Ninth of December

I usually rush through writing these. I get an idea, I pop open the computer, I bang it out and wait to see how people respond to it.

Not today. I’m moving slowly, intently, and methodically. I need to feel this one. I’m ready to go a little deeper.

Yes, I usually like to write funny pieces, or I try to shock the reader. The ones about heartbreak and despair are really some of my favorites. On this brightly shining Sunday afternoon in Manalapan, New Jersey, the town from which most of these stories were born, I want to invite you along on the next step in my journey.

I was doing my chore in the rooming house this morning. It is my responsibility to clean the living room. I sweep, and I mop, and I dust, and I Windex. I keep the area livable.

I was unusually quiet as I muddled through my domestic obligations today. There were two other housemates sitting at the butcher-block island in the kitchen, which sits just off the living room. One was Rob, my roommate, and the other was this fella named Noel.

I don’t know Noel’s exact age, but he appears to be in his late 50s. When you live in a space filled with people who are there one day and very well could be gone the next, you learn to not ask too many questions, nor get too attached. You take the information they offer and keep it moving.

A while back, I told Noel I was Jewish. I don’t remember exactly how the subject came up, but what I do recall about that particular encounter was that he tried to connect with me by stating that his mother was also a member of the Tribe.

Noel went on to say his father was of Latin descent and he also had some Western European blood in his family.

Most importantly, he was trying to be my friend, and I gladly reciprocated.

Back to this morning, as I’m pushing my mop, trying to get the soapy bubbles caused by using too much Fabuloso off the floor, Noel noticed my unusual silence and blurted out, “Did someone have a fight I don’t know about? The tension in this room is THICK!”

Rob and I simultaneously responded that there was nothing wrong, but Noel was correct in his intuition; an uncomfortable quietness lingered.

After a few more minutes, I voluntarily offered that I was going through a little bit of a health concern for which I have an appointment to see a specialist next week.

No, I’m not dying, and if I am, I’ll certainly use these pages to take you through the process with me.

So, with my demise not exactly on the horizon, thoughts of my immediate well (or not-so-well) being are constantly on my mind these days.

Without getting into too much detail, I explained this to Noel, and his tone changed from one of a would-be peacemaker of an imaginary feud, to a compassionate ear of comradery-like care and concern. He told me about a similar situation he went through and came out just fine. My friend seemingly understood the assignment of keeping my spirits up.

This wasn’t exactly the case when I stopped by my parents’ house this past Friday afternoon.

I arrived to find my mother, Ethel, sitting on the driveway in her wheelchair, with my father, Arthur, just a few feet away, smoking a cigarette.

It was a gorgeous early fall afternoon, so I pulled a chair out of the garage and began to make small talk. I chatted with my mother about work, about the weather, and about anything else mundane, until I saw the opening to reveal that I thought I was sick and had made an appointment to see a doctor.

Again, not in a life-threatening illness kind of way, but something’s not right.

Upon breaking the news, my mother’s demeanor changed from pleasant and talkative to one of worry and horror, as any mother would.

Something in the conversation even caught my father’s ear, which is not the norm. He turned to me and asked what was going on. As I began to repeat the information I gave my mother, he cut me off mid-sentence and asked, “Did you see what George Stephanopoulos said on Good Morning America the other day?” Followed by, “Did you see what Donald Trump is doing, and can you believe the Mets didn’t make the playoffs? They stink!”

I paused. I felt like asking him if he thought I gave a fuck about any of those things, or, if he even heard what I just told him. But I didn’t, because this is the way it’s been since I was a child.

This wasn’t exactly uncharted waters.

Growing up, I had no human connection with my father whatsoever. Our relationship and conversations were limited to work, and money, and what he saw on TV. What HE saw, not me.

I remember this one time, I was in my early 20s, and I called home from a payphone on the streets of Manhattan, looking for my mother. My father answered, and when I asked for her, I was told she wasn’t home.

He actually, much to my surprise, went on to ask me how I was doing. I somberly, and nervously revealed, “Not good, I need help.”

This was a time in my life when my addictions to cocaine, and alcohol, and gambling were getting the best of me. I fought through my tears and explained this to him. I didn’t know where to turn; I needed to be taken by the hand and shown the way.

So, here I was, opening up to my own father, trying to seal that bond I yearned for since I was a child. I was looking for the guidance I so desperately needed, but instead, I was met with, “Your mother’s not home; I’ll tell her you called.”

Click. That was it. The line went dead.

For the next 30 years, I rarely ever brought up my addictions, except for when I did.

At one point, I was 90 days clean and excitedly went to tell my parents. My mother offered me a sweet and sad smile of congratulations, filled with hope for a brighter future. My father’s response, “It’s better than no days clean.”

On that note, back to Friday, and still on the driveway.

Just before leaving them, I kissed my mother goodbye. I drifted down towards the street, where my car was parked. As I did, I looked back at my rapidly aging parents and had one request. I asked them that they not tell anyone what I had just told them. My mother replied, with her voice cracking, “Of course we won’t.”

I continued walking, but my father just couldn’t leave it there. As I’m just about to make my exit, he says, “Don’t worry, nobody’s asking about you.”

He blurted it out just as loudly and clearly as Noel in the kitchen.

I told myself he didn’t mean it as dismissive as it sounded, but it doesn’t mean my feelings weren’t any less hurt.

I’m not trying to change anyone at this late date, nor will I harbor any ill will or resentments over anything said or done. My parents have been mostly good to me over the years. They’ve helped me in the only ways they know how.

Connections, and that bond from one person to another, were just absent. Everyone is different.

I love songs, and I love dedications. This one goes out to my father, and my son, and also the little boy who lives inside of me, forever trying to find his way home.

“I awoke, and I imagined, the hard things that pulled us apart, will never again, sir, tear us from each other’s hearts. I got dressed, and to that house, I did ride. From out on the road, I could see its windows shining in light.
I walked up the steps, and I stood on the porch. A woman I didn’t recognize, came and spoke to me through a chained door. I told her my story, and who I’d come for. She said, I’m sorry son, no one by that name lives here anymore…”