Watermelon Tears

This is my latest effort in the Indie Ink Writing Challenge.  I was given a writing prompt by Amy LaBonte which will follow. 

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“I think we ought to find somewhere to put my dad.  I’m so happy we’ve been able to have him here with us, I know it hasn’t been easy for you, but we have to focus on Toby now.”

“Jess, Toby loves his grandpa.  Probably more than he loves either of us.  Isn’t the next few months going to be tough enough for him without taking away the person he loves most?  None of this is easy and none of it is going to be easy.  It all sucks.  I don’t know what we’re going to do except everything we can to make our son as happy and comfortable as we can, pray a lot and thank God for my insurance.”

With tears in her eyes, Jessica Schmidt hugged her husband Tim’s neck, so hard she feared he’d be the next one to spend time in the hospital.  The past year had been filled with hospitals and hospices, as Jessica first lost her mother to pancreatic cancer and then watched her proud, strong father, be reduced by bone cancer to life in a wheelchair. 

At 79, and faced with life minus his wife of fifty-seven years, he’d refused chemo or radiation to help him in his fight.  The constant pain left him cranky, while the devastating loss of his best friend only fueled his bitterness, anger, and confusion.  Despite his protestations that he was perfectly capable of staying in the house he and Esther had shared in Kansas, Jessica had convinced her father to move in with her family in Boise. Troy, Jessica’s older son, was rarely home.  High school, sports and friends kept him away unless he was hungry or needed a place to sleep.  Tim’s job required long hours, so Grandpa Frank’s most frequent companions were Jessica and 6 year old Toby. 

When Frank moved in, Toby was his parents’ primary concern.  He was as wild and rambunctious as a 6 year boy could be, not the best match for an elderly man of poor health and even more fragile psyche. 

To the surprise of everyone, however, rather than being upset by having to share time and attention with his grandpa, the situation was the catalyst for an amazing transformation.  Never one to sit still for very long or to behave himself at mealtime or in church, Toby seemed to mature overnight.  He’d sit for hours with his grandfather, reading to him from his Dr. Seuss books, watching television with him, and insisting that he be the one to help with grandpa’s dishes, newspaper, books and whatever else he required.  When the Schmidt family arrived at church on Sunday mornings, it was Toby who pushed his grandpa’s wheelchair, held doors, anything and everything he could do to help.

When the news came that Toby had relapsed, it hit the family like a runaway locomotive.  As a baby, the chubby little blonde-haired boy had developed tumors in his abdomen.  An aggressive treatment plan was implemented by his doctors, surgeries were performed, and the crisis seemed to have been averted.  Nearly five years after Toby’s bill of health had been declared clean, however, the unthinkable happened. A tummy ache wasn’t food poisoning and it wasn’t the flu. The tumors had returned, this time spreading much more quickly and aggressively, attacking organs that had survived the initial illness unscathed.  The prognosis wasn’t good.  If Toby survived to see his 7^th birthday, doctors would consider it a minor miracle. 

Tim and Jessica met with their pastor to best determine a course of action.  School would be starting soon.  At this point, Toby was healthy enough to attend, but that wouldn’t last.  Should he start school at all, or should the family treat the last few months of his life like one long Make-A-Wish Foundation weekend?  Disneyland, ballgames, camping and whatever else he wanted to do made sense to Tim, but when they sat down and had the talk with their son, he shrugged and said he really just wanted to be in school with his friends.  He’d been looking forward to 1^st grade so much.  He wanted to be big like Troy, he wanted to play high school football like his older brother, and those things couldn’t happen without finishing 1^st grade!  Like climbing a ladder, grandpa had told him.  Take one rung at a time and you’ll get to the top. 

The finality of his situation hadn’t, couldn’t sink into Toby’s young mind.  He was sick, sure.  He hurt all the time, just like grandpa, but despite watching grandma and his mom’s cat, Harpo be buried, he was much too young to actually die.  That didn’t happen to kids!

Tim and Jessica both flirted with nervous breakdowns, Troy started drinking whenever he had the opportunity, and Frank, impossibly, got progressively grumpier.  It was only Toby’s interminable exuberance, happiness and curiosity that made life bearable for any of them.  He’d been given a death sentence, yet he couldn’t be happier. 

A week before the start of school, on a sunny afternoon that found grandpa and little grandson both relatively pain-free, they shared a slab of watermelon on the back porch, Toby peppering his grandpa with the usual barrage of unpredictable questions.

