DREAMSCAPES FICTION

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Thom Gabaldon

Reconciliation After the separation from his wife, it was another hotel in the burning purgatory known as downtown Phoenix

A walk in the rain never hindered John. He always felt he deserved it, somehow. Now more than ever it felt fitting. With no jacket and no thought to ever carry one (as it was sunny an hour prior, Phoenix during monsoon season had away of surprising people like that) he became drenched. His black shirt clung to his oversized body, almost exaggerating his frame, especially his man boobs. His long blonde hair matted, making him look like a fifth Beatle in a sense, covering his face.
Although his clothes were past saturated becoming heavy and cumbersome, his soul felt heavier. His girlfriend of nine months had just thrown him out. Well, he actually had until that Friday, when he got paid, to move out. Each slosh of his steps reminded him of almost every word said. Each whoosh sounded like an angry voice.
"I want a man!" Oh how those words echoed in his head, his heart, his being. It was a while before he realized he had walked about two miles in the downpour. Finally, he felt the wetness of his surroundings, the weight of his clothes, and when it finally sank in, he began to shiver from the cold. Fuck. Now what.

He looked around and would have had a clearer view of where he was if it weren’t for some dickheads in a large Ford F-150 passing by and splashing him. The insidious bastards could be heard laughing at their random victim of the hour. This also had to be part of the punishment for breathing. Somehow the anger John had in him towards the assholes du jour passed quickly as the memory of the hours preceding set back in.

Ok, focus, he thought to himself. John had no strength to speak aloud, even if it was to himself. His arms now clutching him from shivering, it took a second inconsiderate jerk off to douse him before he realized he needed to may be move more inland from the curb. His obvious punishments were coming in a fury now.

A nice dry place, a nice cup of hot chocolate, a nice warm place to think his cold thoughts through. Viewing his surroundings, he took in and weighed the value of a Taco Hell, Kentucky Fried Crap, the mall food court (no doubt loaded this time of day with the finest teen degenerates this neighborhood had to offer), and a major anchor store with a small food court. Great. Unfortunately, even though many other people will be soaked from the sudden cloudburst, he being the only "freak" of any place would not fit into any environment. Ok then, what cage will they stare at the monkey the least. It was still raining hard, but John knew it would let up soon (though in his world it never stopped raining) he had to make up his mind fast. Taco Hell sounded the best.

Wiping his hair from his face, John carefully carried his hot chocolate to where he decided he would be most hidden from public view. When he was in third grade, John’s mother spirited him and his two younger siblings to a shelter when it got bad between her and his dad. His dad had gone a major drinking spree and had gotten extremely violent with his mother.
During their tenure there she asked him to get a cup of coffee for her. John was always eager to oblige his mother’s requests, even if he didn’t feel comfortable doing so. Somehow, he had gotten careless, and turning a corner towards their room (all four had to sleep in a space no bigger than a flophouse studio) the cup slipped, hot drink spilled down his right leg, and his eyes widened in witness of the whole horrific scene. He was in more shock than pain, being as the scalding drink seems to deaden his nerves but what does an eight year old know about that, and they quickly rushed him to the hospital. John’s mother decided to drive him there, being as funding for the center wasn’t able to afford a car or van yet. Another public funded nightmare.

To this day he wondered how there was no permanent scarring. He remembered the outer calf blistering, peeling, and bubbling. John couldn’t take his eyes off of it. He long stopped crying and just witness the transformation of his leg. Would he be able to walk after wards? Would it keep peeling off and be nothing but bone? Would he need crutches? And how much cooler was this going to look?
It didn’t take long for the doctors to see him, after all, an eight-year-old with a coffee burn was more important than a twenty three-year-old with a bullet wound. The doctor was a kindly gentleman of about forty, noticing John’s fascination with his injury. Yup, those were third degree burns. Degree? He barley learned about longitude and latitude, and the weatherman had always said things in that term, but, burns come in degrees too? Some salve and a bandage, he could go about his way, to be the brat the doctor knew he could be.

Ever since then, every hot drink would bring him back to this part of his life. This as limited to hot chocolate since coffee made him wretch and those refreshments were carried slowly, carefully, about a good foot away from his body, until it was set on the table. And then, he would slowly sit as not to disturb the volatile substance. He couldn’t understand why, of all things, that would stick out the most from his memory.

