by Dan Kolbet
Ethan spins around with his hands clutching his crotch, the blood trickling down his pant leg. He caught his penis in the zipper of his pants. Poking out from the half-zipped pants was the nub of his organ.
"Oh my God, Ethan!" Kendall screams as she rushes toward him and reaches out.
"No!" he shouts. "Don't touch it! No!"
His voice is high and pained.
He stumbles backward trying to avoid her investigative probing. He's leaning against the wall, still holding himself.
What seems like an eternity passes as all three of us stand there, unsure what to do about this recent development.
"Help me, man," he says to me. "It's stuck."
"No shit, genius," I say. For some reason the rage and awe I felt moments ago had been replaced by sympathy for this idiot. "Let me take a look."
Now, let me say this. I'm a man's man. I like beer and football and women with large breasts. At the urinal I stare straight ahead, as to never give the impression that my eyes could even once wander in the direction of another man's exposed body parts. That's the guy code—or at least part of it. Keep your eyes to yourself. This is why so many guys get hurt in the locker room shower. You only have so much real estate available on the ground for you to look at. Walking into walls or bolted-down wooden benches are common locker room ailments. And it is worth it to avoid seeing another man's wang.
I'm not interested in seeing another man's junk—this is the thought coursing through my head as I kneel down in front of Ethan.
"You need to move your hand," I say. "I can't see what you did."
"No way, man. It's gonna come off."
"Well, that would be something, alright."
"Screw you," he says.
I glance up and give him a look that says I'm not the guy to piss off right now. His idiot brain realizes this and he moves his hand to the side, pushing his penis over at the same time. Immediately Kendall plops down next to me and leans against my shoulder to get a better view.
"Uh-oh," she says, covering her mouth.
"Do you mind giving me the tiniest bit of room, please?" I ask her.
She scoots over, but only a few inches. Uh-oh is right. The zipper caught him just below the base of his manhood. Without getting in close enough to count, I would guess that three or four of the zipper teeth are locked on the skin.
"You need to unzip," I say.
"No. No way. It'll come apart," he mutters through clinched teeth.
"So you plan to stay this way forever? OK." I stand up, ready to walk out. I don't need this.
"You can't just leave me here," he pleads.
"I didn't ask you to stay here, at all," I say. "She did. I don't really care what you do."
I shoot Kendall a look and notice for the first time, that unlike the wounded soldier in front of me, she is fully clothed. Long black pants and a light green tee-shirt. And she didn't just put it on, she was wearing that when I opened the door.
"You do it," he says.
"Do what, exactly?" I reply.
"Unzip it," he pleads.
"That's not my department. Kendall, would you like to do the honors?" I ask. She blushes and shakes her head no. I look at Ethan, who notes her rejection.
"You're up, buddy," I say. "I'll count to three and then you let 'er rip."
He mouths the word, "OK."
We lock eyes like we're cops about to raid a drug house together and I'm asking him to cover my back as I go in.
"Alright, here goes—you ready?" I ask.
He says nothing but nods his head rapidly. I begin the countdown.
"OK. One . . . two . . . th—"
"Wait!" he says, "I can't do it!"
"Unless you want to start peeing through your jeans, you're going to have to detach yourself from your pants."
"You do it."
Not this again.
"Just grasp the zipper with one hand and your dick with the other, and pull," I say.
"OK. OK." He's practically panting now. "I can do it."
"One . . . two . . . three!"
"Awwwwww!" he screams and then passes out.
* * *
The nurse at the emergency room didn't exactly laugh at Ethan when we arrived, but the chuckle was enough to make my day anyway. Since there was no way he was going to be able to wear a pair of pants for a while, I decided to give him a bathrobe to cover-up with. This was nice in several ways, mostly benefiting me. Trevor didn't have a robe and Kendall's was too small. Luckily Jennifer's pink floor-length robe with puffy white cuffs and collar fit just perfectly.