“Grandpa, why is watermelon so sweet?”

“It has sugar in it, champ.”

“Like a cookie?”

“No, not like in a cookie, that’s a different kind of sugar.  The sugar in a watermelon is like in a strawberry, not like in a candy bar or cookie.”

Toby didn’t seem entirely satisfied with the answer, but there were too many questions to be asked to dwell on fruit.

“Why do I get wet when I go swimming?”

Concealing his annoyance and popping a chunk of watermelon into his mouth, Frank spit a seed at the little boy’s head and laughed.

“Because you’re in water, silly goose! And don’t ask me why water is wet, I already told you only your father can answer questions like that!”

Rubbing the spot where the seed had hit him, feigning injury, Toby took two huge bites and looked up at Frank.

“Do you miss grandma?”

Inhaling deeply through his nostrils and exhaling through puffed cheeks, Frank reached down and put a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“Oh, Toby, you have no idea.  I miss her very, very much.  I loved her so much.  And she loved you so much.  I bet you miss her too, don’t you?”

“Mommy told me that grandma is in heaven now, so she gets to sit on a cloud and play music and sing and she must be really happy.  I miss her, but not too much, because I’ll be with her soon.”

Frank felt a lump form in his throat and the all too familiar sting of tears as he struggled to speak.

“W-what?  Why do you say soon?”

Looking down at the ground, kicking a rock, Toby thought for a moment before answering his grandfather.

“Troy told me that I’m really sick, I mean I know I’m really sick, and I try not to be sad about it because everybody is sad enough already about grandma and Harpo and your legs not working so good and I just want everybody to be happy for a change.  I figure grandma might be lonely, and maybe God made me sick so I can go to heaven to be with her.”

No longer able to stifle his emotions, Frank wept openly now, head in his hands.  He hadn’t allowed himself to dwell too much on Toby’s illness, on the prospect of having to bury his own grandson, but it seemed the boy had already come to terms with the future in a way only a child can.

Standing up to give his grandpa a hug, Toby asked another question that had been bugging him.

“Is heaven really like that?  Do you just sit on a cloud?  Or do they have games there and toys and stuff?  I mean I’ll be happy to be with grandma and everything, but I know she likes to take naps and I won’t have any friends there but her, so what will I do?”

Composing himself as best he could, Frank returned Toby’s hug and pulled the boy up onto his lap.

“The way I figure it, heaven is like a one-way trip to your favorite place.  Whatever that might be, whether it’s going to the zoo or a Jazz game with your dad or going swimming, think of that one thing or that one day that when you were doing it, you wished it would never, ever end.  I think, well I hope, that’s what heaven will be like.  Think of a day like that, but it really never does end.  How does that sound?”

Toby took a big bite of the watermelon, right down to the rind, chewed slowly and thoughtfully, a puzzled look on his face.

“What’s the matter, champ?”

“Well, if grandma is in heaven, and heaven is like you say, my favorite place or day that lasts forever, then why isn’t grandma with us here, right now?”

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My prompt was "a one-way trip to your favorite place."  I challenged Wendryn with the prompt "Your dream concert.  Any artist/band, any venue, any time.  Tell me all about it."  Her response is here.

Permanent solution to a temporary problem

This my latest effort in the Indie Ink Writing Challenge. I challenged Kelly Garriott Waite  with the prompt "Nothing is as refreshing as a cold drink of water from a hose on a hot day."  Her excellent reply can be found here. I was challenged by Xtinabosco with the prompt "If I had a nickel for every time I..."  This is my take on her prompt.

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“Greggy, take out the garbages, then come see me, have to tell you something.”

I still don’t know why Tony always called me Greggy, but I took it as a term of endearment.  He and his wife had a daughter of whom they were very proud, the first college graduate in the family, but I always got the feeling he wished for a son and thought of me as the next best thing. 

As for the “garbages,” that’s what they were to him.  Not trash, garbage, rubbish or refuse, always “garbages.”  The translation from Serbian to English was imperfect, I suppose. 

I found my boss sitting at the tiny desk in his cramped storage closet-cum-office, puffing incessantly on his cigarette, shuffling papers. 

“Sit down, Greggy, sit down.”

I nodded and took a seat, leaning my head out into the hallway to take as deep a breath of what passed for fresh air as I could before turning to face Tony and the cloud I was sure would have him stirring the restaurant’s chili with the aid of an oxygen tank one day.

