by Mark McCann
He lifted his head, “That was a great analogy. Maybe you should write that down; you could start with that.”
“Well, thanks, thank you, that’s nice of you to say, but I would, you know, have to remember it, and then write it down, and, it’s just so hard to, I don’t know, I guess, do stuff. I mean, I’m barely making it to the end of sentences here. Pretty sure that’s a big part of why I’m here. There was a time when it wasn’t like this, and if it was, it wasn’t nearly this bad.” I paused and wondered why that was.
He looked at me with his pen just above the paper like he wanted me to say something else worth writing down. “Right, well,” I exhaled, “As far as I’m concerned, the timeline to being thoughtless crosses the point to being stupid very quickly. And it is likely that, with me, that timeline measures even shorter. I just don’t know. I don’t know if I listen too well or if people talk too much. I often feel like saying to so many people, ‘at this moment you should be the smartest you’ve ever been in your life: you are screwed! Try harder or hide.’” I said and wondered; how was that? He scribbled something in his book and I wanted to spring forward with a vigorous fist pump.
I moved my gaze from him to the floor. “It’s not even about intelligence. It’s about effort. I’m trying and I am smart enough to try. I feel like that’s the defining difference between me and the people I’m shaking my head at. I have my eyes open and I see where I’m going. Now the moment matters most. To remember, to me, is like saying, pretend you cared then. And contrary to how it sounds; I don’t hate people. I think there should be companionship between us, one and all… with a designated area for common sense, and we should drag each other there like fallen soldiers if need be.” I paused. This line of thinking was usually going the other way, in my head, toward the dark. Now it seemed the more I opened my mouth, the longer that line would become.
“I’ll volunteer to do this every week if you volunteer to listen, maybe that’s all I need,” I said jokingly. Without looking up he gave me a small and neatly packaged laugh I imagined contained all kinds of thoughts, though I hadn’t any guesses, not without shaking him really hard. I almost laughed, but thought that may have somehow gone against me.
“Don’t get me wrong: I am happy, but… it’s like I’m swimming. There’s that effort to keep my head up, and on occasion I stop for a moment because it’s so tiring and go, oh yeah, I am sinking and I can’t breathe. Then the effort begins again. I try to read a lot too, anything that may lead to something more. I feel like there’s a significant discovery just over the mental horizon I’m thinking my way toward. Maybe it’s not depression; maybe suffering is life’s design to bring about the effort to make it better. Maybe a lot of us are just plain lazy. Any difficulty in life should be worth it if it means I’m using what I have to be who I am, right? I mean, one should feel their soul as it lifts the weight of its resources, should they not? Maybe that’s the reward I’m failing to see, maybe my effort is quitting just before the trial’s end.” I shrugged and shook my head like I wasn’t going to figure it out sitting there with him all day. He mumbled, I thought, or maybe sighed. He might have been humming whatever was in his head. Since I’d been there he’d been studying me, nodding and writing in his book. He was probably working on a song, maybe him and his doctor buddies had a band.
“Maybe there’s some kind of an artist syndrome,” I mused, and inched in my seat toward him, as if to draw him out in the open on this song writing business, “just humans that are inside out, you know, ill-suited for an ignorant and dangerously jagged world.” His response was zero, a little nod, either as an agreement or he nearly drifted off. I sat on the edge of my seat; he didn’t move. Was he asleep with his eyes open?
“Sometimes I poo when I’d only planned to pee,” I said, testing him and seeing he indeed was paying attention as his face quickly showed great confusion. His eyes were blinking as his head tilted to the side. “I’m just, um, was just, so you…” I said and cleared my throat. I wished Katie could have been there to hear everything I had been saying, well, minus that last part. She was privy to hearing bits and pieces, as they came while I was reacting to this or that, but never was it so much and so clearly. This was the clearest I had been about anything in a very long time.
He squinted at me as though still trying to read what I had said from a sign way off in the distance. I tried to indicate with a shake of my head that, no, he hadn’t heard that, nor had I even said it. My prescription had likely just grown in length and substance. I could see my morning routine now beginning with a handful of sedatives, antidepressants and something opposite to what a laxative would be. At least I knew I had only myself to blame.
