Tag Archives: family

Two attorneys chat about a child abuse law

Imagine a lead-up to the case of Harris, as in Kamala, representing the state of California, v. Mathews, Alvarez, and Owen: a case at least five years in the making; a case delayed multiple times because witnesses weren’t available at short notice, because one of the attorneys for either side became ill; because the judge in the case decided to go on vacation–who knows? And if you weren’t there for the projected week-long trial that became a day-and-a-half trial and ended abruptly, you won’t recognize so readily the elements outlined in this speculative dialogue. You might not know that a ten year old law that mandated changes to child abuse reporting law based on now 45 year old legislation had gotten bounced around between courts since 2019–officially remanded by the California Supreme court in 2020 with the decree that the state must demonstrate, via a trial, that the 2015 amendment to the 1980 Child Abuse and Neglect Reporting Act (CANRA) advances the cause of that earlier legislation. So, conjure two principals from the state attorney general’s office (I’ll call them A and B), chatting on the eve of the trial with one of them fretting yet plotting over what may happen:

A: So, a person does something that harms children, indirectly. They look at child porn. I know. I’m supposed to call it CSAM, child sexual abuse material. Whatever. But it does harm them directly, someone says–one of our witnesses: “It’s not a victimless crime”

B: Well, it isn’t

A: Question is, is that relevant? I can hear the other side, possibly the judge: “Oh, well then we must identify, locate, and then protect the victimized child, following those questions that appear on suspected child abuse report forms. And if this change to the law will achieve that, then okay”. Well, the thing is it won’t as far as we know, but it will stop the subject of the report from continuing the behavior.

B: And presumably deter however many others there are doing this behavior

A: No, that’s been increasing in a big way actually, not decreasing–what both our side and theirs call an “explosion” of CSAM on the internet.

B: So why’s that happening, the explosion?

A: It’s the technology…ya know, the growth of the internet, the sophisticated ways in which images can be stored and hidden

B: The internet? Not people’s desire to do the behavior, look at child porn?

A: Yes, but the technology has made it easier to find the images; meanwhile, the number of images are incredible so it’s hard to track them all. People who weren’t previously inclined to do this kind of thing can now. Or, the same number of people are doing it, roughly, but are able to do it more, gather ever more images, because of the technology. We’re not sure.

B: You mean despite us having this now ten year old reporting law to deter people. So, why have the law?

A: Well, the idea was that having the law, plus the amendment, would help us capture child porn users, not just those who produce, sell, or distribute–that was what the law previously said. But capturing porn users was never the purpose of the law–protecting children is–so we have to spin it that way somehow

B: I see. The plaintiffs will argue that there are more commonplace and more effective ways to capture child porn users, like acting on tips from the public, or by going through google, for example

A: Yes, and states do get thousands of tips per year from the public about child porn users, countless more than we get from psychotherapists reporting on their patients. Not sure about compelling google to violate privacy of their users, getting them to report, and of course they’d have tons more money to fight us in court than three therapists from California plus a pro bono lawyer.

B: Okay, well if we do capture them, the child porn users–let’s say we get better at that, or that more therapists report their patients to us–then what? Remind me, are we talking misdemeanors or felonies?

A: Depends on how much child porn they’ve been viewing or downloading. If it’s not so bad we can send ’em back to therapy, only we–meaning the state–would be in charge of the therapy at that point. Basically, we’d presume they’d lie about their behavior so we’d regularly use polygraphs to verify their disclosures.

B: So what if they tell the truth about more use of child porn?

A: Well, then they’d be in violation, which would lead to a custodial sentence probably. Or, if they lie about child abuse and they fail a polygraph, then the same result would follow

B: And if they’re not continuing to use child porn and they pass a polygraph, then what do they talk about in therapy?

A: I don’t know. Whatever else they talk about in therapy. They get reminded to not use child porn, I guess. Our expert witnesses don’t say much about that.

B: And what about the plaintiff witnesses. What might they say?

