The Man In The Tree

Not long ago my son, who is now twelve, found a ring on the ground in a cornfield over by Raymond, Ne. He and his friends were playing there.

It really is a sight to see. It is silver, and the inner turret rotates around the middle. It is all covered with moons and stars .

It doesn't fit him yet. So: he gave it to me to wear until it does.

So far so good, eh? Well, one night his sister drank his bottle of chocolate yoo-hoo. He had stashed it in the back of the fridge. He had been waiting for it to get good and cold.

The next morning all hell broke loose. It was awfull. "Look" I said, "I'll buy you a whole six-pack of yoo-hoo. Just get in the car!"

"How would you like it..." he says, almost sobbing with rage "If someone took something of yours!"

"Just get in the car. We can't be late again."

"Let's see how you like it! Give me my ring back."

"FINE." and I toss it to him. "Now get in the car."


We had ten minutes to be at school. Very tense. Usually we have a
fairly good time- we sing goofy-ass songs, play "Spot The Sleepy-Head", have trivia contests. Not today.

Child one off first. Gets out and SLAMS the door.

Child two off second. Gets out and SLAMS the door.

This is prologue for the day. One by one, so very many nut-wings rose from their basement apartments, homed in on my brain-wave emissions and found their way to the place where I work. Where then they would make like the brazen brats with the pea-shooters popping the zoo elephant in his cage. Remember - you have to be nice to them. That's part of the job. No job, no health insurance, no house - you are not even a human-fucking-being if you don't have health insurance.

Five o'clock and I couldn't get a cigarette in my mouth fast enough.
Chewed up and shat out, that's how I felt.

Hey, the job has health insurance. At least I have health insurance.

Traffic, lots of traffic. Geeeyawd. Look at all these people in their cars staring straight ahead with eyes like a dog chained up in a yard.

I pull up beside the school to pick up child 2 and get out. I remember when they used to RUN up to me, arms open. It's allright, I think, if they are still doing that when they are adults, that would be a cause of concern. Cool is okay.


No, it sucks. How did they get so jaded so young? The divorce and of course Fox TV could be likely culprits. Or maybe it is just me. Maybe people don't, can't , shouldn't run to each other with delight, except maybe at airports.

As I walk onto the playground I notice: quiet. And sad faces. Why so sad? Another look and I see: all their kick-soccer balls are stuck up in the tree. Incredible. Only kids could do this. They actually got one stuck, and proceeded to throw the other balls at it to dislodge it and one by one got them all stuck. They almost look like some absurdly huge rubbery berries up in that tree.

So: I think about it a second. And I look at the college students who are probably getting paid minimum wage to ride herd on these kids: climbing trees isn't in the job description. Besides they look sleepy - I'll just bet they have been out all night drinkin and fuckin! I look at them lolling on a picnic table and think -I don't even know what color the sky is in their world.

And that morning I read in the paper that my boyhood hero, Keith Richards had been taken to a hospital after falling from a cocoanut tree. They were going to drill a hole in his head to relieve pressure from the concussion.

Maybe, I think, these children won't remember me as another sorry, dissapointed adult with chain-dog eyes, if I do the impossible here. No - Let them remember me as the Man in the Tree. I will be The Man In The Tree.

I grab the trunk, start shimmying up like a big fat-assed old bear. It works- I still got it, I used to live in trees as a child, the enterprise is at once familiar and foreign as I scrunch-slide-scrunch-slide and then swing onto the lowest branch, which is about 15 feet in the air.

And the worst is over. Now it is all gravy. Gravy! Later tonight my road-rashy arms and legs will bring me back to reality and neosporin, but I don't know that yet.

Suddenly I remember from when I was a kid, purposely dropping my plastic Johnny West action figure from high branches like this. "NO JOHNNY, NOOOOOOOOOOOO!"then winding up the twine I had tied to his ankle. Poor Johnny had a rough life. He died every summer day.

On the playground, All Eyes Are On Me, and one pair of them belong to a nice-looking single mom! Coolness!

This is no time to screw up. The image of falling - the thud, the sound of a bone breaking like a stick wrapped in a wet towell, the groan - the picture in the paper - the gibes of my co-workers - all are awfull possibilities. But it isn't going to happen- not today. I walk down the branch, bracing myself with one hand, slugging a ball loose with the other, moving my way down the branch. As each one falls, the kids roar "ONE! TWOOOOO! THREEEEE! FOURRRR!..." and then: "GO ROXY'S DAD. GO ROXY'S DAD."

This is great. I feel like, I don't know, Julius Caesar. Or Tarzan. This is triumph. I take my time, and finally the count of FOURTEEN is chorused.

My work finshed, I swung down and down, dropped the last eight feet or so, flat on my feet, safe and sound. And my daughter jumped on me and I carried her over to the picnic table and signed her out on the clipboard, awash in cheers.

We pick up the boy at his school and drive home and on the way she excitedly relates my tale of tree-climbing. Everybody has forgotten about the Yoo-hoo incident. For now anyway.

We go through a relatively quiet evening. Homework done? Lemme see it. Where's your name and the date? Hold it, we go through these spelling words first. I assure you I could care less if ;That 70s Show' is on. Don't make me unplug the set. I mean it. You wanna re-program the VCR again? Think about it, smart guy.

Never, ever, when I was a bohemian dandy and arch-underachiever did I foresee that such words would ever come out of my mouth. "Think about it, smart guy."

Later. I am lying in bed in the basement. Some nights I don't get to sleep for awhile, just lie there and listen. I can hear the sounds of bats eating bugs. I can hear snippets of music from a passing car radio down on 17th. I can hear cats having excrutiating sex in Irvingdale park. A dither of moths pummeling the porch lightbulb.

Speaking of Caesar, I read that whenever one of the Roman generals or dignitaries rode in a parade of triumph through Rome, there would be some manservant assigned to ride with him in the chariot. It was this servant's duty to whisper this in his ear, again and again: You are mortal.

Hey, I think, I have those too. They're called scabs and of course by this time I have a couple of really gorgeous ones on the insides of my knees. A vivid batch of bruises have stopped by, too - purple, bluish and even one that is a hideous shade of yellow.

Hold it, somebody's outta bed. I hear elfin footsteps moving overhead. My son appears at the top of the stairs. He creeps down. My eyes are adjusted to the dark. He doesn't know I am awake. I act like I am asleep.

He approaches, tip-toeing, is at my bedside. He sets something on my chest, creeps away.

It is the ring, the silver ring with moons and stars. I put it back on. Now I can go to sleep.