“I’m just tired of being angry. I am. I am tired of standing in lines, wanting to punch all the blank faces ahead of me and behind me simply for seeming dull,” I said earnestly. “Most of all, I’m tired of not being patient. Being impatient contradicts who I am or at least who I’m trying to be. And I try so hard but seem to give up at the worst possible moment.” I leaned forward with my elbows on my knees and my hands together. “I just, I don’t know, feel like it’s getting harder. I’m tired of that too. And I’m so very tired of feeling tired.” I sat up straight. “There you have it; that’s kind of how I feel, at the moment. Life just feels heavy for me, like I lug it around. Is that normal, like how I should be?” He sighed, I sighed; we had a thing.
“Is that everything?” he said with a short and playful laugh.
“Um… and it hurts when I go like this,” I said with sarcasm I was fairly certain would go unnoticed. I stared at him and just sat and breathed.
Chapter 16 … A Beautiful And Quiet Evening With Screaming Kids … Or … The Eye Of The Storm Blinketh Upon Uth
Katie came home with the kids shortly after I had gotten in from seeing the doctor. Knuckle Butt was crying. He’d fallen asleep and woken up upon their arrival home. This had him terribly upset. He wasn’t ready to be awake, Oh, my poor little guy, none of us ever are, I thought. Ding Ding was huddled up like he may have been trying to take off his coat and shoes at the exact same time. I went over to the door to help Knuckle Butt out of his coat and shoes; Ding Ding was convinced he didn’t need any such help. Katie smiled at me like only she could. I hugged her, kissed her cheek and then her lips. I was very glad to have her in my life, and happy she was home.
“How are you?” she asked, appropriately I thought.
“I’m good,” I said, “aside from being tired, I think I’m good. He gave me a prescription. I’ll start there and see how things go. Doesn’t hurt to try, right?”
She smiled warmly in agreement. I picked Knuckle Butt up and brought him over to the couch and sat with him on my lap.
Ding Ding was out of his coat and shoes and moving about the room. He stood beside me, leaning against the couch, and said, “Nukkobuh cried for oatmeal last night,” his sense of time slightly skewed.
“Yeah,” I agreed because I didn’t have the heart to tell him he was way off; that it had actually been closer to a week ago. “I think he’s sad because he’s tired. He fell asleep on your way home and I don’t think he was ready to wake up.”
“Yeah,” he said, agreeing with me now, which was only fair, and then looked at me gravely serious and said probably as fast as he could, “I gotta go pee,” and went running off just as quickly as he could up the stairs to the washroom. I sat with Knuckle Butt still on my lap, who was holding tightly onto his blanket. I kissed the top of his head.
“NO,” he shouted and waved his hand erratically above his head in an attempt to ward off any more. I rubbed his back. He didn’t seem to mind that. I rubbed his cheek, which was almost acceptable, but he then thought he’d best prefer not to enjoy any affection and pushed my hand away.
“Okay, sorry, do you want to go sit in your room and come out when you’re ready?” I asked softly. He sat still for a moment before looking up into my face. He stared at me, seeming to be weighing my offer. He turned on m
y lap and climbed up to rest his head on my shoulder. I leaned deeper into the couch.
Katie was putting things away in the kitchen. Ding Ding had returned from the washroom and settled beside me, playing a game on my phone. Knuckle Butt moved his head from shoulder to shoulder, and then finally climbed off of me and sat beside Ding Ding to watch a monster truck game. While the game was loading Ding Ding looked at me and said, “I’m so big; I have too much bones in me.”
“Wow,” I said impressed, “and you’re only going to get bigger, what are we going to do?” I laughed and got up to go join Katie in the kitchen. I stood behind her and rubbed her back. “Hi Lirv,” I said into the back of her neck. She turned from the cucumbers she’d been cutting, and smiled.
“Lirv?”
“Yeah,” I nodded, “Lirv, it’s like Mirv, but after its been kicked real hard by true love.”
She giggled, “Okay, so… why then? I guess.”
“Beats the F out of me, I just channel the stuff, I don’t understand it.”
“Maybe you should channel a book.”
