This blog is a continuous work in progress, fluidly charting my diverse interests and reflecting the far reaching range of my tastes. Frequent subjects of discussion include literature, sports, politics, pop culture and artistic motivation. You will find thoughtful essays and stream of consciousness rants, reviews of books written by others and the presentation of my own fiction - novel excerpts as well as short stories. What it is today may not be the case tomorrow. Welcome to A Line A Day.
Marshall’s legs were burning but he peddled no
less strenuously. He welcomed the pain because it
gave him something to dwell on besides his last
conversation with Audrey. Tangible hurt was
preferable to a metaphorical kick to the gut. Then
again, it mattered little what his preferences were.
It was ridiculous for him to be jealous, especially
since she had been kind enough to offer him a
consolation prize as she was twisting the dagger of
94
her indifference into his heart. Grudgingly he’d
allowed himself to be introduced to Sarah, found
her to be as attractive as promised, and had a lunch
date scheduled with her for the next day. He had
been on the look-out for a diversion from Audrey,
not expecting that she’d be the person to provide
one. She was a dear friend, love of his life, and
pimp supreme all rolled into one. Was it any
wonder that he was consumed by her?
Perhaps consumed was too strong a word. When
Audrey told him she was not interested in him
romantically six years earlier, he had been
disappointed but not devastated. As they began
spending time together as friends there was no
ulterior motive on his part. He enjoyed her
company for what it was. It took several months to
realize that he was enjoying it a little too much, that
he was harboring unreciprocated desire. He
considered making his feelings known, and if
rejected, the second time around he would have
walked away for good, sacrificing friendship for the
sake of his ego. But then Todd came along,
rendering any professions of love moot. Eventually
he grew accustomed to Todd’s presence without
ever taking much of a liking to him. He was far
from consumed by Audrey during those years, or so
he concluded as he took an unnecessarily sharp turn
on his bike, scarcely noticing as Brooklyn’s
Prospect Park whizzed by.
Thoughts of courting her resurfaced when she
and Todd broke up. He would give her sufficient
time and then express his feelings. Or would he?
After five years he would not be able to breezily
abandon their friendship. Sleepless nights were
95
spent wondering if he should keep quiet or go for
broke. She was free, as was he, it was now or
never. Yet he continued to procrastinate, to wait for
a moment that was assuredly perfect.
He had become a maestro at the waiting game.
That’s what he had been doing while she was
meeting some guy named James, waiting for her to
show up and crush him. She did everything short of
sending him an engraved invitation which read -
Enjoy your coffee and cookies until I finally show
up to make you feel like shit once more for old
time’s sake.
It was a stunning day, the sun at high beam as if
to highlight his despair. But why should he feel
badly, he asked himself for the hundredth time on
his mindless bicycle race against invisible demons
that could not be outpaced. He should have been
used to the fact that they were not meant to be
together. This James character had done him a
huge favor by showing up when he did, sparing him
the sting of rejection and the humiliation of
standing by idly. Audrey had found someone new.
She had moved on, would be giving happiness
another go. As her friend he should have been glad
for these things, especially since she was not the
only one presented with an opportunity. Thanks to
her intervention, he possessed one as well. Sarah
was possibly the woman he had been waiting for.
There was that cursed word again. Waiting.
Fuck waiting. Screw standing still. It was time
for a new plan of action. And he had at last
concocted one. For however long his legs and
lungs could stand, there was a single clear cut
mission for him to accomplish. He would peddle,
96
and peddle, and peddle as if his life depended on it.
If not his life, surely his sanity was at stake.
