So this is how it happened. Listen and listen close, because I fucking hate questions. So I’m in North Bend Hospital cleaning out the bed pans of dilapidated grandmas and dropping hunks of near frozen apple sauce into half-comatose patients when-
Why was I there? A question already? Hell man, I just started.
So it’s like this. I’m off in the corner of the lunchroom, fiddling with my fifteen dollar Japanese-made-so-I-better-not-put-it-in-my-mouth tracphone, minding my own business, when some wanker, yes a wanker, cultural exchanges always make insults more colorful, comes at me full charge.
And this guy is big. I mean 'what-the-Christ-have-you-been-eating?' big. And he’s firing out on all engines. His head tossed back and he’s screaming and shouting, spit flying all over, literally gallons of the stuff. Like a firehouse went off in the middle of the cafeteria. He looks like the kind of guy who shoots steam off when he works out, his shoulders towering lumps of coal. He’s got this glazed over look in his eye that tells me his pop probably fumbled him like a pigskin football when he was a lad.
And this guy is pissed. He’s babbling so loud it takes me half a minute to figure out he’s even yelling at me. That probably pissed him off even more, sensing my utter lack of interest as a threat to his male supremacy. So I wait until he’s making some sense. Finally I get the gist of it, mainly from his sign language.
He’s pointing from me to some smokin’ blonde across the room to me again. She’s in this tight skirt, thong underwear, and for reasons unknown, she’s staring at me with this come hither look. Now I’m flipping.
So he’s telling me that I been “eyeballin’ his gal”, as he so graciously puts it in his I’m-from-a-farm-just-south-of-the-corn-and-I-ain’t-never-seen-an-automobile, accent.
I didn’t even glance in the chick’s direction till he pointed her out. Besides, who’d blame me? When a perfect ten, instant boner girl checks you out, you don’t turn away from the sunset. You stare until your eyes are roasting.
But like I said, he’s pissed. And I’m no spring chicken but this guy is huge. Bear huge. Trouble huge. I know I need to make a move while he’s still spraying out the rapture, otherwise he’ll stick his foot so far up my ass that I’ll be pulling shoelaces out my teeth come winter. So I do what any gentleman would do. I stand up, pick up my chair, and bust it right across his fucking teeth. And he goes down. Like a squealer tied to a rock in early Chicago, he goes down.
I’m left standing alone in the lunchroom with Mr. Mini-Hulk lying unconscious at my feet. And everyone, I mean everyone, is staring at me. I try that whole ‘imagine them all in their underwear’ thing but quickly stop because Miss Insta-Boner’s standing ten feet away and the last thing I need is a chubby when the cops come calling.
And that’s how I come to be here. Fifty hours of community service and all the “you ain’t my son!” quips from good old daddio you can handle. The cops got there before any of the swollen head, bench lifter’s friends could get back at me.
So there I was, emptying out crap bags and dressed like Mr. Clean on one of his dirt phobia, freak-out days. Completely covered, from head to toe, in plastic. Course when you live in downtown New York, you can never be too careful. Just touch a toilet seat and boom! Herpes.
So I’m making my way down the hall, trying to find a room that doesn’t smell like old people, no luck there, and I see this one room out the corner of my eye. Only reason I notice it is because a big poster of The Beatles is hanging from the wall. There’s the one with the Jew nose, the one with the glasses, the one with the big eyebrows, and the one with the baby face. They all have the same haircut.
Let me stop here a moment. Let’s get something straight, everyone loves The Beatles. Whether you’re a hippie, rocker, stoner, fighter, rager, lover, freaker, everyone can tolerate the music. Just no one likes to admit it because, well let’s face it; they looked like a bunch of dipshits and sang about love. Every teenage male can’t stand a love song, no matter how great. If you’re a guy and in the US, it’s rap or rock or you’ll wind up in a creek somewhere.
So I enter the room and stare this thing down. First idea that flashes through my mind is how to fit this bad boy in my back pack while keeping it in good enough shape to sell on Ebay. Then I hear a sigh. I turn. This old guy’s lying in bed, his eyes half open, staring at me.