“You’re a good boy, Greggy?  Eh?” He replied to my nod with a half-hearted attempt at a smile, but I could tell something was troubling him. 

“It’s Shelly. Shelly mother call me just a little while ago. She tell me terrible, terrible news. Greggy, Shelly kill herself.”

Tony choked out the last few words, tears filling his eyes.  I wasn’t sure I heard him correctly, heck, whenever he was stressed his accent got so thick I’d start looking around for subtitles. 

“Wh-what?”

My grandfather had passed away of a massive heart attack when I was four, and I lost an elderly great-aunt to bone cancer at nine, but sixteen is too young to lose a peer, especially to a suicide.

“I…..no more, Greggy, start prepping the salad, please.  Close office door.  I’m sorry.”

Tony’s head was in his hands as finished his instructions, and I complied, a bewildered stare on my face as I wandered into the kitchen and began separating heads of lettuce.

I could hear sobs through the door I’d left closed, even over the traffic in the alley behind the restaurant.

Milinka arrived as I chopped carrots, rushing through the kitchen to console her father, who had yet to emerge from his office in the nearly 30 minutes since our brief conversation. 

A morose Tony dismissed me from salad prep with a wave of his hand, taking over so that I could check the dining room to make sure every table had ketchup, salt and pepper, menus, and so forth.

Milinka joined me, offering the first explanation of my co-worker’s shocking demise.

“Greg, I don’t know what my dad told you, but I spoke to Shelly’s mom earlier.  She came home from church yesterday afternoon and found Shelly hanging in the closet.  I guess she’d just broken up with her boyfriend and had some other personal stuff going on.  It’s so tragic.”

My confusion was amplified, as breaking up with her drug-dealing boyfriend should have been cause for celebration rather than suicide.  If I had a nickel for every time I watched Shelly get dropped off at work with makeup running down her cheeks in tearful rivulets, slamming the door of that scumbag’s Trans Am, I could retire before graduating from high school. 

There was beauty somewhere beneath the cheap clothes, badly bleached hair and hard-partying life Shelly led, but you had to look hard to see it. She butchered English almost as badly as Tony did, despite the benefit of having lived every day of her 17 years in Ohio, rather than Novi Sad.  Through it all, she seemed full of cheer.  A dirty, dingy caged bird singing, indeed. 

I thought back to the last time I’d seen her, Friday night, and I stopped in my tracks.

Rather than her boyfriend car, Shelly’s sister picked her up from work that night. I told her to have a nice weekend and that I’d see her on Monday. 

I remembered being confused by her reply, which included the first and last hug I’d ever received from her, but I didn’t linger too long on it.  The weekend had arrived and my friends were waiting for me and my paycheck.

“You have a good weekend, Greg.  As for Monday, I don’t know if you will, but I hope so.”

 

My Dad's Brain

This is my entry for the July 11-15, 2011 Indie Ink Writing Challenge.  I was challenged by Kiki Harshman with the prompt "you wake up and your father's brain has been transplanted into your head but you still have to write your blog entry...go."  I challenged Shiv with the prompt "On vacation, first time visiting a new place.  Nobody here should know you, yet at lunch you overhear your name in a conversation at the next table...."

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Waking up in someone else’s body is an unsettling experience, to say the least.  I suppose I should be grateful that the body in question belongs to my son, and not a cockroach, meaning that this isn’t some grand Kafkaesque nightmare. The fact that my son hasn’t abused his lungs with decades of Marlboro Lights means I’m enjoying my first deep breaths in a mighty long time, so maybe this isn’t such a bad deal after all, provided it’s temporary. 

Thank goodness for muscle memory or I’d be at a complete loss.  Typing is something that in my day was done by a secretary being dictated to.  When it comes to computers, I can plug them in and turn them on, but I still can’t locate the damn Google button I hear people discuss.  Yahoo, Facenet, Youbook, indeed.

I don’t know how long I’ll be experiencing this brain transplant, but I expect and hope it will end at some point.  In the meantime, if it doesn’t violate any laws of the time/space continuum or anything, maybe I can leave a message to my son and whoever might be reading this grandiose 21^st century version of a diary that he seems to think is so important.