James played back
phone messages received while he was out. The
first was from Sonya, confirming their date for later
that evening. He had met her a week earlier at a
friend’s party, drawn to her high cheekbones, black
hair that nearly reached down to her waist, and
large opal eyes. She came from a wealthy
Indonesian family, worked in corporate law, and
was not the most riveting conversationalist. Nor
did he relish the fact that she was a vegan. An ex-girlfriend of his had been committed to avoiding
meat and a number of other culinary categories at
all costs. The instructions she gave wait staff to
make certain her dish passed muster often took a
full five minutes to issue. This detracted from
James’ enjoyment of his own meal, which much to
Aisha’s dismay he preferred red blooded.
Sonya had as many minuses going for her as
pluses. Nevertheless, he elected to follow up on
what had been started when he crossed the room to
introduce himself to the exotic looking woman
bathing in moon beams shining through the patio
door.
Fantasizing about the best case scenario of his
upcoming date with Sonya was interrupted by the
second message. It was left by his brother Craig,
brief as usual, reminding him that he would be
dropping by at three o’clock. Glancing at his
watch, James saw that the appointed hour was
twenty minutes away. He knew why Craig had
16
invited himself over, for he had done it often
enough in the past, always with the same
motivation - to hit his little brother up for cash.
Craig was older by three years and less
responsible by as many decades. Refusing to suffer
the indignity of settling down at a stable job, he
opted to invest in one get rich quick scheme after
another. Whenever he was short of the necessary
capital, usually due to some team not covering the
spread, James was the preferred bank from which
he withdrew. Craig was good about paying him
back once his finances were back in the black. He
would promise that this would be the last time, for
his latest plan was foolproof and guaranteed to set
him up for life. When things failed to work out it
was disappointing, but to him, the risks he took
handily beat working nine to five for a living.
The final message was from his best friend who
had relocated to Santa Barbara about a year ago.
Their childhood was spent roaming the streets of
the Bronx together, and for almost as far back as he
could remember, Marcus had been talking about
heading out to California someday. His master plan
was to start his own hedge fund. Once it was up
and running and raking in serious money, he hoped
to bring James on board, reuniting the two
Musketeers.
James decided to wait until after his brother’s
visit to return the call. Shooting the breeze with
Marcus would put him in a great mood entering his
date with Sonya.
After pouring a snifter of brandy, he stood by the
windows that wrapped around his apartment. His
17
vantage point from the 30th floor placed a generous
portion of the city within sight. Once the sun went
down, countless lights transformed Manhattan into
a gigantic Christmas tree.
James had done well for himself career wise, and
his magazine layout worthy apartment with
photogenic view was just one of the perks of
success. He had always been dissatisfied with any
grade less than an A, with any game that did not
result in victory, with any goal, regardless of size
and urgency that failed to be achieved. Lately his
professional ascendancy felt stalled, frustration
mounting due to others being rewarded for inferior
results while his were overlooked. He was
compelled to wonder if he had gone as far as a
black man would be allowed to by his current
employer. It wasn’t as if he was one of many
African Americans who worked there. He stood
out like a drop of ink floating in a bucket of milk.
He was not predisposed to cast blame on racism
or any other ism for what failed to go his way.
Instead of making excuses, he refused to come up
short. This mindset had been instilled by strong
willed parents. They planted the seed and then
fostered his passion to excel by enrolling him in
private schools rather than poorly funded public
ones where it was easier to drift into bad habits. He
grew accustomed at an early age to environments
where his smooth brown complexion was darker
than the vast majority of his peers. He did not feel
uncomfortable in such settings, for he recognized
them as the places he needed to be. Nevertheless,
there was a part of him which could not help but
feel like a stranger in a strange land. He managed
18
to forget the differences between him and
classmates and colleagues for long stretches of
time, but inevitably, something or someone would
remind him that they did exist.
In the pre-dawn hours of a brisk December Day, Harry walked the streets of Brooklyn, New York. He traveled light, for he owned nothing but the tattered clothes he wore, the eight cents in his pocket, and a package carried in a plastic bag. Ordinarily he would have been snoring in Grand Central Station at this hour, or on the 2 train if insomnia necessitated that he be rocked to sleep. But not today. Though quite weary, Harry chose to put sweet dreams off for a while longer. He wanted to behold the world with clarity, see beyond the veil that keeps truth hidden from all but the wisest of men before the next time his eyes were closed.