But that was ancient history. This was a new nightmare with fang all its own, tearing into him as he blew, then sipped gently his refreshment. The usual post-breakup questions flooded his mind. How did it all go wrong? What did he do to piss her off so severely? How will he find a place so soon?
The wetness dripping off his head and onto his cheek masked new tears that dropped unsuspecting from his eyes. Why should he be crying? Surely he had to have seen this coming. The tension that grew between them was only thickening.
And it didn’t help he was brazenly girl watching in front of her.

So now it was a new life yet again. Luckily this one spawned no new offspring like his disastrous marriage. But still, this held promise. They met at a cab company, she left, he remained, they lost touch , then reunited there again after a few months. It only seemed right. What was the phrase she used? Oh, yeah. "I feel so comfortable around you." So much for comfort.

So the decision was to grab a newspaper when the rain cleared up. Time once again for the flophouse specials. This, John was no stranger to. The first one he ever lived in was when he was kicked out of his mother’s house the day after he graduated. Spending two days homeless (one in the rain), he then found a lovely roach infested room in a motel in downtown Des Moines. Seventeen and armed with a voucher that would cover a room for thirty days (and sixty five dollars in food stamps, all received the same visit he applied at the human resources center. New term learned: emancipated minor), then he was on his own.

After the separation from his wife, it was another hotel in the burning purgatory known as downtown Phoenix (although Phoenix was supposed to be going through a facelift at the time, nothing could help the image that was already set in place. And why always downtown areas? It’s as if "they" are placing the displaced in a central area to watch over them or shut them off from the rest of the world to spare everyone from such a visual blight). This time no roaches but heavy loneliness. Often, he would sit in his room not watching but just staring at the television, to have noise in the room to cut the empty, desperate silence. That was for one week. Then he moved into a weekly rental (inn, yeah right) off the freeway. Well kept, but places like that brought in the worst, no matter how hard the owners tried to keep them out. Sometimes, that’s what happens when you don’t do credit checks. The vermin seep in and although clean, they still live dirty, making the place as drab as any other. Or so John thought.

Not that his credit was spotless, nor did he ever clean his place well. In fact, he let it go to shit. He could only imagine what it was like when they came to clean his room after he left. And it was the place where he reunited with Sharon. More like it was her sixteen-year-old daughter that saw him and reported the news to her mom. After some talking, she asked him to move in with her into the new place she found. This floored John and he accepted with a "Sure. Why not."
His ass hurt where those words bit him.

Looking over the empty lobby, he caught glimpse of a discarded newspaper. His interest piqued, he went to retrieve its contents. What luck! It was all there. He left behind the sports section and ravaged through the comics first. Can’t just focus on one bad thing, got to let the mind rest, somehow.
The last thing he read was the rentals. It was just like him, no matter what the situation was for him to do what was important last. John found a place in a crack neighborhood off nineteenth Avenue and McDowell. No vouchers this time, it was plain old cash from that Friday’s pay. And he had to work that day as well. How exhausting that was going to be. He sighed. It was the his first comment he made since he went inside the place.

The rain outside finally subsided, John being correct in his assumption about Phoenix rains, the sun will win out all the time. Only now it’s one hundred thirty degrees with ninety-nine percent humidity. And John still had soggy clothes on.
Downing the last of his long cooled beverage, he embarked on his journey to nowhere and everywhere. As he stepped outside, he shook himself off like a dog trying to get rid of some of the damp that clung to him. No avail. Oh well.

Back out on the sidewalk, his puzzled, troubled, and working a kilometer a minute mind was in full swing of trying to answer the question of what now. Even though he did catch that flophouse, he really wasn’t paying too much attention to any of the other ads in the paper. For some reason, he couldn’t accept the fact that it was over. To actually set himself in looking for a new place would admit another defeat in his already torture existence. Why? Why couldn’t this work out like he wanted? It seemed so right. And it fell apart like so many other things in life he was trying to acquire.
His mind became convoluted with thoughts of despair mixed with a million answers to what now. What now. What now? He kept asking and thinking to himself as he stepped off the curb…
He was gone. That’s all that mattered. How could she have ever loved him? It was she that came to him and admitted her feelings for him. She initiated all the sex. And how does he repay her? Whimpering, crying, talking of feelings. What a pansy.

