Where's Pops? is a short story collection about Dads-the good, the bad, and the rest in-between. Regardless of where these men land on the spectrum of fatherhood, they each face challenges that every parent can relate to- relationship tests, financial hardships, and cooking dinner on time. Max Evans is currently donating proceeds to the Most Valuable Pops Award, a scholarship fund he created for a deserving father at Compton College where he teaches.

Where’s Pops?

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Max Evans

Where’s Pops?

URBAN CONTEMPORARIES Primary Books Long Beach, California

Copyright © 2015 Max Evans

978-1-943274-71-0

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper.

Published by BookLocker.com, Inc., Bradenton, Florida.

The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

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Where’s Pops? First Edition 2015

WELCOME TO BURBVILLE!

En Memoria Cariñosa Ondina Mercedes “Gramma” Garcia

You finish overtime at the warehouse and exit through a spinning gate. You jump in your midsize bucket, knowing you’re late to pick up your daughter. Your foot aches against the pedal while you dip in and out of traffic. By the time you make it, it’s dark outside. Sara lies on the round carpet, watching TV by herself. “There’s a dollar-per-minute penalty,” her teacher reminds you. You nod, apologize. On the drive home, Sara says, That boy who bited me yeserday, he bitted another boy today. She knocks out while sipping on her juice box and you don’t know what’s worse— you working twelve hours, or her clocking in thirteen hours at the daycare. Your back feels sprained as you carry Sara up the stairs to your studio. Tonight, you skip her normal routine of Mac n’ cheese, foamy bath, and Curious George. Instead you put her to bed and close the draped partition to her “bedroom”.

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Go grab a twenty-two of Steel Reserve from the fridge. The futon squeaks as you lounge in a heavy BO cloud. On the third sip, you realize you’re still in your orange coveralls. Kick off your boots, strip down to your boxers, and throw your crusty white T at the hamper. If you miss, whatever, at least you’re home. Drink more until the heavy can lightens. Flip through the channels until you catch the American Music Awards. A presenter says, “And this year’s winner for ‘Rapper of the Year’ goes to…MC 1PoorCent!” MC 1PoorCent swaggers to the stage. The award he holds doesn’t shine as brightly as the jewelry on his chest. Into the microphone he slurs, “Yo! This one’s dedicated to da hood fo always having my back. I could neva leave y’all behind.” Shake your head. If your can was empty, you’d throw it at the TV because you remember MC 1PoorCent when he lived down the street. When people called him by his real name. Ed. Before Sara was born and his mom got into pills, you’d catch Ed performing downtown. His pretentious rhymes made you want to vomit. Your crew couldn’t stand him either. At one venue, you asked Ed to sign a roll of toilet paper. “For what?” he asked. “So when I wipe my ass, your rhymes feel at home.” But Ed got signed and released Hood Heaven. Each cut portrayed your neighborhood as a fantasy destination, a place

48 Where's Pops? no one would dare leave. In his most famous song, he said he lived in a spray painted mansion where blindfolded strippers would bungee jump headfirst from his roof to lick lollipops. He said he baptized babies with his champagne spraying Uzi and a bunch of other crazy nonsense but with his first royalty check, Ed instantly fled to an exclusive hillside neighborhood. To this day, he rakes in millions misrepresenting a hood he’ll never return to. You hate him. Turn off the TV. Listen to your upstairs neighbor pound their bass harder. Now hear the gunshots near the freeway. Retaliation pops follow. Moments later, sirens race down your street. Sara wakes up and asks where you are. Over your shoulder, you say, “Right here.” From behind the drape divider, you hear her fall back to sleep, her teeth grinding like scraped nickels. You stare at your reflection in the gray screen. Unsure of where you are in life, you sip the last of your beer. Think hard about Ed at this moment. Now think about the hood and what it really is and how much you hate living here. You feel a strong funk overpowering you. The hood means never knowing that shady neighbor across the street. You’ve never talked to him before but people pop in and out of his place like a 7-Eleven. As long as he never approaches Sara with his supply, you two will remain cool.

