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On Superbowl Sunday my friend’s little brother Botch came over and smashed all our Hot Wheels. He opened the carrying case like a treasure chest; he whipped them at the cinderblock walls in the basement and then chopped at the wreckage with my dad’s hammers. I wanted to put his wrist in the vise and leave it there, but he looked like a capybara and had ADHD so I joined him. We went outside and he told me that his dad was a terrorist who blew up construction sites. Botch shoved a stick of incense into a reed and lit the thing. He said, “Watch, it’s a hand grenade.” (All these dirt shoulders of disappearing grade, the deadly lines of pipe, the abandoned construction equipment...)

Botch wanted to blow up our driveway but he hadn’t the right explosives. Instead he threw golf balls at the house. He smashed both windows in my room, and he smashed the window panes I had made into paintings and left propped against my bed. The pieces sprayed on my sea-foam carpet, I put my hands into them. I took masking tape and tried to put together a puzzle missing at least half its pieces.

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from "A REAL LIFE ASTRONAUT", released December 31, 2018

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