The first time I came to California 
was the summer before seventh grade.
Dad was in a Jack London seminar 

at Sonoma State University
and drove the family there from Vermont 
in a red Ford Taurus station wagon

with a car carrier on top my sister and I packed 
full of stuff to keep us entertained 
during the five-week-long course he was taking. 

What we hauled cross-country included 
my roller skates, and I learned that the smooth 
asphalt walkways on campus

made contours that were perfect for gliding. 
We shared the grounds with a cheerleader camp;
scores of young women, though older than me,

gathered every morning to do drills
and I had just discovered the appeal for me 
of how a woman’s body looks –

what would become years of rampant desire, 
a curse and a blessing I only sensed 
at the time as a blend of yearning and shame. 

I knew their dorms were not far from ours.
I asked dad for permission to go out 
one evening after dinner on my skates.

He granted it, but told me to steer clear 
of the cheerleader’s dorms. So, I set out
in my fluorescent blue shorts and bright red 

horn-rimmed glasses. What harm, I thought, 
would come from passing under their windows? 
Indeed, they whistled and cat-called, made kiss-noises,

dubbed me “roller-boy”, and I delighted in all of it. 
Then around the corner of their dorm 
and waiting under a lamp was dad; 

his cigar tip glowed in the dusk. 
I can’t recall what he said, only the punishment, 
which was sending me to bed 

earlier than I was accustomed to. 
I lay there, frustrated in the dark, 
hours before sleep, wondering what 

I had really done wrong. That autumn, 
back at home, dad talked on the phone 
with one of his friends from the seminar: Vic, 

who introduced me to the sonic wonder 
of Compact Discs, and showed interest 
in what I myself was reading that summer 

as I got ahead of book assignments for school. 
Vic asked to speak with me. “I hope your pop 
isn’t being too hard on you.” He said.