{"id":2479,"date":"2021-07-06T01:12:26","date_gmt":"2021-07-06T01:12:26","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/sites.miamioh.edu\/oxmag\/?page_id=2479"},"modified":"2021-07-06T01:12:26","modified_gmt":"2021-07-06T01:12:26","slug":"bob-the-great-by-jason-emde","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/sites.miamioh.edu\/oxmag\/bob-the-great-by-jason-emde\/","title":{"rendered":"Bob the Great by Jason Emde"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

The main thing is I have this gigantic fucking Peter the Great presentation in my Russian History class this afternoon and, because of our little tiff last night, our little whatchamacallit, contretemps<\/em>, which started out as a mildly amusing disagreement about the precise meaning of oblong<\/em>, which let\u2019s face it neither of us was too sure about, and escalated until some pretty choice insults were exchanged\u2014including one about my teeth, which I\u2019m sensitive about, for obvious reasons\u2014Charlie has clearly and with malice aforethought driven off to the college without me, which means I\u2019m going to have to hitch. After I clean up the argument wreckage, of which there is precious little. Actually none. But still. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Oh, Charlie. What the fuck was that<\/em> all about? A nice quiet evening in, and then pow, <\/em>contention. One day, Bob, you\u2019ll grow up and understand all this<\/em>, you said. Among other things. And I said some things too. None as good as that, though. That was a good one. I\u2019ll be sure to inscribe it in my little mental book of resentment and acrimony.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I putter around muttering free-range, high-resolution anti-Charlie complaints and washing the dishes and putting things where they belong and tidying my desk and getting dressed and prepped and coffee\u2019d and so on. I brush my teeth quickly and well, uneasy eye on the calendar, uneasy eye on the clock. Big-deal presentation. Peter the Great. Born 9 June 1672, etc. Practically built the Russian Navy with his bare hands, etc etc. Thanks a fucking lot<\/em>, Charlie. Thanks a ton<\/em>. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Oh, Charlie. Oh, dear girl. Oh, you fucking Charlie. Not her real name, of course. Her real name\u2019s Isis, which she felt it was best to, you know, keep quiet\u2014on the down-low<\/em>, as some goon in my Russian History class says all the time, keep it on the down-low, man<\/em>\u2014in light of the bullshit being perpetrated under that name way over there, not in Russia. I always thought Isis was a fantastic<\/em> name, a very sexy name, and was even more impressed when she told me\u2014first conversation, not first date, but the first time we ever talked, me on my second of three beers, she looped, at the college pub in our first year, what do the Americans call it, I can never remember, our junior<\/em> year?\u2014that her dad had named her after the Bob Dylan song, which happens to be my third-favourite Dylan song, off Desire<\/em>, my fourth favourite Dylan album, released 5 January 1976. Great song. And also Isis\/Charlie was and is<\/em> beautiful, like double-take beautiful, long hair, a charming triangle of moles on her throat, large, sensual lips, large, sensual eyes, great body, and great teeth, it must be said. Plus she\u2019s smart and funny and generous. A good student, too. A good student in the science program<\/em>, but nobody\u2019s perfect. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Freshman<\/em>, I think it is, probably. Should look that up and remember it. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

And I don\u2019t mind hitching; I\u2019ve done it before and it\u2019s never not worked out. I just dislike the disruption in my schedule. I resent the unexpected glitch. I had a plan and Charlie wrecked it by driving off and leaving me here, still asleep, dreaming about blueprints and Lego. And that comment about my teeth. That was pretty low. Pretty down-low<\/em>. Did I deserve it? I sometimes do. One day I won\u2019t, though. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

