reckless driving..

My mouth said no but my hand slid his traffic light into my intersection. Haven’t worn a seat belt in three months, just to see if he would tell me to put it on. Knowing that he wouldn’t, but praying that he might surprise me I asked him to wear his, just for a little while. He said ok but didn’t move to find one. I loved to fly, so I didn’t press the issue. Caught up in the heat of 160 mph, we flew across the 105, to the 110, and just as we were about to hit the 710, I saw the caution sign and remembered that neither of us had on seat belts. I pulled over and we kept the car running. After a deep discussion with the steering wheel, which lasted a maximum of thirty seconds, we were back on the freeway. Dipping in and out of traffic, we made lane changes that would make the manliest biker blush. His gentle change signals were mesmerizing. I followed right behind him. When we ran out of freeway, we took to the streets and set them ablaze. We sped up at yellow lights and ran through red ones until they blended with the green. The ride was thirst quenching. It was undeniably satisfying. After we came home, the caution light from before sent guilt shooting through my body. I was scared that the camera lights we ran weren’t broken and that tickets would already be in our mailbox. Miraculously, our escapade was not logged in the DMV’s records, or so I thought. A few months after our driving journey, it came. There it was, a lasting document to compliment our memories for a lifetime. My worst dreams came true. On the picture, the light had just turned red and both of us were unprotected. The fine was $1,000 and the un-used seat belts resulted in food, clothing, nurturing and shelter for at least eighteen years.

 

Now, when we leave the house, we buckle three.

when morpheus came to visit..a short story

When Morpheus Came To Visit

You couldn’t talk.

The tube protruding from your mouth wouldn’t let you. Its steady rhythm added to the orchestra of sounds preserving life in your hospital room. The machine on the right output the readings from your pacemaker and made a sound similar to that of a pulsing piano; the one next to that was more interrupted, only beeping every three minutes or so. Your nurse’s hurried gait sped up the tempo. Even the liquid in your IV bag dropped on a beat.

The television was muted, oddly enough. Before you got sick, you turned the television up as loud as it could go for your favorite show, The Price is Right. You watched Bob Barker and his troop of United Nations beauties make showcases reality for an hour. You’d yell at the contestant, calling them fools and “sap suckas” if you felt they underbid.

(I found your ticket stubs from the show you went to in 1987 in the

nightstand when mom and I cleaned out your room the next week. I

wondered why we didn’t talk about the taping  during one of our mornings

together.)

This time, you just watched in silence.

No yelling, no cursing.

You blinked. Slowly, like a baby fighting sleep. You tried to motion something to me with your right hand but the pain from the IV quickly made you lower it back to the bed. I patted your hand and rubbed your forehead. I had remembered you doing the same when I had the chicken pox.

Your face was swollen from the medicine. The nurse would come every few hours to administer another dose but as the days grew into weeks and the weeks into that first month, they upgraded you to a morphine drip. It seemed that even with that, you were still in pain. The drip wasn’t enough to dull the memories you had because you were in a bed in the same hospital that your wife died in; a few rooms over from the memory of your last kiss.

(Mom told me that Auntie collapsed before she got to the door the day Grams

died and you should know that she did the same thing with you. Theo and I

crowded around your hospital bed. You were our first real dead body. They

had removed all of the tubes, turned off all of the machines, and closed your

eyes. They forgot to close your mouth, though. To us, you were just sleeping.

We poked you, not really understanding that you wouldn’t ever play “sleep”

again. We looked inside of your mouth. The doctor told us to move away

from you. Something about decomposing, but we ignored him until Mom told

us to move. You were sleeping and we wanted to watch you sleep the same

way we did when we were toddlers—right under your chin. )

You closed your eyes and gingerly nodded your head. I examined your body for marks that weren’t there the day before. I remembered reading a news report about elder abuse and wanted to make sure the nurses weren’t beating you after visiting hours. Not that I actually suspected Betty, June, or Elena but who really thinks with an open and clear mind when their loved one is dying? I was seventeen and you were the only father I knew.

