In terms of sounding intelligent or creative, every kid gets lucky once in a while. We were at Lala’s sister Emily’s house when London had just started speaking, and a group of us gathered in the kitchen, desperately waiting for the wine to be uncorked. Someone asked London to count forks or spoons, and, by chance, the boy started at 1 and ended at 10 without skipping a sliver of silver.
“Got yourself a genius on your hands,” one of our fellow freeloaders commented.
“I hope not,” I said, having taught a few in my time. I know that geniuses may have invented keyless entry or cured syphilis, yet most prodigies I’ve encountered don’t have the sense to smile after sex or wash their own hair. I like my kids nice and average, similar to an episode of Friends. Besides, the tallying trick London performed that afternoon was nothing more a happy accident. I knew the next day he wouldn’t be able to sum up his opposable thumbs let alone tableware for Lala’s extended family.
Fast-forward three years. Maybe it was the wild weekend in Las Cruces, surrounded by graduate students who spoke of Flannery O’Connor and Jim Beam with equal reverence. Or maybe it was Poppy’s bright idea to stop in Truth or Consequences, New Mexico, on our way home to Santa Fe to soak in hot mineral baths on the roof of the Charles Hotel like some long lost hippies searching the heavens for the ghost of Ralph Edwards. Perhaps it was just dumb luck once again, but once we were safely strapped back in the minivan, our hair still dampened from the springs, London made an announcement.
“I have a poem,” he said as earnestly as Alec Baldwin at a custody hearing.
We were all ears because with London you never know what will come out of his mouth. Just a few days before our trip to the dirty south, he called me a “dirtfag” when we were playing Power Rangers. This past week he told me that Jesus not only golfs, but the son of God often borrows his mother’s car when he gets tired of walking on water while balancing a decaf latte on his head.
In the van in front of a dormant dvd screen, London corrected his posture and recited:
Look beyond the sea at night.
Look beyond the trees that wave.
Look beyond the monsters that bite.
Look beyond the monster’s cave.
There’s a sideways look that Poppy, Lala, and I share when London channels some ancient poet, gay cowboy, or caffeinated Christian sports visionary. We don’t want to laugh and interrupt the transmission or shoot our wads too soon by applauding immediately, so one of us usually waits a few beats then quietly tries to investigate the source of these foreign tongues.
“London, where did that come from?” I asked since it was my turn to approach this newly crowned boy balladeer.
He shrugged. “Just made it up. Can we turn on the Pokemon movie now?”
That’s the thing with London. You have to hit him when he’s in the right mood. His sister Poppy understands that she has to go through the requisite parental interrogation each day on what she learned in school, who she played foursquare with, and in what order did she eat the packed items in her lunch. She knows that the more information she gives, the sweeter the plea bargain come dessert time. London doesn’t think so logically. When I ask him how his day went, he’ll claim he has no idea what I’m talking about even though we are still idling in the preschool parking lot. So once his inner poet emerged in a town that sold its soul for some game show PR, we had to spot our openings in order to hear more of the boy bard’s verse. Lala had more luck than I did, not only getting a few repeat performances, but she was also witness to variations on the original that delved deeply into subjects as diverse as Power Rangers, Batman, Poppy, and a man who shoots lace from his stigmata wounds–Spiderman:
Look beyond Spiderman.
Look beyond his web shoots.
Look beyond his climbing walls.
Look beyond, he’ll do it all!
When I got home, London was weary from reciting all day and waved me off like tabloid paparazzi when I requested a few spare lines from his creative soul. “I’m too tired, Dad. Leave me alone,” he said, resting on the couch. I felt ignored like I was his number one fan and had showed up too late to his concert to hear my favorite hits.
“I have to go potty,” London said, and I duly walked him down the hall.
“Could I have just one poem, Londy?” I asked, probably the only person in America pleading for poetry. “Maybe just one line?”
“Fine,” he said, dropping his trousers.”Look beyond the toilet seat.” His face and posture seemed to suggest that he was looking beyond even me, his own father. “There. Now close the door. I want some privacy.”