"Yes, I'm sure."
He sat back down and wiggled his rear end back into the nooks and crannies it occupied just seconds before, and then he said, "Good! I wasn't ready to go back into that damn building anyway!" We both laughed, releasing the fog of awkwardness into the atmosphere, dissipating into outer space.
"Me neither. I like sitting out here on my break. It's very peaceful."
"Agreed. I like walking the capitol grounds. It is beautiful. Our forefathers knew what they were doing when they designed this. And--yes--peaceful. Sometimes, when I'm walking around, looking at the trees, watching the clouds drift above the tree tops, and the squirrels running around burying pecans, my mind drifts into a trance. Do you know what I mean?"
"Yes. Yes, I do. I guess you could say that when you walked up earlier, I was in a trance, too. I was thinking about the possibility of things."
"This sounds very interesting!" he said, crossing his legs again, twisting back into the contorted pretzel of a posture. "Do tell. The possibility of what?"
A blur of gray and brown caught the corner of my eye and I looked out on the great lawn, my vision locking in on a plump squirrel across the way, in the long shadow of a tall pecan tree, jabbing its little arms back and forth into the tall blades of grass, burying a nut, no doubt. It noticed me watching it and our eyes locked, the stillness of his stare penetrating me. He was neither scared nor worried--just motionless in his observation of me--as if to say, 'I see you, asshole. What? I'm burying my nut. You got a problem with that?' As I stared at the squirrel and it stared back at me, I felt the anticipation swelling up next to me and wondered if I should let Mr. Healy in, let him know exactly what I had been going through. I mean, sometimes it seemed like Mr. Healy was my therapist, in as much as he listened to the things I had to say when they affected my job, things that required time off from work. He knew about the time it hurt for me to pee and I had to go see an urologist. He knew about the time a cat of mine swallowed a long piece of string then shit it partially out, only to have a turd entangled in the string and dangle behind him as he ran around the house, thinking a predator was chasing him or something, when it was just a turd on a string hanging out his butt. And he knew about the time I ate a sandwich with a moldy piece of bread on it and I had an allergic reaction to the mold. He knew a lot of things about me, but I wasn't sure I wanted him to know about my son, good ol' Sammie Boy. I decided to be a little vague about what I was thinking about. I decided to be vague as hell. The squirrel quit staring at me and ran up the pecan tree, disappearing behind a branch.
"I was wondering if seeing the future was possible."
"Seeing the future?" he said, his face twisting into thoughtful curiosity. "That's interesting. Why were you thinking about that?"
"Oh, I don't know. My mind just drifted, I guess."
"Well, I will say, that with advances in technology, we've been able to do things like build telescopes that can see so far across the galaxy that they say we are actually looking back in time. So I don't know why we couldn't do something like that to see forward into time. Know what I mean?" I nodded. He continued. "And what would we even use a technology like that for? Spy on our enemies? Or lookout for the disasters for the sake of saving mankind? Would a technology like that be used for good or evil?"
"Well," I said, scratching my head, a little exasperated with the direction he went with my thought. "I wasn't really thinking about technology looking into the future. I was thinking about our own minds doing it, seeing things happen before they happen."
"Like a superhero?!" he said, slapping his knee again in that distracting way a lunatic yells at an invisible assailant. "Like a freak in a movie? What was that movie about the guy who was in an accident then could see into the future?"
"I don't know," I said, annoyed.
"You know?" he said, grabbing my arm and squeezing it hard. "That movie with the actor that talks funny? The one with the poufy hair!"
"I have no idea."
"Walken! Christopher Walken. That's the guy. He was in that movie--The Dead Zone! That's it." He slapped his knee again and shook his head, astonished at the difficulty of remembering the name of that movie. He was worn out. Really. I hadn't seen that movie so I never would have thought of it. Most of the movies based on books by Stephen King were absolute shit. It's true. I avoided them like the plague. "That's the one. He could see the future of that congressman. The one who ruined his own career. Did you see that one?"
"No, I didn't."