A: Well, they’ve just got the one, this forensic psychologist who says, or relays studies that say that breaches of confidentiality are damaging therapy efforts, that child porn users aren’t that dangerous to children in a direct way, according to research. Much of that testimony will be redundant since their attorney can get most of that info out of our witnesses in cross examination. Then, their witness might talk about what else happens in therapy, or what motivates child porn users, like medicating anxiety states, sexual traumas–theirs, not those of the children in the…ya know.

B: What will you ask him in the cross examination?

A: Actually, our best chance is if he doesn’t show, so I have an idea. Remember, the Supreme Court back in 2020 put it on us, the state, to show that the 2015 amendment to CANRA protects children, otherwise the limiting of confidentiality rights may be deemed unconstitutional. So, we’re in trouble here: we can’t show that therapist reports are even happening on this matter, let alone that they’re leading to rescues. We got an expert witness who says that child porn use directly harms children so it shouldn’t matter that we can’t locate victims via therapist reports, but that argument’s about increasing arrests, convictions, and mandated treatment, which isn’t the point of the reporting law. So, we need a get out of jail card and I think it’s in this “no more delays” decree that the judge ordered last month. If we finish up Tuesday afternoon because we limit to a bare minimum our questions for our witnesses–which their side won’t expect–we’ll rest our case and the judge will turn to them. Their attorney says their witness is coming on Thursday, which means he’ll have to ask for a continuance, which the judge will deny. Then, we object that we’re denied a chance to cross examine, so the witness testimony should be struck from the record. And, because he’s their only witness, we’ll move to dismiss, saying they’re not presenting a case, even though they will have asked most of the questions at that point. So…why are you smiling?

B: It’s ingenious

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Wow

Wow…

              The narrow hallway of the eighth floor stretches westwards to a cul de sac and a small waist-high window letting in sun from a Pacific horizon. You can almost hear the echoes of an architect screaming to a builder, give ‘em some light, please. The units are a good dozen to a floor, expertly welded into a taut floor plan that allows an illusion of space being devoted elsewhere. As I walk down the wing towards Steve’s address, I note the change in color scheme and the insulated feeling. The walls are a cobalt blue exuding calm and security, a far cry from the sunburnt orange that adorned the interior when I’d first visited years ago. The once-well trodden carpet, similarly singed, has been replaced by a thicker material that fully absorbs footsteps, vacating the last sounds of an old creaking floorboard. Disconcerting, I imagine, for those residents whose ears are never far from a front door, worried that someone unauthorized might be in the building, stalking.

              I press on Steve’s doorbell and hear no sound. Even the ping of a simulated bell is subdued in this determinedly buffered setting. Steve answers the door, beams half of his amiable smile through the crack and then opens up the space after the briefest of hesitations. I walk in past a plain door, unpocked by ornate divots, with only a penny-sized spy-hole blemishing its surface. Doesn’t he trust it? I wonder, regarding Steve’s pause.

              “Hello dear boy”, he says in a slightly affected voice—his nod to my British heritage, which he thinks entails people greeting each other with overwrought expressions because that’s how they do it in period dramas or hoary Ealing comedies that somehow drift into modern minds. He gestures welcome with a wave of his palm and beckons me past a kitchenette towards a cluster of furniture and dense ephemera. Apologies follow: “sorry about the…”, and “I’ve been meaning to…”. When we lived together, once upon a time, I might have scoffed and remonstrated, depending upon my mood. In my fantasy of lived disgust, I might have kicked something, sent a console, a bucket of food, or a lounging pet flying across the room. That’s when we had standards followed by expectations, plus an appetite for conflict. It’s years later now, so like the walls and the floorspace, the feelings have softened. Anyway, nothing in this space serves as a centerpiece. It’s all a trail of bits and pieces, some discarded, others merely detained ahead of a hateful deportation. The inviolate fixtures are a wall-sized television and a triumvirate of computer screens that transform a living space into the semblance of a stock exchange floor.

