He's Diving In
by Joseph Johnston
Even cooped up in the garage during the breadth of long winters it smelled of bad meat, the effect of blue propane on the flesh of dead animals. He purchased the propane grill a week after he purchased the ranch house in the suburbs five Julys ago. It’s all part of the uniform, isn’t it? The ranch house and the church membership and the patio furniture and the swimming pool and the shiny pickup truck with shinier bed lining that only ever hauls anything with copious amounts of dent fear and the regret of someone taking you up on the offer of a favor when you assumed they’d say no thanks. Two men in blue coveralls delivered it and hauled it up to his patio and thus began the regular Summer Sunday ritualistic meat preparation, the absolute picture of red blood sports rah rah go team glory.
He wore the suburban uniform well enough but wasn’t especially suited to the lifestyle. The solution was to fit in by committee so he hired people to manicure his lawn and wash his truck and maintain his pool but he never gave proper attention to grill maintenance. Not once did he push a wire brush across the grill and scrape the ashes of a thousand cheesburgers and ribeyes from the steel grate. None of the other fathers boasting of boats and Disney World and real estate acumen at the little league games ever mentioned taking care of their barbecues so it never appeared on any of his myriad suburban survival kit checklists. He kept his post every Sunday, flipping dinner
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