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The hood is broken cars parked on brown lawns. It’s the rope that straps down your trunk. It’s a late-night bottle thrown through your rear window. You twist the cap off and fumes of cheap gin fill the back seat. You tape a trash bag over that window. By morning, the hood has ripped it off and stolen Sara’s car seat. The hood smells charred like riot flames burning down the local market. It’s watching live footage of dudes you know looting a shoe store. You want new kicks too but Grandma standing at the door clutches her back scratcher that doubles as a wooden switch. The next day her mind changes so you nab her a new TV and stack it on top of the old one. From it, you watch the National Guard arrive. It’s the following month when your house gets robbed and the new TV is jacked. It’s watching reruns from the old set. The hood is Pops out of a job for nine months. By noon everyday he’s slurry. It’s him stumbling out the bathroom, his forearms sliding along the hallway walls. He makes it to the front screen and watches it rain outside. Tears soften his long stubble and yack drips off his chest. It’s you spraying Mom’s perfume around the front room. Any minute now, family will drop by since today is Pops’ birthday. It’s pizza not delivered to your zip code. It’s the wrong order McDonald’s gives you every time. “Tu quieres Apo Pie for compensacion?” “No bitch. I want you to speaky fucking English.” It’s El Pollo Loco not even worth the effort.

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It’s ATMs not working after seven. During the day, the security guard patrols outside the bank in black corduroy slippers with the heels flattened. He packs one mean flashlight; meanwhile, inside the bank, robbers scream at you to drop onto the lobby floor. You smoosh your nose against the cold marble, squeeze your eyes shut, and wait for their shoes to squeak away. It’s you driving to the movies. Check your rearview for the cops trailing you for no reason. Another squad car joins along, followed by four more. You turn left…they turn left. You turn right…they turn right. Your car is now the head of a black and white centipede. Squad lights juggle in your rearview. You reach for your wallet but their speakers blare, “Hands up, slowly.” Why are they crouched behind their doors? Why are their guns pointed? Why do they make you walk backward with fingers spread above your head? The bus crowd watches as your ear gets stamped against the hot blacktop. The handcuffs are sharp against your wrists and you’re stuck in this position for thirty minutes. They pass back your driver’s license with no apology. The dumb pigs had run your plates wrong. It’s the bulletproof glass between you and the liquor store clerk. His family hawks your every move. You slide your money into the slot then tuck your bottle like a football and mad dog the thirsty bums outside crowding the broken payphone. It’s a later date when that same clerk’s face is pictured on the front page of the Press Telegram. He had molested your neighbor’s son then fled to his home country.

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It’s another reason why four-year-olds should not cross the street by themselves. It’s knowing what drive-bys really sound like. The close ones rattle your windows. In the following months, your heart rate spikes whenever the Jehovah’s Witnesses bang on your security door. It’s the kid who takes cover on the sidewalk each time a car backfires. He brushes himself off and pushes a shopping cart toward more trashcans. His home is a tent under the PCH overpass. His mom looks decades older than her age and has five more kids in the system. Her last john felt lucky child number seven tapping at his pelvis. It’s your lady’s jealous ex-boyfriend pulling a gun from his jean jacket. It’s him hollering you’re a bitch and he’s not scared to go back to jail. He nudges the short muzzle at your shoulder and you drop to your knees. You glance inside that little chamber, knowing the big damage it could do, and you answer his questions slowly, deliberately. Scared beyond scared, your eyes pass the zipper to his pants. You pray that’s not what it will take to see another day. It’s telling your date to turn left at KFC. She looks around nervous, her elbow locking her side. It’s your messages never returned afterwards. It’s you whacking off at night while the ghetto bird shits daylight through your blinds. It’s putting your house up for sale. It’s the second mortgage you take out to cement the driveway, re-stucco the sides, lay on a new roof. It’s not one single interested buyer in six months. It’s the square of dirt left behind by the “For Sale” sign.

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The hood’s your childhood homey turned schitzy from years of cheap speed. It’s his musty black t-shirt humming with anxious sweat. He peels it off to show you his tatted back. With thorns crowning his head is Jesus, but the other one with bullets through a bandana is Tupac, and together, they’re pissing jagged flames over the earth. It’s that same homey believing the FBI is out to get him. Even the weatherman is a secret agent keeping tabs. It’s his gibber-talk getting harder and harder to understand. He points at pigeons on a telephone wire and claims they’re strategically perched cameras downloading file pictures. It’s his mom trying to check him into a mental hospital. But they’re all full. Too much starts going missing from the garage, the house, her purse, and she gives him the boot. It’s the rosary in her clutched hands every night before bed. It’s her whispery prayers to St. Anthony, begging for his safety in the streets. It’s him breaking back in. With a screwdriver. It’s him standing over her. As she sleeps. He squeezes the tool. Raises his hands. Then descends. Again. Again. Again. Forty-seven punctures—chest, stomach, feet—until her body squirms no more.