              I am stepping over and in between piles of consumer and consumed goods, heading for a dead end. “Sorry”, says Steve, realizing there’s nowhere to sit. Outside, on a tight veranda overlooking a glassy vista and concrete cityscape, there’s space for a chair that looks dusty and unused and flanked by a wooden structure partially wrapped in mesh wire.

              “It’s okay for me to stay, right?” I ask uncertainly, half-plaintively.

              “Oh sure, sure,” he replies. “In fact, I might be joining you. My friend Sara also might come”.

              I stare back with a blank expression, thinking there’s a piece that’s awry in Steve’s thought. “Might come? You’re thinking of coming to my graduation?”

              Steve’s neck snaps backwards as his eyes roll upwards. It’s like I’ve delivered a blow to his right side and he’s heading down for the count. “Aw shit, that’s right! I forgot about your thing. Sorry, I’ve been all turned around lately. I thought you might be at the protest tomorrow”.

              “Nah, I don’t think so,” I respond coolly, having half-expected this misunderstanding of why I’m visiting his urban lair. Steve shrugs. “Any chance you can come by later, maybe we can have dinner together, you can meet Sara”.

              I could care less about his friend Sara. “I’ll be eating at the center with some colleagues. There’s a dinner gathering after the ceremony”. He nods faintly. He can tell by the flat tone and terse delivery that I’m annoyed he’s forgotten.

              “Got it. This is your training program you’ve been doing, huh? That Freud thing”.

              “Analytic training”

              “Right. Do you get a pipe and a tweed jacket, or something?”

              This quip merits an indulgent grin, not quite the derisive smirk I’d prefer to give. I have his half-effortful hospitality to think of, to feel grateful for, though a hotel room will seem a good alternative at this point. Making a token effort, Steve grabs a cushion, wipes a swath of litter from a couch—ostensibly my bunk for the night. Then he asks that I excuse a phalanx of cans and bottles atop an adjoining breakfast table. “I’ll get rid of them later,” he says. “They’re just rinsing out, don’t want to put them away and get mildew”. That pings a memory. Back in the day, Steve was often saying stupid things like this to justify not doing something.

              “What’s the box for on the balcony”. I don’t care about this box just beyond a sliding door any more than I do his friend, but the awkwardness of Steve’s neglect is impinging upon my nerves.

              “That’s for chickens,” he says, prefacing an impending spiel.

              Chicken shit, I’m inclined to reply. “Doesn’t look big enough,” I say, indicating the box’s seeming three-foot length, its piecemeal disposition. “Where are the chickens?”

              Steve often answers questions not yet asked, aiming for what he knows instead. “Soon”, he says. “Collecting them this weekend. Been planning this for weeks, studying the raising of foul for ages. Gonna grow my own eggs, get ahead of rising prices. I just gotta put the box together some, wrap the mesh around it, do one or two other things”.

              “So, it’s a coop”

              “Sort of, mini one. Got a southern exposure here, plenty of sunshine. No predators around, of course. Just gotta watch the weather. Should be okay in spring heading into summer, though”

              “You got enough space? Kinda tight out there, isn’t it?

              “They only need a few square feet to walk, run around in”

              “Take a shit in”

              “No kidding. Got a few bags of shavings to lay down. Gonna start with three, see how they do, whether they fight, which happens if there isn’t enough space”

              “Don’t you have a cat?”

              “Miete? She died last year. Thought you knew”

              “Maybe you told me. I would’ve remembered, I think. Sorry”

              “No worries. Anyway, you ready for your big day?”

              Steve held a sudden look of cheer upon his face, suggesting I’d touched a nerve mentioning his cat. Now my life was a useful pretext for a change of subject, his chicken interest notwithstanding.

              I heave a practiced sigh. “Been ready for I don’t know how long. Feels like I’ve been doing this forever”

              “I bet. You started this…when?” I can tell he needs me to fill in all of the gaps of his unknowing, and as I do, I’ll see that his eyes glaze over and his mind will drift back to images of plywood, mesh wire and carefully marshalled chicken shit.