"You gotta see it. I love Stephen King movies. I just love them to pieces. They are so good."
"OK," I said, looking across the lawn for the squirrel, the one burying his nut a little while before. I didn't see him anywhere. I wished I was wherever he was, far and away from this conversation, attending to other matters like hiding nuts or climbing trees.
"Sorry, I digressed. What I was really wanting to say is that our minds are capable of anything. That's what they say, right?" he said, slugging me in the arm like kindergarteners on a school bus, teasing each other. "We know so much now about space and history and our minds and our bodies and evolution and you name it. People one hundred years ago would be astonished at what we know now. Right?"
"That's true."
"So who knows? Anything is possible," he said, releasing his intertwined legs, bouncing to his feet. "All I know is, I gotta skedaddle. I have to take a dump before going back to the office. See ya on the flip side, pardner!" he said, then scurried off quicker than he appeared earlier. Maybe he sensed my lack of enthusiasm for his observations or maybe the gut bomb he was experiencing really was too hard to hold. Who knows? All I knew was that I was alone--again--just like I wanted to be. Too bad my lunch break was over and I had to go back inside to work.
As I got up and walked back toward the building, the squirrel from the staring contest a little while before ran across a branch above me, tearing through leaves and tiny branches and balls of tree moss like he was running for his life. He ran the length of the branch until there wasn't any more branch to run across. Without stopping, he launched into the air, his little forearms extended, his body long and taut like a furry missile. From my vantage point, it seemed like he had made the decision to jump to his death but he knew what was going to happen and where he was going to land. He fell onto a branch of an adjacent tree--the weight of his landing sending tree bark and leaves furling to the ground--and quickly disappeared into the green, bushy shade.
Chapter Seven
Picking the kids up from school could go one of two ways, depending on the weather. 1) It could rain and a car line would form that would stretch three blocks around and away from the school with parents impatiently waiting in their cars to pick up their kids from beneath a small, covered staging area. 2) It could be sunny and I could skip the entire car line nightmare altogether, me opting to stand next to my parked car on the street next to the school. That was the more sane option--the 'standing around and waiting for my kids to come to me' option. Not that I minded having the kids placed directly into my car by a drenched teacher who would rather be downing frozen margaritas with well tequila (that's the cheap stuff, if you didn't know) than assisting ungrateful, grouchy children into their parents' vehicles. It surely was more convenient that way--the car line option. But there was a part of me that preferred that things weren't so easy for my kids. Sometimes, I felt, my kids had to suffer a little bit, maybe not a lot but just a little bit of suffering was the right thing to do. I mean, I couldn't be responsible for raising spoiled brats, now could I? Why would I want to inflict that kind of pain onto unsuspecting, potential friends, mates, and coworkers of my children? I just couldn't do it, I tell you. It was like a moral imperative or something. It's true.
So on this particular day, it was hot as blazes outside and the sky was as clear as the cold water in Barton Springs, and I decided right then and there that I would wait by my car on the street. I was pretty certain my kids would find me; that was our routine if
it was sunny. If it was raining, then wait for me under the shelter. If it was sunny out, then walk to my car. I usually parked in the same place every time, or somewhere relatively close. Most of the parents were lazy assholes, opting to form the three-mile long car line and wait for their kids in the air-conditioned cabs of their massive SUVs, the chrome tailpipes belching hot-house gasses into the suffering sky. Besides, standing up was good for me. It was a nice antidote to sitting on my ass all day at work.