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An APB is posted for him and his delusions become reality. Suddenly, while all these memories collide in your brain, your deep concentration is broken. You jump behind your screen door and see the DEA rushing toward the apartment across the street. Traffic is blocked off to your neighborhood. Forget satellite dishes, YouTube, and reality TV. This is home entertainment at its finest! As they bust into unit twelve, you imagine a shootout. You wish one, just one, stray bullet would gash your neck. You see yourself paralyzed and instantly wheelchair bound. A Filipina nurse would spoon-feed you soggy Cheerios and wipe applesauce from your dry lips. The image of a settlement check enters your mind and it would be the official Get Out The Hood Card of your dreams. The city of Burbville would be circled on your map. The scenery change during that U-Haul drive would border on magical. Pawn shops, ninety-nine cent stores, and Check Cashings—poof!—would transform into bookstores, boat dealerships, and health food centers. In this fantasy, a cheerful guard greets you at the gate of your new community. The politeness of its inhabitants would initially seem excessive but easy for you to adapt to. At poolside chats, your neighbors would pleasantly mention their latest European vacation, the New York production their daughter plays in, and an interesting book they checked out at the library that focuses on the social significance of graffiti.

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You’d be able to afford the best healthcare. Wasting half a day inside a clinic to hear your name called would no longer be tolerated. Your daughter’s public education would actually challenge her so that when college starts, she won’t need years of remedial courses. You would buy an electrical wheelchair and ramp down to your new front yard. You’d have no fears of being a sitting duck because shootings in those parts would only happen at the local range. You’d take in a deep breath and would not choke from refinery smoke. Everyone’s lawn would be greener than Granny Smith apples. Alumni flags would snap above porches. Agreeable neighbors would wave your way. After months of physical therapy, you would be able to raise your eyebrows and return a thumbs-up. You’d then annunciate with your newly installed trache’: “Hello—there —friend.” Sara’s complaints return you to reality. She says the noise outside woke her. That the lights keep coming in her room. As you console her, you notice the purple rings under her eyes and they remind you to do Easter eggs soon. Sara peeks past your knees to the apartment across the street. A social worker is carrying out a shrieking baby with a droopy diaper. His small chest is covered with a stress rash and you overhear the word lice. Sara asks, “Daddy, what’s wrong with that baby?” Next, you see a paramedic hurry inside and you bark at her, “Go to bed!” Sara thinks she’s in trouble.

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“Daddy’ll be there in a minute,” you say softer. You feel bad. That is, until you see the paramedic running out from the apartment. A naked baby lies across his arms. A naked baby girl. A naked, bloated baby girl whose limbs bob as she’s rushed into the ambulance. Your neighbors gasp. Cover their mouths. An officer exiting the apartment cusses and bangs a roll of yellow crime tape against the mailbox. Where you live does not bother you normally but on nights like this, it murders you. Moments later, the neighbor across the street is dragged out in handcuffs. He’s quiet, head down. Unlock your screen and step outside in your boxers. Take a good at your neighbor. He’s younger than you remember. His pants slip to his calves and you notice he’s wearing an MC 1PoorCent t- shirt. If only you didn’t have Sara to watch over, you’d strip that shirt off his back. He lifts his head one last time. You lock eyes with him. His pupils are wider than thumbprints but before they shove him in the van, he nods your way. Don’t you return it. Don’t you dare.

56 ME & MY HOMEY

Before everything was available in bulk, Ma went grocery shopping twice a week. But during the summer months, she had no other option than to haul me and my two brothers along. Entering the sliding glass doors, Ma would plead, “Just this once, be good. Can you do that for me?” We’d nod. Yet by the time her cart was full, my brothers and I would be wrestling, yelling in the checkout line: “I’m Mr. Perfect!” “And I call Macho Man!” “Then I’m Andre The Giant!” It was only a matter of seconds before my older brothers would fling me into the gum racks like ring ropes and spill rows of Bubblicious, Big Chew and Bazooka. But why was I always the one to get in trouble? Straight sucked. But no matter because I’d retaliate by pantsing one and jabbing my finger direct from my bunghole into the nostril of the other. For doing that, they’d dish me a royal rumble beat-down in the driveway. “Wiffle bats…don’t…hurt…dumby,” they’d claim with each lick. “Swinging hard is legal!” As the sticks of plastic beneath the foam coverings stung my back, rage’d build inside my tiny chest.