              “Seven years ago is when it started. You might remember the last night I stayed here overnight. I was applying still, had interviews with institute faculty at Zion hospital the next day”

              “Right. I remember that now. I seem to recall you saying it would take a few years, not seven though. Why so long?

              “Some elements are like college—you complete four years of seminar. The cases that are analytic: they have to get approved, plus you have to write an academic paper that’s more or less like a doctoral thesis. That’s what took the longest”

              “So remind me, if you don’t mind, what happens next? Do you get an extra credential?”

              “I’m a psychoanalyst”

              “Okay, you’ve said that before. But what does that mean? Could I just call you up and ask you for psychoanalysis, come lie on a couch in your office and have you interpret my dreams?”

              “That’s the last thing you’d want, believe me”

              Steve burst out a light chuckle. “Why? Am I that bad? Beyond help?”

              “Let’s just say it wouldn’t be your thing. You’re more of a go-to-a-retreat, take ketamine with somebody watching and then have what you think is a cathartic experience followed by a day at a spa.”

              “I have done something like that actually. My therapist, whom I see about four times a year recommended something similar to me, only with psilocybin, not ketamine”

              “So, did you do that?

              “Not yet. Haven’t gotten around to it. We’ve been doing EMDR, which I also find cathartic—lots of childhood stuff comes up for me. Deep stuff. You should try it. Or, you should get the certificate for it, gets lots of clients that way”

              “I did…twenty years ago. Now I do psychoanalysis, that Freudian thing I’ve mentioned a few times over the last few years. It’s different. It’s an older model of treatment: the patient speaks. An analyst listens. No drugs. No tricks. And you meet four times a week, not four times in a year.”

              “Four times a week! You’re kidding”

              I am not kidding, my face says. I’ve said this to him before, several times in fact.

              Steve’s incredulity resumes: “I mean, I know you’ve mentioned that before, I just can’t believe anyone does that. Jeez, who can do that? Who has the money for it?”

              “You’re presuming that an analyst would charge you three hundred dollars per hour like the person who watches you take acid does”

              “Well, okay, so you’re saying it’s less expensive, but still…the time…”

              “What about it?”

              “Who has the time? Plus, I don’t know. I’d run out of things to say”

              For a half-minute I remain still-faced, myself incredulous, except to think you might. I hold my mean-spirited tongue, for a moment at least. I gaze around, shoot incriminating glances at random objects that signify a random existence.

              “The time? Like the time spent staring at that trio of screens, or that massive Orwellian eye in the middle of your wall-space? The time spent binging on eye candy, brain candy, or actual candy? Run out of things to say? If you mean platitudes, banal chatter, the dinner theater of modern politics, then sure, you’d run out of things to say? If you mean catching up on what’s happening in your life, or even retaining what’s happening after the last time you spoke to someone, then sure you’ll run out of things to say. If you mean external events, or how’s your health or how’s the family doing, or the kind of stuff anyone can understand without much effort at explanation, then sure you’ll run out of things to say. If you mean the stuff that you think others will understand or not form a half-understanding judgement or sample of disgust about, then sure you’ll run out of things to say”

              At once, Steve frowns and speaks in a low, measured voice.

              “You sound annoyed. Have I annoyed you?”

              I pause for effect and hold my friend’s attention with a fixed, unblinking glare. “That’s psychoanalysis,” I say.

              He shakes his head, befuddled. “What? what is psychoanalysis?”

              “What you just did. You responded as if everything I just said had something to do with you, or you and I”

              “I’m sorry, I’m not trying to make this about me—”

              “I’m not criticizing that, you prat. It is about you and me. That’s what I’m saying—what you just did was an analytic thing to do, and a truly interpersonal thing to do, only it’s ironic because you think it’s merely self-centered”

              He shook his head again. “Right. What? What are you saying? Making it about me, or about you and I is the right thing. How can that be?”