And that guy, the down-low<\/em> guy, he\u2019s always asking me if I want to smoke a joint on the down-low before our Russian History class and it doesn\u2019t matter how many times I tell him I don\u2019t like to smoke before class, that I get way too paranoid and unrelaxed and itchy and it\u2019s no fun and the class is a write-off and if and when I smoke dope I like to lie in bed, alone or with Charlie, and listen to Beethoven\u2019s String Quartet No. 14 on headphones. I\u2019m quite firm and specific about all that and he keeps asking me anyway. Why do people never listen when you tell them things? And Charlie has the effrontery, whatchamacallit, the unmitigated gall<\/em> to call me judgemental<\/em>. Her deal is I\u2019m judgemental<\/em>. That\u2019s what she told me. I denied it, of course. I just don\u2019t like people who don\u2019t remember simple shit and keep trying to fuck with my understanding and enjoyment of Russian History. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Oh, Charlie. Did you know I had this presentation? You did, didn\u2019t you? And you know I need to do well on it to keep my GPA what it is, right? And that my scholarship depends on my GPA? And our apartment depends on my scholarship? Dah<\/em>. And you don\u2019t really think I\u2019m judgemental, do you? Just because I\u2019m tired of people starting sentences with So <\/em>all the time? Really fucking tired?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And that down-low<\/em> guy isn\u2019t even the worst, the worst is that jughead in my American Novel class, the guy who won\u2019t stop talking about his uncle\u2019s shit diary. His uncle keeps a little notebook next to the toilet and writes down the date and size and shape and consistency of all his bowel movements, every last one. Each time the guy goes over to his uncle\u2019s house he always sneaks a peek at the diary and then when he sees me at school he gleefully tells me all about it. \u201cFriday, October 21: one long unbroken turd. Two wipes.\u201d You can admire the uncle\u2019s dedication and discipline but who wants to hear about long unbroken turds? Especially when right afterwards you have to talk about John Dos Passos for three hours?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Revolt of the Streltsy, 1682. Peter\u2019s height: 203 centimetres. Possible epilepsy. Facial tics. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

All right. Notes, wallet, phone, keys, smokes, lighter, portable ashtray, Peter Massie\u2019s biography of Peter the Great, which is great, even if Peter himself wasn\u2019t, if you ask me. Why? Unfocused disruption. Obsession with the new. Enormous drunkenness and confusion. Up all night. Sloppy. Errant. What\u2019s so great about that? Would Charlie go for a guy like that? I bet she would, actually. More fun<\/em> than me. Drunker, anyway. But there\u2019s that potential epilepsy to consider.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I check my phone. No messages. Don\u2019t bare your judgemental teeth at me<\/em>, is what Charlie said, last night. Which, like, jesus. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I check that the stove and the heaters and all the lights are off, let myself out, lock the door, check the door, and hump up the driveway to Pleasant Valley Crescent, which, like, spare me, name-wise. Jump the tumbledown fence and cross the field, which is covered in something short and brown and dry, straw or clover or I don\u2019t know what. Hay? But thank goodness it\u2019s short and all bent down. Otherwise I\u2019d be nervous about ticks, which are the worst, which are the fucking pits<\/em>, trust me. But that\u2019s nature for you. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Almost to the highway, and then a smoke, a quick hitch to college, and my big presentation, 25% of my final grade. Not yet cutting it close, time-wise, but getting there. St Petersburg, carved out of a northern swamp. Peter the Great\u2019s gang of dwarves that he took around with him all the time, and when he went to where was it, Prussia or Vienna, on the Grand Embassy, the Emperor there had a gang of giants<\/em>. If I could go back in time I think I\u2019d want\u2014<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And I almost step right on it. I almost put my foot right into its guts. A dead dog. Roadkill, and I guess whoever hit it was going fast enough that the dog flew right off the highway, right into the clover or straw or hay or whatever this stuff is. But ok. A very dead dog. German Shepherd, looks like, though it\u2019s sort of hard to tell. The thing\u2019s at least half puddle now. Don\u2019t think I\u2019ve ever seen anything this big dead before. This is unexplored territory. I bend down to get a closer look. Dah<\/em>, the smell. And there\u2019s a maggot gala going on in this dog\u2019s guts and no mistake. They\u2019re going nuts<\/em> in there. Good grief. But again: what do you expect? This is what the natural world is like.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019ve got Peter the Great to worry about. I circle around the dog, climb the fence, scramble up the embankment, cross the highway, put down my bag, and light a cigarette with my Zippo, a present from Charlie, dammit. It\u2019s the least I can do after getting you to start smoking<\/em>, she said, and laughed her huge, uninhibited laugh, head back, hair hanging down. I never laugh like that. My teeth, and everything.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Grand Embassy to Europe, 1697-8. Allowed his own son to be tortured to death, 1718. Another excellent reason not to swallow the historical hype. Great<\/em>, my royal red ass.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Usually, when you light a cigarette while hitchhiking, a car will stop for you immediately. It\u2019s practically guaranteed. And then you pretty much have to ditch the smoke, as a matter of hitchhiking politeness. But the first thing I do, when somebody pulls over and I climb in, is to check for an active ashtray. Smoking takes some of the power out of the awkwardness of talking to a stranger with a car. Plus it\u2019s something to talk about: brands, the fucking tax, the government, whatever. So I stand there smoking, trusting in cigarette magic. But this time it doesn\u2019t work. Nobody stops. I finish the first smoke and immediately light another, relishing, as always, the perfect click<\/em> of the Zippo\u2019s lid closing. And still<\/em> no luck. I stand there smoking and muttering and worrying and cursing Charlie and feeling sorry for myself and looking at my watch and checking my phone and waving my thumb around, like a chump.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Until now I thought she liked my teeth. She said she did, and she likes to lick them when we\u2019re fucking. She gets her tongue right up there. Nobody else has ever done that and it kind of spooked me the first time, frankly. Who likes crooked teeth? Who likes to lick<\/em> crooked teeth? But that\u2019s Charlie for you. When I asked her why, that first time, she said Because I felt like it. <\/em>Where would I ever find another girl like that? Why did I argue with a girl like that over what oblong<\/em> means?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Died 1725, aged 52, his bladder infected with gangrene. My bladder? Completely gangrene-free. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