So there sits Ethan, still holding himself, wrapped up tightly in his fancy pink robe.
"You know, a man can survive without a penis, right?" I say, only half kidding.
"Very funny," he says.
"It's true. It's just a little messier when the action starts."
To the kid's credit, he did manage to get the zipper unstuck with one ferocious pull. It was a feat I'm not certain I'd be able to manage had I been in the same situation. Of course, just thinking that means I've instantly jinxed myself. Time to get some button-fly jeans, I guess.
Kendall sits next to Ethan in the waiting room, gently rubbing his back and telling him everything is going to be OK. In another context, this sort of affection would be cute, but I am still quite bothered by the events that occurred prior to the zipper incident.
When Ethan gets called back to see the doctor, we all stand up, Gracie included. She of course had to tag along too. Ethan waves us off, preferring to face the medical staff solo. So I finally get to address Kendall about what the hell she was thinking by letting Ethan secretly sleep over.
"I don't see what the big deal is," she says. "He does it all the time."
"I highly doubt that."
"Whatever," she shrugs her shoulders.
"Your mom and dad were OK with that?" I ask.
"Beats being alone all the time."
This is going to come out wrong, but I have to say it anyway.
"You do realize that as a 17-year-old girl, everything that you are eligible to do when you are married can still lead to, you know, pretty dramatic stuff."
"What are you talking about?" she asks.
"You need to be careful because you're able to do stuff, even if you're not really ready to do stuff."
"Oh my Lord, Uncle Billy are you afraid to say the word sex?"
"I'm just trying to—"
"SEX!!" she shouts to every listening ear in the waiting room. "I'm not ashamed to say it. Can you?"
"Stop acting like a child," I say, realizing instantly how condescending and parental that sounds.
"I am a child, remember?" She says. "But still eligible to do stuff."
"You're too young to have a boy sleep in your bed."
"I'll be 18 in 10 months."
"Thanks for the calendar update, but right now, you're 17 and too young to have a boy sleeping in your bed."
"I wasn't trying to hide him."
"Come again?"
"I wasn't trying to hide him. He came over last night. You were passed out on the couch when I would have told you he was staying over—"
"Asked if he could stay over," I interrupt.
"Whatever. So he just slept over."
"And woke up naked."
"He said he was hot," she says.
"I'm sure he was," I say, knowing that every boy his age uses that line.
I'm suddenly aware that the old couple sitting across from us is listening to our every word. And the black guy with the blood-soaked bandage around his hand is staring at us. And I'm certain that the people sitting behind us—and Gracie—have heard it all.
"We didn't do anything," she says. "We just slept."
I do remember her getting out of bed in long pants and green shirt.
"It doesn't matter," I say.
"Why?"
"Because it doesn't."
"Good reason," she says.
I look over a Gracie and her ne
wly-short hair and think about yesterday's incident. So, my good reason? Which I dare not say, but is likely clear to everyone—including the black guy with the bloody hand and the old couple—is that I have no idea what the hell I'm doing. Gracie is chopping off her own hair. Kendall is sleeping with her boyfriend in her own bedroom and I'm just the guy counting to three to release the penis.
I'm not helping these girls one bit.
Chapter 12
I look at myself in the bathroom mirror. I examine the bluish rings that hang under my eyes. My beard, still full, is specked with gray and white. These signs of maturity aren't welcome. I know I'm not that old. When I look at my parents —now, they seem old. I seem . . . established in my skin. But not old. I guess age is a thing that you see differently from different sides of the hill. When I'm in the park and see two twenty-something kids giving each other goo-goo eyes on a blanket, I see them as young. If I saw someone doing the same thing at my age, I'd think they were stoned to be so ridiculously happy.
I'm lonely.
Which is the height of irony since I'm surrounded by more people today than I have been for years. In those long days at the cabin my head was filled with stories and character arcs. I'd form fully plotted novels in my head and revisit them throughout the day. The characters that I'd create—a mad chef or a dorky mechanic or a sexy housewife—would occupy my thoughts. What did they do? Who cared about them? Where were they destined to go?