Every day at 2:45pm on the dot, the school buzzer would ring from loudspeakers--little plastic boxes mounted on brick walls or metal poles, dotted around the main building, the portable buildings, and the playground with the massive black-top--while the principal wished the exiting children a good day and pleaded for them to do their homework as they were instructed by their teachers. I watched the kids trickle out and at first, it was onesie-twosies--a straggler, a punk, a nitwit, a hyperactive, a loner, a booger-eater, and a stinker. Then came the rest, led in orderly single-file lines by worn-out teachers, the classes closest to the main exit leaving last. Cursed were the kids whose classes were closest to the exit; they would have to watch all the other classes leave first while they waited their turn to escape. Torture, I tell you! Both Sammie and Jessie's classrooms were in the middle of the building so they were neither cursed nor charmed. They always came out within the midst of the throng, their faces instantly visible the minute they emerged. Isn't funny how parents can find their children instantly in the middle of a crowd? Like a red marble in the middle of a sand box, I could spot Sammie and Jessie's cute faces without trouble. And whenever they saw me, they would come running, their arms and backpacks flailing about as they ran toward my car.
"Daddy! Daddy!" they said, their cries of happiness growing louder as they got closer. I waved back enthusiastically. It was a sweet, little routine that I enjoyed very much, something that I made sure to enjoy because I knew it wouldn't last forever. All kids outgrow the joy they have when they first see their parents after a long day at elementary school. It was a fact of life. And there is nothing worse than a fact of life taking a dump on the little pleasures you experience with your children. It's true.
"Yeah! School's out," I said. "What do you guys want to do?"
I opened the back door to my trusty Volvo S70 and they both jumped in. Soon after I got in, we were off, maneuvering past the cars, some parking, some yielding. My kids' excitement was palatable. I could feel it in the front seat.
"How about some ice cream?" Jessie said, rubbing her little hands in a greedy fashion. She knew we had ice cream the day before and hoped that I wouldn't have remembered that little bit of information. But I didn't forget things like that.
"We had ice cream yesterday," I said. She harrumphed with disappointment. "How about something else?"
"Daddy? Can I ask you a question?" Sammie said.
"Sure, son."
"When was the last time we went to the duck pond?"
That was a good question. I couldn't think of the last time we had gone to the duck pond, a little ritual I started with the kids when they were very little. And when I mean little, I mean barely walking little. I racked my brain but I couldn't think of the last time we went so I said, "I don't know. Is that what you want to do today?"
"Yes, Daddy!" he said, beaming at his sister, knowing he won the choice. Little Jessie returned a despondent look to her brother, a ploy which affected him deeply. "But Daddy?"
"Yes, son?"
"Can we get ice cream tomorrow?"
"Of course, son," I said, looking in the rear view mirror. Jessie wrapped her little arms around her little brother's head, squeezing tightly.
"You're the best brother ever!" she said, swinging his head to and fro, like she was clutching a red, rubber kickball.
"Stop it!" Sammie said, trying to get free, annoyed with her stronghold.
"But I love you, brother!" she said, giggling.
Sammie finally broke free from his sister's clutches, noticed some children on the sidewalk we passed by, and propped himself up on his knees, peering out the rear window. He raised his right hand in front of his face, extended his index finger and thumb, and pinched the air repeatedly as if crushing flies or mosquitos or gnats or some other flying, pestering things in the back window.
"There's that jerk, Tommy, and his stupid jerk friend, Jimmy. I'm pinching them and pinching them! I'm pinching them so hard that I'm crushing them! I'm crushing their big, fat heads!"
"Sit down," I said, commanding good ol' Sammie Boy to obey. He didn't obey. He continued to air-pinch the bullies, even as their bodies grew smaller and smaller into the distance as we drove away.
"You're always pinching people to death," Jessie said, crossing her arms in frustration. "You never actually do anything."
"I do stuff," he said, embarrassed that his little sister was calling him out.
"Oh yeah? What does pinching from far away do, anyway?" she said, giving Sammie the stink eye.
"It makes me feel good," he said, turning back around and sitting in his seat. He smiled, obviously thinking about the bullies crushed between his fingers, their guts and brains all over the place, no doubt. Their bloody carcasses squirted streams of blood as he crushed them--in his mind.
"I'll kick their butts for you," she said.
"Thanks, sis, but that's OK."
"I will. I'll kick their asses! I'm almost a black belt in taekwondo, you know!"
"Jessie!" I said, surprised. "Watch your mouth."