And that dog. Knocked off the highway and now sort of melted<\/em>. Will the maggots eat everything, eventually, but the bones? How long will it take? Is it fast? Is it over fast? <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019m busy worrying Charlie\u2019s going to dump me because I\u2019m uptight and judgemental when a ramshackle and dubious looking car comes to an action-packed, dust-sprawling stop on the shoulder. Only a certain kind of person tends to pick up hitchhikers, and that certain kind of person tends to have a certain kind of dubious car, so I\u2019m used to that. But that stunt stop? I don\u2019t want an adventure<\/em>, I want to get to school and get up in front of the neat rows of desks and do my presentation and get an A and maintain my GPA and keep my scholarship and keep living with Charlie.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I run up to the door and open it and, even before I see the driver\u2019s face or anything else, I confirm that there\u2019s an active ashtray. A hyper<\/em>-active ashtray: it\u2019s practically overflowing. Which means a heavy smoker. Good. Great. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThanks a lot,\u201d I say, getting in. That\u2019s what I always say. I turn and look at the driver. He\u2019s looking at me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThought you were a chick,\u201d he says, and stomps on the gas.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I make a non-committal, conciliatory noise. I have long hair, it\u2019s true. Another one of Charlie\u2019s suggestions. That way I can pretend you\u2019re a girl, sometimes<\/em>, she said, laughing her big brazen laugh.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWouldn\u2019t\u2019ve picked you up if I knew you were a dude<\/em>. Ha! Just joshin.\u2019 Hippy motherfucker. Where you headed, man?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cTo the college,\u201d I say, trying to put on a non-existent seatbelt. He\u2019s driving very fast. Very.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNever went to fuckin\u2019 college. Don\u2019t need that shit for driving truck.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou\u2019re a truck driver?\u201d Uniform: flannel shirt, jeans, baseball cap, proto-mullet, little red eyes. A type. A deplorable<\/em> type. Just another small-minded, bubble-headed bozo who won\u2019t understand my life and situation with sufficient exactitude to say anything useful or interesting about it. Member of a different tribe. A zillion dollars says he says It is what it is<\/em> at least once sometime in the next five minutes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOccasionally, bro. Not right now, evidently. Hur hur hur. Want a smoke?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019ve got some,\u201d I say, reaching into my pocket and pulling out my Players Light and Zippo.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNaw, fuck! A smoke<\/em>, bro!\u201d And with an oddly elegant flourish he pulls a plastic container out of his shirt pocket, flips the lid open, and shakes a perfectly rolled, oil-heavy joint into his mouth. \u201cFuckin\u2019 Players Light. Ha!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I take a closer look at the ashtray, which I now see is overflowing with roaches<\/em>. And there\u2019s the smell, of course, finally getting through.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He lights the joint and takes an exuberant drag and passes it to me. \u201cWhat\u2019s your name, kid?\u201d he says in that bottled-up voice people use when their lungs are full of smoke. He also does that little jerky thing with the joint, like, hurry up, take it<\/em>. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBob,\u201d I say, taking the reefer and thinking fast. This is a delicate matter. Having accepted a ride, I am, to a great extent, bound by the driver\u2019s rules and style. It\u2019s a matter of manners and tradition. In exchange for a ride you agree to be pleasantly conversational, non-irritating, undogmatic, and just interesting enough to justify the pick-up, but not too<\/em> interesting, because, most of the time, people who pick up hitchhikers are bored and just want to talk at somebody. So you sit there and try to be as blandly cordial as possible. Refusing the joint, therefore, will be seen as a rejection of his generosity and a vast and unheroic failure of nerve and flair on my part, if the chaotic ashtray is any indication. Having accepted the ride the joint is pretty much compulsory. Rebuff, now, will ensure bad vibes and even, possibly, ejection. And I\u2019ve got to get to school and do my presentation. Time, time, time. Time is now an enemy. My<\/em> enemy. Look what you\u2019ve got me into, Charlie. Thanks a fucking ton<\/em>. One day I\u2019ll forgive you for this. Probably. But maybe not. