Free Blasphemy by Sherman Alexie Page A

descriptions your son has ever written and probably redeems the entire poem.
L) You never owned a shotgun. You did own a few rifles during your lifetime, but did not own even so much as a pellet gun during the last thirty years of your life.
M) You never said, in any context, “Once a thing tastes blood, it will come for more.”
N) But you, as you read it, know that it is absolutely true and does indeed sound suspiciously like your entire life philosophy.
O) Other summations of your life philosophy include: “I’ll be there before the next teardrop falls.”
P) And: “If God really loved Indians, he would have made us white people.”
Q) And: “Oscar Robertson should be the man on the NBA logo. They only put Jerry West on there because he’s a white guy.”
R) And: “A peanut butter sandwich with onions. Damn, that’s the way to go.”
S) And: “Why eat a pomegranate when you can eat a plain old apple. Or peach. Or orange. When it comes to fruit and vegetables, only eat the stuff you know how to grow.”
T) And: “If you really want a woman to love you, then you have to dance. And if you don’t want to dance, then you’re going to have to work extra hard to make a woman love you forever, and you will always run the risk that she will leave you at any second for a man who knows how to tango.”
U) And: “I really miss those cafeterias they use to have in Kmart. I don’t know why they stopped having those. If there is a Heaven then I firmly believe it’s a Kmart cafeteria.”
V) And: “A father always knows what his sons are doing. For instance, boys, I knew you were sneaking that Hustler magazine out of my bedroom. You remember that one? Where actors who looked like Captain Kirk and Lieutenant Uhura were screwing on the bridge of the Enterprise . Yeah, that one. I know you kept borrowing it. I let you borrow it. Remember this: men and pornography are like plants and sunshine. To me, porn is photosynthesis.”
W) And: “Your mother is a better man than me. Mothers are almost always better men than men are.”
16. Reunion
    After she returned from Italy, my wife climbed into bed with me. I felt like I had not slept comfortably in years.
    I said, “There was a rumor that I’d grown a tumor but I killed it with humor.”
    “How long have you been waiting to tell me that one?” she asked.
    “Oh, probably since the first time some doctor put his fingers in my brain.”
    We made love. We fell asleep. But I, agitated by the steroids, woke at two, three, four, and five a.m. The bed was killing my back so I lay flat on the floor. I wasn’t going to die anytime soon, at least not because of my little friend, Mr. Tumor, but that didn’t make me feel any more comfortable or comforted. I felt distant from the world—from my wife and sons, from my mother and siblings—from all of my friends. I felt closer to those who’ve always had fingers in their brains.
    And I didn’t feel any closer to the world six months later when another MRI revealed that my meningioma had not grown in size or changed its shape.
    “You’re looking good,” my doctor said. “How’s your hearing?”
    “I think I’ve got about 90 percent of it back.”
    “Well, then, the steroids worked. Good.”
    And I didn’t feel any more intimate with God nine months later when one more MRI made my doctor hypothesize that my meningioma might only be more scar tissue from the hydrocephalus.
    “Frankly,” my doctor said. “Your brain is beautiful.”
    “Thank you,” I said, though it was the oddest compliment I’d ever received.
    I wanted to call up my father and tell him that a white man thought my brain was beautiful. But I couldn’t tell him anything. He was dead. I told my wife and sons that I was okay. I told my mother and siblings. I told my friends. But none of them laughed as hard about my beautiful brain as I knew my father would have. I miss him, the drunk bastard. I would always feel closest to the man who had most disappointed