| <- Back to main page
|
by James Anderson O’Neal
Time to sleep. Up the stairs. Wife watching television, cooking show, how many. Hundreds.
More stairs, turn right, enter bedroom. Said good night as walked by, not sure she answered. Didn’t kiss her. Doesn’t seem to like it, usually, but still. Tomorrow, must remember. Mouth will taste of whiskey tonight, crypt tomorrow, so six of one. Does she know. Always knows. Even though bottle in basement, in a closet, she knows. Don’t like how she always assumes been drinking. Always been drinking, of course. Still, not kind to assume.
Strip. Harder every year to get off socks, but getting them on is harder. Bending over belly, is the thing. Plus the back, which tightened up today and hurts. Could sit down on the bed to do it, seems like cheating. Better to get the exercise, work on balance. Grunt, soft one. Greta Garbo said if you don’t want people thinking you old, don’t grunt. Easy for her. No belly.
Down the chute it all goes. Don’t like that sweaty fleshy feel under the belly. Deep inhale in mirror, belly rises. Better, but can’t walk around all day like that. Exhale. White chest hair looks funny. Glasses on night table, hearing aids on window sill up high. Used to keep on night table but damn dog. Why do dogs chew hearing aids. They say it’s the smell, mansmell. Funny what dogs cost in total, counting things you don’t think of. Hearing aids.
Now pajamas, almost as bad as socks. Silky legs catch your foot, have to bendlift to get free. Silly. Ow, back. Always something aching. Should lose weight. Better for health all around, of course. Still, hard. Don’t want to give up all pleasure. Old joke about won’t live to a hundred but it will seem that way. Always thought that.
Which tee shirt. Like them loose, here, the pink one is. Ow. Back hurts when raise arms, hurts when raise legs, hurts when get up or down. Have to go into suspended animation or some damn thing. Oh, well, could be worse. Look at Gary.
Toothbrush, cha chi cha, chi chi cha. How long was that. Girl at dentist says need two minutes. Jesus, who stands for two minutes flogging a toothbrush. Would seem forever. Can’t do everything they say.
Now, last pee of the night. Woosh. Comes out like a fire hose, drops off to dribble in two secs. Why. Cock gets smaller as you age, remember dad saying. We were standing at urinals adjacent, he was feeling around for his, couldn’t find it. Happens to me now, not that much to start. Okay, flick. Another, get the drops up over the pajama pants. Flick, flick, flick. Done. I mean, really done, not just tired of flicking. No matter how much you jiggle and dance. Here goes dickie, back in his hole. Sure enough, more drops. Damn hydraulics. Can’t get the last bit up and over so it drips out when cock relaxes. Piss drips in pants way too often now. See someone, maybe. Christ, another doctor.
Don’t feel like book, just darken lights, wait for sleep. Here comes dog, no, not there, my spot. Move. Move. Over. Ow, back. See, you hurt daddy, back is bad, but you wouldn’t move. Good boy. Click. Climb in. Ow. Nice with dog up against you. Three dog night. Remember when she’d lie up against me like that. Did she ever, really. Not sure.
There it is again. Lying still, flat on back, can feel pulse in fingers like a tom tom, beating on the sheet, on my chest. Tom tom tom tom tom. Blood pressure. Already take two pills for that, Big Pressy and Little Pressy. Take all the fat man pills, every day. Big Pressy, Little Pressy, Bloody, Burpy, Happy, Sunny and the latest, Pissy. Pissy not doing the job, but a shame if Big and Little are now lagging back. Another doctor, shit. Then another if back stays bad. Shit shit shit. Don’t like doctors. Not as people of course, many friends, but going to their offices, waiting, explaining to some girl behind the desk that you piss yourself. Dad and his dick. I feel you, Dad.
Fingers still pulsing. Who the hell gets a pulse in their fingers. Put hands palm up, not so noticeable then, can ignore it and go to sleep. People carp about denial, but it’s healthy. Why go around moaning you’re sick. Say you’re not sick, most of the time you won’t be. Or you’ll get over it. Who wants to hear about your sick, hated it when the old ladies talked of it. Life’s too short, as they say. And if you do complain, nothing happens usually.
