Memory 2 Week 9

Just call me Fandango, my sister says as she spouts movie times.
It's almost the opening line of Moby Dick, but not quite.
This would be something I would say, if I had read Moby Dick.
We were just outside Glacier Park, in Columbia Falls, Montana,
at the Motel 6 substitute that served breakfast.
My cousin finagled the bed from me, so I slept on the floor.
But it was still early, and we went to that movie
with the yellow pill-like beings in overalls,
who wore goggles and turned purple when mad.
One sang an interlude for a banana, another carried around
a unicorn doll and I laughed, hoping for somewhere I might
not be 20. It's a limbo worse than limbo. Where you can't
legally drink, but can be convicted of statutory rape if you wanted.
I didn't want. For that.
No, I wanted something more primal, basic.
The place where my parents and my future coincided, happy.
I couldn't have them in one place without a buffer, my sister.
Instead, I had a place where a woman sat us down on a porch bench
after a card game, telling us we were wrong about our father,
who wanted to play golf-- and not with us. Being 20 is a white whale.
A fleeting age where water only vanishes if you see it,
and Ahab's your father always running after you with a criticism.
You can't lop off his leg, because you can be tried for assault
and I can't be a prison bitch.