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“Stop it!” I’d scream through my tears. The three things my brothers hated to be called were stupid, faggot and asshole. “Stop it, you stupid faggot assholes!” The laughs’d disappear, the wiffle bats falling to the ground. Then one brother would hold my cheek against the oil-spotted cement while the other hunched over my small frame. He’d force my arm behind my back, yanking my hand between my shoulder blades, leading my fingertips closer to the top of my spine. Any higher and I knew something would tear. That’d be when Dad barked through the back screen, “Cool it! Mom’s home.” Ma called us the cross on her back. She cried plenty, sobbing up to the ceiling and sky, “Why God? Why no girls?” Now I know how Ma felt. I’m pushing fifty, the father to three daughters—ages thirteen through seventeen. From stolen barrettes to a captured cell phone dropped in the toilet, they bicker constantly, shrieking who’d done it, their flushed faces resembling mine. The victor usually boils down to the fiercest set of lungs. One day though, I got sick of their stupid arguments and jammed their hands into each other’s hair. Connected in a triangle like skydivers, they tugged and pulled, squealing all the way down to the carpet. While they started to kick, I yelled, “No blood, no winner!” But the family counselor said I was teaching them ineffective anger management.

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My wife said, “Mike, you lack any understanding of these girls.” At that time, Susan and I were spiraling towards a divorce. In order to ease the stress on the home front, I switched to graveyard hours at the docks. But still, on my days off, I had to deal with a houseful of women. Then the real estate boom hit! We refinanced and built a second-story addition. Besides a grand master bedroom, Susan and I have everything up there: half-kitchen, bathroom with jacuzzi. In our private living room, techs secured a top-of-the-line, 3D, flat-screen television. The resolution is clear, accurate. Every detail bright, lifelike. Susan loves to pause movies and point out facial flaws—large nose pores, pocked foreheads, excessive under eye concealer. Through this TV is how I met Homey. We’ve been best buds ever since. I remember the morning it happened clearly. I had been at work beforehand while an offshore storm was rocking freight ships like pendulums. Captains of twenty thousand ton vessels had to drop millions’ worth of cargo into the ocean in order to navigate their crews to safety. Nearly three in the morning, I was at the tail end of my shift when my boss rolled up in his truck. “Jump in,” he said, his voice raspy from gin. Boss sped us to a battered ship that had barely survived. On the landing dock was a damaged container, metal sidings gouged, topside smashed. Pelicans dove for the refrigerated

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goods spilling out and he scared them away with a gloved hand. “Take as much as you please,” he said, and he offered me an empty garbage bag. Soon after my drive home, I was stacking a hundred packs of imported hot dogs inside my fridge upstairs. I nuked a dozen but forgot to place them in water so by the final beep, they were twisted and split open, wheezing high-pitched grease. For the next batch, I set the crockpot on the coffee table strewn with chopped onion and ketchup. Mustard and relish. Sauerkraut, paper towels. I had been starving. While waiting for the water to boil, I put the TV on. I flipped past the weather channels and found of all things a game of midget ping-pong. But that got boring too. My TV catches stations worldwide so I kept flipping. Flipping- flipping-flipping. Nothing looked good. I finally settled on a French station playing Les Simpsons. The white clouds parted above Springfield as Homer parked his car in the driveway for Bart to ollie his skateboard over. Homer dodged Marge as she sped into the garage with her red station wagon but when he jumped onto the family couch, Homer’s big behind did not fit into his spot. He wiggled his bottom until there was a popped-cork sound made and Marge’s hands flung up uncontrollably, throwing Maggie through the ceiling. A close up showed her star- shaped head plattered in the middle of Lisa’s carpet. She batted her gapped eyelashes, sucked her binky twice and fell back down into Marge’s arms.

