To Fight and Not Smother (A Myth and Legend)

I once enlisted my grandmother –we’ll call her Mema, because that is what I call her – for relationship advice. I was a senior in high school and I was in what I thought to be a very serious relationship and it wasn’t going as smoothly as I had hoped. I needed a pair of eyes who had seen hard times in love and gotten through them. I needed someone who had some sort of insight into my possible long-term relationship. She told me two things. First, never go to bed angry. Second, do not under any circumstance smother your lover.

I will never forget this and it is my inability to forget this that causes me such anguish now. I think about these two ideas for relationship strengthening. I imagine myself being both of these supposed men at the same time. It is when I do this that I realize it is impossible to do these things. It is impossible to fight through something with your significant other and not smother them. To fight is to smother. Someone somewhere is probably thinking, “of course you can, both sides make compromises and then they let the anger go”.  This person has obviously never been in a fight with their spouse.

Even when two married people look into each other’s eyes and say they’re sorry and they kiss and make up – and make up gratefully afterwards, they aren’t really saying sorry. What they are saying is I’m sorry I couldn’t out right win this battle. I will concede, if you will. A compromised is made but a battle is not won or lost, and there is no such thing as a draw in war. So then what the hell is it?

It’s none of these things and all of them at the same time. It is an ongoing struggle that, if taken far enough, will last a lifetime. This is what old couples mean when they say if you are not fighting then it’s not worth fighting for. It is because they are still fighting to this day and they have to rationalize it somehow. When you go home for Thanksgiving, and you watch your grandparents, they are in the middle of two things. They are either not talking to each other at all, or they are making little comments to each other with smiles on their faces. We smile about it longingly when we’re all out in the backyard back getting drunk saying, “Man, they still have that fire. No wonder they have been together so long”. We have failed to see it for what it really is. It is not the fire from their passion we are seeing, it’s the fire from their poison. It is a fifty year old inside joke gone wrong, that no one will understand except for them and it has been going on since the day they said I do.

The thought that two people should fight but then concede to one another is the same blind Christian bullshit that has poisoned marriage and this nation for years now. Two sides are never equal and life is not equilateral. Someone has to win. Even if you think everyone is losing, someone is winning. So while men everywhere are giving up their balls and substituting them for their wife’s purse and/or miniature poodle, I hope there is an equal if not increasing number of men giving the middle finger to the Feminist Reich. I mean have you seen the divorce rate in this country?     

Matches and Love

Life and love are like matches and flame. We burn so hard for them, yet they fitter and extinguish themselves on the brink of their creation. We can never hold on to anything eternally. We fret and blow to keep the embers burning, letting the match smolder until it touches our fingers. We eventually feel the pain of our trials. We eventually have to let go. We drop the tarnished match into oblivion, letting it be just another testament of how our love will never be complete. The pain will always be there to remind us of the previous and warn against the future. We will henceforth not bear to withstand the same pains we went through before and therefore protect ourselves from it. Will anyone ever love as fiercely as they did the first time?

In essence, we must all taste this flame. This is our journey to become complete. What we are becoming complete for, that is yet to be determined. This does not negate the fact that the first flame always burns the brightest and the hottest. We stare it right down to our torched fingertips, grimacing at the look of the flame as it burns away our prints on this world. We can smell the burning flesh and it does not deter us. It is only until someone tells us to let go that we finally release.

To anyone looking for love, and to anyone trying to figure out love, the greatest realization is that of letting go. The future will happen with you, or without you. The flame that you try so hard to care for will eventually burn out. The true task of love is excepting this. You must sit back and wish, hope that the wind will once again rekindle the spark. You may find that this spark ignites other flames or the one that was once thought to be lost.

So keep your fingers closed and you breath shallow. Let anything you have going on inside out, because how knows when the flames of the match will burn out forever.

This Guitar

I hold my guitar as I write this. The strings are greasy from use. I stop and strum a few notes until I come up with a new or reprised line.  Hit the open E and I’m on cloud nine, a place so happy it literally can’t be bought. It’s the kind of thing you have to practice over and over, until it’s all pure muscle memory. Your fingers curve over the fret board like a bridge over troubled water – Oh, Bet! These vibrations are not the poor musings of a sad life on stark white computer screen. These vibrations are what make me able to express myself freely. So I muse.