But today I'm alone. No chefs or mechanics and certainly no sexy housewives. I can't focus on them because there are real people around me. Family. People who need my attention. Why me, though? How did I become that guy? They deserve better. There is nothing in all my 41 years that I can honestly say that I've done that would benefit someone other than myself. I'm selfish and awkward. And I'm surrounded by people, while never, ever feeling quite this alone.
I miss Jane. I miss Aspen.
* * *
It's Sunday afternoon and I'm standing in front of a Weber charcoal BBQ grill in the backyard. The thing is black like a beetle, with four long legs. I'm a propane guy, but apparently Trevor wasn't. So when my mom called yesterday and invited herself and Dad over for dinner, I had to improvise.
"I can cook burgers," I had offered, though it was more of a question.
"Yes, I guess you could do that," Mom had replied. "We'll be dropped off at 2 p.m., William. And make sure the house is cool for your father."
My mom had this recurring thought, which reached far back to when we were kids that you shouldn't turn the air conditioning on in the house until you arrived. "No use in wasting the juice," she'd say. There were times that the house was 80-plus degrees before we got home, leaving us roasting all night long.
"It'll be cool, Mom," I had said. "Don't worry."
At 2 p.m. sharp Vera and Charles Redmond arrive.
"He's in a mood," she says, referring to my dad. "We'd better just stay in the shade of the backyard. He likes it there."
The mood that my father was in was quiet. He didn't make a sound when the retirement home's driver dropped them off and had yet to even acknowledge that he was anyplace other than the areas he was confined to at the GreyHawk. His room with the tiny little window and view of a truck tire came to mind. I still couldn't believe Mom allowed that to go on.
His head was heavy and it drooped down, hanging lifelessly. It bounced and swayed as I wheeled him down the side yard to the shade in the backyard. He was thin and the marks on this wrists were still visible. Red.
Mom busied herself with Gracie, pulling her onto her knee, getting an instant smile and playing with her short hair. Kendall and a very subdued Ethan sat on a swing under a maple tree on the other side of the yard.
I maneuver Dad into the shade next to me at the grill and lift his head up, so he isn't staring at his own lap. His forehead below his thin hairline is greasy. His head now rests back against the chair and his mouth hangs slightly open. His eyes are unfocused behind his photo-gray eyeglasses.
"How are you, Dad?" I ask.
No response. Not that I was expecting one. I spread the frozen burgers over the grill and instantly the smoke from the charred meat fills my nostrils with memories of summer and endless lines of picnic dishes. It's funny how smells can transport you to another place. When I smell garlic, I see garlic fries being served at a Seattle Mariners baseball game. A game they are undoubtedly losing. When I smell lilac-scented candles, I think of Jane's and my bedroom. When I smell cut grass I think of my father, but not this shell of a man sitting next to me. Is he in there still? Does he know what's going on around him? Is he criticizing me for using frozen meat and not fresh ground hamburger? That's probably the least of his concerns.
The man who raised me has been forced away by the Multiple Sclerosis. He's somewhere else. Obviously there are a myriad of medical concerns raging inside him. Tucked away in a horrible tangle below his graying skin that I can't see. The grill smoke burns my eyes as I recall the last time my father and I were alone together. If you don't count our short interaction at the retirement home—before Mom came in—the last time my father and I had a conversation alone was a few days after Jane and Aspen died. Of course he didn't say anything. It wasn't a conversation at all. Men have a way of not messing up a perfectly good silence with mindless words that feel scripted or forced.
It was at the old house, the one I bought after I cashed in on Isolated Highway. He drove himself over, which even all those years ago, was a scary proposition. I was in the dining room trying to hang a curtain rod and cover the three large windows that I had neglected to attempt for a long time. Jane had asked, repeatedly, for me to do it, but I was gone or too busy to be bothered with it.