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Peter the Great: legendary carouser. His so-called All-Joking, All-Drunken Holy Synod was the debauched heart of Moscow. Vodka until everybody passed out, night after night. Precious little reefer madness, though, I\u2019ll bet. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I decide to take a quick, polite toke, pass the joint back, immediately light a cigarette, and use that as a kind of buffer against the joint, if I can. It\u2019s a pretty flimsy plan but it\u2019s the best I can do at present. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBob! Ha! That\u2019s my name too! Well, Robbie, actually. Fuckin\u2019 how about that, eh?\u201d He laughs. \u201cSpell that shit backwards, it\u2019s the same motherfuckin\u2019 shit.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The first drag is apocalyptic and beautiful and I am instantly and outrageously high. Ohhhhh, dear me. Oh, shit<\/em>. I feel squawking paranoia dig icicle talons into my shoulders. My teeth start pulsing and I get that weird, awful sensation where you feel like your throat is sliding down your throat every time you swallow. The road underneath my feet is suddenly under my feet<\/em>, rushing. Charlie!<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMmmmmmmm,\u201d says Robbie, taking a noisy drag on the joint and humming and squinting.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It\u2019s sunny and there\u2019s a ceaseless glinting<\/em> all over. Points on the lake, heaving in its bed of mud, to the left and down. Roadside signs, oncoming cars, guardrails, Robbie\u2019s hood ornament, all glinting like crazy. Too much. Too bright. To the right, and reaching to the no-colour hills: fields full of ticks. And the road\u2019s white line, all<\/em> the lines, blurring. I need to say something.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI saw my first dead dog today,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOh, fuck<\/em>. Dead fuckin\u2019 dogs. True story. You ready? Mmmmmm. One time, there I am, yeah? Hitchin,\u2019 just like you. Down by the border. I was coming back from South America actually. So I\u2019m coming back, and I get over the border, nearly fuckin\u2019 home at long fuckin\u2019 last, and buddy picks me up, eh? And he\u2019s loaded, he\u2019s fuckin\u2019 shitfaced<\/em>, he\u2019s driving all over the fuckin\u2019 road like this\u2014\u201d and, agonizingly, he shows me, crosses two lanes of traffic, rocks back, jerks the wheel, swerves, lunges, hunches to pass, honks the horn, laughs maniacally, looks over at me, and laughs some more. Footwell garbage, disrupted by the zigzagging, settles in new clumps around my feet. \u201cYou alright there, Bob? Fuckin\u2019 hell! That\u2019s how I<\/em> felt! That fucker was a menace<\/em>. And I\u2019ve got my dog in my backpack, yeah? Little guy, a terrier. This is like three fuckin\u2019 dogs back. Rasputin. Good fuckin\u2019 dog. Got him\u2014well, wherever. But Raspy\u2019s in my bag, and this yahoo\u2019s all over the road\u201d\u2014and here he nudges the wheel, just to remind me\u2014\u201cand no fuckin\u2019 kiddin,\u2019 in order to avoid crashin\u2019 into the fuckin\u2019 thing in the middle, the what the fuck do you call it\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe oblong?\u201d I say.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYeah! No! Oblong!<\/em> What the fuck, Bob! The fuckin\u2019 thing in the middle of the road. So he swerves<\/em>, right, and he\u2019s goin\u2019 way too fast and the whole fuckin\u2019 car flips over, wham<\/em>, right onto the fuckin\u2019 roof, and slidin\u2019 and shit, and there\u2019s carnage everywhere, and we crawl out and the fuckin\u2019 cops are there in no time and they\u2019re givin\u2019 me all kinds of shit and I wasn\u2019t even drivin\u2019 and my dog is fuckin\u2019 dead<\/em>, there\u2019s fuckin\u2019 blood and gore all over the place and Raspy is dead. And I\u2019m like, fuck<\/em>. Ha!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019m having trouble following this. I\u2019m having trouble, generally. Is he talking about the dog I just saw? About death? Dead dogs? Why is he talking about death and laughing<\/em>? Ohhhh, dear me. Oh, fuck<\/em>. And one day I will get old and die. Or, thanks to this lunatic, maybe today. Maybe today\u2019s the day. Time, time, time, getting smaller. Robbie passes the joint back and before I realize what I\u2019m doing I take another drag. The smoke roils out of me in billowing shrouds. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