Certain things that appear in my mind, certain things that to me should be written, don’t always come out easily on paper.  They are under the cover of an opaque shroud, a mist that is discernable, but impenetrable. They must be brought from this concealment and barrier. The finger picking of an open D chord lets me pick my way through this precipitant. As I grasp what my minds has for me, I let out a sigh of relief. For the road to understanding my mind is easier than I imagined. All I have to do is sit with my wooden and metal molded friend. My fingers in comfortably memorized positions on his neck. That’s when the words and my world begin to flow as one.

I no longer look into my mind as an empty and uncharted space, an expanse too dark to see through.  Your hands disappearing, in front of your eyes, if you try to stretch your arms out any further than a half a foot. I blink my eye but can’t tell if they were ever shut, there is no differentiating in the blackness. I hear the droll of Paul McCartney’s Liverpool accent as he rides the melodies of ‘Yesterday’ and a light shines through, ripping the darkness in two. I can see the faces of all the people I have ever met and the cities I have been and someday wish to go. I can see the places I grew up more vividly than ever.

I can see me lying in my bedroom on the floor in front of my stereo, my home in Tallahassee. I have headphones on because my youngest sister was only a few months old and barely sleeping through the night. So anytime I could help out the folks by not waking the sleeping one, I was golden. I would just retire to my room, homework done or not, and disappear into the wave of sound, mostly the classics - the Beatles, Led Zeppelin, Red Hot Chili Peppers, you know the kind. I would lie down and pray to whatever deity I felt gave a shit that night that I could become one of these legends. I at least prayed that I would get to at least attempt the feat of becoming famous. The closest I ever got was the Indian Brand guitar that I had begged my dad for, my very first guitar.

I held it in my lap and felt the thick heavy strings, which after months of rigorous practice switched for the light strings – less calluses. I fitted the curve of the left side of the guitar over my right leg and it magically matched up perfectly. I draped my arm over the left side of the body and began to stroke the face of the guitar. I didn’t know much about the woods that guitars are made of, and seeing as I don’t have the current profession of a guitar maker I still don’t, but I do know that the face cover was imitation. This was most easily distinguished by the seemly particleboard insides. The lesser-engineered factors of my present didn’t deter me from the simple enjoyment of it. I held up the neck with an upward facing palm. I flung my hand toward the horizontal strings. My right forefinger and thumb touching each other as they are poised for their attack. I use my fingernail as a pick and depress none of the strings up the fret board – my first note. An open resonating note enters my room and my dad opens my door and smiles.

“You like it?”

“Hell, yeah!”

“Good.”

The first song I learned was ‘Act Naturally’ – The Beatles. The second song I learned was ‘And I Love Her’. Since those first songs much has happened to me, but just like that first memory, the other memories are recovered and easily recounted. The chords of ‘Greens Eyes’ by Coldplay bring me back to serenades on the beach in Sullivan’s Island. My wife’s face reflected in the moon’s surface. Certain nights I couldn’t keep my eyes off her, other nights my hands. As I sang every love song I could think of, along with a special song I learned just for her – ‘Secret’ by Maroon 5 (yeah, I know. Get over it!).  This was what connected us in the first place. These spell casted night are bound together with steely notes and sea breeze. Love was born of these two. It was their power that drove us to our happy life together. The guitar bore the notes and the world bore the other half.

The song ‘Karate’ by Tenacious D and pretty much any song by Rage Against the Machines, brings back good times with good people and shitty alcohol. Nights that I wasn’t sure how I got home or where exactly home was in reference to my head. Several carpet stains are a testament to this. How I didn’t die back then I would surely like to know. Music blaring so loud you couldn’t hear yourself think, only the thoughts brought on through a subliminal frequency. Only the words ‘don’t trust the government, only trust yourselves’ emblazoned in my brain. A chant that, when repeated, becomes more of a mantra. The meaning lost in its multiplication. But, the feeling of those nights that turned into days will never leave.