Still, he was good lover when he got going. And he was smart. And he never hit her. He could be a bit demeaning. He couldn’t see how that was so fucking frustrating. He had away of talking down to people as if he was the most important person in the fucking world. That was aggravating.
With him out of the way it was back to play. Sharon met many a fine man on the Internet and tomorrow was her first date with one of them. God he was gorgeous and hung like a donkey. She took a drag from her cigarette, thinking on what she’d do to him. The radio was blaring Motown oldies. She tapped her fingers in time, singing out of tune.
And what was that shit he listened to? All those bleeps, screams, and hateful lyrics. How can anyone go through life with such atrocious noise blasting out that filth. No wonder he was always so dour. God just get over it. Life is not that bad. Shit, she had a rotten life, one no child should ever go through, and she’s doing fine. Problem daughters maybe, but nothing to go nuts over. John just made the smallest thing so big. Except that small thing. She giggled to herself over that one.

But now he’s gone and Friday will be the last day she’ll have to hear him whine on stupid shit. Trial separation? Was he serious? He was out out out! And her new life was already in full swing, which actually just paralleled the life she led before she met him. It was if the black cloud dispersed and sunshine the shape of hard cock was shining down on her.
Her thoughts kept going back and forth from her new lovers to her old one. The argument still fresh in her and her finally screaming "I want a man!". Sure he was a nice guy, but what did she see in him really? If she knew what pussy he was she never would have entangled her life with his. And he and her daughter were so headstrong that they always clashed. That got old fast. Even though she did admit she wanted to emancipate the young one, but then what of her grandson? She was already taking care of him mostly. It was becoming too much to bear so she did as she always does when things get that way, she shut it out.
The song was over and the next one started but it sucked. She bent over to change the channel…

June 27th
Okay, I’ve always wanted to start a book that way, but, little did I realize that it would be about me. But then, aren’t most authors putting a little of themselves into these things? Especially when you’ve read something like Walter Tavis’ The man Who Fell to Earth, or Thomas Pynchon’s Gravity’s Rainbow. Books that drip despair so real, so true, you just cry. You know that pain. You are living that writer’s heart, soul, and being. You ask, "My god what happened to you?"
And isn’t it funny that in may of these, the main character is an alien, or human in an alien situation? The outsider, the stranger. It only makes the emptiness deeper. You have no place to fit into. You are on your own. The shit creek thing ringing loud and clear. But I know this is all academia and I’m telling you nothing you don’t already know and are you are sighing "No shit."
And this will be nowhere near any of those. I’ve just always been attracted to tales like that and everybody’s got a book in them they say. It seems like everybody I know is writing one as well and that kind of intimidates me and sometimes makes me want to stop this. But I’ve just had an awful experience and I only am able to write when such things occur. Believe me, I have tried writing when I was happy, in love, or whatever and it always came out sounding so gooey, sappy, and just plain dumb to me.
So what happened? Shouldn’t hat have been obvious? I’m writing in the Scottsdale Memorial Hospital, Osborn Division. I was out for a week. I woke up a few times, head pounding, disoriented fo course. Sleep was welcome and I was more passed out than really sleeping, as in it was dreamless. Total black. The incident seemed like a dream and I’m sure you saw that particular cliché coming. But truly, you don’t dream, you don’t get up to pee, and you don’t realize anything has happened until you regain not only your consciousness, but focus. You see the room coming into view. Then you see the tubes, wires, hear the EKG beeping away.
Then you try to remember the last moment there was before all went black. Memory is such a fragile thing. The bump your head experiences can be compared to an office losing files after an earthquake. Stupid, huh? But that’s the only thing I can compare it to. I got jostled, I got things misplaced. Oh, the usual shit was asked when I came to. Who am I. Where am I. Why am I. All answered slowly of course. Certain things get misplaced, but can be retrieved, but only when you realized they actually are supposed to function. Sight, speech, thought all clinging on to their own dear lives to make themselves heard sooner or later. They don’t want to give up a easily as the heart does.