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As the theme music ended, Marge screamed, “Homey, tu es trop gros! Tu dois commencer à maigrir. Pas plus de nourriture industrielle. Pas plus des Ding Dongs.” I squeezed mayo into the first bun and read the translation: “Homey, you’re getting too fat! You need to start losing weight. No more junk food. No more Ding Dongs.” “Awwww, Marge,” Homer complained. “No more Ding Dongs!” “Yes,” Marge continued. “No more Ding Dongs. No more donuts. And no more Moe’s!” Even though Marge spoke in the language of love, her whiny voice irritated me like scratched chalkboard. She nagged Homer like Susan did me. I hated naggers! If the chance arrived to erase one character off the show, I’d text my vote in for Marge Simpson. What will Homer do next? I wondered, and continued to prep my first hot dog. Sliced dill pickles, soft butter. Excess ketchup fell from the long bun. Homer sniffed. “Mmmmmm.” I licked the edge of my palm and searched the screen. There were no wavy sections to indicate what he smelled. “Homer!” Marge screeched. “Look at me when I’m talking to you.” “Sounds familiar,” I said out loud. I took a big bite, followed by another. Homer’s back was turned to her and drool appeared on his five o’clock shadow. His tongue mopped his jowls and he looked desperate. I’ve been there before. It’s like you’re

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standing at the cliff of your life, staring down at the rowdy waters smashing against the razor sharp rocks below. You smell the sea spraying up and consider jumping and as much as you know you shouldn’t do it, you just want to feel that weightless sensation of youthful freedom again. No wife, no kids, no nothing. “I love hot dogs!” Homer said. I was shocked while he whirled his palm at the bottom of my screen, swiftly rearranging pixels for a hole to step through. My wide-screen television was high off the ground and Homer’s swollen black shoes dangled above my carpet. His plastic jeans followed and I had never been so amazed by my TV’s 3D capabilities. But then his entire body fell through the opening. When he stood in my house, his shirt was stiff as if starched with cement and he brushed bits of Technicolor off his shoulder. I sat dumbly, half-eaten hot dog in hand. The real Homer Simpson was in my living room. Marge demanded of him, “Leave that man’s house!” Homer grabbed my remote, frantically pushing buttons, mistakenly punching the language selector: --“¡Homey, salgate de la casa de ese hombre bueno!” --“Homey, komm raus aus dem Haus von dem netten Mann!” --“Домашний, выньте дом того хорошего человека!” Homer tossed me the remote as Marge stormed to the foreground. Her yellow face inflated across the screen and I pressed Mute. The black hole of her mouth hinged silently

62 Where's Pops? and she bounced the corners pressing each pixel for an entryway. She found it and her yard-long blue hair stretched into my living room. “Ahhhh!” Homer cried. “Turn her off! Turn her off!” I pressed the red button and the screen darkened. Marge was gone but her cut-off hair remained. Homer picked it up and his lips extended like the neck of a soda bottle. “Ooooh!” he said. “You’re in big trouble with Marge.” “No I’m not,” I returned. “Yes you are.” “No I’m not!” “Yes you are!” I shrugged my shoulders. “Who’s the one married to her?” “D’oh!” Homer yelled. I heard Susan say tiredly from inside our bedroom, “Mike, turn down the television.” I motioned for Homer to stay quiet and replied to Susan in my apology voice, throat extra clenched, “I’m sorry, sweety. I promise to keep quiet.” Susan said nothing more and I shook the remote at Homer. “If you wake her one more time, you’re going back in there. Understood, Homey?” “Only Marge calls me Homey.” I slapped together a hotdog for him. He reached for it, but I pulled back. “Understood...Homey?”

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He agreed and swallowed the entire dog in a single gulp, the bun bulging down his throat. “Marge won’t let me have fun anymore.” “That’s their job,” I told him. “Now sit down, kick your feet up and have another.” Homer tossed Marge’s hair on the couch the same way Susan does her purse after a long day of shopping. But I have to admit, when a cartoon sits next to you, you notice the small things. Homer had wax in his ear and his chest looked smooth. His forearm slid directly into his hand, no wrist, and while he grabbed the tongs with three fingers and a thumb—each missing a nail—he fished around the bubbling water for the next dog. “Love your work!” I told him. “I remember when you started as a skit on The Tracy Ullman Show.” Homer chewed. “Then you had that Christmas special. I taped it on VCR. Man, I must’ve rewound that thing a million times.” Homer layered the condiments faster than a short order cook. His blurry movements hovered above the table in a heap of yellow wisps. He ate ravenously, wolfing down four in mere seconds. But then I realized he hadn’t heard a single word I had said. I pinched him, his arm spongy as a Nerf ball. “Ouch!” Homer said through a full mouth. “What’s that for? Why I oughta--” “Shhh,” I reminded him. “Susan would raise hell if she knew you were here. She thinks you’re stupid and that your