‘Sorry About That’ by Alkaline Trio, makes me think of a lost love.

‘The Dance’ by Garth Brookes, brings thoughts of my parents.

‘Stay Together For the Kids’ by Blink-182, again thoughts of my parents.

I now put down my guitar and lay my fingers on the keyboard. The memories, which are merely refracted images of my possible future, are still fresh. My first keystroke will begin my purging of these and lead me to my mountain of understanding. This is where I will sit and reflect. Epiphanies will come and go like schools of Minos and I will let them slip through my fingers and toes, catching every one in a hundred. I don’t know where this road or my inner sight will take me, but this guitar will lead the way.

Entry 1

His mouth is moving. He is talking directly to me, but there is no sound. There is only a drone. This monotonous buzzing like the wings of humming birds. His mouth isn't moving anymore. I believe he must be waiting for a response. I muster a nod, totally committed but not committed at all, just enough to give the perception of my full attention without actually giving it. The glance in return is that of appeasement, exactly what I want. He gives me a pat on the back as he walks away. I start to wonder what he wanted in the first place. I wonder just long enough to disengage the lever that locks my swivel chair in the full upright position. I lean back and place my steel toe booted feet on the desk. Was someone talking to me just a second ago? I could have sworn someone was just standing here talking to me.

My mind is under a blockade of cloud cover. A misty place cut off from the ability to receive. I could sit here in this chair for hours, and I will. Closing my eyes and placing my hands over them, I shield any light and fill up with the darkness. The A/C unit kicks and sputters to life, sending a flood of cold air across the office that drives me even further into my artificial isolation. I drop my hands and open my eyes. I look around the trailer that serves as my office. Somber faces of the alarm clock mournful, sinking into their caffeine induced servitude, uniformed and callus. Such is the life of the government employee, military or otherwise. Work is as far from the getting done, just as the bureaucracy that rules it is far from functioning successfully.

I woke up with a single thought, a question. It is the present and only clear thought I can manage today. I've try thinking of what I ate last night. I try to think of my wife and her loving embrace. I try to think of consistency of macaroni and cheese, but to no avail. I’m brought back, dragged back as if by an invisible rope to that thought. Its imprisoning words echo and vibrate, flashing in my mind as it cuts me off from the rest of the world. I look at the digital clock radio that sits on top of the filing cabinet across the room, 7:30.

I’ve been here an hour already and I still haven’t logged onto my computer. I drop my feet from the desk and use this momentum to take a proper working position at my desk. Legs tucked underneath. Eyes motionless and facing the monitor. I place my hands on the keyboard in the poised and ready position. I can’t bring myself to hold down the Ctrl + Alt + Delete that would bring up the access screen. I would plug my username and password in, if I could just begin. My fingers, with nails recently trimmed or chewed (I can’t remember), lay motionless. The weight of them is impossible. Staring into the blue welcome screen I ask myself the question. The question, which awoke me this morning with such crystal clear intent, that it is now burned into my conscience. A brand and trademark of something I’m not too sure of.

How did I get here?

My tingling fingers remain motionless and I have now sat here, answerless and staring into my computer screen, long enough to cut off the circulation at the elbow. I sit back in my chair and feel the cushion depress as it takes on the weight of my back and shoulders. The tingling in my fingers resides and I resort to closing my eyes and covering them with shaking hands once more. It’s such a simple question, but I can’t answer. An answer would be an admission of something wrong. Nothing is wrong. If nothing is wrong then there is nothing to admit. Yet here I am, in my makeshift office, assembled in a trailer, assembled in a hangar bay, wanting an answer. My pulse is building up, am I really going to have an anxiety attack right here.

