i don’t find this stuff amusing anymore
San Pham, Crane Daughter 2
the tall man crooned to me, vh1 through box tv, out of a champagne pink room. you can call me al, call me al, he sang, so i did, and the adults hooted. i had no reason to suspect he was an imposter. his small wallflower friend wandered on and off screen, tooting a pan flute, banging a conga, shredding guitar, shy prodigy in a teal t-shirt. his melancholy face i saw years later in paintings of gregorian monks with their bowl cuts and hangdog expressions, chanting in their sacred boy bands, devoting their voices to the ascetic life. so if every new note the little monk in teal blew on saxophone mimed a hesitant hop onto a shopping mall escalator, my blossoming mind understood him: he was humble before some greater power. god, lead singer paul simon, whatever. i watched that unnamed friar dodder round paul simon’s feet, bang into the doorframe, carry too many instruments in his short god-fearing arms. fidgeting and mournful because paul simon was so tall and tan in his cream blazer, like he’d just come from smashing a bottle against a yacht’s bow or polishing off an arnold palmer at the club. tall paul simon, in bowling shoes with a golden mane, stealing my five-year-old heart with his song. tall paul simon, who working at snl, pitched an AIDS joke for the only gay cast member: what if he weighed himself every week? tall paul simon, who told a female writer to give him a hand job. tall paul simon, who lip-synced, who will be my role model, now that my role model is gone, gone, while the adults around me brayed on, she thinks chevy chase is paul simon, and who the hell was chevy chase but a betrayal of humor? my little monk was the real paul simon, short paul simon, and small myself, i watched faux simon sip a glass of water and take the credit. the real paul simon played backup to himself. the real paul simon, alone in that room, floating in a pale pink space. i was in that room too, every time i said, you can call me, and something spray-tanned inside of me answered. i floated in there until i was champagne pink, until i was the room itself, the song. i want to believe that faux simon barged his way into the music. i want to believe that faux simon took the real paul simon’s didgeridoo hostage, that he collaged magazine letters in musical notation that read, i’m paul simon now: mozart turned serial killer, a petty opera scored in minor key. that he threatened to crush the real paul simon’s hallowed ocarina, and desperate over the loss of his special whistle, the real paul simon caved to his demands. but i suspect the real paul simon just invited him because he found him funny. a room full of adults chuckled as a child pressed her small toes into a shag brown carpet, and a song playing on vh1 died away. the child wondered about laughter, and who deserved its force. all i’m saying is i had a tendency to fall for the joke back then. i had a tendency to believe people when they said who they were. all i’m saying is i wasn’t born a skeptic. all i’m saying is i was made.
Erin Vachon earned their MA in English Literature from the University of Rhode Island. Their work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and appears or is forthcoming in The Pinch, Brevity, Cheap Pop, and Cream City Review. They are an Associate Editor of Creative Nonfiction at JMWW, and they read CNF and fiction for Longleaf Review. You can read more of their writing on www.erinvachon.com or twitter @erinjvachon.