64 Where's Pops? show is brainless.” I had his attention. “But I’ve been watching your show forever and I don’t think like her.” Instantly donning black sunglasses and a flipped collar, Homer appeared very Hollywood. “Yes,” he boasted. “I have been successful, haven’t I? Twenty seasons running, thousands of episodes in the can, viewed the world over...” For a moment, my concentration lapsed. I thought about the cargo containers at work stacked high like apartments. I drove through miles of them and wondered what they contained. Could be computers, maybe even arms. But I figured 4,000 of Homer’s posters could fit into one. Homer was still bragging. “Everyone knows me. In fact, I am one of the most famous characters in the history of characters. But in regards to your wife’s opinion”—Homer dropped his chin, sunglasses slipping forward—“my wife thinks you’re an idiot, too” “How’s that?” I asked. “She watches you.” “Watches me?” “We all do.” Homer’s glasses disappeared. “At the beginning of each show, we hop on the couch and watch TV. But our set is different; it shows us what you’re doing as well. Why do you think our eyes are so big?” I sat stunned. “Marge...the Marge Simpson...thinks I’m an idiot?” “First off, you pick your nose all the time.” “Do not.” “Do too!”

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“Do not! I’m just…scratching.” “Okay…right…scratching. Call it what you want, buddy,” he said. “Just remember, you are what you eat.” “Hey!” “But what really turned Marge off about you—I believe during our third season—was that time Susan left you in charge of the girls. The youngest was sick, throwing up all night, and we watched you give her medicine. Next minute, she’d spew it back up. You became mighty desperate to sleep because, Mike, we watched you mix vodka into her cupee.” I had never told anyone that secret. “You know Susan wants to have another kid?” “Yup,” Homer answered. “But Susan hasn’t told anybody—oh yeah.” “Overall,” Homer said, “Marge thinks you’re a horrible father. She thinks you don’t pay enough attention to your daughters.” “Look who’s talking,” I snapped back. “You have a vandal for a son, a smart daughter retained in the same grade each year, and a baby you refuse to hold. I should switch to pudding and watch reruns of The Cosby Show.” “Mmm...pudding.” To shut Homer up, I put on my TV. It was the time of morning when SportsCenter replays the same highlights three times in a row. “This is like sitting front-row!” Homer marveled.

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We finished off the rest of the dogs and my stomach was stretched with warmth. I wanted to lean back and fall asleep, but Homer widened the tongs to the back of my head. “What are you doing?” “Seeing how smart you are.” Homer spoke with the air of a stuffy professor. “In the 1800s, a group of psychologists named phrenologists believed they could measure intelligence from the shape of one’s skull.” Great, I thought. History lessons from Homer Simpson. I confiscated the tongs. “I admit, your creator is smart. He keeps the show current and never runs short on material.” “Isn’t he?” Homer replied smugly. “But first Mr. Groening asks our opinion before the final draft.” “That’s strange.” “What is?” “That he asks for your input. It’s like a ventriloquist asking the puppet which strings to pull.” But we both got distracted by the top ten plays of the day. Number one was an outfielder who sprinted to the warning track, spiked his cleats into the wall and leaped nearly thirteen feet to snag a homerun. “Wow, see him steal that homer?” “What?” Homer said. “I didn’t steal anything.” “No, he stole that ho-mer.” “But I’m right here, not there. He didn’t steal me.” “Never mind.” “What were we talking about again?” “I forgot.”

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A commercial for an upcoming UFC fight came on. Then our conversation came back to me. “Wait,” I said. “I remember what I was saying. About how weird it is that your creator considers your view.” “You know,” Homer said, “you should talk to your creator more. Maybe he’d let you make changes in your life.” “We rarely talk,” I said. The conversation had become a strain. Before the sportscasters announced who’d won the world midget ping- pong championship, I nodded off.

Downstairs, my oldest daughter’s alarm began to ring. She had Driver’s Ed for zero period and wanted a Mustang for graduation. Homer was wide awake. He was watching Married with Children with the remote in one hand and his other hand down the front of his pants. “This is the only family I like watching more than yours.” “Homey,” I said, groggy. “Don’t you need to return to the show?” “Ree-lax. Keep your panties in a bunch, will ya? “But it’s time.” I flipped on the French station where I had found him and noticed Marge waiting center stage. Arms crossed, head bandaged. Homer stood up. “Time to make-up to the missus.” “See you later,” I said.

