#Fin would take one look at big boy eclipse | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ecotone99 · 5 years ago

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[MF] Pieces (Before He goes)

I hated to do it. But he had grabbed his chest and spewed. So I threw him in the back of the car. That’s what happened. I took him to the hospital. He hated those measures, and I understand that. But I had duties. He had been grinding his teeth and muttering he was never scared, never, never scared. This was on the couch. And he was smiling and wincing.

So I had to take him. I had to.

Call it what you want.

But I'm a son. That’s something you have to understand. That’s not a fact I can just float over.

I gave him to the nurse, wheelchair, and all.

The nurse asked me if he was crazy.

I said, He’s old.

Then the nurse asked me if I was crazy.

I said, You need to help him.

Other words were exchanged. Nothing remarkable. Nothing worth repeating.

But the nurse told him, You’re going to have to lie down.

I interjected with, You don’t understand. You’ve got the wrong kind of guy.

You need to leave, is what I was told. Please sir, go out to the lobby and fill out all the proper forms. We’ll take care of him now. But we may need you to go home.

He doesn’t just lie down, I said on my way out. So, take care. He’s not of the kind to just lie down. That’s not him. That's triangles in cylinders with him.

Here’s something. It’s older. But it’s about us. And "Us" includes me and mom, and (only in a minor way) Salome the sister.

As you heard, he was a horrible cook. But that’s true if we’re talking about lunch and dinner. He didn’t get it.

But breakfast was his specialty. And Saturday's were his days.

He used to fix up three eggs sunny side up, four strips of bacon, and two waffles. So its been said, the waffles were from a family recipe he tweaked three times over the course of his life.

He always cooked the eggs and bacon with butter and olive oil. But sometimes he wouldn’t just stop with the waffles. On his best days, he would go on and toast a piece of white bread. Then he would spread hummus on the top and then slide the eggs over it.

Maybe mom and Salome didn’t like the combination. So they left their pieces to him and me.

But that was fine. That was for the best. Because he understood me. He always added a pinch of salt on the yellow bulb for the both of us. Sometimes he used pepper. But all the time he included a dab of siracha.

Yeah, he got me.

And my method of eating was to always puncture the yellow bulb first and let the yolk soak the bread of the next piece.

He said I had the right idea. So he would join . He would smile while he'd follow suit.

When I ate in a hurry, I felt he understood that too. He smiled through his black wool beard. The beard can hide many things. But it couldn’t hide that.

Mom would always say don’t eat like your father. Salome would double down and call me a pig.

But he would tell them, Let a boy eat. Let a son grow. He'll learn. But let him eat.

Those mornings were never disturbed.

He didn’t take the calls or the texts. Mom made Salome abandoned the phone in her room. Salome made sure the same went for me. But we were all concerned with our private business of eating at the table in peace. Him and mom made sure of that. We sat in the sun-flushed dining room and I always had the good, cold milk with ice. For him, coffee, cream no sugar. For mom, espresso, cream and lots of it. For Salome, tea, straight up.

No one said much of anything. And that was more than enough.

But there came one day where he really did something.

New oil and new butter. He had discovered some new store somewhere and indulged. What he bought there, I couldn’t tell you. If he had found and used new spices or new recipes, I couldn’t say much about that either.

But he made something special.

He had assembled on the dining table eggs, waffles, bacon, pancakes - the basics. That was half the table. Milk and orange juice were lined down the center. But then it was chopped potatoes, oatmeal, hash browns, mashed potatoes. That occupied the rest. of it.

It wasn’t anything we hadn’t eaten before. But the taste of it - the spices, the softness – in a word, it was delectable. But in truth, it was the taste that a rich man would kill for.

Mom asked him, How?

To this, he said, I wanted to be happy. I wanted to try.

So it goes and more often than not, he made that kind of breakfast for all of us, himself included.

Morning after morning, we ate good. He woke up early, took care of everything. He even cleaned the dishes, before and after, and I supposed that feat alone surprised mom the most.

We ate in furies. And our greasy smiles, I suppose, is what he found himself addicted to.