Alley cats hollered songs of love from the confines of a vacant lot that served in alternating shifts as a playground, bathroom, and brothel. Harry was familiar with its utilitarian layout, for his footsteps had led him to the neighborhood of his childhood.
Those long ago days had been spent fighting a half dozen siblings over the insufficient room, nutrition and love provided for them. Their fathers were each different men who were just passing through. In exchange for either drugs or money to purchase drugs with, their mother gave what she had to give, a body she was poisoning one high at a time.
By the age of thirteen, Harry had developed a taste of his own for altered states of mind. He needed to escape the wretchedness of his surroundings and nothing got him further away than crack cocaine. It transported him to a world filled with light and beauty, devoid of suffering.
The last time Harry saw his mother she lay huddled on the kitchen floor. For once her eyes did not reflect longing for the pipe of crystals she clutched onto, but for help. There was not enough time to get her that help had he tried. But Harry didn't try. It was plain that the drugs were finally accomplishing what they were meant to do. His mother’s anguish was coming to a merciless end. Harry simply waited to collect his inheritance from the palm of her hand.
A year later he met Julie. She was a battered angel, sexually abused by her stepfather, as hooked on heroin as on oxygen. Yet in some impossible to put a finger on way, a part of her remained untouched by the evil that men do. When she learned she was pregnant, Julie decided to cleanse her body for the sake of the new life within her. She begged Harry to do the same, but he vigilantly remained a lost cause.
Rather than hanging around until he wreaked havoc in their lives, Julie vanished. Perhaps she said goodbye the last time he saw her, but Harry was in no condition to take notice. For a long while he expected her return, but eventually realized that she was gone for good. He had blown what was likely his last chance at love. He would never meet his child. As usual, he was able to smoke his blues away.
Not long after Julie's departure, Harry became an official resident of the streets. Too weak of body and mild of disposition to take money from others, he was left little choice but to beg for it. The purest scores of smack failed to ease the crushing weight of his degradation. For each coin placed in Harry's palm, a chunk of his pride was handed over. He was pawning his soul piece by piece at bargain basement rates.
Harry did not fare well as a beggar, for he sang no songs, told no jokes, nor had so much as a decent hard luck speech. Rather than attempting to entertain or to elicit sympathy, he would simply stand before subway passengers, hold out his coffee cup, and await donations. They came few and far between, barely sufficient to keep him alive, if not exactly living.
His current tour was not undertaken for nostalgia's sake, but to reaffirm that his decision was the right one. A single joyful memory may have shattered his resolution. None came. The years of his life blended in recall into a single interminable day spent wondering where his next high or meal, in that order of preference, would come from.
Harry picked up a piece of glass that was reflecting light from a nearby street lamp. He sat on a curb and held the makeshift dagger over his wrist. All was settled. He would dispatch of an existence no longer worth the effort to preserve. This was not the first time such a fatalistic decision had been reached by him. But unlike the other occasions when it was no more than a vague concept rolled around his mind like a pair of dice, Harry was now determined to act upon it.
Three months earlier his friend Rico was stabbed while negotiating a freebie from a prostitute on tainted acid. The murder gave Harry a permanent distaste for blood spill, and also for forming attachments. Other homeless people were three dimensional reflections of everything that had gone wrong. When his only companions were artificially enhanced thoughts, it was possible to imagine that his misfortunes were merely temporary. But the passage of time discarded rather than judiciously spent made this illusion increasingly difficult to conjure. Drugs could still elevate his consciousness, but no longer transported him high enough to reach the plane where hope resided.
Rather than hope, what Harry sought was an ultimate form of amnesia. He wanted to erase all knowledge of who he was, who he had been, and what would undoubtedly become of him.
