I saw a man hang once. From a post at the side of the road. The cars was all backed up and we was moving slower than walking and sometimes not at all. Pa was cussing against the traffic and he kept looking at his watch and saying how we was going to be fucking late, and ma asked forgiveness from Jesus for pa’s bad language. I don’t remember where we was heading that day, but from pa’s cussing it must’ve been important.
It was a hot blue day, that I remember, and the seats in the back of the car was sticky and Susie, my sister, she was complaining that she couldn’t breathe. Ma wound the window down on her side, and she said patience was a virtue that was prized by God and Jesus on the cross, but it made no difference to Susie.
Then there it was, the lamppost with a man hanging from it, hanging heavy and scarcely moving. At first I thought it was like the stuffed men that are placed in the yellow fields to scare off crows from pecking at the corn, crucified like misshapen Jesus’. Then ma said we should turn our heads away and close our eyes tight as sleeping and we should all of us pray to the Lord for better days.
I couldn’t look away, not with ma saying all of that. And I knew from the praying for better days that it was a real man that was hanging from the post and I knew he was dead. His arms hung straight and loose by his sides and his head was all pulled so that his face looked disfigured. Pa’s car slowed to a halt just as we was level with the dead man and I got a real close look at him between my fingers covering my face.
I could hear ma and Susie saying the Lord’s prayer over and over, and saying it quick but saying it in perfect step like something they’d rehearsed for the purpose. And I could hear pa blowing air, like he was a horse at the end of a gallop, the heel of his hand hitting the rim of the wheel hard. And I could feel the sticky of the hot leather seat under my legs, nipping the skin if I moved. And the breathless air and the sound of car horns making a noise like carnival and everywhere engines growling like bad dogs. And the hanging man twisting a little on his bit rope, like he was trying to get a look at me. And if I listened sharp as pins I could hear the crick and creak in the rope that held the dead man’s weight.
I couldn’t sleep that night. Every time I shut my eyes I could see him high up against the blue of the sky, like he might be an angel falling from Heaven or a soul rising upwards and the whole world stopped and holding its breath. Ma said I had a fever and she pulled back all the covers on my bed and she stroked my hair gentle as breath and she said a prayer over me. And Susie said she couldn’t sleep neither, but that was just for her bit of attention.
I think about that day sometimes, when I’m alone and driving in traffic. And I get all shivery and chill, and I look up at lampposts by the side of the road and I catch myself praying to Jesus that there won’t be a hanging man at the next one or the next.
July 20, 2012: It was best not to think about it.
I saw a man hang once. From a post at the side of the road. The cars was all backed up and we was moving slower than walking and sometimes not at all. Pa was cussing against the traffic and he kept looking at his watch and saying how we was going to be fucking late, and ma asked forgiveness from Jesus for pa’s bad language. I don’t remember where we was heading that day, but from pa’s cussing it must’ve been important.
It was a hot blue day, that I remember, and the seats in the back of the car was sticky and Susie, my sister, she was complaining that she couldn’t breathe. Ma wound the window down on her side, and she said patience was a virtue that was prized by God and Jesus on the cross, but it made no difference to Susie.
Then there it was, the lamppost with a man hanging from it, hanging heavy and scarcely moving. At first I thought it was like the stuffed men that are placed in the yellow fields to scare off crows from pecking at the corn, crucified like misshapen Jesus’. Then ma said we should turn our heads away and close our eyes tight as sleeping and we should all of us pray to the Lord for better days.
I couldn’t look away, not with ma saying all of that. And I knew from the praying for better days that it was a real man that was hanging from the post and I knew he was dead. His arms hung straight and loose by his sides and his head was all pulled so that his face looked disfigured. Pa’s car slowed to a halt just as we was level with the dead man and I got a real close look at him between my fingers covering my face.
I could hear ma and Susie saying the Lord’s prayer over and over, and saying it quick but saying it in perfect step like something they’d rehearsed for the purpose. And I could hear pa blowing air, like he was a horse at the end of a gallop, the heel of his hand hitting the rim of the wheel hard. And I could feel the sticky of the hot leather seat under my legs, nipping the skin if I moved. And the breathless air and the sound of car horns making a noise like carnival and everywhere engines growling like bad dogs. And the hanging man twisting a little on his bit rope, like he was trying to get a look at me. And if I listened sharp as pins I could hear the crick and creak in the rope that held the dead man’s weight.
I couldn’t sleep that night. Every time I shut my eyes I could see him high up against the blue of the sky, like he might be an angel falling from Heaven or a soul rising upwards and the whole world stopped and holding its breath. Ma said I had a fever and she pulled back all the covers on my bed and she stroked my hair gentle as breath and she said a prayer over me. And Susie said she couldn’t sleep neither, but that was just for her bit of attention.
I think about that day sometimes, when I’m alone and driving in traffic. And I get all shivery and chill, and I look up at lampposts by the side of the road and I catch myself praying to Jesus that there won’t be a hanging man at the next one or the next.