(Fiction) Melvin Lee
Melvin Lee had big shoulders and thick arms and long black hair he pulled into a ponytail, he needed glasses he didn’t have and he liked to smoke when he drove.
Melvin Lee was some kind of Asian, but in the southwest he passed for Mexican—he told people he was Navajo, “a real fucking Indian,” he said.
As soon as he had the money—he was moving to Spain to be with his people, he wanted to raise goats—or to raise hell, on the mountainsides. He said I could come with him—that I could be one of his people.
Melvin Lee kissed too hard too fast, and drove 60 through the hills playing chicken with the curves, never touching the break, never slowing down, one arm resting on the windowsill, one hand on my leg.
http://www.flickr.com/photos/cobalt/ / CC BY-NC 2.0
Melvin Lee had a tattoo of the Virgin Mary on his shoulder—she tasted like clove cigarettes. She smelled of sweat.
He was dark from the sun—and coarse—he had large lips and big teeth, he played air guitar better than anyone—feeling it with his body.
I told him—smoking could make you dead—he said smoking only killed old people, and Melvin planned to die when he was 29.
Melvin knew God was some big Hispanic guy—with long hair and a mustache—whose hands were callused—God looked like the men we had grown up with, God would look like Melvin Lee.
Melvin and I drove into the desert—late monsoons—the desert smelled of rain, the cactuses were filled to capacity and everything felt like it really existed.
Melvin and I were in the desert listening to AC/DC on the radio, lying on the hood of his pickup truck, he put his hand on my stomach and growled affectionately, “I would kill you if you ever left me.” He said. “I would kill you if you ever tried to leave.”
I saw the face of God in Melvin Lee.
I thought I was in love with him, and I thought he was in love with me.
