Jordan McClements of Dover is a painter and writer, whose art depicts the overdose/unsheltered crisis. His works are on display at the Dover Art League and at Studio B Milford.
Today, and when I raced go-carts at 60 mph in second grade, Dad tells me: “You didn’t let me down. You let yourself down. Keep your chin up. Remember, you’re a McClements.”
You smell the vinegar. The Old Bay. The ketchup. The lard from the oil for the large chicken fingers and french fries before you. Above is a purple-blue thunder sky, with lightning in orange and yellow. The woods are outlined in green-gray and black, deepening the blur from colors to shadows. They dance between bits of your chicken fingers, dunked in vinegar, Old Bay and ketchup. You wipe your hands all over the sides of your racing gloves. You can’t find your brown, slippery napkins, so you just put your fingers in the Mechanix all-black gloves. You are driving a Phantom Shadow. You are sponsored. You are Jordan “Star Dog Champion” McClements, about to go 60 mph on an asphalt track in second grade. You walk up to the large, yellow go-cart. It’s bigger than your sponsored Phantom Shadow, with stickers from sponsors all over it. It’s all-black, with lightning bolts in white and light blue and dark blue and orange. McClements Racing. You look back at your dad, working on his red go-cart. He placed third in the adult division. You have never been more scared in your life. You don’t know how you do it. You just listen to Dad. He’s in your head forever, for life.
Dad. He’s more human than William Shakespeare is. He says, “As soon as they say go, you give it gas. And until they throw a yellow or a red? You hold that gas down and keep on going, no matter what. You gotta lap ’em? You lap ’em. Don’t you forget: Star Dog Champion. You are a McClements. You are my son. And we are going to win this race. You hear me?”
You’ve counted the teeth from the larger yellow cart. And now, you’re running back, realizing it has almost a quarter more teeth and that this red monster is all hairy from Bugs Bunny. And the yellow monster cart is going to outrun you, and you look out to the fading yellow-into-sand-into-orange-into-red sky outside the go-cart track lined with family and trailers — like U-Hauls but bigger, for like a motorcycle.
You see McClements Racing and “One Nation Under God.” You feel so proud and look up to Dad more than you do Jesus. Dad is your No. 1. He’s cooler than Batman and Spider-Man, and can beat up all their villains, and I shouted. I screamed. I said, “Dad. He has more teeth than me.”
And Dad leaped up. Neal Cassady jumping out of fixing his go-cart, like a mechanic socketing a wrench on a lug nut but with poetry and swagger. A jolt. A rhythm. A walk to it, and now, you can’t remember anymore. You’ve had too many concussions. Is this the race I won and met Richard Petty, and we took a picture together, and my long hair looks like a helmet, while I’m holding my helmet with the lightning bolt? Or did I meet The King earlier, when I had the tiger go-cart? Or was it my last race, where I lapped them all, and on the second lap around, they did a late flag, and I slammed into someone, and I went to the hospital with a concussion?
I don’t know.
When you’re that fast, it doesn’t matter. It’s about achieving destiny and time with a rhythm and poetry, and drug use is the closest to feeling that close to your father. I was wrong about drugs, just like a lot of Americans are wrong about drugs. If you’re chasing love, especially love from your parents, then do the right thing, America. Spend time with your parents. You or they could be gone tomorrow.
Reader reactions, pro or con, are welcomed at civiltalk@iniusa.org.
