A breeze from the south

Friday, May 22, 2009, 9:03am
Steve's house

Chris calling, my cell phone says.

This is bad. Chris never calls my cell, especially in the morning. Something is wrong. And if something is wrong, it's probably about dad.

I've been meaning to call my father for a while. It's been a week or so since I've spoken with him, and I've been worried since Greg told me dad was complaining of shortness of breath a few days ago. And of course, Dad has been getting dialysis three times a week for three and a half years, and he had heart surgery, and he takes 100 different kinds of pills...

I hit SEND on my phone. "Hello. Hello?" No one's there.

I'll call dad. That's what I'll do. I'll call him, and he'll pick up, with his usual "HEEE-llo", and I'll laugh a little, and realize I was worrying over nothing. I'll call him, and we'll have a nice chat.

Chris calling, says the phone again.

"Steve, it's Chris. I've got some bad news. About dad."

Please don't let him be dead. Please just let him be in the hospital again. I'll go visit him with Tim and the baby, and we'll nurse him back to health. He'll beat the odds, surprise the doctors and walk out of there on his own in a few weeks, just like he did last time.

Just please, please, don't let him be dead.

**********

Gardenview Estates Senior Living Community, late afternoon

Dad and I sit on a farmer's porch in wicker lawn chairs. The sun burns from a flawless sky, as blue as a Navy man's jacket. Each time the heat gets uncomfortable, a gentle breeze blows in, as if God has installed a giant thermostat just for us.

I turn to face dad and he's already looking at me, his eyebrows lifted a little, his mouth closed tightly.

"So... I guess this is it, kid," he says, finally.

"It can't be, Dad. It can't be. I don't know what I would do without you."

"Yeahh, ya do," he says, turning his head away from me. "You're a grown person. You don't need me as a father anymore. You need me as a friend. People lose friends all the time."

"You make it sound so trivial. You're my father!"

"Are you really gonna miss our bi-monthly phone conversations that much?" He grins.

"Come on. I have a new baby, you know. And a wife. And a job. I get busy."

His mouth spreads into a wide smile, a contented smile, as if I were Frank Sinatra singing a beautiful tune.

"See? See?? You're busy living your life," he says. "All fathers go eventually. That's the way it's supposed to be."

"But there are so many things I should have said. And I should have spent more time with you. I feel horrible."

He listens patiently, his eyes locked on me. "What do you want to say, Steve? That you love me? That you appreciate everything I did for you? That you'll never forget me?"

"Yeah. Something like that."

"And you didn't think I knew all that already?"

"It wouldn't have hurt to say it."

"Maybe not. But that's not how it was with us. It was assumed," he shrugs.

We both stare at the Tigerlillies in the flower beds near our feet. "That mulch is fresh. Can you smell it? I used to love that smell," he says.

"Dad, what happened?"

"To me?"

"No. To Al Pacino. Of course to you!"

"Well, first my parents had sex," he says, gesturing with his hand. "Then, about nine months later, I came down the birth canal..."

"Dad."

His smile fades. "It was quick, Steve. Don't worry about the details."

"I need to know, dad."

"Why?" he asks, squinting at me.

"So my imagination won't run away with me."

He breathes deeply, running his thumb and forefinger across the collar of his white undershirt. It occurs to me that this is hard for him, despite everything.

"I got up, got dressed, and went out to the car to go to dialysis. I was due there at 6am. I felt funny. Lightheaded, like.

"I got in the car, closed the door, and when I went to put the key in the ignition..."

"That was it?"

"Everything went white. Not black. It was white everywhere I could see."

He pauses again, staring into the sky. "I took a deep breath. I had to force it. My whole body was shutting off. For a second I could see again. I was parked facing the building and I could see the window to an office. It was Carole's office, the one who does the marketing. Carole wasn't there, of course. It was early..."

"And then what?"

"And den, nuttin'!" He says summarily. "Everything really did go black after that."

"Did it hurt?"

He shrugs. "Just for a second. It was very fast."

It's easier for me to breathe now that I know the details. I'll never get over it, but now I don't have to wonder what it was like for him.

"Did you see the tunnel and the light?"

"Yeah," he laughs. "Your mother was there. And my mother and father. Your mother had a drink in her hand."

"What?!"

He throws his head back and laughs, a little too hard for the joke. Gradually, silence descends again.

"Don't be mad at your mother, Steve."

"I'm not."

I turn to look at him. "I hadn't seen you in a couple of months. I feel very bad about that," I say, finally.

"You know that CD stand in my apartment? The wooden one?"

"Yeah. What about it?"