              “It’s easy if you think about a principle that you haven’t been studying and thinking about for nearly a decade but I have. It’s this: when YOU’RE TALKING TO SOMEONE, WHAT YOU HAVE TO SAY IS AT LEAST PARTLY AND SOMETIMES MOSTLY ABOUT THEM”

              “Why are you yelling?

              “I’m not…okay, I am…just because you haven’t listened, not really. Nobody really…”

              By this point Steve was staring at me like an emergency room nurse performing a mental health exam. “My big day. It is a big day, and I didn’t fully realize until today that it bums me out that you barely understand what it’s about, this big day of mine.  You think it’s a kind of joke, featuring cliches…”

              “Wow, I never said—”

              “I know you never said. You never had to say it directly. And it’s not your fault. It’s at least mine as well, the fact that we don’t get each other”. I gaze about his living space again. “I don’t get how you can live like this. That’s my judgement. You’re like those chickens you’re gonna raise. You wanna know how? They don’t have sphincters, chickens. They don’t control their shit. They just walk around and release and they don’t pick up after themselves. Someone else has to do that for them”.

              This remark freezes my old friend. He looks stunned, eternally undecided. Trying to seem poised, Steve walks over to his front door and pulls it open like he wants me to leave. With a cold, glassy shine in his eye, he asks, “How’s your wife doing?”

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Take the bus sweet sixteen

Sweet sixteen. Takes a while to get there, I’d say. Also, it’s not as sexy as it sounds; not the debutante ball it’s chalked up to be. It’s a pinnacle of a problem. Throw up thirteen. Fuck off fourteen. Gross fifteen. Sickness. You hang around teenagers, amid their sniffles, dripping of various fluids, you’ll feel under the weather fairly soon. And minimal conversation. In my teens I was missing because of television, video games that sucked the air from my brain, dulling my imagination. The fingers did the walking, and seemingly the thinking as they flitted about remotes, joysticks, or a keyboard. Now it’s a deft index digit skimming over the small buttons of a cell phone. Eyes scan over the dashing pages. They appear and then disappear like cells of thought dancing about. Get a word in—you know, words—and a head may pop up and recognize external stimuli. Something from within, a hunger, signals that sustenance of an original kind is necessary. An utterance, a cry or a bark burst out with a need. Food is soon engorged. A refrigerator is emptied. Check the front door. Food is often dashed there these days. No dice. The debris of packets, spills, and a stain is all that’s left of the consumption.

Does it peak at sixteen? Does it get better afterwards, this life of or with a teenager? Savage seventeen, asshole eighteen. Nearly done nineteen. It’s not as if they’re not aware of this state of affairs, these diseases they carry. I mean, who likes teenagers? Who says or writes nice things about them? Not me. Read the first paragraph. Adults mock them or wring their hands over them. Grandparents are wary, and strain to relate. Smaller children fear them as if they were monsters lurking in closets. They don’t understand their habits: the curious disarray of belongings, the expanse of ephemera; the clumps of tissue paper, bloodied or rendered sticky, tossed about a toilet. This is why teens start forming an identity, a sense of togetherness, of esprit de corps. The world is against them, or concerned for them, which is vaguely worse. We celebrate their individualism while we lament that very incipience because it intrudes and takes over. We envy the beginning of a prime: sexual confidence is not yet there but it’s coming; athletic prowess, litheness and invincibility are upon them whether they feel it, take advantage of it, or not. Lovingly, we hope this developmental combo of affliction and power will be like one of their illnesses: that it will pass soon and drift into memory, only to be revisited every five years with terrible reunions. The worst of us will not go to those events because they’re too painful. Or, we’ll go, but much later, long after the symptoms of adolescence have abated and others’ memory of our teenage selves has dwindled.