I pull at the collar of my shirt and, with darting eyes look around the room. No one has noticed my agitated state. I start to sweat. Rising from my chair I muster the strength to walk, at a slightly erratic and brisk pace, for the door. Not one soul, of the seven present in the office, looks up. I open the door and with a flurry slam it shut behind me. Standing in the hangar bay a breeze blows. The smell of the shipyard, a mixture of fabricated metal and the stuff collecting at the bottom of the various dumpsters, circles in a blistering cold current. My cheeks expand in the effort to hold my stomach back. I run to the adjacent hangar bay aircraft elevator. I was going for the shantytown style trailer that served as a restroom. It rested on the elevator, looking over the side at the collective madness of junk that sits on all naval shipyard piers. I burst in almost impaling a shipyard Baba with the broken doorknob. The urge to vomit passed as I stand over the lime-incrusted sink

I look at myself in the mirror. My reflection is pale and distorted behind the etched words and symbols left by past patrons. I run water into my hands until the temperature is scolding hot. I splash the steaming liquid across my face. I let the water cool and run down into my shirt before I splash some more. This overwhelmed feeling in my lungs is like a sucking gunshot wound to the chest. I gasp for breath and slam my back to the wall. I slide down into a crouching position. The room is small and claustrophobic, but the tightness is soothing to me. I can’t understand my reacting. My question is crippling me and the real problem is I know the answer.

I don’t know how I got here...

I say the answer aloud. My voice doesn’t sound like mine and it cracks into more of a croak as it bounces off the aluminum walls. I tell myself to breathe. In. Out. The air enters my lungs and the supplied blood flow makes my face warm, signaling a return of color. I stand to face myself in the mirror. I say the answer again with a forced conviction. What I’m trying to convince myself of is unclear, but it makes me feel better. I don’t know. Now I say it with determination. I don’t know. A cloud of dust descends from the metal under siding that serves as a ceiling, as the vibrations of my voice knock it loose. Another good, deep breath and I’ll walk out of here. My face and hands are dripping; I reach for paper towels. There aren’t any – typical.

I open the door and walk out onto the three steps that lead to the elevator floor. The cold air hits my wet face and hands causing my teeth to chatter. I walk back through the open aired hangar bay. I place my hands in my pockets; the cotton walls absorb the remaining water from my hands, dampening my legs. A grimacing smile crosses my lips from this sensation, as I see Patrick and Salinger, probably on their way to the smoke pad. They move in slow motion and I can’t make out what it is they are saying. Lips move with no sound, but are nonetheless directed at me, and the thought of inventing a response brings back the nausea. My tongue tastes like bile acid.

“You too, fags!” is all I can manage.

A noticeable look of confusion spreads across their faces, first Patrick, and then Salinger as I continue on without looking back for acknowledgment. They look to each other and shrug, moving onward to whatever. I ascend the stairs to my trailer. Entering I notice nothing has changed. Everyone is in the same spot as if in still frame, like a painting of the saddest day of your life. Everyone in the same uniform, blue with white lettering that spells out the name associated.

A squeak rises from the chair as I again take my seat. I rehash the possibility of logging onto my computer, but decide I don’t need another panic attack this morning. So I concentrate on just the keyboard. The letters arranged to mimic the original design for typewriter keyboards, by Christopher Sholes in 1874. The earlier design for typewriters was bulky and used mammoth bars, or stokes with each individual letter. The problem Sholes found was, that when typed to fast, these stokes would bind and collide with one another, ultimately breaking and disabling the early monstrosity all together. It is said, and with no real evidence, that Sholes QWERT design was meant to place the more frequently used letters in more difficult positions. This arrangement would help by slowing the typist down and allowing the machine to function without the deleterious effects. This is seemingly baseless however when letter frequencies are considered. The third most frequently used letter in the English language is ‘A’, which is the resting place for ones left pinky finger and easily punched with said finger.

“Fucking damn pig fucks!”

The abhorrent verbiage jostles me from my trance and I spin in my seat towards the only sound I’ve heard all morning. Harp is sitting in the corner playing Angry Birds on his smart-phone, which he has done every day this shipyard. His unblinking eyes transfixed on the miniature screen, which is smudged opaque with fingerprints. The FX volume on his phone is set to silent, so the only affirmation of success or failure is from these violent outbursts. His goal, a lofty one, is to get a score of three stars on every level. Lofty of a goal it is, because with new levels coming out almost every week. Every design increases in complexity, leaving each stage more sinister than the previous. Harps out cries were nothing out of the ordinary.