The sores on your forearm had grown. The doctor, the short balding one who spoke softly and compassionately to us the morning you died, said that they formed because your body retained excess water.

I couldn’t look at them for long. They scared me. Huge water-filled sacs all over your arms and legs. They looked like small candles were imbedded in your arm. You didn’t look like my grandfather with those sacs; you looked like a sick man, an old man. A stranger. Sorry for running out of your room every time we pulled the covers back. A few weeks after I ran out for the last time, away from your sacs and the ointment and the pills and the family fasting for your recovery, you were back in the hospital. I came home from work and knew something had changed. Your room was clean and smelled like it did before you got sick—cinnamon and Old Spice.

The last day you were alive, you were in so much pain. The skin under your eyes was swollen, the pillow damp from collecting your tears.

“We’ll make him as comfortable as possible,” I heard the doctor tell Mom. He was using dye to mask his onset graying. The discoloration between his side burns and scalp reminded me of the black dye kits you used for the same reason. She held her emotions, like she always did. Her weight never shifted and her eyes never fluttered. Focused attention, steady body, just like you taught her. I walked into your room and sat in the chair next to your bed. I held your hand. You squinted in pain as soon as I touched you.

“I’m sorry, Gramps.” You blinked away the tears that you could control, the others slid down into the pillow.

Your tears didn’t frighten me. You were a man’s man, so they weren’t seen often. The eldest of nine, the responsible one, the father who served two terms when his daughter returned after a broken marriage. I think the time you had an allergic reaction was the first time I saw you cry. I was five and we were home alone. I knew how to dial 9-1-1 but called Auntie instead, remember? The firefighters carried me into the living room and talked to me about Minnie Mouse while others resuscitated you. When you came home from the hospital a few days later, I was in the bed, falling asleep. I tried to get up and come with you but you kissed me on my forehead and told me that it was okay to go to sleep.

Just then, I leaned down to you and whispered in your ear. I didn’t know how we were going to make it without you but seeing you cry that day, I knew you had to hear the words from me. Mom would never say them, Auntie couldn’t say them, and Theo wasn’t allowed inside of the ICU.

I whispered the same words you told me that night as I kissed your forehead. When I closed my eyes, I remembered every night you read to me about the princesses and princes living happily ever after. I remembered you carrying me on your back at Disneyland, the days we played goldfish and checkers. I remembered the night my first boyfriend came to watch a movie. You pushed your sofa chair around so that you could watch us and She’s All That at the same time. I still have the bat you used to threaten his life. I remembered you in those scenes, so full of vigor, strength, and life. You closed your eyes, as if remembering the same.

(We wore black and red to your service. They dressed you in the

same. With your favorite red tie. The Reverend told us to kiss you

goodnight before they closed the casket but you weren’t there. Your

body was pale (too much make-up); shriveled up  (no more life). You

would have hated being positioned like that, with your hands crossed

over you. When you slept, they were by your sides. )

In June, it’ll be [ten] years. I try to remember your voice; steady, deep and oozing with the Southern twang you passed down to us but only recall your infamous sayings—“that ain’t worth two blood nickels”, “don’t give a damn,” and my personal favorite, “sap sucka.” The truth is that, for the majority everything you said would happen came true. My first boyfriend turned out to be a “son of a seacock”; I crashed the El Camino you gave me three times; Mom and Auntie still yell at each other and end up laughing in the same breath; and my father and I started over. In my dreams of you, you said it would be easier, that the time would mend my aching heart. In some ways, you were right. I don’t cry at the mention of your name anymore but there are some wounds time cannot heal.

I’m still uncomfortable in hospitals. Something about the smell, maybe it’s the image of your body absent of you and the thought that I was responsible for your death because I told you it was okay for you to leave. Maybe it’s because I needed something to blame for how I felt and why not blame the structure that I’ll forever associate with the last time I saw you breathing? You’d probably say that it’s foolish to blame the hospital and that God has a plan for everything.

