Jason the Heat Guy

When I return to the bedroom from nursing my infant son at 3AM my wife rolls over and says, “The moon is too bright.” I wonder why the heat guy hasn’t yet fixed our boiler. He initially rushed over when I told him we had a six-week-old but now it has been four days. Is it because he discovered that “we” is comprised of two women? And he, a good Southern man, a good Christian, could not help but think, Let ’em burn.

But we are cold. My wife’s fingers are sliced up from the hatchet she has been using to split logs for the wood-burning stove. Mine are sliced from little worries. I keep searching my cuticles for the edge that will finally even the plane. All that happens is more blood, the taste of iron in my mouth.

Elegantly named though the flower may be, it is not a pleasant thing to see your baby’s breath. As I sat there rocking him, the moon spilling in, the softball of his bum in my hand, tiny grunts coming out his pebble-sized nose, I had been trying to figure out why the heat guy hadn’t come back. I had been imagining the thoughts in his head. This is something you do, when you are alone with your baby and the streetlights. You can imagine that you are out surfing wild seas. You can climb inside the head of Vanna White, and imagine what goes on in there. Is she happy as she palms letters all day? Does she have a secret system of winks and nods with Pat Sajack to communicate thoughts about the contestants? Is it silent in there? Is she off on a wild adventure, her hair pulled back, riding a Phoenix, wearing giant yellow dish gloves