He flung the glass away. Cutting his wrist would be painful, messy, and time consuming. He might be found and saved by someone who didn’t know better. There had to be a better way.
Harry rose and continued on his journey. He wanted to be dead before sunrise, for the birth of a new day would needlessly delay the execution of his decision. Daylight brought with it too many distractions. The instinct for survival overpowered self-pity when the sun’s rays were in effect. It was only natural that his desire for ultimate sleep bloomed under the cover of night.
A car roared past at well over the speed limit, inspiring a plan. The Brooklyn Bridge wasn't very far away. He would walk halfway across and jump in front of the first car to come by.
Pleased with this resolution, Harry picked up his pace and was at the bridge in ten minutes. He positioned himself and waited for the vehicle of his demise to arrive. The Subaru which came first left Harry safe and sound. It wasn't going fast enough, he reasoned. The same went for the Oldsmobile, wood paneled station wagon, and Volkswagen which drove by after. The Mercedes would certainly have done the job, but Harry missed out because he was tightening his shoelaces as it passed. Finally a truck came rumbling over the bridge like a stampede of elephants. There would be no valid excuse to let this one go. He waited until exactly the right moment, then jumped.
A second later, Harry landed in the same spot he had been standing. He couldn't do it. The thought of meeting a fender head on for a goodnight kiss gave him the creeps. His heart and mind were ready to go, but his body possessed its own opinion on the matter.
Harry beheld the twinkling Manhattan skyline and could not deny that the view was breathtakingly beautiful. But life was not nearly so pretty as it appeared from the Brooklyn Bridge at three in the morning. He peered at the jet black water beneath him and realized it could grant him a perfect suicide, almost an artistic way to go. Certainly more picturesque than being smashed to scattered pieces. Harry wanted his body in one place when he died. The bottom of the East River was as good a location as any.
He swung a leg over the railing. Hopefully the impact would at least knock him unconscious, if not kill him immediately. He had never learned to swim and couldn't think of a more horrifying way to perish than by drowning. The helplessness one must feel while sinking into murky depths had haunted him in nightmares since childhood. It still terrified him. This was the justification he gave himself for swinging his leg back to safe ground. The East River would have to do without him for a snack. It would not go completely unfed, for a nickel and three pennies fell from Harry's pants pocket and spiraled downwards like unanswered prayers.
Harry berated himself for his cowardice as he walked across the bridge. He hated the weakness of his body that made the allure of crack cocaine irresistible. He hated begging for survival. He hated the way he looked, and smelled, and felt. He abhorred when people viewed him with disgust, and even more when they looked through him as if he wasn't there. It infuriated Harry that so much of his misfortunes had been predestined, that he was given only one legitimate opportunity to change the fate allotted to him. Yet he knew that one chance is one more than some people get, so his anger was ultimately eclipsed by regret. He had begged for money and craved for drugs, but when the one thing which could have granted salvation was offered, Harry turned it down. Through the densest clouds of poisonous euphoria he had been able to see that he loved Julie. But love didn't seem all that important at the time. Now he knew better. He had learned that hate and anger could be enough to sustain someone, but regret did nothing but suck a person dry.
The temperature had dropped considerably since his venture got underway and a light snow now fell. By the time he reached the city it was howling about him, transforming the night from black to white. Harry didn't bother to head towards a subway station, for his legs felt as leaden as his spirits. Instead he entered the corpse of what had long ago been a small but lovingly maintained park, and lay in the first place not already claimed by a rat. He used the bag he had been lugging about as a pillow, its contents providing a fair cushion for his head.
Inside of the bag was a rag doll found in a dumpster about nine months earlier. One of her glass eyes was missing and nearly half of the stuffing had escaped from a rip that was now taped shut. The doll was intended as a present for his daughter, in case he managed to find her. His search had not been an active one, but one never knew who might be bumped into on the streets of New York City.