Evidently it’s too late to tell you to take care of your knees, because they already feel shot to me.  How do you walk with these things?  Trading early 70s for early 40s should be like an economy to luxury upgrade at the rental car counter, but the Cadillac to which I’ve been given the keys has four flat tires!

Enough complaining about your various aches and pains, experiencing genuine fresh air is a more than equitable trade.

Without sounding too incredibly sappy, which should probably be forgiven a man in my peculiar circumstance, value family above all else.  My grandson is the greatest gift I’ve ever been given, and for that I thank you.  Spending time with him makes me regret not growing my own brood beyond you and your brother.  Don’t make that same mistake.  Even if it seems ridiculous, if the world seems too unpredictable to bring more children into it, have them.  I was born on the eve of World War II; you were born during the middle of the Vietnam War.  Believe it or not, I was terrified at what sort of country you were going to grow up in.  Remember, just 15 days after your birth, and within the same state, kids were being shot by national guardsmen on a college campus!

If ever you find yourself lying on a beach, put sunscreen on your ankles.  Nobody in the world but you, your brother and your mother know the story behind that particular piece of advice; let’s keep it that way.  You know how people say things will be funny someday?  Someday hasn’t happened yet.  Don’t let your own vacation be ruined by such an oversight. 

The Bengals will, inevitably, disappoint.  Don’t trust them, no matter what.  No brilliant insight there, of course, but worth repeating. 

Age gracefully.  If your hair turns gray or falls out, deal with it.  Plugs and rugs are equally unbecoming,    Wear clothes that make you comfortable.  Other people’s opinions carry only the weight you assign to them. 

Throw something away once in a while.  Seriously. 

The pursuit of “stuff” isn’t nearly as worthwhile an endeavor as the accumulation of memories.  Lunch with an old friend will stick with you longer and mean much more than whether your television set was 36” or 42”.

Your record collection is sorely in need of some Buddy Holly. 

In closing, although I may not say it, look inside and you’ll know I feel it.  Thanks for making your mother and I proud, although let’s be frank, I haven’t given up hope yet that you’ll be a Yankee one day.     

Do they think I'm stupid or something?

This is my post for the latest IndieInk Challenge. I was challenged by Amanda with the prompt "Do they think I'm stupid or something?"  My reply......

I’ve certainly been more comfortable, but I have everything I need to stay up in this tree at least until dark.  Nightfall will make escape and evasion much easier, if the search isn’t abandoned by then.

My phone is silenced, no worries there, and I have enough water to drink.  The bottle will even provide a makeshift toilet if and when the need arises.  My Kindle is somewhere shy of a full charge, but I probably ought to stay aware of my surroundings rather than getting lost in Kerouac or Twain at this point anyway.

Squad cars arrived quickly, too quickly, in fact.  I wonder if I may have been seen going in, but I was careful, I dismiss that theory.  “Suspicious man in the neighborhood” could have prompted a 911 call, but I’m white, clean-cut, and blend in with the residents of these multi-million dollar homes seamlessly, so strolling down the sidewalk carrying a small satchel shouldn’t have alarmed even the most paranoid pensioner.  I must have been sloppy and tripped an alarm.

The job was carried off with flawless, silent precision, or so I thought.  The lock on the back door was just as flimsy as expected, and the jewelry box in the bedroom filled with not only gaudy baubles but the pleasant surprise of a stash of pink, yellow and black Bellagio chips.  Upon finding the tokens I considered leaving the bracelets and necklaces behind,   but my guy is good at disassembling and rendering such things untraceable, so I grabbed everything.

My ninety seconds of work, figured at an hourly rate, would put me into an obscene income bracket shared by only the Buffets, Gates and sheiks of this world, although my tax liability (zero) would be considerably smaller.  The risk associated with my line of work, however, was crystallized by the sirens that began blaring when I was scarcely two streets away from the scene of my caper.

Running would draw unwanted attention, but I was too far from the wall I needed to scale to be free of the Spanish Trails development, so I needed cover, and fast.  Fortune smiled on me, leading me through two dog-free backyards, and to my arboreal haven.

The tree was tucked neatly between a house and a privacy screen, with low branches so high that it wouldn’t appear immediately climbable.  Aided by the same miniature grappling hook that got me into the gated community to begin with, I wasted no time disappearing into my leafy sanctuary, finding a perch that afforded both camouflage and a 360 degree view of my surroundings.

