Wednesday, November 23, 2005

The Old Man

Brian put his feet up on the rail of the porch and relaxed back into his chair, careful not to disturb the glass of brandy on the small table next to him. He took a languid drag on his cigar...one of the Cubans his father had given him with the caveat of “ask me no questions, I’ll tell you no lies”...and looked up over his neighbor’s roof into the star-spangled blue-black Thanksgiving night sky.

He rubbed his belly, his wife’s amazing turkey, cornbread stuffing, and sweet potato pie still filling the space to just this side of discomfort.

It had been a lovely day.

Upstairs, they were all sleeping the sleep of the content. Janey having willingly made the sacrifice of not talking on the phone to her many girlfriends and hopeful suitors in favor of listening to the jokes and stories her grandfathers loved to spin.

Christopher was doubtlessly sleeping with his beloved basketball. Brian had been willingly drafted into shooting hoops in the backyard for an hour or so in the crisp morning, only being dismissed when some of Christopher’s friends showed up to play.

And his darling little Annie was no doubt still clutching to the bear her maternal grandmother had surprised her with as a gift for her birthday coming two days hence; the plump dark brown bear that was nearly half her size. The bear that had made her eyes glow bright when she saw it; the one she took gingerly out of the box and inspected before pronouncing that “he looks like Daddy”. The bear (having been named Sam after her favorite character in her favorite book) had never left her side for the rest of the day (a place was set for Sam at the Thanksgiving table much to the affectionate amusement of Annie’s grandparents and much to the consternation of Annie’s usually tolerant siblings.)

Brian smiled contentedly.

He glanced up at the window a story above his head. His Ruth was sleeping there after a long day of cooking and being an attentive hostess. Ruth had allowed neither her own mother nor Brian’s his to get too involved with the cooking...this was the first time that both sets of parents had come together for Thanksgiving Day and she wanted them both to relax. She had worn herself to a near frazzle, but everything had come together beautifully. And now she was taking her well-earned rest, snoring daintily where he had left her...with a kiss...when he came down to look at the stars and count his blessings.

The guest bedrooms were filled as well. Ruthie’s parents were in one, his mother in the other.

And in the den downstairs was the old man. Brian’s bittersweet feelings toward the old man crowded up to the surface and he frowned, just a bit ruefully, but then he put them aside. It was Thanksgiving night and there was no place for anything like that.

As if he could feel Brian’s thoughts and energy, the old man...Benjamin Douglas Taylor...shuffled softly through the front door and out onto the porch. He was an imposing man (though, of course, he had seemed that much more imposing to Brian when he was a boy), half a shade lighter than his son.

Brian smiled to himself noting that the old man was still wearing his crisp white shirt and dark slacks held up by the dazzling rainbow suspenders that Annie had picked out for him. The old man was carrying a glass of scotch in one hand, a cigar in the other.

“What are you doing out here, boy?” the old man asked after clearing his throat.

“Looking at the stars, Ben,” Brian replied.

Benjamin nodded, a slight frown playing about his lips. “Thought I would stretch my legs,” he explained, “but if you’d rather be alone...”

Brian reached over and pulled another of the porch chairs forward, closer to his. “It’s okay, Dad,” he said, “come on and sit down.” Brian moved the small table across his body and in between the chairs.

The old man hesitated for a moment and then slowly moved across the porch and eased himself down into the proffered chair. Brian looked at the old man for a short while and then eased back into his own chair and looked up at the stars again. They sat in contemplative silence...staring into the sky, smoking and sipping at their drinks...for what seemed like a small eternity. The winter’s breeze kicked up just enough to make the old tree in the front yard rustle and dance a little.

“Thanks for having me here today,” Benjamin said in a small voice finally. “I know it must have been hard on you and your mother but I do appreciate being with family on Thanksgiving.”

Brian shook his head and sighed inaudibly. His parents had been divorced for more than 25 years but sometimes his father seemed to think it was still a fresh wound that had to be dealt with gingerly.

“It’s not a problem, Dad,” he said quietly. “Mama thought it was a wonderful idea...and the kids were thrilled to have all of their grandparents here for Thanksgiving Day...”

Benjamin grunted noncommittally. “You got some great kids, boy,” he said after a bit. “Makes me wish I had been a better father...”

Brian stifled the urge to agree with him. “What’s done is done, Dad,” he said instead, “and what’s important is here and now.”

The old man turned and looked at his son. “Do you really believe that?”


Brian turned and met his father’s gaze. “Yes, I really believe that...you can only hold on to the past for so long...”

They stared into each other’s eyes for a long time and then Benjamin sighed again and sat back in his chair and looked up into the sky. “Sometimes the past is all you’ve got, Brian...”