This was true in my case. Yes, I’m not a teenager. Not anymore. Not chronologically. It’s behind me. I’m in recovery now. Or it’s in disguise, hiding like a stash of dirty magazines. Magazines? What are those, asks a contemporary teen. Don’t get me wrong. I have warm feelings towards teenagers, the few that I know, that let me get to know them. They’re both terrible and wonderful, like I was. They compel my interest while they alienate and push away. Some of them plunder and gambol about– rolling objects ever at risk of knocking down the household furniture. When they rest, they seem immovable, forgetful, unrousable. An analyst once said to me that teens are the way they are because they are mimicking the ill or absent objects they are looking to rouse. By object he meant parent. Unconsciously, analysts use the word object to signify how parents start to feel as parents. Infants pull at, chew, or cling to their parents. They drape their limbs over their heads, hug knees and ankles. They grab and scratch, give you a cold at least once per financial quarter. Parenting a small child is a workout of chasing and wrestling, interspersed with household chores, seized naps, a comradely debriefing with a weary co-parent. The teen years grant a reprieve in the form of distance. The onset of puberty, the libidinal surge, generates space and tension: privacy and basic needs do battle, forcing outbursts that juxtapose rejection and appeal. Help. Guidance. Give. Then kindly fuck off.

You’d think they’d want this stage of life to be over; that they’d want to move on. But they linger, don’t they: teenagers. The affliction bleeds into the twenties, and for some, beyond. Certain habits, the masturbatory, the dissociative, solipsistic, drifting whimsy doesn’t seem to leave. We don’t want this period of indulgence blended with insecurity to go. It’s in the dishes left by the sink; the T-shirt spread over the washing machine, left for someone else to deal with. It’s in the stolid gaze, the hapless shrug that you receive when you ask after the thoughts that linked to these actions. Were there thoughts, you wonder? Was there shame, guilt, or rather conscience, ethics, righteousness: all the qualities that magically appear when the tables are turned, a divide is crossed. One day the adolescent finishes school, gets a job, assumes responsibility and has to lead, guide, or soothe another being. As a parent, you thought to give them a head start by getting a pet, or having a second child. Feed it, walk it, babysit them, etc. That was the point, you thought.

At some point, you thought to foster independence for your own good; to take a break, thinking a massive stage of the parenting job was done. Go online, sign up for Indeed. Download that App that will get you a credit card. Get a reference, network. Find out what a deductible means. These are your decreasingly patient instructions. Take a moment. No, take several. Take years, actually. Think back to when you were a teen, or just the last time a stage of life was coming to an end, forcing you to change. Routines stopped or altered. Someone or thing modifies a system, changes the rules, or the assumptions underlying the rules. Some of those teenagers are growing up and assuming authority because they are alright as teens. They’re polite to strangers, reflective when asked questions that call for meaning. That’s amazing, you think, when you first observe or hear of this–when you get those lovely yet irritating compliments from other adults about your kids. They (the kids) are still rebelling, actually, only it’s not called that when you’re in charge and you’re organized and well-spoken; when you’re empowered and separate from the enmeshed family tree. See, they only seem empowered, or entitled if you prefer, when they’re lounging on your dime, playing the music loud, drowning out your life. It feels not quite as threatening when they’re out and about, filling the sidewalks in packs, in gaggles of giggling, mutually-interrupting, shouting groups. Give them access to a car and this gets worse. Their windows are down and the heavy bass sounds of rap coupled with raucous singing is on public display. Not everyone in the pack is like this. On the sidewalk is a couple engrossed in an intimate moment. Hands in his pockets, a reticent boy is making an effort in the dawn of an aged ritual: he is solicitous and gentle. He is sweet, the accompanying girl will think. Sweet sixteen. Keeping his hands to himself, his head down, his glances glancing, he is not yet the boorish oaf he may soon appear to be. And the prim girl is likewise demure and self-effacing, not yet the disdainful, prickly woman she may “grow up” to become. Twenty years from now they’ll have a teenage boy or girl, or someone who will identify as neither: someone who will nonetheless expect basics of food and shelter, then games and fun; then free time and space to exercise free will, often with things that are not free. They cost money because of the rules that previous generations made. Yes, you might say to the requests that demand an easier passage through the world you made and they didn’t. Yes, you will help with some things, the things you know. Well, not all things. No, I won’t give you a ride, you’ll say, alluding to an old-fashioned artifact you might have used. Take the bus.