"I had all my CDs and DVDs on there. I used it every day. Before that, I had them piled up on the... on the windowsill next to my chair."

"I know, Dad. I built that stand for you."

"Of course you did! That's my point! You did something that made me happy every day. And you fixed my computer, you set up my Facebook profile picture, you married Tim..."

The laugh again. This time I join him.

"She's my favorite daughter-in-law. Don't tell the other two. I love her just as if she was my own daughter."

"She loves you too, Dad." God dammit. How am I going to tell her?

"Yeah, that's not gonna be easy," he says. Holy shit. Did he read my mind?

"I didn't say that out loud, did I, Dad?"

"Nope. I know things now. I hear things."

He sighs a little. "I would have liked you to be here more. But you were two hours away. We talked on the phone sometimes, and that was nice. It's not like I was totally bored around here. And you just had a baby...That baby of yours," he smiles, his voice trailing off.

"She comes here on April first, you leave six weeks later. That wasn't a coincidence, was it?"

"No. I had something to live for. Someone I wanted to see. I was ready after that."

"But you were so healthy!"

He raises his eyebrows. "Oh really?" he says, sarcastically. "Take a look at all the meds I was taking sometime, Steve.

"I could've died three years ago, the first time I got sick. It wasn't my time. Now it is."

"But what if you collapsed 90 seconds earlier? What if you were in the main lobby instead of your car? Maybe someone would have seen you! They could have called someone--"

"Steve," he interrupts. "What if your brother was an hour later coming to my house three years ago? I was saved that day because I got lucky. And I got lucky during rehab, when I got a bad infection and almost died. How much luck can one guy have?"

"I wanted another five years. Or more," I say.

"Five years? Yeah, sure," he says, with a dismissive wave of the hand. "Five more years on dialysis? Do you have any idea how hard dialysis is on the body?"

"Not exactly."

He shakes his head. "My body was getting tired. I could feel it. I knew it."

"I'm sorry, Dad."

"About what? I got three and a half years. Three and a half years!!" he shouts. "I visited family, I went to the casinos, I even found some fun things to do with the old geezers around here! I played Bingo and Pinochle, I sang in the choir--remember?!"

"Yes. I hope you handed out cotton balls."

"No, I stood in the back," he smiles. The comeback was quick, so quick that he was obviously anticipating my wisecrack.

"I had fun," he says. "I was very lucky."

"It just feels weird," I say. "It feels... wrong. What if they put men on Mars someday? You won't see that!"

"I've seen wars, I've seen peace, I've seen good presidents and bad presidents. I saw 9/11, I saw Pearl Harbor. I saw men on the moon. But best of all, I was in the room when each one of you kids were born and I was there to watch you grow up. You boys all turned out very well. You I wasn't sure about for a while," he says, and though he smiles wickedly, his eyes are very sad.

"I know I didn't always make it easy. I'm sorry--"

"Ah, Jesus. What is this, Ghost Whisperer now?" he smiles. "Seriously, I'm so proud of you, the beautiful girl you married, and your little daughter. You take care of that little girl. Treasure her every single day. Treasure both of them!" he says, his face going steely.

"I will. I do. I promise, Dad."

"Good."

The sun has set a little. A breeze kicks up, and suddenly I smell Lilacs. I had forgotten they grow them here.

"I feel like there's a million things to say, but I can't even think of one. Dad, do you... have any..."

He looks at me. "Do I have any what?"

"Any, I don't know, words of wisdom?"

He rolls his eyes. "Holy Christ! What am I, a fortune cookie?"

"Well, you know, any advice? Anything?"

"Don't act like you're trying to solve a mystery. I already told you everything you need to know. You already know it. It's your wife and daughter. That's it. Everything else is secondary."

"I know."

"Then why do you work so much?"

"Uh, I..."

"Stumped by an apparition. That's pretty weak, Steve," he says, shaking his head. "Do me a favor. Don't tell me you know. Just do what you're supposed to do. When things get hard someday, and they will get hard, and you and Tim are fighting, and you are feeling like you want to give up, that is when you have to remember it. When you have problems, work on them. Don't walk away. Stay there, even when it's hard. You got it?" he says, his eyes locked on mine.

"I will."

"Promise me."

"I promise, Dad." I say, my throat tightening, my voice sinking to a whisper.

The breeze gets stronger. A tuft of dad's wispy hair stands straight up for a moment before flopping back down.

"A breeze from the south," he says. "It always blows from the south in the afternoon. I'm gonna miss that. I'm gonna miss a lot of things," he says, and his eyes have gone misty too. He turns quickly away from me.