I’m almost sad that nobody thought to bring in a dog or two to aid in the search.  I’m dying to know if this scent smoke works as well on canines as all of the hunters giving testimonials on the company web site claim it works on deer.  I’m here to tell you that it doesn’t dissuade ants even a little bit.  They’ve been exploring me nonstop since I came to rest.

Nearly three hours have elapsed since I took refuge in the tree, and I’ve seen eleven cars driven by residents come and go.  Law enforcement has vanished – two black and whites and an unmarked detective’s vehicle all arrived, did their duty, and moved on.  What concerns me, however, is the pair of white security SUVs I’ve been watching make the same slow drives up and down the streets surrounding my location.  I’m positive neither they, nor the police, know my whereabouts, but these two rent-a-cops seem convinced that their missing burglar must be holed up somewhere nearby. 

Do they think I’m stupid or something? Are they really expecting me to come out of hiding and flag them down to turn myself in? 

By my fifth hour of residence in the tree, everything is stiff.  I’ve tried to continue stretching and moving a little, but my legs and back are tightening up and the bark is digging into my flesh enough that I’ve decided it’s time to make my move, despite the remaining sunlight.  The security patrol, once so vigilant, has returned to the luxury of the community’s entrance gate.

I plan my exit strategy, knowing I’ve got to return to my entry point in order to escape, lest I scale the wrong wall and be spotted by cars on the other side. A quick survey of my route and a text message to my driver sets me in motion.  At the very least, I’ll probably cross paths with a dog walker or two. 

Returning to the ground isn’t nearly as graceful a process as my adrenaline-fueled ascent.  Not wanting to potentially abandon my hook and cord, I hang from the lowest branch and release, landing with a painful, ankle-twisting thud.  I suppress the urge to scream as the damaged joint sends shockwaves to my brain, but I can’t dwell on the injury.  I rise and begin my walk, hoping against hope that no pursuit is forthcoming, at least none more swift than a desert tortoise. 

I look out of place now, drenched with sweat and hobbling along with a pronounced limp, but I traverse the distance to safety with nary a second look from the elderly couple walking their fat little beagle, the little girl learning to ride her bike under mom’s watchful eye, or the team of Mexican gardeners tending to one particularly sprawling lawn.  I worry that I may be seen dipping between houses and popping a gate to reach freedom, but I’m committed. 

Just in time, my phone buzzes with the news that my chariot awaits, a mere 9’ cinderblock hurdle keeping me from a 50 point drop in my blood pressure.

“Hey, what are you doing back there?!?”

The voice is stern, angry, and close.  I’ll have one shot at getting over this accursed wall, my less than stable ankle notwithstanding.  I quicken my pace, producing and throwing my grapping hook all in one motion. 

“Stop!”

It’s a command, not a request, and I can almost feel hot breath on the back of my neck as I yank the cord once to test it and mutter to myself “Fuck” as the entire contraption slides back over the wall and lands at my feet.

I wheel, bracing for confrontation, maybe an impact, and find myself face to face with something resembling a grizzly bear more than a man.  He tops my 5’9 by at least six inches, and he’s nearly as broad across the shoulders as he is tall.  Seeing an intruder enter his neighbor’s backyard, he decided to play the Good Samaritan. 

A physical resolution to our conflict appears inevitable, and unfortunately all manner of lower-body attacks have been removed from my arsenal, as kicking with or planting on my twisted left ankle would do more damage to me than to my opponent. 

“I don’t know what your game is, you little maggot, but you’re not going anywhere.  Sit down on the ground right there,” Grizzly instructs me, pointing to the grass beneath my feet and engaging his phone to call the cavalry. 

To the surprise of both me and my ursine captor, suddenly a voice comes from atop the wall.  “I have a better idea.  Put the phone back in your pocket and give my friend a boost over the wall.  Do it now.”

A man with a gun has a way of being very convincing, and my getaway driver, Alan, is just so equipped.  He’d seen my near-miss with the grappling hook, overheard my new friend, and backed his car between bushes and right up to the wall, giving him a look at the proceedings. 

Within seconds, I’m helped across the final obstacle in my path, and find myself speeding towards the interstate, finally able to relax enough to take stock of my loot.  The In-n-Out drive thru is on the horizon, and my brief life as a squirrel fades into memory.  I’ve been seen, and will have to avoid at least this part of town for a while, but this was a huge score and should finance me for long enough that the heat blows over. 

The only trees I hope to see for a while are those with palm fronds.