So piece by piece , it was all coming into place. I was in the rain. I was drinking hot chocolate. I was walking back out into the rain. No, wait! It stopped raining. That’s right. I went back out. I stepped off the curb. I’m in the hospital. Now the mental searching for what brought me here.
So, micro piece by micro piece, it was all coming back into place. I stepped off the curb. Did I slip? Was I pushed? I was in my own world. That much I remembered. Then I remembered the pain that delivered me to reality. It was sent by hood ornament. My vision became extremely blurry, what with my wet hair in my face and me being thrown over a car. My back hit the windshield while my head snapped back over the passenger side, hitting the rear view mirror. Okay, that explains the pains, back brace, and another brace on my neck.

I then remember sliding, slowly, over the hood and landing on the street. Since I was thrown (no pun intended) into this situation to begin with, I didn’t brace myself for that fall. That explains the cast on my right arm. After that I don’t remember much. Many people looking over me. Someone woman screaming "Oh my god! Oh my god!" And some woman’s voice crying, "I’m so sorry."
I was in too much pain to gather any more information as to who or what was around me. My eyes were wide open but I saw nothing really. Just shapes, movement, pretty lights. My mouth was open too and that had to be a vision of pure horror. What I remembered was that the pain was so excruciating I just formally passed out when the paramedics arrived. I think the were paramedics. I saw blurs in what looked like emergency garb, anyway. Dear god, I’m so glad I didn’t see a mirror because I’m sure I would have freaked then passed out from the sight of me.

So who hit me? Three guesses. Yep, the fat bitch sitting next to me here. But she doesn’t know I’ve written that part. She just sees me writing. She knows I love to write, but never asked me what I write and I’m sure now will be no different. She seemed rather happy I asked for a note book.
"So are you going to write about this?"
Duh.
"I’m sorry. I just didn’t see you. You don’t know how bad I feel about this."
Okay, so you weren’t content on throwing me out, but you had to kill me, too?
"Fuck you! I’m fucking sorry! What more do you want me to say?"
She never understood my sense of humor. Hell, I’ll be the first to admit it can be pretty abrasive sometimes. It’s just a dark streak that runs through me.
"Why didn’t you watch where you were going?"
I dunno. The rain. Maybe I was too busy thinking what I was going to do.
I didn’t dare tell her about my own eye rain. That would mean talking about emotions and how one feels, something that would be a feat for her to accomplish. I didn’t need to hear her shit right now. I was in too much shock to know that it was her who hit me.
After some uncomfortable silence, she spoke. "Pretty fucking wild, huh? What are the odds of that happening?"

I said nothing but chortled a little. This was definitely one for the Gods of Urban Legend. Like the one about the guy who threw himself out of a high rise apartment window, and was accidentally shot by his dad, who was trying to scare his mom with threats of shooting her with an old rifle he kept laying around, unbeknownst to either that the son had actually loaded the usually empty gun. That one’s my favorite. That is until now. I couldn’t wait to see how this tale would end after some good retelling and embellishment over the years.

No one brought me newspaper from the week, though I didn’t want to see myself (which is odd , really, knowing how secretly vain I am at times), But I just wanted to read the headlines. MAN HIT BY EX-GIRLFRIEND would be the title and all you need to read, especially since we live in Phoenix and the paper here is basically dumbed down. I knew however this story was made for Montell or Sally. The nurse told me that there messages from many local radio and TV stations, all begging for an exclusive interview on this sensational story. Now, I am looking for fame, but I want to achieve it by my talents (if I have any) not by my accidents. I don’t need to waste my fifteen minutes that way.
But fate is in charge of that clock and by now I’m sure of at least The World Weekly News (whom I do consider the greatest writers of fiction today) would have picked it up to their slant.WOMAN TRIES TO KILL MAN SHE THREW OUT HOURS EARLIER. Great. Let me write the goddamn thing. Oh, well.

