Christopher Shipman
A Traditional Story of Exaggerated Consumption
For decades my father ate bricks for breakfast. It was hard to watch. The process obscene. This
was no magician’s trick. This a necessity. This a job. This was the most important meal of the day.
Waking meant having dreamed. Having dreamed meant fever. Meant sweat. Meant the memory
of his mother murdered with a brick. The memory of his mother murdered with a brick meant
stumbling down the hall from that dream into morning. Morning meant the brick waiting for him
on the kitchen table. Like a misplaced toy. Like a hat in a horror movie. Like that and like the alloy
of absence. Like irony. In the beginning he built miniature houses. In every corner of our house
another house. It was hard to learn to live among the clutter. He had to eat the bricks for breakfast,
he decided. We had to go on living. He acted as if he knew it would always come to this. Every
morning a brick for breakfast. Soon he could read the morning paper without gagging. His oatmeal
left untouched beside him he’d scrape the brick down. Sometimes he took the brick with him if
running late. Maybe to meet co-workers at McDonald’s before a new construction job. His Egg
McMuffin waiting in front of him. Like a sob. Like a difficult question. Like an unwrapped gift.
Sitting there beside the brick. Eventually he split town for good. Decided to stop eating the bricks.
One drunken night a decade before, he told of a city inside him. A city that loved the bricks. That
lived for them. That held grand ceremonies and sang songs as they arrived. A city that was nothing
without him. Now, wherever he is, the bricks keep piling around him. A city that grief builds.
Now, wherever he is, I search for any sign of him. I have my flashlight. My provisions. His name
lodged like a brick in my throat.
For decades my father ate bricks for breakfast. It was hard to watch. The process obscene. This
was no magician’s trick. This a necessity. This a job. This was the most important meal of the day.
Waking meant having dreamed. Having dreamed meant fever. Meant sweat. Meant the memory
of his mother murdered with a brick. The memory of his mother murdered with a brick meant
stumbling down the hall from that dream into morning. Morning meant the brick waiting for him
on the kitchen table. Like a misplaced toy. Like a hat in a horror movie. Like that and like the alloy
of absence. Like irony. In the beginning he built miniature houses. In every corner of our house
another house. It was hard to learn to live among the clutter. He had to eat the bricks for breakfast,
he decided. We had to go on living. He acted as if he knew it would always come to this. Every
morning a brick for breakfast. Soon he could read the morning paper without gagging. His oatmeal
left untouched beside him he’d scrape the brick down. Sometimes he took the brick with him if
running late. Maybe to meet co-workers at McDonald’s before a new construction job. His Egg
McMuffin waiting in front of him. Like a sob. Like a difficult question. Like an unwrapped gift.
Sitting there beside the brick. Eventually he split town for good. Decided to stop eating the bricks.
One drunken night a decade before, he told of a city inside him. A city that loved the bricks. That
lived for them. That held grand ceremonies and sang songs as they arrived. A city that was nothing
without him. Now, wherever he is, the bricks keep piling around him. A city that grief builds.
Now, wherever he is, I search for any sign of him. I have my flashlight. My provisions. His name
lodged like a brick in my throat.
--
Christopher Shipman (he/him) lives on Eno, Sappony, & Shakori land in Greensboro, NC, where he teaches literature & creative writing at New Garden Friends School & plays drums in The Goodbye Horses. His most recent work appears in FENCE, New Orleans Review, POETRY, & elsewhere. His experimental play Metaphysique D’ Ephemera has been staged at four universities. In collaboration with Vincent Cellucci, Getting Away with Everything is his most recent collection.
Christopher Shipman (he/him) lives on Eno, Sappony, & Shakori land in Greensboro, NC, where he teaches literature & creative writing at New Garden Friends School & plays drums in The Goodbye Horses. His most recent work appears in FENCE, New Orleans Review, POETRY, & elsewhere. His experimental play Metaphysique D’ Ephemera has been staged at four universities. In collaboration with Vincent Cellucci, Getting Away with Everything is his most recent collection.