小学生英语优秀作文集锦：我没做错什么
My father, Dale, hits on P.J. Harvey at her rock show. Actually, it is aP.J. Harvey lookalike. There are dozens like her, wannabe rock stars wearing
ankle boots with pin-sized heels. The others, boys with thrift shop tees over
crisp oxfords, men like my dad whom everyone assumes is a roadie because he
looks like he’s in a heavy metal band, and older women with scattered hair and
dry lips, jostle to prove they’re up to it. I prefer the latter. They have a
startled, somewhat embarrassed look, as if they tend to people’s vanity and
ailments like a bikini-waxer or hospital attendant. Under cover, with the aid of
protective gear. I think, these are the women my dad should be interested in,
not the ones everyone else wants. I thought my dad was an original, but I am
wrong.
"This is not New York," Dale tells me in his van. On its side is a sign
that reads, "Daddy’s Little Girl Flooring." It’s alarming how many calls he gets
out of this. He used to work with another guy, Greg, in Manhattan, but he died
so I came to work with him. Now, if we’re refinishing, there’s usually a woman
at the door who will say by way of greeting, "You must be Daddy’s Little Girl."
I imagine people wondered who the little girl was when it was just my father and
Greg.
"I know this isn’t New York," I say. "It’s been ages." I am fond of
outdated expressions that make me feel madcap and carefree. He doesn’t mean we
left New York a half-hour ago, and are well into the heart of New Jersey or
Connecticut. He means, we left New York for good. We did, four years ago. After
a year of doing floors together in New York, we moved the business to Fort
Collins, Colorado. What Dale refers to is the traffic outside Denver, where
we're headed. We’re idling on I-25. Unlike some people who would’ve said,
"What’s the holdup, this isn’t New York," or if they’re really pissed, "What the
hell, this isn’t fucking New York," my father states the obvious as if he’s
unsure of it’s veracity.
My dad loves P.J. Harvey as much as he loves Fleetwood Mac and The Eagles.
He admits it is odd, given the fact that most parents find her music to be just
a lot of noise, but something about her speaks to him. He heard my boyfriend
Larry playing her album To Bring You My Love when he came to pick me up for
work, and asked if he could borrow it. Larry tried to convince him to take her
first album instead but Dale would have none of it. This was a cardinal sin.
Larry believes in listening to music chronologically, from the first album to
the last, always. I have questioned him on this extensively. What if the first
album sucks, and your favorite is the most recent? Or you hear a song on the
radio, and go to buy the CD, only to find the song your looking for is on the
second, or third, or fourth? What then? According to Larry, you’re screwed. You
have to start from the beginning, every time. In fact, the whole notion of
"favorite" is blasphemous. There’s a larger picture to see. He doesn’t listen to
the radio, for this reason. Larry goes nuts when he comes across a Greatest Hits
collection. Concerts are out of the question, since they're a Greatest Hits
collection with amped up applause and bad feedback. Hence, his absence at
tonight’s show.
"You need to dump that dumbass," Dale tells me. "He’s probably getting
fries with that shake, if you know what I’m talking about." Not even P.J. Harvey
can make my father hip, I’m sad to say.
But we all have our music quirks. I tolerate album covers that feature the
band by a warehouse far, far away because I have to. As for solo artists, I’ve
noticed that most women artists I like are often on the ground, playing dead,
but done up glamorously, they might as well be on a satin ottoman. The only
difference is a smudge of blood and bruise around the lip and eye. My father has
nothing but contempt for music videos, especially ones that feature an artist
tied to a chair with a bunch of "thugs" around him, who ends up in a psychiatric
ward, unshaven, in a dirty robe.
My father has never liked Larry because he wears shorts all year long, and
has one of those jobs that are hard to grasp for people who don’t do what he
does. After careful scrutiny, followed by an afternoon of light stalking, I’ve
only been able to come up with this: he works in a laboratory. Larry does smell
antiseptic, with a trace of Sweet n’ Low. The first time we had sex, I thought
he had a cold, and was overdosing on throat lozenges.
It was a sad smell, and as we were having sex, I vowed to stop seeing
him.
I changed my mind midway through it when Foreigner’s "Feels Like the First
Time," came on the radio. It did too, and not only because we were in my Honda
in a parking lot. The truth is that I hadn’t had sex in a year, and this
occasion didn’t make up for lost time. You would think the coincidence would
have solidified my decision to break up with Larry, but a catchy tune that
belies a darker meaning is like a lightening bolt to pay attention. So I
didn’t.
At the show, my father and I take turns going to the bar. I watch the
crowd, which can only be described as a panorama of déjà vu. The music scene is
small here, and people appear and reappear no matter where they are. Tonight is
a real happening. We find a good spot against the wall, to the right of the
stage. It’s important to be on the right, since I lost some of my hearing in
that ear when I was eleven. My best friend, Gabe, tried to drown me at the pool.
