October - A Disconnect

October - A Disconnect

To say I was comfortable would be a fallacy, as I lay on my belly across the two wooden platforms that hoisted me above the fiberglass bottom of a small family boat. My neck ached, and the lapping of water across the boat's blue exterior kept me from well and truely sleeping, as much as my body yearned for a good rest, it was a wish that would not come. But it felt normal, always normal, within arm's reach not a foot away, sat a man with a fishing rod. He sat in silence, but the occasional “Whip-zhee” of his line thrown out some incredible distance reminds me he was there.

It was summer, Florida this time of year gets hot, but not the blistering hot people talk about when they speak of Arazona or Southern “Cali-For-Nai-Aeh”. It didn't bare down from above and crack the cement sidewalk. It did not cause fires that spread througout the state, no, Fireseason was in the wintertime, when this heat dies off and off goes with it the rainstorms and the occasional, comfortable wind. Florida heat weighs you down, makes it hard to breath as if you were attempting to free a particually thick shake from the bottom of the straw that is your windpipe. The sort of heat that the moment you walk outside your shirt sticks to your chest and sticks to your chest.

Today was that sort of day, but unlike his son, he took it in stride. He was a plump man, an accountant who enjoyed his off days the way that would make any wallstreet hotshot envy him. A small assortment of crackers were balanced on the board beside my torso, he occasionally held a bottle of Corona to his lips. Other times a Saltine with a small smattering of pickled cod would come next. His face unshaven, He sat in his fishing chair that had long been stained yellow by the aforementioned heat, once white, but tinted as if to match his hat which in itself was a wrinkled affair that was a few shades off of “off-white”.

Today he didn't speak, but he can, a deep not-quite baratone that always used to play on the fact he knew just one thing more then you did and it was some secret. Not a malicious one that would hold a King ransom, but one much more tame, A jester who knew the Queen had bedded the stableboy. He wasn't perfect of course. All mortal men had their flaws afterall, but you would never tell the way he carried himself. That knowlage was kept all in the family and we never faulted him for it.

I finnaly decided my position was... unfavorable, was the word I decided to use. Not speak, but use in my head, an affirming thought that came, wiggled itself into my left ear to stir the moters of my limbs, and sit up. I dug into the bag of saltines to my left, and decided to try the faire. My father threw his line out again. There it is. That “Whip-zhee.” Tackle tossed into the distance. He didn't speak, and it was fine. It wasn't like we didn't already know afterall, and these times in silence, just enjoying eachothers company? Those were the times I cherished, the sort of times you could sit, hours on end and dispite the lack of a verbal back and forth? No words, no quips, no jokes. You felt the weight eachother had on them at the time, and you knew eachothers story. That's what families are for afterall.

I havn't had pickled cod all that often in my life, the few times I did have it I enjoyed it. It was such an odd treat. Pulled from a jar, often with sour cream, small fillets of fish that were softer then butter spread over a saltine cracker. I -hate- fish, but I didn't hate that. Maybe it was the vinegar or the age, but this little confection (For the lack of a better word) didn't hold that strong flavor I closely associated with the beast of scales and fins I so loathed.

I smiled and looked to my father, who looked back with a short nod, No words, but that nod meant “That's Right” or “Atta Boy” or perhaps even more fitting “Hi there Butchie” as he always liked my nickname. Bernard at work, Bernard with my closer friends I had started to gain in my adult life, But I was 'Butch' at home. It was easy as I carried his name, his grandfathers name.

I took a bite of the cracker, the saltine was there, the crunch was there... and it all was far too bland.

To say I was comfortable would be a fallacy, as I lay on my belly across a forest green futon matress that hoisted me above metal bars of a bed I shared with a small mutt of a dog. My neck ached, and the silence that permiated the room did nothing to ease my swimming head. I had overstayed my welcome in my subconcious it seems, and I was well and truely up. This feeling was the new normal, always normal. And the comfortably plump man with the glasses, the wrinkled hat and the resounding 'Whip-zhee” of a line that was cast so incredibly far was no where in sight.

It was summer, and the air conditioning in our home kept Florida's heat at bay. It had this comfortable chill that would never run down your spine, bare feet clapped the tile from my bedroom to the kitchen. A small glass of tea was poured, and it was overly sweet, all that sugar in it likely covering any benifit the drink itself would have produced in just a few added calories, but I'm not one to complain. I was never a health nut afterall.

My little black dog came trotting up beside me, wondering what stirred me from my restful albiet short slumber. I brushed my hand across his head, the approving grunt that came from the fitful pug his mother was, and he politely asked to be let outside to which I oblidged of course.

I still can't sleep, That ache in my neck has not gone down and I'm slowly realizing something. It's not a startling realization, but one you would have when you walk out the door, ready for a busy day, and finding your keys were not in you're pocket. So offhanded, so inconvenient, it's a wonder I even let such a thing force me out of a dream.

My father was dead, years ago in October, a fight with the Emporor of all Malidies claimed him on one rainy day. I always sort of cursed the fact it was raining, the perfect set up for a A-List tearjerker with Afflac and Weaver. But the cameras were put away today. All the make-up, scripts and budget were reduced to a quiet room full of stress, and then silence. It was an ugly event, gasping, straining, the will to live but no energy to do so without the tube forcing air into his lungs.

I have no idea why or when this happened, but I speak not of the death, but the disconnect. It was a shield or a bulwark I had against this encroaching upset. He had wanted me to play in his band, the bass guitar, one that was his last birthday gift to me. It was custom made, a black momba across it's neck, down to it's body. Never once did I pick it up. He loved going fishing with me, dispite my complaints of the heat or the time we had to be out there. I had things to do, he had no care in the world but me and his family.

He was an anxious man that was every bit me as I am me. He was friendly, taught me how to care, to hold a grudge, to act proffesional at the end of the day. How to sort through a bank statement, to cook an egg, to never let someone who hurt you hurt you again. I wish I had spent more time with him, wish I had picked up the guitar. Wish he had taught me more.

I'm not upset, or mournful when someone brings him up. I shrug it off, people die every day and he had a full life. When he went, if he didn't go he would have suffered. I am not selfish enough to wish that on any one being. But I realize more and more now that it isn't that I'm over his loss, but that theres a different me. That me sits and speaks with him every single day. That me picks up the guitar that sits untouched in my closet and asks him for help on a chord. That version of myself has the productive, fufilling, creative relationship I wish I had with my father. And now I never will.

I know some of them can be cruel, unpleasent, goofy or overburdening. No one is perfect, No mortal man ever will be, But please make the most of your time. That rainy day in October comes far too fast, far too soon, and it will take years for it to catch up to you.