Christmas Night with Ukelele

artwork: ralph murre

Christmas Night with Ukulele

by John Sierpinski

I am twelve, sitting in a chair in a new striped

polo shirt, and cuffed, corduroy pants.  My

hair is slicked with Vaseline and water, shaped

and parted like Roy Rogers’.  When I smile,

there is a gap between my front teeth.  The new

transistor radio I unwrapped earlier crackles,

“Chestnuts  roasting…”  Tinny.  The radio

is the size of a brick.  Uncle Ted appears

at the top of the basement stairs and says

“Ho, ho, ho, Merry Christ…”  He stumbles,

swallowed into the great white, flocked tree.

The color coordinated ornaments and spotlight

shatter.  Crunch.  Are pulverized.  At the end

a remote sick, little bell tinkles.  Aunt Junie,

Ted’s wife, curses like some deranged drill

instructor.  Ted lies on the thick shag, fine

shards of red and green glass sprinkled in

his graying hair.  He attempts to get up —

a slow motion roll, a shuffle of feet.  “I’m

sorry,” he drones, with a faint smile.  Aunt

Hilda comes to on the sofa, looks at Ted,

and declares, “Let’s all take our clothes off!”

I sneak a glance up her pleated skirt.  My

mother catches me (a scolding look).  I feel

more and more uneasy, and  steal down

the stairs to the knotty pine, rec. room bar. 

My father is singing, “All is calm…” Uncle

Sy strums four strings, the little woman- 

shaped body of the ukulele.  I ask, “Can we

go now, Dad?”  He continues to sing: shot

glass in one hand,  lips slack, a lopsided oval.  

I ask again, “Can we go?”  I touch his sleeve.  

His hand slaps hot behind my ear, pushes me

away.  Tears slip from my eyes, the enamel 

orchid on the stringed instrument grows fuzzy. 

Later, I’m in the backseat of the car.  Wheels

slide  in rapidly falling snow, and my mother

shouts, “Be careful, dammit!”  The dashboard

light like a match flame, illuminates their bloated

faces.  The falsetto speaker hums, “I’ll be home

for Christmas.”    I stare out the window.  Crystal

snowflakes fall without menace or harm.

~ first published in North Coast Review

VW Microbus, Burning

artwork: ralph murre

VW Microbus, Burning

by John Sierpinski

We are (my wife and little girl)

at the auto repair garage, again. 

It’s Monday afternoon, and they

want another four hundred bucks

that we can ill afford.  “If we need

to…” I finally say.  “We just have

to do it,” she says.  Our daughter

has found a purple thistle sticking

up through the asphalt lot where

other broken-down cars sit.  She

touches it with her index finger.

She makes a face like the sad

mask, sniffs, but doesn’t cry.  Then

she finds a pebble.  Last night,

our battery had shorted out in West

Hollywood.  Believe it or not,

the entire rear engine compartment

became engulfed in flames.  After

I got my wife and daughter out of

the bus, I ran over to a liquor store

for water.  The owner looked

at me, skeptically, then said he

had none.  Aw, come on, I thought,

then once more outside, I snatched

his rain bucket and doused bright

orange flames.  Do you believe

he had followed me outside, grabbed

his white bucket and said, “All you

damn hippies are alike.”  The flames

had gone out, but of course the bus

wouldn’t run.  I hatched a plan.  “Push,

Honey, and I’ll walk and steer.”  My

wife had on very tight shorts.  After

a few feet, a man in a white jacket

showed up and gave us a push with

his car.  That was last night.  Now,

we’re back again.  The garage

abuts the chain link fence

to the Santa Monica Freeway,

I-10.  I can smell the acrid odor                                                           

of car exhaust.  It burns my eyes.

The noise is near deafening. 

My daughter’s soft, round face

looks through the fence.  We’re

forced to spend the money, and

get back into the insanity of the

non-stop freeway.

~ first published in Into the Teeth of the Wind