The breeze subsides and the porch goes almost completely silent. A bird sings, but it's far, far away and I can barely hear it.

Dad stands up, his wicker chair creaking slightly. "Gotta go inside. It's dinner time. These old fogies eat pretty early."

"Can I come, Dad?"

He shakes his head.

"Please?"

He takes a step towards me and rubs the back of my head with his big right hand. He used to do that years ago, when I would come home and complain of a lousy day at school.

"You wouldn't like the food anyway," he laughs, and turns toward the entrance. He takes a few steps and then turns back to me. "I want you to know I love you very much," he says, and I can barely see him through my tears.

"I love you too, Dad."

"See? We can say it after all!" he smiles, and as he walks toward the door, he seems younger somehow, his back straighter, his step lighter.

"Dad? Dad! Don't go yet!"

The bird sings again, closer now. I turn to look at him.

He sits on a branch, the upper part of his body a brilliant yellow, the rest a deep black. Chirrrp chirp chirp, he says, just three short syllables.

Chirrrp, chirp chirp.


This is all happening too quickly. I need to see my dad one more time, need to cast my eyes on him once more, even if it's just to watch him walk away.

I turn quickly to see him, but I'm all alone.

What Mom Left Behind

I submitted this a while back to fieldreport.com... check it out...
-Stevo

=========================================================

It's fascinating to read a love letter long after a breakup, or to hold the boutonniere from my prom tuxedo in my hand 15 years after I wore it. I stash mementos like these in a shoebox on the top shelf of my closet and look at them sometimes; they make my history seem more real.

Buried in the box, under an old deck of playing cards and my first camera, is a black silk scarf that my mother used to wear in her hair. It's a relic of the 70's, full of trippy, swirling designs; I remember staring at it, mesmerized, when I was four.

Silk was new to me. Whenever mom wore the scarf, I would climb on the couch and reach for it, delighting in its smoothness as I rolled it back and forth between my fingers. "Steve!" she would giggle.

But my mother was hardly the Carol Brady you are probably imagining. When I was ten or so, she began a long battle with alcoholism, and though some part of her still cared about her family, her true love was the nasty stuff in those fancy bottles.

Mom loved Southern Comfort. She was obsessed with it. Like a clingy girlfriend, she constantly kept a bottle close by her side, and stacked cases of it in our storage room as if our house were a prohibition-era speakeasy. SoCo was her lover, her priest, her therapist; it preoccupied her enough to forget my birthdays and to mortify me by staggering into the middle of the street in her ratty bathrobe, puffing on a clove cigarette, shrieking at me to come home for dinner.

The liquor made her unpredictable. Sometimes I would break a glass or a dinner plate, and she'd just smile warmly as she swept up the mess; other times, I'd drop a fork on the floor during dinner and she'd rip out a clump of my hair. Dad stuck up for me when he was home, but he worked 12-hour shifts at a factory, and most nights he came home after I had gone to bed.

She got worse. By the time I was 11, I dreaded holidays and family get-togethers. For some unfortunate reason, my seat at the table was right next to mom's, and it was guaranteed that, at some point during dinner, she would find a reason to crack me across the mouth in front of my aunts and uncles.

She beat me, and my two brothers. She called us every name on the bathroom wall, smacked us with wooden spoons, clawed us with her fingernails, and then kicked us when we covered our faces and dropped to the floor in the fetal position.

One day, when I was 12, mom told us that she was leaving for a while. We pleaded tearfully for her not to go, but she didn't listen. She had to be alone for a while, she said. Yeah, I cried too, but I remember how quiet the house got after the door closed behind her. A week later, I was thrilled to be rid of her.

She came home from time to time, usually to borrow money from dad. If he could spare it, he would surreptitiously hand her a folded-up wad of bills and make her swear that she wouldn't spend it on booze, a promise they both knew she wasn't going to keep.

To his credit, dad never complained. He never decried the injustice of his wife simply erasing herself from our lives, leaving him with all the responsibility. He never complained about money, though in retrospect I have no idea how he kept us fed and clothed on the salary he was making. My brothers and I never wanted for anything; we had bikes and videogames, just like the other kids. Dad could have used that money to go on dates, or for guys' nights out. But he sacrificed those things so my brothers and I could be happy, and I love him for that.

Dad never divorced mom. Though she had been out of the house for years, he left her on his health insurance, and always referred to her as his "wife", graciously making excuses when people asked where she was.

I'm supposed to say that I outgrew my mother's influence as I became a man, but I didn't. I grew up fearing for my personal safety, largely keeping quiet in case some random word sent mom over the edge. The best way for me to get by was to silently observe my surroundings, cautiously avoiding trouble, trusting no one but myself. For a long time, that's how I lived my life.