Like those falls. They were strange, sure, you’re walking and all of sudden you pitch over. Boom, no reason. Lucky never really got hurt. Told doctor, she just said we’ll watch it. What, you’ll follow along and watch me tip over next time. Critique my form. Thanks, healer.
Anyway. Time to sleep, think about something else. What’s on schedule tomorrow. Need to pay bills, that fills an hour. Maybe call Bob, ask about lunch, be good to know how firm doing, especially since don’t go to firm events. God, last one, not more than three people in the room knew who I was, much less cared. My own group, too, one I built, more than anyone, but these kids don’t know. How fast. One day, the Fox, Fred the Fox, Foxy Freddy, the lawyer’s lawyer, master of mergers, ace of acquisitions, retiring in glory, practically crowned with laurel. Speeches, odes, toasts, all of that. Few years later, who is that. Funny old man, smelling subtly of piss. Way of the world. Ozymandias.
Gary never had to face that. Son of a bitch, Gary. He was the best of us, smartest, best looking, funniest, everything. Got Alzheimer’s at fifty, who the fuck does that. Remember that lunch, couldn’t even figure the tip, this the man who tried a hundred cases and could recite Ovid in Latin. Didn’t see him after that, couldn’t, too sad. Hope he wasn’t alone at the end. Everybody is, really.
Phil, another one. Healthy, happy, all fine. Then, routine test, doctor says oops, shadow on lung and that’s it. No more healthy, no more happy. Two painful years and goodbye. Doctors give you shadows.
Thank God women live longer. Wouldn’t want to be alone. Hard on her, but she’ll be fine. Better than I would be. She might like it.
Time to turn. Ow. Lie down, boy.
Funny feeling in head on that turn. Back twinge like always, but head is new, light-headed. Can you be light-headed lying down, head on pillow. Maybe the pulse thing. Who knows.
I bet she would like it. Be alone, no me to mess the house, drink, slur my words, embarrass her. Who is she to be embarrassed. Fuck, I made all the money, bought her the house she wanted, gave her the life. Ask any lawyer in town back then, Foxy Freddy was the best, nobody like him in a proxy fight, CEOs shuddered with Foxy after them. Best Lawyer this, Super Lawyer that, everything. Good man, too. On boards for theatres, hospitals, you name it, chaired most of them. Why wasn’t she proud. At least interested. Would’ve been nice.
Not always like that. Remember first sight of her, like in the songs. The bar where law students drank. Gary there. Bright eyes, sassy, smiling, couldn’t look away from her. Still, she was the one who asked me for the first date. Marriage, too, I just went along. Thank God, really. Never good with women, all up to her. Otherwise I might’ve spent life alone, no kids, love the kids. Thank God for her. Really. Do love her, just wish. Oh well. If ifs and buts were fruits and nuts, I suppose. Who said that.
Need to think of other things. Funny, you think never sleep, next thing you know you’re dreaming something outlandish and then it’s morning. Still have school anxiety dreams, at my age for God’s sake. Have to take test and never went to class, that’s common. Or teeth crumbling in my mouth. That’s not school, though.
All right, other things. Movies. Name ten movies with Tom Hanks. Too easy. Ten with Meryl Streep. French Lieutenant’s Woman, Deer Hunter, Silkwood, Iron Lady, Into the Woods, The Post. Six. Shit, she won more Oscars than that. Mamma Mia, seven. What’s that one, the Carrie Fisher one, she was Carrie Fisher, somebody was Debbie Reynolds. Should know that. Never saw it.
Meryl Streep doesn’t look like Carrie Fisher.
Other side now, see if head gets light again. Ow. Whoa, worse this side, what the hell. Dog takes off, it’s okay, come back. Won’t. Down there with her now, goes back and forth. Breathe, swallow. You’re okay. Mention to her tomorrow, another damn doctor. Maybe. Maybe not mention it.
Women and doctors. See them all the time. Not just doctors. Hairstylists, mani-pedi people, massage people, chiropractors, squads of them, a whole team for every single body part. Why she looks so good, I suppose. Still. So expensive. We can afford it, of course, but. Always talk to her, nothing changes.