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My Peers

I’m trippin’ on the word, hearing its layered meaning, the play. I’m trippin’ on them, my peers with their protruding toes, hearing their footsteps outside my stall, their muted grumblings about the meeting. The break is nearly over. The clatter of paper and soap dispensers, the water from a fawcett, the violence of a flush, are all sounding out, signaling an end to the break. My peers are filing out, ready to reconvene the meeting. I can’t move. I can’t make anything happen. I’m stuck in my porcelain seat, waiting to evacuate, but then find something within that will gird me for the next round of work. All work. No play.

              I hear one or two peers circling about. I feel their eyes upon my stall door. Do they know it’s me in here, collecting my thoughts? He can’t do it—that’s what they’re thinking. He’s stuck. They glance at one another, sharing their suspicions, but they’re not supposed to say. In here, you’re not supposed to say anything. It’s private time, pre-verbal time, in a private space, and no one is at their best in such moments, we’re all inclined to think. That’s our big boy voice, saying pull up your big boy pants. Just do what’s necessary, wash your hands, then leave and start talking, doing your thing. Back to work. He’s gotta come out, thinks the peer who seems to linger at the basin, washing his hands. He’s the last one there. Otherwise, the place is silent. Everyone’s break is over, except mine. I feel his eyes upon the outside door, his voice poised to speak, say what everyone else was thinking a minute or two ago: two minutes, Ray. It’s nearly ten. You comin’?

It wasn’t like this back in the day. Back when we were kids. These guys: they won’t remember. They don’t know anything from before the age of nine, when games were fun. Yeah, they liked to win. I liked to win, but winning wasn’t everything. Fun was the thing. Funny—funnee—was the thing. Silly was a thing, ridiculous was a thing. We could be ridiculous, look ridiculous, before we were nine. Was it nine? Maybe ten. I can’t remember myself. I remember laughing, and wanting to be the one that made the others laugh. It made ‘em laugh, shaking my thing outside the stalls, flanking the showers. “Keep the noise down”. That was the only complaint: a gruff, peace-seeking rebuke from beyond an eyewitness (but not earshot) threshold by a locker room attendant—a truly miserable man who wasn’t winning at anything and didn’t like to play games or even hear evidence of them. A buddy of mine and I: we did a dance opposite each other, taking turns, like the display was a preening competition. We were showing off, but feeling silly, ridiculous. Nothing serious. Then it changed. After the noise complaint, the game broke up, but only for a moment, like it was the receding of a stream that would return via another channel in moments. Let’s do something else, someone said. They gestured to a pair of urinals, then stood in front of them like they were targets. His beckoned a peer to his side, held his hand to his mouth like he was telling a secret, excluding anyone who wasn’t up for a duel.

Maybe he was telling a joke, a play on words. That’s what comes to mind now, still seated in my stall, not playing the game, not returning to the meeting that will happen without me, even though I am in charge, sort of. I don’t want to play their game, take part in their name-dropping but not naming game—their nounless attack upon substance, and my word-drooling response: it’s a leaking, or a falling out of words, this civilly symbolization; a mouth bowel movement, disguised. They know it. I feel it, the primitivism, and the inhibition of later games. I didn’t play that game that replaced mine when I was nine, or nearly ten. I didn’t want to play the peeing game, seeing who could pee the farthest and still hit targets. I don’t want that kind of comparison; to win or to lose, those cul de sac dichotomies. Don’t want to step on toes or have anyone step on mine. I don’t want to stick my neck out. I don’t want to leave my stall anymore, deal with my peers. Yeah, that’s right: my peers, my fellow pee-ers.

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