Earlier that day, he had scribbled Julie’s name onto a piece of paper and placed it in the bag along with the doll. In the event of the death he was resolved to bring about, Harry hoped his gift might somehow find the way to its intended recipient.
As he always did before going to sleep, Harry tried to envision Julie and their child. Once again he failed, for his daughter he had never seen and Julie's face he could scarcely remember.
Instead he saw his mother, her body and soul ravaged beyond repair, her eyes containing only a spark of humanity. But sometimes a mere spark can initiate a conflagration. After years of mercilessly pushing herself to a point inches away from death, in his mother’s last moments it was apparent that she wanted to redeem herself, to turn around and face the painful familiar rather than risk the unknown. But she didn't have the strength to turn around. More often than not, a spark ignites no more than a millisecond of illumination.
“I hate her, Julie,” Harry had once said, back during a time when he had not yet abandoned the desire to make something of his life. “We were nothing more to her than the amount of government assistance she got for each of us. She kept getting pregnant so she could keep getting high. She popped us out and then we had to fend for ourselves.”
“You’ve got to let your anger go, baby.”
“Why should I?”
“You’re going to be a parent yourself soon. If you don’t forgive your mother, you won’t be able to care for your child.”
“I won’t have any trouble taking care of our kid. I love our baby already, because the baby is coming from you.”
“I still say you have to clear the hate from your heart to make room for some love.”
“I love you and our baby plenty.”
“I know you do, Harry. But you must also love yourself. You got to at least try.”
“Shit, Julie. Ever since you quit getting high you been talking like a shrink. A shrink who keeps changing the subject. I was talking about my mother, and nothing can fix the way I feel about her.”
“But look at all she gave you, honey.”
“All she gave me? Are you out of your friggin’ mind? Have you not heard a word I’ve said?”
“I’ve heard you, Harry. But nothing you said, nothing she did changes the fact that she gave you life.”
“So?”
“So that means she gave you a chance.”
“So?”
“So use it.”
Harry had proven to be a failure at both living and dying. His sole consolation lay in the fact that at least there was always tomorrow. He would have to find either the courage to kill himself, or a reason not to. As long as the sun rose each morning, both remained distinct possibilities. This thought made his sleep a peaceful one as the snow lay a natural blanket over him and he dreamt of days stitched with promise, devoid of pain.
The sun did indeed rise that morning. Birds sang, cocks crew, alarm clocks sounded and rush hour officially began. None of this disturbed Harry's slumber, for the frost had made his dream come true. And though in life he wore the guise of a beggar, in death he was as stately as a king.
THE END
On a cheerier note, happy NBA retirement to Carmelo Anthony. It was a pleasure to watch you hoop brilliantly for my beloved New York Knicks.
🚨 MASSIVE BREAKING: Mike Pence testified TODAY before the federal grand jury in the special counsel's probe into January 6th. This comes soon after an appeals court DENIED Trump's attempt to block Pence's testimony. pic.twitter.com/Rad9BZoDDz
— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) April 23, 2023
Anyone turned off by calls for social justice should go away and stay away. Who the hell rejects a sport they supposedly love because of some slogans on the baseline that can easily be ignored?
— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) April 22, 2023
I can't believe that Phil Jackson refused to watch #NBA basketball any more just because Cleopatra is being played by a Black woman in a Netflix movie.
— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) April 23, 2023
— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) April 27, 2023
Doug Williams, Shack Harris and a whole lot of other black QBs who built the foundation have to be overwhelmed with pride right now. Three of the top four picks are black quarterbacks.
I decided that the time had come to make one of my books available in a format other than the written word displayed on paper or screen page. So I took the plunge, was fortunate enough to find a wonderful narrator to work with, and published Matters of Convenience: audio book edition. It is available for purchase from Amazon / Audible - and wherever else the fantastic ACX program allows consumers of audio books to find great books.
