I
We’re in Ohio, outside of Dayton
in a town called Xenia, staying
at a Hampton Hotel, where the
ideal of the mythic guest-friendship
is somewhat wanting.
All the fixtures
are installed off-kilter or crooked,
the bathroom door came off its
glider, trapped my wife in there,
I almost lost my
fingers trying to free her,
and the toilet seat is broken.
No one has tried to eat us.
Not yet.
II
At the University of Dayton Arena,
we watch the world championship
indoor percussion competition.
Our son plays the snare drum and moves
with such skill and finesse, seeing
him perform is like watching
Odysseus on a boat or in battle.
These kids are running with drums,
a vestige, perhaps, from the 17th
and 18th centuries when they’d
have to move really fast if they
didn’t want to be shot.
But this is high art. Somewhere
between a rock show and a ballet,
the drama of an action thriller,
the kaleidoscope of a Matisse painting,
or a Hopper or some cubist thing,
the thunder and cacophony of
the most rambunctious symphony.
Drummers are climbing and jumping,
the dancers do cartwheels,
the front ensemble thunders and sings.
People go crazy for a cymbal feature.
III
They put cucumbers
in the ice water carafe
in the hotel lobby
and there are televisions
everywhere. We jump from
the arena to the hotel
to a bad chicken place
back to the hotel and
back to another bad
slightly better chicken
place and back to the arena.
Last night we found
a good Mexican diner.
Five mini tacos and a
gigantic beer–I fell asleep early
and was awake at 5 a.m.
IV
Unlike Odysseus who outshines
his boy, I am one of these
dads: my son adopts
his parents’ art and excels
mightily, stupendously, beyond
what I ever thought possible
or even imagined for myself,
has experiences
that simply dwarf my own,
at least musically, performing
for thousands in a packed arena,
traveling the country, an integral
part of a large, rigorous troupe.
There’s no regret, no kind of
guarded jealousy or envy;
I understand and feel intensely that
he’s a tendril, a tentacle, a branch,
and I am watching him reach out,
an extension of my hand, my heart.
I am with him and
all is right with the world.
michael jarmer 