The lake, the fields, the road, the sky. Lots of clouds, scudding. We\u2019re moving fast, Robbie\u2019s really rolling, and that means I am too, in the dubious car.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Roil<\/em>? Is that the right word? Is that the word I want?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAh, Raspy. Good old fuckin\u2019 Rasputin. Took me a long time to get over him but, you know, I fuckin\u2019 did. Know how? Huh?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I make a strangled noise I hope sounds like relaxed and casual interest.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

 \u201cAudaciousness<\/em>. Fuckin\u2019 boldness<\/em>, Bob! Genius! Magic! Power!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The supreme, the Herculean effort even just to think<\/em> about getting my notebook out, and getting a pen too, and writing down what Robbie is saying about genius and magic and power. Useful information? Might be. Audacity. Boldness. But it\u2019s hard to think. Time, time, time. And god, it\u2019s hot and smokey. It\u2019s a jungle in here. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Peter the Great born in. Watched the whatchamacallit, the Streltsy hack his family to pieces. Mother\u2019s name: Sophie? Sophia? Old Believers. Tax on beards. War with Sweden. King whatsisface. Charles. Charles the second? Third? Epilepsy. Gangrene. Azoz: that Turkish fort in the Crimea or wherever.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThey eat them,\u201d I hear myself saying, \u201cin Korea. Dogs.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cFuckin\u2019 A. China too. To each his own, eh? Didn\u2019t bother trying myself. Ha!\u201d I look at him; he\u2019s floating radiant in the middle of endless flashing glints. He looks back at me, eyes impossibly wide. \u201cHey, fuck, Bob College, you ever hear of a fuckin\u2019 writer called Vladimir Mayakovsky? He\u2019s the fuckin\u2019 reason I went to Russia in the first place. \u2018Stupid crybaby, get some sense!\u2019 That\u2019s from “About St Petersburg” or that other one, I can never fuckin\u2019 remember which.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The lake, glinting on the left, and fields, full of rocks, to the right, and behind both the lake and the fields, stretching back and up, bigger and bigger hills and then mountains, low and dark and covered in trees. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

One day I\u2019ll do something vast and heroic and bold, I think. One day I\u2019ll get control. One day I\u2019ll be Bob the Great<\/em>. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

