He had removed his gloves when I wasn’t watching. I note this because everybody wears those gloves in the hospital and I had noticed he had them on when I saw him waiting for us in the hallway. It seemed a mismatched picture with him in his mechanic’s type uniform wearing surgical gloves. So at some point they were gone and the picture had been re-adjusted. Not really important to my story except everybody’s gloves kept drawing my eyes to them. He opened the front door of the van and was looking a bit self-conscious. It struck me that maybe it was unusual for anyone to ride with him. He apologized for the messy floorboard and invited me to just put my feet on top of the debris (of which there was none). I climbed in and buckled my seat belt, adjusted the air vent off my face and tuned myself in to the sound of a dispatcher’s voice spewing out of the radio, “78 year old man with dehydration and abdominal pain. Transport to ER …” I noticed a stack of the day’s newspapers on the floor between the seats and the faint stale smell of cigarettes. On the center console was a pack of mint gum under which was tucked the pack of cigarettes and I thought it should have smelled smokier than it did. My stomach pitted and I waited for dad to loudly draw air in through his nose and say, “It smells in here. What’s that smell? Is that smoke. That’s smoke. Its smoky in here.” Sniff. Sniff, snnniiiiiiff. Instead, he was silent. The driver scrambled inside as he realized the loudness of the radio and turned it off, then down and then back on giving it a final volume adjustment. Simultaneously he dropped Dad’s folder on top of the newspapers. I picked the file up and placed it in my lap out of some sort of tender notion of safekeeping. We pulled out of the driveway and I took a moment to discretely look at this driver. He had caught my attention when he rode on the lift behind my father, bending down to his ear and gently saying he was there to keep him safe from falling off the back adding he was going to take good care of him on the journey. It was with great respect for an elder and was almost affectionate in manner. He was Hispanic and looked like any other manual laborer one sees sweating outside daily in an effort to support his family. I was sorry I hadn’t caught his name. Small in build and dark skinned, his teeth were twisted and discolored making me think of Indian corn. Although his hair was cut so short it shouldn’t have required a brush, it still appeared messy and dis-sheveled. I thought to myself his look didn’t match his job. I was even more disappointed with my-self for not getting his name and for stereotyping this man based on his appearance. He turned back and addressed Dad. “ Are you okay? How is the temperature? If you need anything you let me know Mr. Mider, anything at all. Okay, here we go.”
As we entered the highway I turned back to take a look at Dad. It surprised me. He sat in his wheel chair right in the middle of what I now saw to be basically a cargo van painted to look like an ambulance. His chair was anchored with straps reminding me of a lawnmower in the back of a trailer. Just days before Dad and I had been talking about the luxury and convenience of limo travel. This conversation came up after my sister in law had done a late night drive from Dallas with some co-workers. Dad was sure it was pitch black and foggy. He had made that loud inhaling hiss as he thought of it. “They should have hired a limo. That’s what I would have done. I always saw the value in hiring a limo at times…”
When I was 8 years old we, Mom, Christi, David and I, met up him in New York City. He hired a limo to pick us up from the airport. Mom scolded him for the expense and frivolousness. More to the point, for what she saw as the spectacle. David and I thought it was great. It had pull-down seats on the floorboard. Little stools for little bottoms. Now, pictures begin to flash in my head: David feeling trapped by the tall buildings and the sidewalk crowds; Christi scowled a lot and walked ahead of us like any good teenager would. Dad would say, “Don’t you know how to stroll? Christi, we’re strolling. Christi? Stroll with us, Christi.” Dad taunted at her which only pissed her off more. We met him at the Plaza for dinner one night. She walked in and sat down. He said, “Smile, your on Candid Camera.” She gave a sarcastic smile. Of course David and I didn’t understand he was jabbing at her so we spent a good portion of the night trying to find the cameras. On the way back to the hotel I saw a lady running down the sidewalk as if she was being chased. She was wearing business like clothes and her shirt was in her hand. Nixon resigned while we were there. I touched something in the museum and the guard spoke to me. Dad made a big deal about showing me how to tuck in my shirt through my zipper, but with the button buttoned. I remember thinking that was a stupid way to tuck plus the back of your hand got all scratched up. We went to see Grease on Broadway. Mom warned me that there might be swearing in the show but that didn’t mean it was okay to do it at other times. The irony of that was that I had heard it all, all of the time from my father. I don’t know what she was thinking. “
… Yeah, that was always a good decision. Hiring a limo, I mean.”
So there he sat, like a lawn mower in transport. It was George in the back of that van. George is somehow more likable than Al. Well… anyway, one kind of feels sorry for George; Al is just harsh. He looked like a broken tyrant… a sentenced king on the way to the block. He stared ahead with wide round eyes and hands quietly folded in his lap. No fingers pointing, giving orders. No fists banging on thigh or countertops. No fingers and thumbs holding each other’s tips in quick pause for the camera. It sucked the breath out of me and I quickly turned away. I felt embarrassed. As though I had caught him naked.