“I swear to God, these pig forts are like fucking fort Knox!”

“Have you considered trying a different game for a while, there Harp?” Rorche asks over his shoulder.

“Have you considered fucking yourself?” Harp replies shortly.

“All I’m saying is maybe if you tried a game you were better at, you wouldn’t yell in the office like someone with Turrets.”

“And all I’m saying is… have you considered fucking yourself?”

Rorche rolls his eyes. Harp returns to his siege of pig forts. The joy of being snatched from the drowning pool of my thoughts is short lived, as the silence of the room crashes into me with torrential force. It leaves my mind dazzled; a million stars of the universe explode in my vision. I begin to wonder if the exchange was a figment of my imagination. An apparition that might possibly bring me to the reality I craved and out of my head. I try searching again for a different answer to my question, or maybe I try thinking of a different question. So much space in my head, my mind is an endless expanse, leaving a place unable to be traversed.

I look again to clock radio, foolishly. 8:06, in blinding red text, alights my mind and the thought of staying in the trailer, in this chair, for another minute sends decimating stomach pains to my abdomen. I bend over in my chair a lay my face on the black desktop. I bring my right arm up and around to support my head, knocking over a paper cup of water that was left behind the day before. The cup is almost empty but the remaining water is enough to completely soak the base of my keyboard. I don’t lift my head and allow the water the run over and off the base, to my forearm, which is an inch away.

As I lay defeated, I feel a vibration in my coverall pocket. Keeping my head down I push myself away from the desk. I lower my left hand and plunge into the darkness. My minds eye can’t make a plausible connection between the vibration and anything. I feel a square block. As I pull it from my pocket it continues to buzz in my hand. I recognize this mystery object as my cell phone. The screen is blinking with life and showing the smiling face of my wife. I hesitate to answer.

What if I answer and just can’t say anything. She will know something is wrong. She knows me all too well, and whether by averment or abstinence she will know. On one hand an ally would be handy. A person necessary to confide the darkness that is slowly, or not slowly, consuming me. On the other, if she doesn’t understand, the problem could be expanded to boundaries I am yet able to face. I clench my teeth and answer the phone, sliding the virtual unlock button on the touch screen.

“Hello”

“Hey baby, just wanted to say hi. You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine sweetheart.”

“Seriously, baby, you don’t sound good. What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know.”       

Untitled Rant

I'm tired guys. It goes without saying I hate Virginia. More specifically I hate the Norfolk area.

Today, while sitting in stop and go traffic, thinking about my stop and go life, I wished I could be doing anything other than stopping... and subsequently going. For anyone who is in the same area as me, which is probably any and all of you sad fuckers reading this, you feel my pain. I literally banged my head on my car horn today and left it there to blare for a good 30 seconds, hoping to find that the person who was sitting in the middle of the intersection of Tidewater and Norview could see, hear, or have anything resembling a pulse. Turns out this person did, and he moved his candy colored Escalade, although too late for me to continue through the light to turn left. This person also gave me the finger and was yelling something. What he had in pulse he lacked in brains, because I obviously can't hear you through your passenger side window, my windshield, and the 10 or so yards of outside ambient noise that separates us, you dumb ass!

Secondly, I would love to go back and find the guy that created the I-64 interstate system (Consisting of I-264, 464, 564, and 646, for all of you not in the know) and kick him, as directly as I can manage, in the testicles. Anyone who has ever sat for an hour in traffic at the Downtown Tunnel or, even more God forsaken, the Hampton Road Bridge Tunnel (HRBT) probably feels the same, and could definitely think of other things to do with his testicles. None of which would be pleasant. Why the fuck would you make a drawbridge immediately followed by a tunnel, or vise versa depending on which way you are traveling? Not only that, but why would you have on and off ramps feeding directly into the tunnel, leaving no room to maneuver (i.e. get over) to allow, I don't know, traffic to flow? And heaven help you if a boat comes and they lift the bridge, which isn't supposed to happen after 5:00 AM, but we've all been sitting there at 7:10 AM as traffic is backed up for 3 miles in both directions. If a nuclear attack happens in America, God forbid, I hope the bomb drops right on the fucking Downtown tunnel.