I'm hoping to hear from book listeners just as I love to get feedback from my readers. Let me know what you think of the story, the writing, and the reading performed by Mati H. Fuller. You can do so at Amazon or Audible or on GoodReads. Feel free to reach out to me directly by commenting on this blog post or dropping me a line on Facebook or Twitter or Instagram or TikTok. I love to hear from people who have chosen to immerse themselves in one of my stories. A writer/book is nothing without you readers/listeners.
If you have a blog or web site of your own where book reviews are featured, regardless of the size of your audience, feel free to reach out because I have some promo codes for US as well as UK usage. They will allow you to download the audio edition of Matters of Convenience for free. Or if you're shy, rather than contacting me simply stop by this site to obtain a promo code. Giving copies away in exchange for receipt (hopefully) of impartial reviews seems like a fair deal to me. My goal isn't to get rich, though I won't complain if that happens. It's to reach as many book lovers as possible.
The day I met my father it snowed from early
morning until sunset. I worried that my
mother would change her mind if the snow made it difficult to drive. But the salt trucks enabled our trip to be
taken despite the flurries, and she kept her word. She always keeps her word.
People had begun putting up lights and a wide variety of
decorations on their front lawns to celebrate the Christmas season.I was particularly fond of the giant
inflatable characters recognizable from my favorite holiday cartoons.Two years earlier when my mother was
temporarily out of work and could not afford the presents I had asked Santa
Claus to bring, she confessed that he was only make believe.There was no man from the North Pole who gave
well behaved children whatever they desired.The gifts I received were purchased with the money my mother worked hard
to earn.I could tell she would have
preferred for me to believe in Santa Claus a little longer, but there was no
way to avoid disappointing me in one way or another.I was not too young to understand that she
often sacrificed in order to provide for me.It was obvious that she loved me very much, enough for two people, the
mother who took care of my needs and the father who was little more than a
rumor.That is, until the day I finally
met him.
I was nervous and excited and frightened and thrilled about
the idea of my first encounter with my father.My mother rarely spoke of him, other than when I raised the
subject.On those occasions she would
pause for a few seconds before responding to my queries, unless they were the
kind that could be answered without judgment, such as how tall was he, or did
he wear glasses like I did.There were
no photographs of him in our house, so I would imagine what I thought he might
look like, then run to my mother for confirmation.She said I most strongly resembled my father
when throwing a temper tantrum, but I did not do that very often.
When replying to questions of personal opinion, I could tell
that my mother was being selective with her words.She did not have many nice things to say, but
did her best not to speak poorly of him either.Sometimes I saw anger in her eyes, other times sadness, but she was
usually able to keep these feelings from her voice.
It did not take long to sum up all that I knew of my father
up until the day I set eyes on him at last.I had been told that he was usually out of work and low on cash.My mother did not receive money from him for
my well being.In my nine years she had
given me four gifts that were said to be from him – a football, a basketball, a
baseball bat, and a Playstation video game.I cherished each one of these items because they were seen as proof that
he loved me, and that one day we would be together like a father and son are
supposed to be.When I did not receive a
Playstation game system for my birthday, rendering the last of my father’s
gifts of little practical use, my mother was treated to one of my infrequent
tantrums.The sports stuff caused less
trouble, although I much preferred to draw superheroes or watch dinosaur movies
than play sports.This is something my
father would have known if he was around, or at least bothered to ask about my
interests.Despite such evidence that he
did not bother to find out much about me, I continued to inquire about him,
adding to my collection of information bit by bit.
I knew that he and my mother dated for six months, a period during
which she was unknowingly pregnant for half that time.Her announcement of my pending arrival
hastened the end of their frail relationship.His various other girlfriends had been unhappily tolerated by my mother,
but the news that he would soon become a father was unacceptable to him.I like to pretend that the vegetables on my
dinner plate are pieces of chocolate in order to make my way through them.It almost works sometimes.Perhaps my father pretended that my mother
and I belonged to a vivid dream that he could put behind him when the sun was
out.
