A Common Pornography: A Memoir

Car-Mull

Jeffrey was a snot-nosed neighbor kid who was a year younger than me. He hadn’t even reached the wisdom of a double-digit age. My brother Matt seemed ancient and stoic at the ripe age of fourteen by comparison. I looked up to him and any kid who was older than eleven. Matt always seemed older than he actually was.

Once we told Jeffrey that all the bird poop on our car was caramel. We sat on the hood and pretended to pinch some in our fingers. We brought our fingers up to our lips and pretended to chew and smack our lips. We were convincing and Jeffrey smeared some onto his tongue. “Where does it come from?” he asked.

We told him that when rain drips from certain trees, it becomes caramel.

“My mom won’t let me eat caramel,” he said. He pronounced it “car-mull.”

“We won’t tell her if you don’t,” I said.