"I’m glad to see you’re alive. God, I am so sorry."
It’s not him you have to apologize to.
"Damn you!"
Ease up. I’d love to know how the news played this one up. Me, being out for a week, have missed a lot of news.
"True. Well I think I can dig up some old newspapers for you. And I think Lisa taped the news that day. You know how she is, family historian."
How graphic is it?
"As far as how you look?"
Yeah.
"Not really. You know they can’t get too close to the victim or they’d be in the way. So all you see is ambulance, the car, and me freaking out on the side of the road."
Now that I’d love to see.
"Fuck you."
I only giggled at that. Nice to see her charm was still fully intact.
"I’m glad to see that you’re okay. I’d feel like absolute shit if it came out any worse than it did."
Oh, yes. I feel lovely. I’m sure I’ll have a place to stay for a while now.
She grunted, then "You are so frustrating at times, you know that? I understand. This sucks, but you’re alive. I’m going to go. I’ll see you in a couple of days, okay?"
Okay.

Then she blew my mind. She kissed me. She actually placed her lips on mine and kissed me. Not with tongue, but definitely not a peck, either. I looked at her kind of perplexed. I was not expecting that at all. Massive guilt had to have settled in her. Maybe this event will turn things around for me.
She left and I wish I could say I had time to think about going back with her. But since my last conscious thought was on my back, it was all rest from there. Or recuperation, anyway.
My arm is throbbing with pain now and the nurse said that all that writing I’m doing isn’t really good for the recovery. And it especially sucks that I’m right handed. But this is an addiction for me. As much as I don’t write, when I do I can’t stop, like making up for lost time. All the thoughts and ideas my imaginative mind likes to come up with needs an outlet. But my handwriting is so atrocious. So this is worse chicken scratch than my usual output so I think I’ll heed her advice.
In fact, my body feels ouch all over. I mean it ad been only a week since I came into my new temporary home. Not by choice, either.
Actually, to even narrow it down more and making it more labored than necessary, my forefinger and thumb are starting to cramp. Good clue to finally realize that maybe it’s best to put this down right now.

July 3rd
So now I have a chance to look over myself and the room, since I’ve been told I was going to be here for a while. Let’s go over myself first. Such an ego I have.
Legs, broken. Right arm, broken. Neck, whiplash. Back, broken. That is the one that really sucks, not that I enjoy any of the others. It scares me. Right now, as it stands, due to the fact that both legs and back were in tatters, they are unsure if I will walk again. My legs took the worst of it. My back got a good hurting but it wasn’t shattered. What saved my back was that I walk in a slouch. With my body in a relaxed state, the injuries were minimized, though I’d hate to see maximized. The human body, no matter how great a mechanism it truly is, can only take so much before it breaks, of course. Despite my relaxed pose the impact was quite hard.
Sharon hit me while she was doing thirty-five.

I’m not the most mobile person on Earth. You don’t get my size (four hundred pounds) with Jack Lalane’s dietary tips. Nope. Hot Pockets a cable TV, baby. My thumbs got a healthy work out. My bowels, too. That stuff gives ya healthy droppings really.
But I still like to get around when I can. So that news on my walking just devastated me. Imagine my fat as in a power chair. Imagine what you’re thinking when you see a fat ass in a power chair. I can’t reach for what I need. I may not be able to simply walk in a door as I used to. Sometimes, it was hellish to walk into some doors. Builders always assume that people are of average size. HEY ASSWIPES!! AMERICA IS OBESE!! Now it looks like I may be an obese person who may be stuck in a wheelchair, trying to get into a door.

Then the thought of my son popped into my mind. Where I am an indoor person, he is very active. Extremely mobile. It’s fucking hard for me to keep up with him as it is. I’ve spent most of my life inside; studying music, art, reading books, lots of books. I have always appreciated the great outdoors, but like everything else, in an escapist view. It’s there, it’s nice, but I don’t want to live there. It’s a nice retreat but I am a city boy.

It’s almost magical when I take him out to the mountains. There isn’t a rock he won’t try to climb. I just watch him in awe and some jealousy. If there was one creature on Earth that could be said to absorb the planet’s natural power it would have to be my son David. There’s a spirit in him I always wish I had when it came to the open air. There’s nothing he won’t tackle. And I’m not about to stop him either. Call it youthful exuberance, I hope he keeps it all his life.