“Oh, I am. It’s a story that takes place in the future of my childhood, called what’s for dinner? But I don’t have the ending yet.”
“Why do I even talk to you?” she asked theatrically.
“I know, eh, sheesh, and why don’t you stop is an even better question.”
“Um, you do see that I’m holding a knife, don’t you?”
“I’m kidding, I love you, oh God, don’t hurt me,” I blurted as fast as I could.
“That’s what I thought,” she said, adding, “I really Lirv you too.” She set the knife down and hugged me. “Oh, before I forget, I found your keys in my shoe this morning.”
I shook my head, and laughed. “Okay, and if you’re looking for your brown shoes, they’re on the floor on my side of the bed.”
We got the kids ready for bed and into their room. They were playing quietly, bound to fall asleep at some point. The television was on and to it I was making a face that suggested I’d ingested something sharp and rancid. “Maybe the doctor’s right, maybe you should write all those things down,” Katie suggested, as if it would be that easy.
I shook my head, awful face and all. Katie looked at me as though I wasn’t making any sense, and I looked at her as though that were her fault. Like a pouting child I opened my mouth. “I don’t write anymore, writing is stupid. I just… be tired… and talk English.” I threw my empty glass on the floor. Had the boys been up they would have thought that to be a great game for us to play, and Katie, rightfully so, not so much. I picked my glass up and set it with much exaggerated care back on the coffee table. While bent forward, I passed gas loudly. “Uh, that was you,” I said as though she might believe it. I sat back, looked at her, then towards the television. Her face was unimpressed.
“Um, really?”
“Probably not, if not that, then yes and sorry. Definitely something, I would think,” I answered somewhat cryptically.
She shook her head before letting it go, “So what else did the doctor say?”
“Uh, he said I’m just paying the price of awareness or I maybe need to buy awareness rice, I don’t know; he was very quiet and I didn’t want to bother him with something like volume. Basically, he said it’s a gift and I should enjoy the happy moments and be thankful for the painful ones, otherwise I wouldn’t know one from the other.”
“Wow, he sounds so much like you, what did he really say?”
“I don’t know; something about Zoloft and goofballs,” I shrugged. “Are you ever saddened by this? I don’t mean our THIS, I mean, sitting side by side and watching the stories unfold on a shiny box. It sometimes seems like the wrong thing to be doing, like awfully opposite to something purposeful. We should be insulted by half of these commercials. What the hell was that? Half if we’re lucky.”
She paused the show, and turned to face me, “Okay, I like this show and you need to turn your brain off. Maybe if you let yourself be entertained once in a while, you’d, I don’t even know, not quite feel like that about everything quite so much. All of this, that you’re saying should go in a book. Go write a book, book wad.”
“Your butt should go in a book,” I muttered as though I was sulking. I began to think maybe if I was held up on some shoulders like a hero every once in a while I’d be just fine with the downtime… stupid ground. What heroic things could I do? Who did I have to punch in the face for some recognition around here? I sighed dramatically, “I know, I know, I’m sorry, I just mean, we used to be in such awe of one another; caught up in that tangled idea of just having met one another in a world of so many other options. We got past all that and fell in love. No, we were in love when we met, we didn’t get to know each other; we got to know why we were in love. I don’t know. We should be wrestling or something, dipping our fists in paint and turning mattresses into art to be hung in galleries or from street posts, something not so far from that passion. No?” There I was out in my field of dreams where those silly thoughts of mine water the lawn with flames.
“I know, comfort sets in,” I said, “but… that strikes me as something that should mesh us farther, deeper, which should only add to the intensity. But it doesn’t, it just smiles softly and says, mind you, with its mouth full, you’ll begin to accept just what you have with routine, and then begin to forget.”
“Um, I am madly in love with you, I don’t ever forget that.” Katie was looking at me like I’d lost my mind.