"Sorry, daddy," she said, elbowing her brother. "But I would for my big brother."
"That's sweet and disturbing at the same time, but I appreciate the sentiment toward your brother. Let's try to practice some restraint, please. Just because you can hurt someone doesn't mean that you should. OK?"
"Fine," she said. Boy, was she mad. I just knew that when she grew up that she would really be able to take care of herself. If she wanted to kick somebody's butt, then she could. I worried for any unsuspecting, oblivious boyfriends in her future. They better watch their steps around her. She'll annihilate any cheating asses for sure. It's true.
"So, to the duck pond then?" I said, quickly changing the subject.
"Yes!" they both said, clapping their little hands.
I sped up the Volvo s70--away from the school and the bullies and the teachers and the principal and the janitors and the lunch ladies and the other, boogery kids--then turned into a small subsection of the subdivision called The Lake at Wells Port (ingenious, huh?). It was named The Lake at Wells Port because there was a small pond in the middle, a man-made puddle created by the developers of the subdivision, in a section of land that naturally collected run-off in pond-like fashion, but whose retaining power was increased by the use of a cement dam. They stocked the pond with fish and turtles and mallard ducks, little creatures that gave the sub-sub-division a modicum of character, something the other sub-sub-divisions didn't have, unless drug dealers in low-rent duplexes is considered character (in some cities, that is). And this tiny bit of character made an impression on my children, something that they tucked away deep inside their little souls and cherished. Driving through The Lake at Wells Port engendered nostalgia in their hearts and excitement in their minds. They loved visiting the pond. It was one of their favorite things to do with me.
"Daddy, can I ask you a question?" said Sammie.
"Sure, son."
"Do you think Broken Wing is still there?"
"Good question, son," I said, scratching my head. Broken Wing was an unfortunate duck whose one wing was so crooked and mangled that the duck dragged its busted limb on the ground as it walked around. When it swam, its wing floated at its side like a feathery raft attached by stringy tendons. We didn't know how its wing got in this state but its broken wing gave it a memorable characteristic that gave it its namesake. "I guess we'll see."
"What about Berry?" Jessie said, her curiosity piqued by Sammie's question. Berry was another duck whose caruncles (the
red, fleshy, bumpy things on its head, in case you didn't know) were so grotesque and bright red, that they reminded Jessie of a clump of red berries. Hence, she named the poor duck Berry. "Do you think Berry is still there?"
"We'll see," I said, trying not to run off the road and tear through someone's lawn and crash into their house.
I sped through The Lake at Wells Port in an attempt to keep the kids' nostalgia at bay. The sight of certain houses or neighbors or landmarks sent their minds into a tizzy and I wasn't really interested in going back in time with them and reliving our past lives. I just wanted to get them to the pond to scope out some ducks and have a good time. But that was really hard with two inquisitive, hyperactive kids in the car. I couldn't drive fast enough to distract them.
"Look!" Sammie said. "There's Mr. Sebastian. He used to give us candy every Wednesday. He said candy got you over the hump on Hump Day. Remember, Daddy?"
"How could I forget Mr. Sebastian?"
"And look, Daddy!" Jessie said. "There's the curb where I crashed my bike and got this scar on my forehead! Remember, Daddy?" she said, pointing to a small divot in her forehead.
"How could I forget? I see the scar on your forehead every day."
As I zoomed my car around curve after curve, it became apparent that I wasn't going to be able to get through our old neighborhood without driving by our old house, the house we all lived in when my ex-wife was still alive and she and I were still married. While we were going through our divorce, I referred to the house as our Crazy House on account that I almost went crazy there. Such a thing it is, to survive a bout with craziness, especially when divorce is involved. Most people don't win that battle. I was lucky to get out of that toxic marriage with even a tiny bit of my sanity intact. Can you believe it? It's true.
"Daddy, can we stop in front of our old house?" said good ol' Sammie Boy with that sweet way he asked me for things. How could I resist that? It was really hard for me to resist.
Sammie & Budgie Page 14