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“Not unless I see you first,” Homer said with a wink. He smiled lamely while grabbing Marge’s flattened hair. I gave him boosties back inside the screen; he was light as a cardboard cutout. Upon his entry, Marge shook Homer by the neck, his eyes bulging. She pointed him to the couch and the episode ended. I turned off the tube. The screen went dark. “You still awake?” Susan said from the bedroom. “Did you remember to pay the mortgage yesterday?” My daughters’ voices entered our bedroom: “Daddy, can I have three hundred dollars for a concert?” “Dad, you’re a guy. Why did Tommy break up with me yesterday?” “Daddy, Daddy. I need help me with my science project. It’s due at eight!” I zapped the TV back on and returned to Les Simpsons. “Homey?” I whispered. His living room was dark. He opened his bright, round eyes. “I need your help,” I said. “They want too much from me.” Susan and the girls pounded on the door and the knob to the living room jiggled. Inside the thin space between the door and the frame, my Platinum credit card appeared. Susan worked it down, going for the lock. “Open the TV, Homey. I’m coming in!”

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Homer flipped on his light, spun his hand on my screen, working hard to create a hole for me. I grabbed the tongs and the remote. I pushed the coffee table against the wall. Click. The credit card unlocked the door. Susan would walk in and yell at me about the mess on the carpet followed by an endless list of doctor appointments, dinner parties, anniversaries. I hopped up, poking my head through Homer’s screen. “Brother,” I said. “You need a bigger TV!” Half my body was clawing onto Homer’s carpet while the other half was suspended above my busted coffee table. Homer tugged me in by the hips. “Here she comes!” he said, and pointed at his screen. In the upper-left corner, I saw the door to my living room open. Her movements were stilted like surveillance footage. I fastened the metal tongs onto my remote. Then I extended my remote into my living room and squeezed the tongs; the red button was pushed and my TV was turned off. I shook Homer’s hand like an excited immigrant. “Thanks!” While I did so, I noticed the hair on my arms had disappeared. “Why am I so yellow?” I asked. “The ink has to dry,” Homer said. “I feel like a giant highlighter.” “My creator must like you.” I flipped my arms, blowing. “A good job he did. Even on both sides.”

70 Where's Pops?

A thought hit me and my insides wiggled like a preschooler at Disneyland. “Does this mean—” I hesitated. “Does this mean I’m a part of the show?” Homer nodded. “Let’s go celebrate!” I yelled. “Homer Simpson!” Marge screamed from their bedroom. “You’re in enough trouble as it is. Turn down that TV.” Homer winked to me. “Yes, darling. Yes, sugar dumpling. Yes, lemon meringue pie. Yes, apple bottom. Yes—” I gestured overkill and Marge quieted. “I don’t wear a watch,” Homer said. “What time is it, Mike?” “Six.” “Moe’s Tavern is open.” Beer sounded great. “I’m buying,” I declared. “A delicious pitcher of Duff.” “Woo-hoo!” Marge roared from their bedroom: “That’s it! I’m fed up with you, Homey! I’m grabbing that huge eraser from the laundry room and smudging off your big mouth.” I looked at Homer and his lips were sucked in. That old desperation had returned to his stare. “C’mon, Homey,” I said. “You need that mouth for Moe’s!” Homer flung open his front door and we raced down the block like fourth graders on a playground, neck and neck the whole way, and I didn’t feel the least bit tired as we coursed

71 Where's Pops?

through the streets of Springfield. We had almost reached our destination when the white clouds above us parted. A brilliant shaft of sunshine stopped me in my tracks and a grand voice boomed, “MICHAEL, DO YOU WANT TO PLAY HERE FOR ETERNITY WITH YOUR NEW BROTHER?” Homer gave me a high-four and I threw my arms towards the heavens, screaming into the blinding light, “WOO-HOO!”

72 Where's Pops? is a short story collection about Dads-the good, the bad, and the rest in-between. Regardless of where these men land on the spectrum of fatherhood, they each face challenges that every parent can relate to- relationship tests, financial hardships, and cooking dinner on time. Max Evans is currently donating proceeds to the Most Valuable Pops Award, a scholarship fund he created for a deserving father at Compton College where he teaches.

Where’s Pops?

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