daron aric hagen

When my mother was a kid there was a man in her neighborhood who used to get methodically drunk every weekend. At the peak of his damp oblivion he'd take a package of pennies and burst it open. Then he'd toss the pennies into the street with a beery nonchalance, and my mother and her friends would all scramble after them — down on their hands and knees, pushing, snatching and shrieking. Then he was Olympian.

One night just before my teens my father, throwing his suits into a valise and pledging to move out, emptied the change from his pockets onto the floor and ordered me to pick it up.

How our Gods come tumbling down. Whether our buttocks are raised away in prayer, or in a gutter chasing pennies, we'll squeeze our eyes shut to avoid watching our idols totter.