“Do me a favor,” he says, his voice rattling like tin foil, “take that hippie crap down.”
I oblige.
I finish rolling the poster and stuff it into my bag. I turn to leave but the man calls out to me.
“Wait.”
“What, old timer?”
“Come here.”
I drop my bags with a groan and take my seat beside the guy. He doesn’t stink. He smells like Windex. Why? Fuck if I know. The guy sits there staring at me, his face a sagging mess, and he smiles.
“How you doing, John?” he asks.
Now my name is Tommy, but I figure I might as well play along.
“Yeah.”
“Don’t you recognize me?”
“Sure.”
“Don’t you recognize your dad?”
I know I should split, before things get deep, but I can’t. The man’s eyes. His eyes are like a sea of color, a kaleidoscope of pupil moisture.
“Yeah. I do. How you doing?”
“Not too good.”
“What makes you say that?”
He starts a laugh which dies in a rasping gasp.
“I ain’t feeling well, kid,” he says.
“You’ll be fine.”
“How you been?”
“Good.”
“How’s Sarah?
I should stop. I should leave. But I’m stuck where I sit, staring into his eyes.
“She’s fine,” I reply.
“She was a good one. The one you were gonna marry. The wedding’s soon?”
“Yeah.”
“I wish I could see it.”
“You’ll be fine.”
He shakes his head. A tear spills down his cheek.
“No. No I won’t. They tell me I’m ok but I’m not.”
“They’re doctors-”
“Doctors don’t mean shit!”
I wince at his curse.
“They tell you shit to give you false hope. And when they lie, what does it matter? You’re still dead.”
“You’ll be fine, old timer,” I say.
He sighs, glancing at me.
“I’m surprised you came. After what happened, I wouldn’t have thought you’d show. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
“I’m sorry I was never there for you.”
His eyes, full of life, stare off wildly in the distance, blazing in their silver pools.
“Do you remember our house in Arkansas?”
“I do,” I reply, mechanically.
“Do you remember the old tire swing? I used to push you on it when you were a lad.”
I need to get out, but I can’t move. The heart monitor beside me beeps a slow rhythm.
“I wish we had more time. I wish I could show you I still care. I wish I could answer all your questions,” the man whispers, staring off, his eyes darting back and forth.
“You’ll be fine, old timer.”
The old man smiles.
“Call me dad. Please. Just for now,” he asks.
“You’ll be fine, Dad.”
Suddenly, I realize I care more for this stranger than the drunken wife beater who raised me. The old man begins to shake.
“Can you stay? I-I'm scared," he whispers, his voice cracking.
“Yes sir.”
“I’m scared.”
I reach out and slowly take his liver spotted hand in mine. He lies watching the open window. Far beyond the windowsill a ravishing sunset spills across the sky.
“Lift me up. I want to see.”
I wrap his arm around my shoulder and lift him forward. He feels lighter than air. He stares into the sun, his eyes ablaze.
“Can you hear the angels calling?” he whispers.
His face is a shade of pale gray. He has the look. The same face my uncle had when he wasted away. The look of death.
“I love you, Son.”
“I-” I stutter.
From behind me the machine ceases its rhythmic beats. A single, unending note rings out.
“I love you, Dad,” I reply, but it’s too late. He’s gone.
I lay the frail man back and stumble away. I continue to watch the wild sunset. It takes me a while to realize I’m crying. I’m crying, for the old man, yes, but mainly for life and how fucking unfair it can be.
I stand there weeping until the doctors enter the room, questioning me as to what happened. I just continue to cry, hearing only the droning beep from the life supporter beyond.
I’m not gonna end this memoir with a witty joke or a turn of phrase. Nothing needs to be said. We all find love and wonder in the most unlikely of places. We all experience events that touch our souls. So take what you will from this tale, believe it or not, but there’s a tattered post of four hippies hanging in my room and despite my father’s constant nagging, I’m pretty sure it’s there to stay.
Be careful here.