And now it looks as if I may not be able to take him out to the remote areas he loves so much. Oh, I could take him to the park and scoot along as he plays. But, how could I truly participate with him anymore? How could I take him to the mountains like I used to? I could drive to some of the state parks but I’d be limited to the pathways and even they aren’t wheelchair accessible. He would have to stay on the pathways, too, because I can’t trust him to go out on his own yet. He’s only ten.
I begin to tear up at this revelation of what could be. It doesn’t help that I have fatalist attitude about everything. As much as I hate the medical community, I tend to listen to them. Shit like this is kind of ingrained in us I guess. So, I believed that I was no longer going to be able to walk. Ergo, I was no longer going to be able to enjoy the same kind of time with my son as I have before.

After weeping for about fifteen minutes, I wiped my eyes and scanned my room. The usual machines beeping and pumping life into me intravenously. Another sweep of my room showed me second, yet pleasant surprise of the day. Roses every-fucking-where. In vases, lying on the table, set on the desk next to me, hanging around. It was beautiful. Also on the desk next tome were various unopened card envelopes. Oh, man, too much. It choked me a little. I had no idea.

There were something intermixed with the bouquets. Pandas. Pandas everywhere! Somehow the word got around about my affinity for these magnificent creatures. The thing I love most about them is that they live solitary lives and not know loneliness. How I envy that. And now here they were in my room, holding roses, being ceramic vases, stuffed, looking at me. It was a gorgeous vision of red, black, and white. If I rule a country, that’s going to be the flag colors. I almost lost it again.
Some of the card were from family. A real cute one from David that depicted a sick panda. It was in a hospital bed with a thermometer out of its mouth and a medicine bag on its head. It was really sweet. The others were from many people I’ve met over the years and most recently from the clubs I’ve been hanging out at. How did my predicament get around? I was more than touched. I had no idea this many people cared for me. I cried a little.

I’ve been crying a lot lately. I have always believed in the power of tears. I believe they cleanse. This is where desolation escapes, or so I thought. For some reason, I haven’t felt better after weeping recently. The problem is that I cry alone. That only exacerbates the emptiness. I’m lonely so I cry. I realize I am alone, so then I cry because I am alone crying. You’d think all these wonderful gifts would cheer me up. They did for a second. But I am reading these cards alone in a hospital bed, which is how I woke up, alone, and in a body cast. Well, not full body cast, I’ll give you that.

I know the thing about people who are whiners. I don’t have respect for them because they are mostly the types who complain to complain. There is nothing to substantiate what they are crying about. On the other hand, I know people who have had it worse than I, but because I am immersed in my situation, that makes me feel so dour. What a bizarre thing our mind is.

Underneath all of the gifts and cards were about ten business cards from lawyers. Of course.
Today was also a great day because David came to see me! Woohoo! Tears of joy because I don’t get to see him as often as I’d like to. Last year he went to California to visit his uncle. What they told me was that he was going to stay for the summer. Okay, no prob. But what was awful was that they, my dad, step mom and his mother, withheld where he was from me. You see, David has behavioral problems. He acts out very badly no matter what I or anyone else can do or say. I am always afraid that when he becomes a teenager, I’ll visit him with hard plastic separating us, talking on a phone.
Anyway, hey told me he was staying on the farm because doing the chores and just plain old being out there was doing him good. And any communication from me would hurt his development. For some reason, after I visit him, he acts very, very bad. He disobeys, breaks things, he gave my ex-wife’s new lover the finger (I laughed hard on that one). I always tell him to be good and listen to his mother, but he turns around and does awful things. And somehow, my presence only brings out the worst. And now he’s doing well.

Okay I see him he acts bad. I don’t see him he acts bad. And my dad and step mother want me to take a more active role in his life. But, when I do, there are problems. What the fuck can I do? I will be the first to admit I am not the best father n the world. I could do better, but I am lost. I want to be there for him but then his voices in his head get the best of him and then he’s taken away from me.
He runs into the room clutching a panda teddy. It’s average size but from him, it’s beautiful. He wants to hug me. His arms are outstretched and I have to tell him to stop. Well, my ex-wife and I tell him to stop. He looks perplexed for a second, looking back and forth between his mom and me, wondering what to do. I look at him and say...'David, walk slowly and hug me gently. It’s not that I don’t want to see you, I’m really glad you’re here. It’s just that I am in a lot of pain and this thing on me is supposed to help me heal'.

