University of Northern Iowa

ScapegoatAuthor(s): JEREMIAH WEBSTERSource: The North American Review, Vol. 294, No. 2, The National Poetry Month Issue(MARCH–APRIL 2009), p. 43Published by: University of Northern IowaStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/20697767 .

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order to stay sober and not associate with the Hells Angels.

Billy Gaddie's probie called me

shortly after the bargain. His leather voice surely gave him some street cred with his customers. He said the order to

stay away from the HAs would wreck Gaddie. The gang was hardwired into

Billy at a young age. Evidently, Gaddie's father died on a motorcycle when Billy was a kid and Christie became his father. The probie assured me that he'd be a pit bull on Gaddie's heels, "He won't be able to say motorcycle without me knowing."

"You think?" Hunter Thompson was on the phone

with his wife when he pulled the trigger on his .45 and slumped onto his kitchen table. Some of his last interviews reminded me of my father ... balding, jittery, a deep stare, and slow, but wisely hesitant speech. In one interview, tattered press credentials, a ragged pile of books topped with a pistol, several

empty Wild Turkey bottles, and

yellowed photos from the '60s loom over Thompson's shoulder. The eclectic collection reminds me of my father's den where police badges, shooting trophies, creased Indy 500 tickets, a

replica of the '84 Olympiad's gold medal, and black-and-white photos of

cops in riot gear coexist with baby pictures of me and my sisters. I've read that the Riverside Shakespeare rests on a

shelf, near George Christie's fireplace, next to every gangster movie ever made, and a replica of the Olympic Torch he carried. On the other side of his living room, his HA vest hangs under a

stained glass death's-head. I wonder if

pictures of his kids hang near pictures of leathered bikers. In my mind each of these rooms has '70s wood paneling and each of these men are content when surrounded by the debris of their lives.

Why didn't I recommend Thompson's book, HelVs Angels, to my father? I should have.

In a million mirrored shards, the sun

bounced off the cobalt Pacific during the drive down the coast. On the way to

Ventura, before my grand jury testi

mony, Dad and I ate Double-Doubles at In-N-Out. His stout hands wrestled relentless Parkinson tremors while

eating the greasy burger. I didn't offer to

help. The burger dropped, scattered?

lettuce, grilled onions, beef?splayed on

white paper lining the red basket. He stared at his hands. His eyes blurred behind a well of tears. No drops fell. I didn't realize it then, but now I know he wished he was fighting a tangible foe like the Hells Angels. I've learned to

appreciate the eye-stinging exhaust and low thunder rumble warnings of trouble ahead. The fights you can't see or hear before they run you down are the ones

that scare me.

I doubt, despite the sweet sound of

neutral, that there is such a thing as a

fair fight in any location. It's been seven

years since what now seems one of the

unimportant fights of my life. Since then I've lost my tough-cop dad. I've watched my young son endure three

open-heart surgeries and live with half a

heart. I've buried a buddy killed in Iraq, and I wonder when the deployment orders will come for me. I just passed thirty, and I heave weights in the gym

nearly every day. I feel strong, but some

times I dream I'm ripping down the Pacific Coast Highway on a black and chrome chopper. It's foggy and I'm

weaving through traffic with no helmet. The bike is loose in the turns and

hugging the knife-edge of the gravel. I know that beyond the next turn, just past Mugu Rock, there's a Mack truck

holding to sideswipe me, but my throttle won't yield. In my dream, I'm comfortable with the inevitability of the next wreck, but when I'm awake, I'm more cautious about where I piss.

JEREMIAH WEBSTER

Scapegoat

With a rope around its neck I pull one of the males (the one

with the abscess behind the ear) out

from the shed and into the dry light of day. Head low to the ground, it smells milkweed and grass one last time.

Next to the tree I name it

Azazel, burn anise and palm leaves, breathe in the smoke before casting my lot.

I burden it, force it to swallow the list, to take it down the tender throat.

It receives every offense offered it, and I cannot sympathize. This is my way out.

I remove the rope, and with a dry hollow reed, hit it across the back,

enough to send it away, to wander off where there is no water, twisted horns low before a righteous god.

March-April 2009 NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW 43

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