There\u2019s a huge, horrific noise and an explosion and dust and carnage and then we\u2019re stopped. Stupefied, I look out the window. We\u2019re at the access road to the college. Dust from the shoulder is free falling all around the car, and the light through it, and the quiet, and everything. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHere you go, Bob. Safe and sound. Unless you wanna keep goin\u2019? Huh? No? Ha! But here, wait, wait.\u201d And he takes the container out of his shirt pocket again and shakes two joints out and puts them in my breast pocket. \u201cFor later, dude. Ease your fuckin\u2019 mind after class.\u201d The oil on the joints seeps through my shirt in long, thin, joint-shaped lines. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

He looks at me, red-eyed, smiling a great crooked happy reefer smile. I see that his upper teeth, the whatchamacallit, molars or incisors, are crooked, just like mine. Maybe worse than mine. Incisors, I\u2019m pretty sure.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGo easy, Bob,\u201d he says.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I try to thank him but too many things are happening and I have too much to worry about just now, my bag and the door and boldness and getting out and the dust and Robbie waving and car sounds and more dust and he\u2019s gone. He\u2019s fuckin\u2019 gone<\/em>. And here I am, here I am, weak-kneed in the middle of things. Stoned out of my whatchamacallit, what is it, gourd?<\/em> What is a gourd, anyway? What shape? Oblong?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Up the road the college makes college sounds. Unable to think of anything better to do I start trudging towards them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I wonder where Robbie was going. All the way?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Through the lower parking lot, around the library, into the central quad area. Must be almost one, students everywhere, everybody moving their arms and legs, science students, hacky-sack guys, teachers, custodial staff, the education students with their ukuleles. Life\u2019s rich pageant. One o\u2019clock: Russian History. I stand indecisive, immobile, wide-eyed, happy, one foot on the grass, the other on the walkway, staring. People go by. The world is full of people. People and light and air and sound. And there\u2019s Down Low, waving. Bet he\u2019d enjoy one of these joints. All the way.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Median<\/em>, it\u2019s called, Robbie. The median. And I owe you a zillion dollars, don\u2019t I?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Here comes Charlie. She comes right up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHi Bob,\u201d she says. And then she says more, like how her car\u2019s in the shop, as planned, as previously arranged, for the next week, the muffler, remember, the goddamn muffler? And she got a ride this morning with Gabrielle in her class, how did I get here? Did I hitch? Am I ready for my Peter the Great thing? And she leans in close and licks my right earlobe, once, fast, and then pulls back and looks at me and smiles, the moles on her throat making their perfect Charlie triangle, and the light on her teeth, and her eyes, her eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

One day I will know what to say. I will know all the perfect words. One day. Yes.
<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n\n\n\n

Jason Emde is a teacher, writer, undefeated amateur boxer, the author of My Hand\u2019s Tired & My Heart Aches (Kalamalka Press, 2005), the creator and host of the Writers Read Their Early Sh*t podcast, and MFA Creative Writing Program candidate at UBC.. He lives in Japan.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

The main thing is I have this gigantic fucking Peter the Great presentation in my Russian History class this afternoon and, because of our little tiff last night, our little whatchamacallit, contretemps, which started out as a mildly amusing disagreement about the precise meaning of oblong, which let\u2019s face it neither of us was too … <\/p>\n

Continue reading “Bob the Great by Jason Emde”<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2310,"featured_media":0,"parent":0,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"_bbp_topic_count":0,"_bbp_reply_count":0,"_bbp_total_topic_count":0,"_bbp_total_reply_count":0,"_bbp_voice_count":0,"_bbp_anonymous_reply_count":0,"_bbp_topic_count_hidden":0,"_bbp_reply_count_hidden":0,"_bbp_forum_subforum_count":0,"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-2479","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"aioseo_notices":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/sites.miamioh.edu\/oxmag\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/2479","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/sites.miamioh.edu\/oxmag\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/sites.miamioh.edu\/oxmag\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/sites.miamioh.edu\/oxmag\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2310"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/sites.miamioh.edu\/oxmag\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=2479"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/sites.miamioh.edu\/oxmag\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/2479\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/sites.miamioh.edu\/oxmag\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=2479"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}