He had parked in the driveway, walked in unannounced, saw my struggles and helped. That's it. Didn't say a word. We worked quietly on stools, arms extended in the air until the dining room curtains, the ones that Jane had wanted hung for so long, had finally been installed. I'm not sure why I thought it needed to be done. I guess it was my way of trying to make up for everything that went wrong between us, yet I had no way of making up for what I'd done. I needed something to go right. Any little thing.
I think Dad knew that I had screwed up, although he had no idea of the struggles Jane and I had. He just wanted to express his love and concern for me when I was at my lowest point, but didn't know how to put words to it. All the things my friends said and all the well-intended conversations with family did nothing for me really. But that time with my dad—curtain rod in hand—was memorable.
Two men working in complete silence. An unspoken bond between father and son. A pillar of support that didn't need to be packaged or perfected. It just was.
As I flip the burgers, my eyes burn, but it's not the smoke that's making my eyes water. I miss my dad too, although he's sitting just six feet from me.
Chapter 13
"Young man, we haven't met before," Mom says to Ethan as we're about to sit down at the table to eat. "A proper greeting requires a handshake."
Ethan gets to his feet and shuffles over toward her. He walks gingerly and I note that he is wearing very loose-fitting gym shorts, no doubt to allow the two stitches on his penis some unencumbered room with which to rest. I have very little fear of any funny business between Kendall and Ethan thanks to the zipper incident. He begged me not to tell his parents, which I reluctantly agreed to so long as he promised that I would never have to discover such a scene again. No boy sleepovers. It was a good rule.
"What are your intentions with my granddaughter, Ethan?" Mom asks.
The expression on his face is blank—no comprehension of the question.
"Leave him be, Grandma Vera," Kendall says. "We're just friends."
I catch the look between Kendall and Ethan that my mother missed. She just saved him from a Grandma Vera water-boarding. The pain he experienced days ago, would have been no match for the merciless barrage of personal questioning that may have ultimately led to him running from the backy
ard and never looking back.
Mom has always been hard on outsiders. Every girlfriend Trevor and I dated in high school was raked over the coals when they were introduced. And it was a requirement that they be introduced to Mom before any official date could occur. The tough ones—girls strong enough to take her on—were keepers. They didn't all make it though. The line of girls who never even made it past the first interview with Mom was long—and sad.
It's terrible to think that you can't even bring your girl home to meet your parents for fear that she'd be ripped to shreds, but some of them were worth it, like Jane was. For some reason Mom's torture test didn't faze Jane. Jane didn't talk about her past much, something that Mom latched onto right away. Yet she had an answer for every question and didn't seem bothered by being asked. This of course gave me an inflated sense of self, because she had to go through the fire just to be with me, which meant I was worth it. Or at least I thought so then.
The only other girl who really got the one-two punch from Mom and survived to tell the tale was my high school girlfriend Michelle. I haven't thought of her in decades. Michelle Sherwood. She was something else—beautiful—but that was a long time ago when I was just a stupid kid.
I shake my head loose of the memory of Michelle and reintroduce my senses to the dinner around me. We eat in silence. Mom, helping to feed Dad, who despite his afflictions, is still able to down a solid, albeit small, meal. I take this as a good sign. He doesn't have to eat mush through a straw or some concoction through a feeding tube.
"I wanna go to the park," Gracie says while I clear the table. "And play on the merry-go-round."
I'd been putting it off for days, not because I had anything against the park, but because her playing on the playground was terribly boring and I quite honestly didn't want to sit there.
"Yes, William, we should do that," Mom says before I can open my mouth and make up an excuse. "Your father will enjoy the park too."
So, off we go on foot to the park down the street. Mom, pushing Dad in his chair. Me giving Gracie a piggyback ride. Kendall and Ethan, walking side by side far behind the rest of us. One big happy family.