“Ain’t no use in questioning it,” you’d say.

(Amaree turns eight in June. His birth certificate reads,

“Baby boy…born 08:00.”)

You flew away a minute before, but you already knew that part.

 

the car door and the independent woman

First..

Let us consider the car door. As most dates went my sophomore year of college, we wanted to venture off-campus for dinner. Top Ramen had reached its max for the second week. I was sick of having dry Cheerios, and he couldn’t look at another box from Dominoes. Nothing drastic—like needing reservations—just somewhere close to campus, a nice atmosphere. Where jeans and a t-shirt were preferred, not tolerated. Both of us were almost out of work-study money. We wanted a place where we could be ourselves, and most importantly, a place where the combined bill would be under $20. In ‘N Out won by unanimous decision.

He arrived at the time he said he would (plus two points as my sister would say), complimented my attire—a school sweatshirt, jeans, and a pair of Chucks—(another two), and escorted me to his car. Now, let me interject that while we spent time together outside of school-related functions, this would be our first “official” date.

The night moved along nicely until we reached his passenger door. When he walked me to the passenger side, I wrinkled my face. It was similar to the face my mom makes when trying to read without her glasses. Not the best look to have on a first date. Why didn’t he think I could open the door on my own? The next awkward moment of the night came a few seconds later when I said, matter-of-factly,

I can open it on my own.

Those seven words could have changed the course of our lovely evening. The level-headed gentleman who showed up at my door could have thrown his hands in the air, walked away from me and enjoyed a drama-free evening with his double-double and animal style fries. Instead, he shook his head, waited until I was seated, shut my door, and proceeded with the rest of our date.

My need to assert my independent woman, feminist stance of I-can-do-it-all-by-myself might have touched him in some way. I have no idea. In fact, he was not the first man to open a car door for me, but the first I remembered in what had to be a decade. The fact that I remembered him being the first man in my adult life was note-worthy and led me to question other events in my life –why him? Had I consciously or subconsciously given off a vibe that made guys feel the need to shy away from opening the car door? Had the women they encountered before not required it of them? Or, even worse, had these previous women asserted their independence just as I had and shied men away from even thinking about walking past the trunk?

Possibly. My older males cousins have always said that a guy will treat you anyway you allow him. Using this premise, then there is no alternative thought. Are we as women the true criminals who indeed killed chivalry?  I wonder if in our quest for equality, we berated ourselves (and males) into believing that the smallest act of kindness was not only unkind, but an offense that called into question our own abilities. Opening a car door is easy. Pull the handle, open the door wide, get inside, shut the door. Simple.

 

You’d think so but how simple can it be if we expect equality, but only a fraction of the time? I remember my elders repetitive lectures—make sure he opens the door for you, walks on the outside, pays the tab, etc. Then, those same elders without taking a breath would say—depend on no man, protect yourself, and carry enough money to pay your own way. Confusing, right? How can they possibly know when to be a “gentleman” and when to let us alone if we don’t even know? I’m almost sympathetic.

We have complex gender roles. It is not enough to be beautiful; we must also be intelligent, gracious hosts, amazing cooks, keen negotiators, sexual fiends, silent listeners, etc, etc. We, as a collective, must be able to (or atleast perceived to) be able to do everything short of reassembling a car. And, even that in some instances.  We are in such an internal battle that we become automatically suspicious of a man if he’s kind to us in any way.  We quickly forget that some men were taught from a young age that having good manners would take you far in life. We quickly forget that some men are just as internally plagued as we are. We forget that men have feelings too.

The remedy is clear. Allowing a man to open a door, or pull out a chair does not influence your independence. You are not less of a woman so let it go. In fact, open a door for a man. (Or, is that another post?) If he gently moves you to the inside when you’re walking down the street, walk over there. If he wants to pull out the chair, let him. If he wants to pay the bill, don’t turn it into a fight. If he wants to open the car door for you, shut up and move out of the way.

Believe me, you’ll be better off in the long run.