The Mortgensens
There is a third world country beating in the chest of every American; maybe even buried in the heart of the country itself. In Kansas somewhere. Beating there since who knows when, like Poe's heart, under packed dirt, sediment, the bones of Indians, slaves, and Grandmas.
There's actually a house built over this plot. And the house sits on an acre, and a family lives in the house. In the water coming out of the spigot, the well, they drink minerals pumped from the heart. Everyday, unknowing.
And when I say that there is a big third world heart beating under the front lawn of the Mortgensens, and slowly infiltrating their bodies, nourishing their own dormant third world hearts, I don't mean it metaphorically. I just mean it.
Guatemala, Congo, Bangladesh. Judy, Bill, Little Kevin.
I also don't mean it in the sense that, as Americans, as whites and blacks, we all were something beforehand, that we all emigrated from third world countries. I mean, quite simply, that Judy Mortgensen, loving, busty wife of my neighbor Bill was planning a lethal coup.
Quietly, albeit.
They were watching CNN. A Somali pirate was explaining himself. It didn't make much sense to Bill, who sipped his Maxwell House, laced with Third World.
"Why don't some countries work?" said Bill, poetically looking out of the window. (Nay! The casement.)
To which Judy replied, "Why don't some families?", christening a tense silence and staring contest that wasn't broken up until two minutes later, when Little Kevin came bounding down the stairs.
He was a heavy boy. 40 Husky Levi's. And if he weren't 11 and American, he could in his knock-kneed, belly-first gait be confused for Uganda's former dictator Idi Amin.
Mikael Awake is in the MFA program at Syracuse University but tells people he's there on a basketball scholarship. He is working on a new dunk.