Some men are not comfortable around babies, according to my
mother.This was a notion I could sort
of understand.Babies frequently cry and
they’re pretty much helpless.They can’t
walk or talk very well, they need to be fed and dressed and cleaned up after.Babies are a great deal of work, especially
to someone who prefers to avoid having a job.As I grew older and my curiosity about the ways of the world grew
stronger, I wondered with increasing frequency why my father did not visit me
now that I was big.My mother was either
unwilling or unable to answer this question for me, and although I prayed like
I was taught to in Sunday school, I did not learn what I wanted to know that
way either.As a last resort I took the
inadvertent suggestion of my best friend Pedro, who happens to be the smartest
kid in our class.He told me that
whenever he was trying to figure something out that nobody he asked knew, he would
go online and enter the appropriate search words into Google.Since he lives with both of his parents plus
three older brothers and four older sisters, Pedro has plenty of resources to
go through before heading to the internet.My own set of circumstances being far different, at first opportunity I went
on my mother’s computer and tried to discover why my father continued to remain
at a distance from me.I received a
number of hits that appeared promising and printed out several web pages.Sadly, reading through them led to nothing
fruitful.Or so I thought.Three day later my mother sprung an enormous
surprise on me.We would be taking a
trip to Connecticut
the following weekend to pay my father a visit.
I eventually learned that my mother spotted the pages I had
printed out, reviewed, and tossed in a waste paper basket with much frustration.She realized what it was I had been trying to
find out through my Google search.It
was not the Santa Claus I once wrote letters to, the God I routinely prayed to,
or the internet I had desperately surfed that came through for me in the
end.Years later I would ask my mother
if my impatient desire to meet my father had hurt her feelings.She told me not to be foolish, that of course
she understood my longing.It was for
that reason that she went against her instincts and took me on a long car ride
as whiteness descended around us.I
would come to learn that this was the most difficult decision my mother ever
made.I would also understand one day
that innocence is precious first and foremost because it can only be lost once.
He took his time answering the doorbell.I feared he had changed his mind about
meeting me.Each second passed slower
than the one to precede it.I stared so
hard at the door that it was a wonder I did not succeed in looking straight
through it.Then suddenly it opened and
there he stood before me.
I have nearly every word my father spoke to me that day
committed to memory, which is not really saying much, because as it would turn
out, he did not have a great deal to say.
“Your mother says you wanted to meet me.Well here I am, in the flesh.What do you want to know, boy?”
I wasn’t quite ready to talk yet.There was too much information for me to take
in all at once.Instead of launching an
immediate interrogation, I scanned the small studio apartment for clues.I thought that his home might tell me a
little about who he was.
His furniture consisted of a shabby sofa with stuffing
spilling out of it and a coffee table that tilted to the right side.On the coffee table lay a scattered
collection of porn magazines, three long needles like you might find in a
doctor’s office, and an overflowing ashtray.His television was playing with the sound barely audible and the picture
obscured by bars of static.The show
being broadcast appeared to be an old episode of Friends.Next to the sofa,
which I assumed doubled as his bed, an aquarium stood on a rusty stand.I had a goldfish bowl at home on my
nightstand.Our first common interest
seemed to have been found, but it did not strike me as being a worthy
conversation starter.That was because
my father’s ten gallon tank was half filled with greenish brown water, and four
dead fish floated on top of the muck.
Several half eaten Happy Meals from McDonalds were littered
about in every direction there was to turn, some of the remnants being dined on
by cockroaches.The room stunk like I
imagined Hell must smell like in the summer when the air conditioning wasn’t
working.
“You gonna say anything or what?”
I had envision that he would have an athletic build on
account of the sports related gifts he had sent me, but he was exceptionally
skinny.He wore a snug fitting tank top
and loose pair of jeans.His arms were
tracked with markings that I correctly guessed to have come from the carelessly
placed needles.My mother would later
explain that he regularly poisoned himself with heroin.Apparently the drug made him incapable of
staying hungry long enough to finish a Happy Meal.