My grandmother used to say, "You can't make good cookies with a bad cookie cutter." I built relationships with women the only way I knew how, trusting them inch by inch, suspicious of every promise, doubtful of their affections.

Getting a girl to date me was a thrill. Getting her to have sex with me was a bigger thrill. But what satisfied me most of all was walking away from her. I got what I wanted, and left. And why not? She was going to do it to me if I stuck around, right?

It was something of a rite of passage the first time my mother asked me for money. My heart swelled with pride; now I held the power, and could deny it to her if I wished.

I had dreamed of this moment for a long time, the confrontation in which I would dump a truckload of my suffering back on her. In my fantasies, I screamed in her face like an angry baseball manager, barraging her with accusations for which she could manage no reply. Of course, I would not attack her physically, but if she dared take a swing at me, I would catch her scrawny little arm and snap it like a toothpick.

In the end, I only told her no, that we both knew what the money was for, and that I refused to contribute to the destruction of her body. "It's already destroyed," she replied.

She would come by my college apartment every few weeks to wash my dishes and do my laundry, and once I was good and buttered up, she'd ask for cash again, "so I can buy something to eat".

Despite how it sounds, mom wasn't homeless, and she wasn't starving. She bounced from one friend or relative's couch to another, sponging off them for as long as they would let her.

I wanted to help her, but instead of giving her cash to drink away, I took her shopping. Smart, right?

I thought so too, until a neighbor saw mom at the grocery store, returning a big pile of food. She left with a nice wad of cash, I am sure, and it's no mystery what she did with it.

I screamed at mom for that, swore at her, completely lost my temper, like she did to me. And she shriveled in terror, curling into a little ball, just like I used to. Was that what I used to look like?

It felt good to unload on mom, but only briefly. Despite the history between us, revenge seemed wrong. I wanted to be happy, and normal. I didn't want to be filled with the horrible hate that she was.

After I graduated from college and got my MBA, mom didn't come around much. She came to see me one Christmas, drunk at 10am, and empty-handed because she was "in between jobs". I had a gift for her, though—a framed picture of her three sons. Even mom wouldn't be able to get cash for that!

On September 23, 2004, mom suffered a severe stroke and never regained consciousness. She died with her three sons, two daughters-in-law, and husband standing around her hospital bed. She was 56 years old.

It was sad to see mom in her coffin, but in a way it helped me. She was finally free of her addiction, and she looked at peace, far from the monster she had become.

I have a great job now, and I married a beautiful girl named Tim last fall. Later this year, we're going to try for a baby. It's been a long road for me, but I've finally forgiven mom. I can't tell you exactly how I did it, because it was really just a million little steps, with plenty of wrong ones thrown in. If you're in the situation I was, the worst and only mistake you can make is giving up.

When I think of mom now, I don't think of the sad, hopeless drunk that she turned into; I think back to when I was a little boy, when mom would ask me what I did in Kindergarten that day, then pick me up so she could look in my eyes as I answered.

But I didn't want to talk about Kindergarten. I didn't want to go to school at all. I just wanted to stay with mom forever, playing with her black silk scarf.

Dairy Products for Dummies

It amazes me how many people are unfamiliar with the term "butterface".

It refers, simply, to a girl who is sexy but ugly: everything is hot but-her-face.

There were plenty of nights I ended up jerking off because the girl who was talking to me at the party wasn't pretty enough. From time to time, especially when I was younger, I overlooked stringy hair or clownlike makeup and nailed the girl anyway, but I wasn't proud of it. As far as I was concerned, any guy who enjoyed such things, who targeted butterfaces intentionally, was a loser.

April 3, 2006, 9:03am

Marriott Hotel, conference room 1
Semi-annual leadership conference

I notice Gretchen immediately. Her eyes are too narrow, and her bangs obscure them anyway. Her mouth is crooked, and her bright pink lipstick accentuates the flaw; her glimmering cocktail party earrings are completely wrong for a business meeting.

Facewise, she has little to work with, and her style choices have made matters worse.

Then she stands up.

She has a wiry waist, like the thorax of an ant, giving way to a bouncy ass, and her breasts pop voluptuously from under her mohair sweater. Her body has somehow remained pristine, immune to her ugliness.

As I steal delicious five-second glances at her, I suddenly get it.

I have always wanted to be seen with attractive women; I felt I belonged with them. But as my taste for toys and status has mellowed, I see the appeal of the Gretchens of the world.