I pray for the soul that works in Portsmouth and lives in Newport News, causing you to have to traverse the previously mentioned bottlenecked fuck job and the HRBT. Yours is the darkest heart know to mankind. Your eyes are probably blackened raisins of hell set behind knife slit for eyes. The stuff that comes out of your mouth is probably dirtier than the stuff that's been collecting in the bottom of all of our trash bins for the past year put together. I would stay clear of you my friend, because I'm sure you have a gun with a concealed carriers permit, and if you don't shoot someone soon you will. 

I think the worst part about it, other than the wear and tear on your fucking brakes, is the time alone with yourself. Nothing is scarier than a man left alone to his own thoughts. One of the leading reasons why people in the Navy get divorced, other than the fact that all navy wives/spouses are cheating whores, is because navy men and women have to sit in this traffic all day and think about this and many other decisions. 

"Really I married that fucker?"

I'm no different, other than the cheating whore wife part. My wife is awesome! I'm no different because I hate being alone with my thoughts. They're like a good beer that's been poisoned. They start off with everything you want, and then slowly but surely they kill you. Here is an example of a simple, silent train of thought that has been left alone too long.

Man I'd love to go to college and learn how to be a good writer. I've been through so much this past 4 years; I've earned the right. Man, nothing’s going to hold me back from my dreams. I need to start looking at colleges. I wonder how many colleges I should apply for, 2… or 3… maybe 4? I wonder if they will accept me. I wonder if I have anything to offer them to make them want want to accept me. Why was I so stupid, signing up for 6 years instead of 4? Oh yeah, because I'm a no good fuck up that spent his 4 years of high school smoking dope and…

I won't finish this because it leads to a really destructive and self-deprecating path that's not healthy for really anyone involved. But you get the picture. In Virginia these trains of thought are probably even worse because, if you are in Norfolk/Hampton Roads, you are probably there because you are a fuck up. If you aren't then there is something wrong with your head like a brain tumor or peripheral neuropathy. Please seek help as soon as possible from your nearest health care professional, as long as they aren’t from a Navy care facility.

Notice that there is no counter constructive input. This is because there is no one but you, the hardest of all critics, left to input anything. It's like a skinny girl looking into a mirror only to walk away thinking that they're fat, but for a whole hour. 

But that is for another rant. 

  

Google It

 “The Weed Eater don’t work.” I said, slightly exhausted from the multiple yanks at a tether cord, spanning most of the last twenty minutes…

“I don’t know what we’re going to do about the Ivy.”

…

“Hey baby, I found out how to get that Ivy up without the Weed Eater,” She said. “I Googled it.”

I stare at her surprised, but eager to hear. “How?”

To spare my readers a long winded list of steps, I will explain how it's done. It’s a two man operation where one person has a rake; the other has some hedge trimmers. The person with the rake combs back the Ivy, while the guy with the hedge trimmers cuts at the snagging vines. You continue to comb and cut until you have a pile of Ivy and pine straw that resembles a rolled up carpet. The best part about it was it actually worked. Holy shit! Thanks Google!

…

What the hell do our dads do now that Google is around? Any question you can ask your dad, you can ask Google. How do you change the oil in your car? Google leads you to a website with step by step instructions and dummy proof drawings. Where do babies come from? The explanations spelled out on a teen health site, without the embarrassing hand gestures. How do you tie a tie? How do you shave? Answers all provided at the click of a mouse. Google monopolizing the humanity of asking a question.

The nurturing touch of a parent has been replaced by the cold precision of straight answers. No decoding required; it's laid out in black and white. No need for disappointment when the advice given doesn’t pan out. No ones memory to get things fuddled up. No need to remember because Google is there if we ever need it again. And maybe there in lies the problem. Have we left Google the job of remembering for us?

No need to remember how to cook a pie. No need to remember how to play a song. No need to remember how to remember. You can just look it up on Google.

I ask the question because what happens when we can no longer remember? What will happen once we’ve given our brains to the collective? Will we be left to consult the super engine Google for everyday menial tasks? I don’t think it’s that serious or anything. I don’t think this is the matrix, but what if?