She does look good. Much younger than age, much younger than me. Always so pretty. Hard to believe she picked me, could’ve had others. Hard to believe she stayed with me. I was good husband though. Provided well, very well indeed. Loved the kids. Never cheated, not once. Her. Said not. Remember that fight, decades ago. I said I was good husband, never cheated, then left pregnant pause. She had to speak, said she never. A moment of hesitation, maybe. Always thought she hesitated. Silly, no evidence. Gary. No never. Dumb. Forget it.
Kind of thing you only think of at night. All the bad stuff—the hesitation, when she talked divorce, bad nights in bed. No wonder dreams are like they are.
Lots of good stuff, think about that. Good sex, in early days, really. Christ, even on a hiking trail at a park, anyone could’ve come by. Like animals, then. Good days. Nothing lasts, I suppose.
Not romantic, that’s true. Feel silly, going around mooning. Can’t choose presents, either, she hated everything I bought her, gets her own now. How does she know what to get. Always knows what I want when I don’t myself. How people are, they have talents. Not talented at presents, but talented at law and history and knowing stuff. And I do love her, so much, if anybody ever loved anybody. Should be enough.
Gary could choose presents, top of everything else. She loved the wedding present he gave us, so long ago. What was it. Don’t remember.
Funny how some people stick in the mind. Think of Gary every night, not people I saw just yesterday. Course he got Alzheimer’s at fifty. Who the fuck does that.
Turn. Ow. Whoa. Really light-headed now. Nauseous. Really should tell her. Tomorrow.
Tom tom tom tom. Pulse worse now. Weird. Feel like blood will come shooting out of fingertips, like in comic books. Stigmata. Foxy Freddy gets stigmata, funny. But that’s bleeding in palms, where the nails were hammered in, wouldn’t apply here. Still, funny.
Sophie’s Choice. That was another one.
Nausea better now. Don’t think I’ll vomit, thank Christ.
That was a rough one, Sophie’s Choice. Horrible. Nazi asshole tells you one kid or another is off to the camps, you pick. What can you do. Only moral choice, say fuck you, kill us all. Maybe all dead then, but don’t have to live with it the rest of your life. Be a short movie, though.
Who am I to judge. Never faced anything remotely like that. Never saw war, never lost a kid or a wife or a limb. Nice parents, money but not too much. School always easy, bar gym. Well, and art. Terrible at art, can’t even draw stick men. Why, I wonder. Doesn’t look hard.
And shop class, come to think. Still, always good at the ones that counted.
What was worst ever. In your life, what was worst. Parents dying was bad, so close together, all fell on me. Remember Dad said won’t be long now at Mom’s funeral, then in two months we were at his. Man of his word, always. Dead parents don’t count, though. Part of life.
When she asked for divorce, maybe that. Bawled in that soggy, disgusting way, choking on my drool, right in front of the kids. She said hateful things, hated my face, couldn’t look at me, I bored her. Come home from work and that’s what she hits you with. Don’t know if kids ever saw me the same after that, after the crying and the drool. Still, she didn’t divorce me. All calmed down, smoothed to the normal we were used to, so that can’t be the worst.
Probably the hesitation. Yes.
Not exactly Nelson Mandela’s story. My life’s been easy, never wanted for anything so never really wanted anything. But whose fault is that. I couldn’t help that things came easy, born to the right family, made the right choices, took the right job and the right woman. Not my fault. I can’t help it if I’m lucky, that’s Dylan.
So what’s your point, Foxy. You didn’t do more in life because you were too lucky. You were victimized because you were never a victim. Your pathos is pathetic, boyo. You had a life nearly all of humanity would wish for and it’s not enough, not for her, not for you. Never enough.
Shit, depressing again. Stop it. Every night this. Same old memories, same old thoughts. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, creeps in its petty pace. You got that right, Will. Macbeth or Hamlet, can never remember. Google it.
Wonder if Will thought it was enough. Probably lay in his bed at Stratford, second best bed, thinking not enough, could have done more. Lincoln, Beethoven, all of them. Could have done more. Gary, too, if he could think, with the Alzheimer’s. Jesus, Alzheimer’s at fifty.
Something else, think about. Dustin Hoffman. The Graduate, Rain Man, Marathon Man. Fuck it. Tomorrow.
Turn over again, clear head of everything.
Ow.
Ow.
Ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow OW OW OW
Mary? 