“Oh, yeah, me too, I’m just… saying… television is stupid. It gets its hooks in you; it tries to find what you like so you will sit with it routinely. That’s what I meant. We should have, like, I don’t know, twelve cycles of completely diverse months. One month erratic schedule times twelve; I think that strikes me as being better than this daily or weekly crap. Our appreciation would only be sharper since it wouldn't be cutting through the same situation so soon again. Some might argue that the same thing would happen, it would still be routine enough to feel arduous, but I doubt it. We’re not that smart, and as well as we know our twenty-four hour days, we hardly have them down. There just… there is beauty somewhere better than this,” I gestured toward the television, “Everyone’s so fucking careful to look like they’re so fucking careful around anything with an edge or surface, life included. I think I want some scars.”
“You have plenty of scars and I still think you’re beautiful. Love,” she paused to make sure I was listening, the real kind of listening, “you need to take a deep breath, and observe less and participate more. I only ask that you do it quietly.”
“That's a great idea. Every time I participate I end up punching someone in the face.”
Katie looked at me like I was purposely spilling milk and said, “Yeah, but then you get to give your little ‘my principle is unbending’ speech. She spoke deeply, and cut even deeper, as was suggested by my wide eyes and gaping mouth.
Chapter 17 … Leaving Las Vegas Old School
I opened my eyes. I had been sleeping. I wanted to be sleeping again. Why wasn’t I still sleeping? I sat up. My cell phone was ringing. I got out of bed and ran as stealthily as I could down the dark hall toward where the phone was lit like a beacon on the table. Two strides from picking up the phone I kicked a toy and sent it on noisily down the stairs. “Fuck,” I whispered angrily before I answered the phone with a slightly louder, hello. It was my dad. He was in need of a ride home from the police station.
I heard Katie stirring in bed and saying something softly. I walked back to our room with the light from my phone lighting the way.
“What’s wrong?” she asked like she needed the extra time before hearing what I was certain to say.
“Nothing,” I said quietly, “oh, except my dad’s in jail.”
“You are kidding,” she exclaimed in a strong whisper.
“No, I am not,” I said as though I were already somewhere else, “I’ll be back in a bit.”
“Okay,” she said.
“I love you too.”
This is payback, he’s just getting me back, I thought, for having been a little out of control at times when I was younger. It felt like a terrible joke; the kind that tells the truth but somehow has laughter tacked on to it so it doesn’t offend you as badly. I drove at a fairly reserved speed, not quite sure I ever wanted to arrive.
Inside the station the lighting and walls seemed bright enough to make anyone feel guilty just for being there, whatever the reason. I felt like they were certain to question me as though I may have been fraudulently claiming to be the son of an old drunk guy like that was the goal in everyone’s life. I’m your ticket out of here old man, just shut up and hug me.
My dad was seated talking to one of the many officers hanging about in front of the main reception; one from another group on the opposite side of the room approached me. Before she had said a thing I was pointing to my dad.
“I’m here for him, that bugger there,” I said, fearful now as to why that was. Everyone suddenly seemed louder and busier. It was as if they had missed their cue when the door had opened and were now making up for it. I yawned and rubbed my eyes. It was all too much. I wasn’t sure if it was from the light or from being awake, but my head was beginning to hurt. My dad finally stood and shook hands with one of them and turned to leave. He smiled, briefly, weakly, and continued past me toward the door.
I had tried but wasn’t able to speak to him until we were in the car. I paused with the keys in the ignition and asked, “Well, what the hell was that about?”
I had always seen the man who raised me as being bigger than me, bigger than life. The man sitting next to me in the car seemed so small and fragile. I regretted asking. He looked older than I remembered him looking. The sight of him tugged at my heart and I wanted to hug him. I put my hand on his shoulder. It occurred to me that I didn’t know how to show him I loved him, show him so he knew. I probably hadn’t in a long time. He was my dad and my hand was stuck awkwardly on his shoulder, but now I couldn’t move it. I couldn’t let the moment go. Not when the next moment scared me more than anything. It felt like I was missing something important and that it was about to disappear forever. That was a terrible feeling to go into the next moment with. I knew nothing else would feel like it mattered as much as it did now. I needed to get to a good place with him, and with my life, with Katie and my boys, and stop it all, hold it all still, long enough to know, really know and feel those moments, those real moments, like I had truly lived each and every one of them. I couldn’t look away from him, as if my eyes were begging, how do I make that happen?