Brian rocked back in his own chair and looked up into the sky himself. “We all make mistakes, Ben,” he said after a long pause, “the trick is not to get too caught up in them...”

“Easier said than done, boy...” his father responded in a weary voice.

Brian started to retort but found that he could not. The old man was right. It was easier said than done. But he also knew that it could indeed be done. He was living proof of that having spent so long jealously hoarding resentments from past slights (both real and imagined) including and especially those assigned to his father, who had been gone from his life a long time before the divorce. They had had no real relationship to speak of until Brian had grown into manhood...past the need for a father in the classic sense, but open (more or less) to the possibility of learning to be the old man’s friend just the same.

“You can’t tell me that you didn’t hate me sometimes,” the old man interjected suddenly, his voice growing thick. “I mean...for not being there...you can’t tell me that...”

Brian took a long drag on his cigar and then stubbed it out in the ashtray on the table. He looked back up at the sky and slowly let the fragrant smoke escape. “No, Ben,” he said finally, “I can’t tell you that...you hurt me...” He paused and corrected himself, “I let myself be hurt...more times than I care to think about...”

“So you told me,” Benjamin said ruefully, referring to a caustic letter detailing a litany of paternal transgressions stretching back to infancy that Brian had sent him years ago. Brian took in a large measure of air and let it out slowly. That damn letter. He couldn’t say that he truly regretted sending it...it was a necessary step in letting go of that stuff...but still a part of him felt bad for having vented so seeing that his father still felt the barbs so distinctly so many years later.

The old man put down his cigar and hung his head. He finished his scotch with one fell swoop and put down the glass too.

“But I’m 40 years old, Dad, the stuff of childhood has long since been put away,” Brian continued, consciously making no direct reference to the letter.. “And I meant it when I said the past was the past. Whatever was done is done...I’m over it...well, for the most part anyway...” he allowed himself a slight smile at that and the old man looked up and over at him. “And you should be over it too...”

Benjamin started to say something but could not.

Brian stood up and walked over to where his father was sitting. He knelt down in front of the old man and looked up into his sad, dark brown eyes. “You’ve been a pain in the butt sometimes, Ben,” he said with a smile, “but you’ve never stopped being my father. Hang on to that...let the rest go.” They looked into each other’s eyes for a long time and then Brian nodded. Benjamin nodded in reply.

Brian rose to his feet and stretched and yawned. “I’m going to bed,” he said, “it’s been a long day. You coming in?”

Benjamin shook his head. “Not yet...think I’ll sit out here a little while longer.

Brian nodded again, reaching over to pick up their empty glasses. “Okay, Dad...don’t forget to lock the door when you come in.”


Benjamin grunted a small, playfully dismissive laugh. “I’m old but no so old as to forget something like that, son.”

Brian nodded for a third time. “Good night, Ben...Dad...Good night, Dad.”

The old man looked up at his son. “Good night, boy,” he said softly.

Brian disappeared into the warm darkness of the house and Benjamin looked up into the Thanksgiving night sky. “It was a lovely day,” he muttered softly.

- for Bud -

Tuesday, November 08, 2005

Falling Down

Eric squinted through the murky haze, the house lights were down and the vibe in the club was expectant, and, much to his surprise, he found her. She was sitting at her usual table…just off to the left near the bar. She may have been crying but he would have expected that; he hadn’t expected her to stay for the second show though.

The audience began to stir restlessly and he his shifted his gaze allowing her face to be replaced by the warm golden glare of the spotlight. He shifted on his stool and cleared his throat. Guitar in hand he leaned slightly forward towards the mike. He hoped that the imprint of Carole’s hand…on the cheek where she had slapped him before fleeing the dressing room leaving a torrent of tears and curses in her wake…didn’t appear as fiery and accusing on the outside as it felt on the inside.

“Good evening,” he said, his amplified words echoing through the hushing din of the club. The audience applauded affectionately and then settled down to be entertained. He took a deep breath and found his finger placements on the guitar strings. “This first song is for someone very close to me.” He paused, praying that Carole wouldn’t think that he was mocking her, and then he began to play.

“You’re going to miss me,” she had stated resolutely. “I don’t know why you’re doing this…you might want to hide forever but you can’t…”

He’d measured his words carefully and only then did he reply. “I’m doing the best I can here, Carole,” he said, hoping his words sounded more sincere than they felt. “You said you wanted me to be honest with you and that’s what I’m trying to do…” He hesitated and then, before he could stop himself, he added, “It’s not about you, it’s about me…”

Her open hand had come around so swiftly that he barely saw it coming. “Bastard!” she hissed as he reeled from the force of the blow. Carole had spun on her heels stormed away before he could say anything else.