Mankind left searching for the meaning of life through keywords.

Getting Bad News and Just Being

What are you supposed to say when someone gives you bad news? I've always struggled with this.

Are you supposed to shrug it off; be a man about it? Are you supposed to cry in the wake of the news? Are you supposed to morn your position of knowing? Or can you just be?

I was sent an e-mail (or should I say my wife was sent an e-mail) from my grandmother today. It said that my grandfather had prostate cancer. It said that he would be going through a localized radiation treatment and that the prognosis was good. It said that is was expected, after the treatments, that the cancer would go into remission for 10-15 years. It also said that they really liked his urologist and radiologist. Like, I really care about them. It also said that they would be going to dinner soon, which meant I would have to wait if I wanted to call them.

I was sort of taken aback. Kind of like the kid who gets dumped over an e-mail. I mean couldn't I at least get a phone call. But then again, the guy that gets dumped on the phone only wanted to be told in person, as if the news would be any easier to swallow.

I'm not retarded. I know that prostate cancer is the number one cause of death in all men over the age of 75. Strange enough, that is my grandfathers age range. numero uno... un....um... eins...

I know what cancer does to people. A friend of my dad's friend had contracted brain cancer. He ended up acting like that weird uncle that everyone indulges because we know... he doesn't have much going for him right now. We looked at him with petty. I not sure if they would admit it but I sure would. I didn't laugh when he told the story about how he mistaken Pilate's as some organic food restaurant. But everyone laughed as loud and as hard as they could. As if it was his last joke, but then again, maybe it would be.

So I waited an hour or two before calling my grandparents (Mema and Pop). I thought about what I would say. I thought about maybe opening up with a nice, "How ya doin there Pops"

I've always seen my Pops as a hard ass. Maybe not hard ass, but definitely rough around the edges. This guy did 20 years in the navy, father 4 of the craziest girls you'll ever know, did 20 more years as a postal worker, drank hard liquor for breakfast, gave up drinking for the bible, and when he had his first heart attack, didn't even realize it was happening. He said, "It felt like I couldn't breath. That's not normal?"

I thought maybe this was one of those naked moments when you see someone stripped down to bear bones. The man was just diagnosed with a terminal illness.

I called. Mema answered the phone. "Heeeyyyy!!!" Seriously, that's how she answers the phone, with an over enthusiastic greeting followed by, "What a pleasant surprise." You couldn't be that surprised. Even if I had popped out of the bushes in your garden wearing peacock feather nipple rings could you be that surprised. For God sake you just told me my grandfather has CANCER! Usually she talks on the phone the longest, but tonight she knew the jig was up. They are normally so conservative about these feelings, these moments when anyone else would be looking for pity from someone. They are too proud.

She gives the phone to Pop. When don't start off talking about much. How's work. Fine. How's the wife and that ugly dog. Fine. How's the.... and his phone dies.

Shit that was my chance. I was supposed to see him vulnerable. He was supposed to cry and I was supposed to say it's okay. I was supposed to say I would be there for him no mat.... wait the phones ringing. I answer. It wasn't a long conversation. He said he didn't want to be attached to a cord connected to a wall all night. I guess he would be there soon enough, except in a hospital.

"Hello"
"I know why you called" (it was him if you couldn't tell)
"Yeah, I know you do"
"Listen we caught this thing early. The doctor took 11 biopsies and only one came back as cancer. 5 of the 11 were what they call pre-cancerous"
"Yeah, but cancer is cancer Pops." (I was the one being vulnerable)
"This is the kind of thing you just can't help, so you can't worry about it. That's biblical! Is there something you can do to fix it?"
"No"
"Then we'll worry about it once it's taken it's true course and we can really see what we're messin' with. Until then, It's all life."
"I love you Pops"
"I love you too"
"Goodnight"

I was given some confidence. I was given a breath of life. He was right. I can only really worry about what I can do to change matters and in this matter I could change nothing. I was helpless and in my helplessness I am given strength. If a man can be given a diagnosis of cancer and still say some shit like that. Maybe you can get bad news and just be.