that his feet could move again, he slid the toy car into his pants pocket and continued walking to church. The Camaro felt like it was burning a hole through the thin cotton, the whole way to church.

By time Caesar finally made it to the chapel, the doors were closed and services were underway. He quietly pushed the towering front doors open, wincing as they let out a mighty squeak. The narthex was empty and he was able to slip in unnoticed. He stopped at the holy water fountain, carefully laid his sport coat aside, and thrust his face directly into the golden bowl, opening his eyes fully under the water. He wished there was a full-sized version where he could strip off all his clothes and dive right in. He wanted to purify the awful images in his mind. He wanted to be reborn into a different life. Most of all, he wanted a personal guarantee from God that he would never become a man as...