He had stood there rubbing his cheek and trying to harden his heart against her. He wanted to call after her with one last cutting retort. Instead he had stood there rubbing his cheek and trying to soften his cowardly heart. He wanted to run after her and beg her to stay. He had stood there rubbing his cheek and watching the door slam shut separating the two of them with harsh finality.

Eric turned to where he knew Carole was sitting, though the spotlight and the haze made it difficult to make her out, and he began to sing…

…you tell me that I’m falling down,
a drifter with no role,
you tell me that I need a friend
to help me take control…
well, let it be, I’m not alone
I’m only lonely see
and you can’t tell me where to go
or what or who to be…

“I’m not good at this,” he had told her. “People always let you down…so I put my faith in my music…it’s the one constant I can trust…”

Carole had kissed his cheek and hugged him with almost maternal patience. “You just hadn’t found the right one,” she cooed soothingly. “I won’t betray you…and I won’t smother you. What’s to be afraid of?”

“A heart breaking.”

“Yours or mine?”

“Both of ours.”

“Silly boy,” she had replied with quiet assurance, “that won’t happen. You just have to have a little faith.”

…I am exactly what I am
and the not the way you’d like to see me be,
I look outside long as I can,
then close my eyes and watch my world
unfold before me…

“Where are you?” she had asked as they lay in bed. “Why won’t you let me in?”

“I’m right here,” he had replied, annoyed at feeling of being cornered. “I’m right where I said I’d be.”

“Well maybe where you said you’d be is not a healthy place to be…”

“Maybe not,” he had responded ruefully, “but that change the fact that it is indeed where I am…”

…I may not lead a simple life,
I’ve no love of my own,
if no one gives me all her heart
I’ll manage with a loan,
I’m very used to feeling sad
it doesn’t make me cry
and yes, I do know how to love,
so what you say’s a lie…

Eric saw movement in the darkness. Carole, her eyes red but resolved, stepped into the edge of the spotlight. Her expression was withering…a daunting mixture of pain, pity, scorn, love, and compassion. She shook her head sadly and mouthed the words, “your loss.” She turned and walked, head erect, out of the spotlight and on out of the club.

Eric pushed back the lump in his throat and continued to sing…

…I am exactly what I am
and the not the way you’d like to see me be,
I look outside long as I can,
then close my eyes and watch my world
unfold before me…

“You Tell Me That I’m Falling Down”
words and music by Anna McGarrigle & C.S. Holland
© 1975 Garden Court Music (ASCAP)

Thursday, November 03, 2005

Love is...

Martin sits back in his grandfather’s favorite old rocking chair watching the shadows and moonlight and cigar smoke dance languidly about the room. The midnight breeze is sighing through the open window raising vaguely electric goose bumps on his naked skin…but he pays it no heed.

He takes another slow drag on his cigar allowing the savory smoke to ease lazily through his whiskered lips.

In the darkness there is a rustling…a drowsy sigh…a hint of luminous flesh intermingled with a tangle of tousled sheets and the quilt his mother made for him way back when he was going off to college.

Chelsea feels the slightly damp sheets for her husband, one gently undulating breast illuminated by an enterprising shaft of light. “Martin,” she yawns, “are you okay?”

Martin sighs fondly and smiles tenderly. “Just thinkin’, darlin’,” he says softly not wanting to completely sever his bride’s tie to the dreaming world. “Go back to sleep.”

“’kay,” she murmurs drawing back under the colorful quilt. “Come back to bed…” she says, her words trailing off as she slips back into slumber.

Martin stubs out his cigar in the ashtray on the nightstand next to the rocker and stands up. He listens to the breeze…he listens to Chelsea’s breathing…he listens and wonders if there could ever be a more sublime feeling that the love he feels in that soft moment. He doesn’t believe that there could be…and that thrills him…but it also frightens him a little. He remembers a song he used to like…

…love is a rose but you better not pick it
it only grows when it’s on the vine
handful of thorns
and you’ll know you missed it
you’ll lose your love
when you say the word “mine”…

He closes the window and slips back into the bed. He spoons close to his wife, the warm fullness of her buttocks bringing an impish stirring to his loins. Chelsea sighs again and snuggles back against him.

It’s okay, Martin thinks. Everything is okay. He puts his arms around her and holds her close. He lets sleep take him while finding comfort in the warmth of his wife’s welcoming body and solace in the words of an old song playing in his mind…

…I want to see what’s never been seen,
I want to live that age old dream,
come on, lass, let’s go together
let’s take the best right now…
love is a rose…
love is a rose…

“Love is a Rose”
words and music by Neil Young
©1975 Silver Fiddle (BMI)