“You momma has gotten her act cleaned up,” he said.“But ooh boy, back in the day she sure knew
how to have a good time.How about
giving me some sugar for old time sake, Natalie?”
“You will not kiss, or touch, or hit me ever again,
Jarvis.Do I make myself clear?”
“Yeah, I got it.Can’t blame me for trying though.”
With his attention focused on my mother for the moment, I
allowed himself a long hard look at his face.The shape of his mouth reminded me of my own when I stared in a
mirror.As far as I could tell, this was
all I owed him.It seemed unnecessary to
be grateful for such an arbitrary trait, and with this realization, my
curiosity evaporated.I now knew
everything I needed to know.He was
responsible for my existence, but this had become irrelevant to me.
“Merry Christmas, sir.Can we go home now, Mom?”
“Yes, we certainly can.”
After waiting nine years to take a road trip of over two
hours, we left my father after a mere five minutes spent in his presence,
returning to the blanket of white that would accompany us home.I have not seen him since, nor have I had any
desire to. Just as I understood that the
seemingly unending snowfall would eventually cease and melt away completely in
time, I also realized as I stared out the car window that the things a boy
chooses to believe will not all become what he accepts to be true as a man.
I am sixteen now, and in three weeks I will become a
father.It does not take much to become
a father, as I have learned.Considerably more effort has been required on my part to handle the
stress of the situation.Yet Jasmine and
I have managed to remain together and grow closer.When I first laid eyes on her sitting at a
window booth in Burger King, my father having permanently turned me off of
McDonalds, I sensed she would change my life.My mother has always told me to trust my instincts, and on that day they
were dead on.
Perhaps Jasmine and I will get married someday, but we’re
taking one hurdle at a time, with diaper changing about to become the next one.I have not made the future any easier for
myself, but nonetheless, I do believe that I’m prepared for whatever lies
ahead.My mother has educated me well
about what it takes to be a decent and responsible man, and that should take me
pretty far in this world.As much as I
have learned from her up until now, I know there is still much she has to teach
me.I will absorb her lessons faithfully
and pass them down to my son.This
strikes me as being a solid plan.
I learned a great deal from my father as well, and it took
hardly any time at all.He showed me during
his brief presence in my life what not to become, even though it was what I
came from.For the remainder of my life
I will have no trouble remembering in perfect detail the day I met my father,
for it was also the day that I decided to let him go.
R.I.P. legend. Before I switched to rooting for the perpetual underdog #Jets - it seemed the only teams to choose from were either America's team Cowboys, the blue collar Steelers, or the Raiders if you fancied yourself a rebel. I chose the Steel Curtain b/c of guys like Franco. https://t.co/T5b1A1Xnk2
NOW ACCEPTING REVIEW REQUESTS FROM INDIE AUTHORS ---
I plan to review independently published novels (with perhaps a sprinkle of non fiction thrown in) on a regular basis when the calendar turns to 2017. No genres barred, which is not to say that I will read anything/everything suggested to me. I may take a pass on most for I intend to be picky, my selection criteria based strictly on what sounds like "my kind of book". DIVERSITY welcomed, PRINT preferred. In addition to a synopsis I'll want to see a brief excerpt from your book to help me decide. For a taste of my style, type "book reviews" into the Search bar. Or you can peruse my collection of reviews at goodreads. Send queries to mudhousebooks@gmail.com -------------------------------------------------------------------
Roy Pickering is the author of the novels Matters of Convenience & Patches of Grey, as well as the novella Feeding the Squirrels which you can find presented here in serialized form. A sampling of his prose is showcased at RoyPickering.net. Roy once blogged here in tandem with his wife. Erin's presence is still felt through her artwork in many of the postings.
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