But there comes another day, a follow up that occurs on the table and mom went and said, There are consequences you know, to all this grease.

But he told mom, You have to let yourself be happy from time to time. From time to time, you have to try.

But mom said, The heart isn’t built for grease like this. Not for eggs and bacon and whatnot everyday.

And he said, Just let it be good. Because it is good. What time we have - the good time - it won't stay.

Then one thing and another, and Mom let him feel agreed with. But I think we all agreed in some way. We agreed and got stuffed again and got sleepy.

And like always, dad had a smoke on the porch after the breakfast. He sat on the lawn chair and kicked his feet up on the balustrade. He was smoking and watching the crows and wiping his chin from the grease and the ashes. I walked up to him, I remember that. I asked him if he was going to become a chef. Then I told him that I wanted to cook good like him.

But he mumbled, Crows talk too much.

He wasn’t looking at me when he said it. Then he went and said something else. Crows always talk too goddamn much.

The nurse and doctor wheeled him out of the lobby to the curb I was sitting on.

For over an hour, I had been going back and forth, watching one guy who was wheezing on one end and another who looked like he was dead on his feet on the other.

But now there was this.

He was pale and quiet now. His eyes were dark. But he wasn’t shaking anymore.

I bent down to get a look at his eyes, smile at him, ask him how he was holding up. But he just looked away.

What’s been done, is what I said to those in charge.

And the doctor went and said something about blood pressure and heart rates, plaque, arteries, build up, this and that and whatnot.

I was then given a prescription. Then I was handed a list of sanctioned foods and penalties. Particular concern was given to butter and beer.

I said, Well, what’s the man supposed to live on?

The doctor said, Not from bread. That’s for sure.

Well, one needs to make considerations, I said.

He said, We all have to make our changes.

Changes, I blurted out. for some reason. For some reason I then said, You're not just asking for changes, you understand? You understand that? You're not just asking for changes from me. This, all this. This list. This fucking list. Don't you get that this is all on me? All these changes. Don't you get it? This is - this is my - this my dad. This is mine.

I have one last thing to give.

I was twelve or thirteen when it happened. This was during what I know now as the long spat. Mom was smoking all the time and she was out all the time. So was Salome. She was always gone.

So it was me and him in the house. Me and him.

So here it goes:

I was sitting on the couch in the den watching something about spies, guns, and car chases when he lumbered in from the kitchen.

He was grumbling and sipping a beer. His hands were covered in ashes.

He moved toward me. He stumbled over his own boots. Then he stumbled over the ottoman. This lead to him tripping over the Persian rug, but he didn’t fall over, no. He grabbed the ledge of the mantle just in time and balanced himself.

He stood before me. He was poised, you know, like a monolith. He eclipsed the TV. So I was suddenly put inside his shadow.

He glared at me. But his eyes were reddened and glassy and wet. They looked like they’d be broken. He looked like he was taking a mid-break from doing a lot of crying.

His chin trembled.

His teeth chattered in a weird way.

But he had words in him. Anyone could have seen that. And he tried to get it out, you know, but there was too much piled in his throat.

It just wouldn’t get release. He just couldn’t get it said. Whatever he had in him got trapped in his gut or his lungs.

So, what he does is drink down the rest of his beer. Then he tossed the bottle my way.

Still, he doesn't talk. But he stepped upon the coffee table and peered down at me. I could smell him. He smelled like a bar. He smelled like lemons and spilled liquor.

He stepped down from the coffee table and then sat next to me.

My dad: The now big-gutted, sentimental drunk.

He said nothing as pulled me into his belly. Then he tried to weep. Then he proceeded to slumber right then and there on top of me. He drooled all over me. But I could feel his heart pulse from his gut. That’s the first time I knew the rhythm was off. The strange beats from my father.

Four then a sudden stop. Three, then a sputtering two. Five hard ones, then five quick, lightning ones.

My father’s odd song.

That was him. Things were happening inside of him. New developments. Pro-found changes - changes of which I could not understand. And perhaps, yet and still, I don’t.

FIN

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