David is about a year behind grade wise an emotionally. That’s due to the fact that his mom and I weren’t as guiding as we should have been. I wanted him to see the world, discover the wonders of it all. Well that’s hard to do when there’s no guidance to see what the world is in the first place. We let him run free, doing whatever he wanted. We thought of it as him exploring the world. By doing so he developed a sense of manipulation that he uses very well.

I guess you want a description of him, wouldn’t you. He stands the average height of a ten-year-old. He is also blonde, but where I am a kind of dirty blonde, he is bright yellow. His eyes shine a gorgeous hazel, like gemstones. His teeth however, have to have had the same history as mine, poor tot. Bucked and crooked, will definitely need braces when the time comes for them. He speaks at a level of an eight-year-old, but there are moments of amazing brilliance that shine through. This is what I mean. His mind is always going. He’s hiding something and when the time comes for whatever it is he was holding onto it comes out and stuns everyone around him. He may be behind, but he’s very acute to what’s going on around him.
That’s the other problem with his mind. Since it’s always going, it’s hard for him to focus on anything. And if you like silence on your road trips, don’t take him. He will not shut up.
He creeps up to me and gently places his arms around me. I squeeze him the best I can and the turning of my body makes me wince a little, but I try not to show it. My ex stands in the doorway, letting us have our moment. Great with me. I have nothing to say to her.
"See what I got you?" and holds up the stuffed animal.
Yes, I love it! Thank you very much.
It gets kind of awkward between us sometimes. He can talk and talk, yet sometimes we say nothing. And it’s not like those comfortable silences you’ve experienced. This is definitely loud. We are both trying frantically to figure out what to say to each other. I see in these moments the times me and my dad are together. It’s still that way. We love each other as it should be but it’s those times I hate. Maybe my son is like me in that regard. Can’t shut up if we tried. I just hate silence.
So there we are, looking at each other, waiting for the other to blink. Actually it wasn’t that long. Leave it to him to find something, anything to quell the silence.
"What happened, daddy?"
Didn’t you see the news? A car hit me.
"I know. It was Sharon."
Yes, son, but it was an accident. She wasn’t trying to kill me.
"I know."
That gets kind of irritating when he says that. When someone says that, it’s the equivalent of a brush off. Nothing sucks more than getting brushed of by your own son. You hope he doesn’t realize that he’s doing it.
Well, I’m glad you’re here, David.
"I’m glad you didn’t die, dad. I cried a long time when mom told me. How did it happen?"
I guess I wasn’t paying attention to what I was doing or where I was going.
` That’s primarily the truth. I never did talk down to him. I always treated him like I was more than his dad, I was his friend. Now I’m paying for that. I’m paying for so much. I’m paying for not realizing the separation of the two. Not guiding him though the world before setting him free in it. It’s all catch up from here.
"Are you going to talk to Sharon still? You’re mad at her aren’t you."
Yes, I’ll still talk to her. She gave me this notepad so I can write my thoughts and stuff. You should do that, write how you feel. Actually I think you draw better than you write.
"I know."
I shudder at eh response. Might as well have had the wave of the hand to go along with it. At this point, the nurse was speaking to my ex. She nods and her way of brushing people off is that overly friendly "Oh, okay, okay." Without actually hearing anything anyone has said because she’s talking over you. Christ that always pissed me off.
"Okay, David. Daddy’s pretty hurt and needs to be checked up on. We have to go."
"Okay." Turning to hug me carefully, he said, "I love you dad."
I love you, too, David. Thank you for the panda. I love it.
They left and not a minute later I was given the usual checks; blood pressure, IV drip, EKG reading, colostomy bag change, can you feel anything below the waist?, that crap that has become a routine in my life now. Kind of ironic. I’ve longed for some kind of stability all my life, a nice routine, something quiet and homey. Be careful what you wish for. Not that it mattered now.
I need to sleep. The image of my son’s face seeing me in this shape was kind of jarring. He tried to hide it but I read it too well. It was a look of horror and repulsion.

© Thom Gabaldon December 2002

Thom was born and raised in Des Moines then relocated to Phoenix, Arizona where his life has gone downhill ever since...he is now an emerging writer there with two published pieces.

To be continued next year:

Enquiries to author: darksouldealer@hotmail.com
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