We entered Loop1 and I saw Barton Creek Mall sitting high on its summit. The Dillards store now sits in Scarbroughs’ old spot. A great executive once worked there. Pointing his finger as orders were given, banging fists on thigh or countertops during inspections and reamings. We passed his apartment building sitting just below the mall. He had lived the past 10 or more years in that apartment and all of his belongings are now quietly waiting. I wondered if he was thinking about his things and about the life he was releasing as we sped past. I stole another glance back. His eyes were fixed straight ahead. As we passed our old neighborhood it struck me that we were in a cargo van driving past memory lane. There was no tour of the years, it was more a chance to wave a goodbye to history as we whizzed by. I thought to myself, “Its all gone now, you can’t have that again, Al. All the great accomplishments and all those hours of work are behind you, now. All the precious moments you missed out on. What a waste.” I glanced back again. His eyes seemed to drop for the tiniest moment and even faster, reset back into the forward gaze. I began to think he might be telling himself my very thoughts. Maybe saying to himself, “Okay. I’m ready for this next chapter. The Wrap up.” I felt very sad. It seemed tragic, like something out of a very sad novel that I would never choose to read. I began to try to think of a good place where I could go hide and cry for him. I felt heavy for all of his regrets. Regrets I assumed, or maybe fantasized he had. Maybe now he could somehow see all he had never indulged in with his children and feel happiness and peace through having these remarkable kids.
The driver and I small talked. Dad always said he hated small talk. It was his excuse for not socializing. I never understood that. Now that I’m an adult I have a bit more insight. Fatigue, stress and the depression that comes from those things often make me anti-social. I make myself do it anyway. I always feel recharged when its said and done. I’m glad for the people in my life. Email and Blackberries cause people to talk in brief code. Friends become virtual friends and casual conversation becomes annoying. As if a conversation with no productive goal is useless. Talking about the weather with the guy who pumps your gas means that even though we come from different worlds we are important to each other and it’s worth connecting. So what if I sound like Charlie Brown’s schoolteacher sometimes. Better that than sitting at the corner table making fun of people for being themselves.
So, I started the chitchat. He was taken aback. Seemingly surprised that I would treat him like person. At one point he seemed almost giddy that we would be visiting. There was a silence as we exited on to the next highway. This time he began the conversation. He asked if I had been downtown for the big “bike” festival. “You mean motorcycle?” (My husband would be proud) He was charmed that I knew he didn’t mean bicycles. Suddenly I was not exactly what he had likely stereotyped me to be. I replied I hadn’t been there. He told me a bit about the festival and intermittently I would say something like “Ooh that is neat.” The conversation petered out. I had felt badly about not including Dad in our chatting but I quickly realized he didn’t want in anyway. His mind was elsewhere.
As we crested the hill just before our destination, I pointed out the stellar view to my father. He looked and then shrugged. He took only slightly more interest as I pointed out the building we to which we were headed. He remained silent, gazing blankly ahead as we unloaded him and wheeled him through the lobby. It was nearly 4pm when we arrived. There were several tenants in the lobby, most of whom were female. They all stopped what they were doing and looked at him as he made his entrance. Probably hoping to catch the eye of a new friend to mix up his or her own quiet life. Dad stared ahead, seeming not to see, but he did. As we loaded into the elevator I braced myself and waited for him to draw the long loud sniff I had heard so many times in my life. Surely he would comment how stuffy and hot the elevator was. Again, he remained silent. We wheeled him off and through the hall. I looked to him for his verdict of this place we were taking him. He was looking around this time, although stealthily. His head never changed its stiff forward position. He caught me looking for his response and threw me the cookie I had been waiting for all my life. He gave an approving look with his eyes and brows with the smallest nod. I may have dreamed this part, but I swear I heard him say, “its nice” with a bit of surprise in his voice.
I recently had a conversation with my husband about how men really are blank minded when they say they are. A man who appears to be thoughtfully staring off somewhere is not. He is not mad. He is not sad. His feelings are not hurt and he is not planning his divorce. He went on to explain how a conversation in which his spouse asks what is on his mind, doesn’t believe him when he replies “nothing” and her subsequent unwillingness to take his answer at face value just really aggravates him. This becomes pertinent because we brought Dad to his new room and he immediately started screwing with the temperature. Only, he couldn’t or wouldn’t listen to me when I tried to show him how to work the thermostat. My brothers arrived and we wrestled with lighting, temperature, the television remote, cable and newspaper delivery. He pointed his finger here and there telling me my orders and brother David filled out all the paperwork. I went into “cheerleading” mode trying to sell Dad on his new setting and Greg ended up in the corner looking a bit glazed over. David started to twitch as my every word began burning a hole in his right temple. We stayed late and eventually left Al sitting in the corner eating cookies, that he had ordered me to hand him. This all ties together here. George was not in that van. It was Al all along, simply staring off into space, blank minded, like any real man has the right to. It was all my fantasy. He is who he is and that is all he will ever be.
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