Underneath The Pavilion


Contains explicit language

In the park adjacent to my childhood stood a pavilion – a structure affording scenic views; used for pleasure and relaxation.

The Pavilion was built in the 1920’s. Its wooden structure withstood the elements: summers packed with drunken softball players, winters scattered with pot dealers, coded carvings left on railings and tables and doors and walls by young graffiti lovers.

I remember the fun my Brother and I had hiding underneath it, peeking through the floorboards above.

On humid summer nights, during softball games, Mothers and Fathers escorted their Children to the concession counter to buy treats: popcorn, ice cream drumsticks, soda in the can, peanuts, cotton candy. We would poke the bottom of patrons’ feet with popsicle sticks, making the kids cry who were too young to rat us out.

Sometimes I would hide there alone. That was when I learned things.

On a crisp fall night while the park was empty and everyone was at the football game across town, a Boyfriend took a Sister into The Pavilion to fuck her in a bathroom stall.

On a blustery winter day, when the trees had no leaves, she told him she was getting an abortion. She never told anyone.

On a mild spring morning before Mothers took their Children to the nearby playground, an unmarried Uncle met his gay Lover of whom he never spoke. He never told anyone.

A Son met Penthouse magazines hidden in a garbage can. His right hand met his shaft.

A Daughter met a Stranger who ruptured her hymen.

A Husband met his Mistress.

A Cousin met another Cousin.

A Niece and a married Couple.

A Nephew and a Neighbor.

A Brother and Sister.

A Father a Daughter.

Uncle Stepson

Second Cousins








Underneath The Pavilion, I learned about the structure of family.

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