A relationship with a Gretchen would be an overdose of lust, a steady stream of hot nakedness. I wouldn't want to be seen publicly with her. I wouldn't want to feed her, keep her warm, or satisfy any other biological need; she would exist only to satisfy mine. I would fuck her mercilessly and I would want her to like it, but only because it would pride me to know that I had the power to make her scream. Her personal happiness would mean nothing; she would be a vehicle for my entertainment, a geisha or a concubine, living to please me.

9:02pm

I need to see if I could actually make this happen. Would I be able to seduce her? Would I overcome the desire to avert my eyes from her less-than-magazine-ad-ready mug?

I'm not going to bag her. But I'll go through the motions, and stop just short of the actual act, becuase I need to know I haven't lost it.

"Hey, Gretchen, how's it going?"

"Oh, hi... Steve," she says, reading my name tag.

Some chicks look better far away than close up, like a painting by Monet. Gretchen is the opposite. She impresses me, attracts me, even, with how she carries herself, her back straight, her chin held high.

Her confidence sells me. Yeah, if I were single, I'd fuck her.

"Did you end up getting the lobster bisque last night?"

And speaking of white creamy stuff...

"Oh, yeah, it was heavenly," she moans, with a skyward eye tilt. And then I listen to her speak, examining every word, waiting for an opening to extend the conversation, reading her eyes, gauging how aggressive I can be, how hard I can push, just like I used to do.

I joke about the tie the presenter was wearing and she smiles politely, her mouth bent like a flexed crossbow. Her mouth is her worst feature; at least when she sweeps her hair from her eyes, their deep blueness catches my attention.

She tells me that she is an agent in commercial lines. "How did you get invited here? You must have impressed someone," I say.

"Or pissed someone off," she retorts, grinning.

The conversation continues and I am drawn to her ever more desperately; I have gone from "I wouldn't mind fucking her" to "I want to lay her out on the nearest cocktail table right now". But where do I stop? How do I stop? Do I wait for her to hit the ladies room and just take off? Tell her about my girlfriend? Get her naked, mount her, then stop with my dick two centimeters away from her steaming gash and say, "Oh shit! I'm missing Prison Break!"?

"I'm going for a smoke," she says, holding up a pack of Marlboro Menthols.

I don't smoke, but it doesn't nauseate me, either. If I'm loaded, and someone offers me a butt, I'll take it. Especially if that someone is as fuckable as this hottie, if for no other reason than that I can watch her succulent rump as I follow her outside.

She turns to leave, and two guys trail her closely.

Fuck this. I don't care how hot she is. I don't chase anyone, especially someone I've already decided I'm not going to have sex with. I was looking for an easy out: maybe this is it.

"Steve? Steve!"

I turn to see Lisa, from our training department. She's attractive and all, but every time she's nearby, I have the urge to strangle the perkiness right out of her. I swear, they get these training chicks straight out of cheerleader camp.

"Hi, Lisa."

The hiball glass wobbles unsteadily in her hand, and her voice is too loud for the conversation. But I let her talk, smiling slyly at her bad jokes, nodding patiently as she draws one asinine conclusion after another.

This is how I used to do it, and the technique comes back to me easily, though I've been out of practice for months. I go after one, and if she doesn't work out, I find another. We've all gone to the store looking for a certain sweater, found that they didn't have it in stock, and left with something we liked just as much. Too many guys go after one girl, and when they strike out, they go home feeling sorry for themselves. Why? Not that I give a shit, of course, because losers like them make it easier for me.

She's not dumb, Lisa, just naive. She doesn't know enough to flirt subtlely, so she keeps joking about taking me up to her room and letting me eat oysters out of her navel. She's trying to be cute, and coquettish, but instead she's coming off as a huge slut.

This is what they call low-hanging fruit, easy money, taking candy from a baby. I've fucked a million Lisas in my life, conned each one of them into thinking that there was some kind of connection between us, that her moronic story about surfing in Australia interested me. I played them, all of them, got them to suck my cock, to tell me that they wanted my big fat dick inside of them, and I unceremoniously blasted their faces with white stuff, right between their saucered eyes. Welcome to the major leagues, honey, I'd think, and stifle a laugh.

Suddenly I hate Lisa. I detest her lack of common sense and self-respect. Is she an idiot? I can't be the only guy she's hit on this way. Surely a parade of men has marched in and out of her bedroom, each one of them sticking it to her good and then avoiding her like an IRS auditor. How many times is she going to get used before she wakes up? And am I the only one who finds it funny that this trainer, who gets paid to teach other employees, is apparently unable to learn herself?

"Good night, Lisa," I say, though she is in mid-sentence, and I head upstairs to call Tim.