I kicked him in the stomach so he smashed my head against the concrete. They
evacuated everyone from the pool, and the blood in blue and white reminded me of
a rocket pop I had before I went in. Afterward, everything sounded as if I was
underwater.
I was never mad at Gabe for what he did. He was trying his hand at bigger
things, and would go back to what he knew best, torturing smaller, defenseless
creatures. I figured, the worst is over, and invited him to a sleepover. After
some pleading, my mom consented. She made popcorn and Rice Krispie treats but
refused any to him. He didn’t complain. Out of fear, I guess. I was terrified of
my mother, who divorced my father a year later.
When Larry’s pissed off, he’ll talk in my bad ear, or move his lips as if
he’s speaking. But I know there’s no sound coming out. I have gotten so used to
not being able to hear, it took me a while to realize that sometimes I can hear
like everyone else. Like P.J. Harvey, who is famous for whispering and going so
quiet it’s impossible to understand. She treats her music as if it’s a secret
she’s reluctant to share.
My father hands me a beer before the show, and turns his attention to the
plethora of young women around him. Doesn’t he know this makes me uncomfortable?
Of course all the hetero boys are doing the same, and the girls go by with grim
faces and stiff necks. Not seeing but seeing. The youngest ones laugh too
loudly, and sprint down the aisles. The boys fall for this act, willing to see
mystery where there is none.
"Dale, what’s yours?" my dad shouts over the opening act, a punk band from
Kansas City. The woman is about my age, with low breasts and tattoos up and down
her arms. She shakes my father’s hand. "Laura," I hear her scream.
"This is my daughter, Penelope." He puts his arm around me, and squeezes. I
can be a prop.
"Nice to meet you." Her hand is sticky and cool.
"That is so sweet," she says and gives me a smile a five year old would
find condescending. I offer to go to the bar. Laura orders a Jack and coke, my
father another beer. He makes a big deal of handing me a twenty. When I get
back, Dale gives me a half-smile that's really a question. I pat his arm. Yes, I
answer. I'll get lost.
P.J. Harvey comes out in a white pants suit. She's tiny, but has a voice
that defies her size. I'm several rows behind Dale and Laura, and watch them
head bang to the music. I want to move as well, but am surrounded by a passive
bunch. They feign thoughtful attentiveness through cocked heads and closed eyes.
During a ballad I can barely discern, my father lifts his left arm high and
sways, a lighter poised in his hand. The singular flame hovers over his
companion's head, threatening to catch it on fire.
Looking at him, unabashed as the sole lighter possessor in the entire
place, I realize he's happy. When we first moved to Fort Collins, we were sick
from the altitude. With the mountains so far west, we didn't think we were up so
high. Each day presented a new symptom. Bloody nose, earache, vertigo. My ears
felt full and hollow, and I couldn't tell what was close or far away. My dad had
dreamed of living out west all his life, but began to think he had made a
mistake. The west my father sought didn't have suburban sprawl. Nevertheless, he
has thrived beneath its sunny disposition, where afternoons are warm, even in
winter.
After the show, I wait for my dad in front of the theatre. The smell of
smoke is everywhere. Dale and Laura wander toward me, new-fangled and
affectionate. They begin to walk ahead, in the opposite direction of where we’re
parked.
"The van is this way, Dad." Laura laughs, a little uneasily. She grabs my
father’s shoulder. The veins in her hands are prominent. She's older than I
thought. On her arm is a tattoo of the Virgin Mary, done up like a cowgirl and
surrounded by stars, with a lasso in her right hand.
"You go on without me," my dad says. I hear one word of this. It is
"oust."
"We’re going the wrong way." I say. My father stops. Under the streetlight,
they both look soft, with pink skin and translucent hair.
"You’ll be fine, Lope. I’ll see you tomorrow." We’re an hour away from
home, and have a seven a.m. appointment in the morning. He must be thinking the
same thing, because he says, "I’ll catch the bus."
If I had known earlier, I wouldn’t have had so much to drink. "OK," I say.
My father hums P.J. Harvey. I recognize the song, "You Said Something," which
always makes me miss New York. I go into a 7-Eleven for a coffee and bottle of
water, to sober up. I think of Larry waiting at home, eyeing the clock while
listening to Kris Kristofferson. At this late hour, it's most likely Who's to
Bless and Who's to Blame.
Outside, I drink my coffee in the cold air. I see my father and Laura cross
the street. Their hands are stuffed into their jean pockets, and their pace is
brisk, purposeful. Even though he's blocks away and my ears are ringing, I can
hear him sing:
And I'm doing nothing wrong
Riding in your car
The radio playing
We sing up to the eighth floor
Driving home with the windows down to keep me awake, the shape of the
mountains glow above the city lights. In the four years we've been here, we have
yet to visit them. They're as foreign to us as a picture postcard. Beautiful,
but not to be trusted.
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