We moved into a new apartment last summer in Beachwood Canyon and one of the major perks of the place is that it has this beautiful open kitchen area with large windows, exposing us to panoramic views that face out to one side of the canyon. There are houses dotting the hillside, many on stilts, with outdoor decks with fluffy plants. At night, some of them have those gas fireplaces you sometimes see at fancy (or trashy) hotels. Some have twinkle lights wrapped around their deck awnings all year around.

In the springtime, as it is now, the trees grow greener and taller, blocking out most of the skyline besides the Capitol Records building. We see that, plus we can see half the red sign of The Knickerbocker Hotel. Our vantage point is askew, but so is LA's skyline.

And some days, I can see two American flags — one on the Capitol Records building and one atop the nameless building next to it. I began to notice the flags last summer. But if I were to put an adjective in front of those flags, I would suggest ominous because when I am my most paranoid and terrified, I'm convinced those American flags will inevitably become targets.

The police helicopters are very loud when they zip through Beachwood Canyon. When they are louder than usual, I watch the hawks and the crows fly through the skies and follow their flight patterns, trying to gauge if something is chasing them. Missiles, maybe.

Sometimes military jets rumble through the sky, and on those days, I think, once and for all, "Here comes the war." And if I'm downstairs or in another room, I hurry into the kitchen and nervously look toward those flags. "Take those down," I think. "They'll see us."

And when this inevitable war comes roaring through Beachwood Canyon, and my family asks me what to do, I will tell them, "SOMEONE WILL COME FOR US."

But that is one of the absolutes of what it means to be a man right now is that it is no longer an acceptable response to real or imagined danger. What it means to be a man in this confounding, constricted era of masculinity is inviolable: NO ONE IS COMING TO SAVE YOU.

Not even me. Especially me.

This fear is not new. Long before this current Trump administration arrived, I realized I had no map, escape route, or foolproof plan to rely upon if something terrible happened. If there is a knock at the door with men holding guns, I have no gun to shoot back. Should I get a gun? Will that make me feel like a man who can protect his children when the horrors of this world show up to our doorstep? When I go to this ugly place is when I'm at my most dangerous and desperate.

But after a few minutes of consideration and Googling local shooting galleries and "gun rentals," I arrive back to a lonelier, more impotent place: Some people are not meant to own guns, let alone shoot them, and I am one of those men.

Because I can't change a tire. I can't do my taxes. I can't light a grill. I usually can't hang a picture without creating holes the size of silver dollars in the drywall. (But the few times I have done it successfully, man, oh, man, did I feel like I could save us all.) I can't camp. Or ski. Or climb up ladders higher than six feet. I speak no other languages. I can't whistle with two fingers hooked inside my mouth.

I can go on. I can go on about the men I'm jealous of, the men I wish I was, the dad I wish I was, and become marooned on that thought for hours, sometimes days. Like, what good am I!

All this sobriety and I'm still left with all this Little Boy Shit. When I turn 60 – or 70 – will I be free from that? I wonder what that would feel like. But today, this very second, it is difficult for me to type this but I will just for you: I'm not man enough to protect anybody, not even from an imaginary war.

And what about you?

*****

The next installment of What It’s Like is for men only. I want all the men who read TSB to tell me what they’re afraid of — your own Little Boy Shit. What is the thing that you never want the world to shine a light on? Now’s the time to share.

All contributors will remain anonymous. Go hard, go sad, let’s spill it all out.

Please keep contributions to under 500 words.

Send your stories here: [email protected]

Subject: MAN STUFF

Anyone who submits gets three free months of TSB Sundays. – AJD

ALL ILLUSTRATIONS BY EDITH ZIMMERMAN

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*****

If you don't feel comfortable calling yourself an "alcoholic," that's fine. If you have issues with sex, food, drugs, codependency, love, loneliness, depression —whatever-whatever–come on in. Newcomers are especially welcome. We’re here.

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A POEM ON THE WAY OUT:

Where did the shooting stars go?They flit across my childhood skyAnd by my teens I no longer looked upward—My face instead peered through the windshieldOf my first car, or into the rearview mirror,All the small tragedies behind me,The road and the road’s curve up ahead.

The shooting stars?At night, I now look upward—Jets and single-prop planes.No brief light, nothing to wish for,The neighbor’s security light coming on.

Big white moon on the hill,Lantern on gravestones,You don’t count.

— “Gary Soto: New and Selected Poems”