I have a daily routine. At 6:15 I will get out of my bed, slip on my scuffs and morning robe, and enter the adjacent bathroom. I brush my teeth and floss. Then I wash my face with hot water, lather, and shave. Afterwards, I shower, dress back into my scuffs and morning robe, and go to the kitchen. All of this should not take more than an hour because I want to prepare breakfast before 7:30 so that I may eat while watching the Gene Almann Morning Show. Monday breakfasts usually consist of two eggs over medium and some whole wheat toast with butter and honey, a mug of hazelnut coffee with a teaspoon of Ovaltine poured in along with Half & Half. Setting the proper amount of time between cooking the eggs and brewing the coffee is paramount in the breakfast leg of my morning routine. Too long will leave the eggs harder than preferred, possibly burnt. And too short leaves no room for properly mixing the Ovaltine while also spreading the butter over the toast. I like real butter. My daughter, Belle, once suggested yogurt butter, but I can tell the difference. She said it was for my health, but I just read in the paper the other day about a study depicting the dangers of too much soy in the male diet—one of the main ingredients of the “healthier” yogurt butter. The study showed a relationship between high soy intake and male impotence. I laughed when I first read the article. At my age, I really do not need to worry about such things. Irrespective of the medical facts, I prefer natural butter, mostly because I can taste the difference. You cannot replace authentic with synthetic. I can taste it.
Gene Almann has on teens and the recent “epidemic” permeating society: sexting. As I pile some of the egg white onto my whole wheat, Gene asks one of the teens—an overweight fourteen-year-old girl—how often she sexts with her boyfriend—a seventeen-year-old with poor acne and a bad hair cut. “I don’t know. Uh—I think—um—like, everyday?” Gasps. The camera pans over the crowd. Mothers in pastel sundresses cover their agape mouths. Gene repositions the glasses on her nose. “You’re not sure?” The girl, Grace, looks around before answering in her timorous voice. “Well… like, yeah. I mean… I do it a lot. Like, everyday.” She looks to her boyfriend, Lance. He has a reproachable smirk on his face. “And how often in the day?” “I don’t know. We text. And sometimes we sext. I don’t know. Uh… a lot.” “So much so, you cannot even give us an estimate?” “Um,” she rolls her eyes in contemplation. “Yeah?” Gasps again, the mothers are nonplussed. Gene remains stoic. Lance continues to snicker. Some of the yoke drips onto my morning robe. “Shoot.” I get up from the table and wet a hand towel. While rubbing the yoke out of my robe Gene asks Lance, “Now, Lance, how old are you again?” Smiling, he states, “Seventeen.” “Was this your idea?” “What?” “To sext?” “What?” “To send sexually explicit text messages to Grace. Was it your idea?” Lance looks over to Grace, who is on the precipice of crying. He judges her body language incredulously. “Look. I think this is stupid.” “What is?” “This,” his arms widen as he looks around the studio. “I mean, come on, sexting? You gave it a name?” He motions between Grace and himself. “We talk exactly like we text. No difference. It happens. Deal with it.” “So it was your idea?” “To do what?” “To sext,” Gene says again, her tone more strict. “I didn’t invent it, if that’s what you’re saying,” he laughs. The girl next to him, Francesca, smiles. “I will not let you make a mockery of my show, Lance.” “I don’t think you need my help.” “That’s enough of your condescension, thank you.” “Whatever.” Gene turns back to Grace. “Grace,” she chooses her next words carefully. “Have you ever sent pictures of yourself to Lance, through texts? Explicit photos? Like Francesca had?” Grace looks up. Her chin sinks into her neck. “I—” she looks over at Lance, then Francesca, who is examining her nails. “—no.” She quickly silences herself. “Is that the truth? It seems like you are hiding something, Grace. You certainly seem to be carrying a lot of guilt.” “No thanks to you,” Lance chimes in. “I’m not the one who got her into this,” Grace bites. “This is lame,” Lance crosses his arms. “Why is that? Are you afraid you won’t look cool if you don’t act like this? Do you need to keep this façade going for all your male friends watching at home?” “Yes,” Lance says sarcastically. “Because all my friends are home watching Gene Almann today.” Francesca laughs. Even Grace smiles. “Lance, why did you even come on the show today? Did you even want to seek help?” “For what!?” “The way you are treating your fourteen-year-old girlfriend, Grace, here—and the way millions of males like yourself are treating girls like Grace and Francesca—you should want to get help. This is an issue spreading rampantly, affecting young girls throughout the nation—even cases of prepubescent girls sexting.” Gasps. I drop my toast. “Cases?” Lance says. “You’re degrading women.” “Saying I want to _________________ is a bad thing?” The crowd is shocked. Some boo him. One woman stands and Gene gives her the microphone. “This kind of talk is exactly what is wrong with society today.” Others around her nod in concurrence. I nod, too. More boo. Gene has to quiet them down so Lance can speak. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. What’s wrong with this? Isn’t this natural. Like it’s been going on for centuries… and now like that it’s in a new form of technology it’s the worst thing ever? Like how is giving _______ sexist? And how is texting about it the end of civilization?” More hissing and boos. Gene shakes her head.
On my second cup of coffee I watch Shopping Smart with Jim and Sue. Most shows consist of four to five items based around a theme, and the couple review and encourage viewers to purchase said goods. This episode’s theme is “Making Life Easier.” The first item is an egg holder. “Now, I know what you’re going to say,” Sue addresses Jim enthusiastically. “You do?” Jim says with the same energy. “Yes. You’re going to tell me this is just three spoons attached to one another.” “Well…” he smiles. “It does look like that to me.” “Well, you’d be right.” They share a laugh. “But its also about how efficient an instrument it is,” she continues. “This utility is extremely effective at what it was designed for.” “And it is so sleek-looking.” “That’s exactly what I was going to say, Jim!” Sue pats him on the stomach. He doubles over. They laugh. “Stole the words right out of my mouth. Again.” The next item is a cup with a niche at the bottom for one to store cookies, crumpets, coasters, etc. etc. Looking down at my mug I contemplate picking up the phone and ordering one. I decide against it. Jim and Sue also show me a banana case, a one-size-fits-all plastic container for the owner to stick his or her banana in and protect it from “damage from outside forces;” a day clock that shows the day of the week “so that you never get confused.” “Jim’s always confused about those things.” “Sue. I thought I told you I didn’t like to talk about that!” They laugh. I like watching the show mostly because Jim and Sue make me smile. An enthusiastic optimism about them: that’s the good thing about the two. Sometimes they have good deals. Like the last item: a penguin tea timer. I end up placing an order for one—paying for it in six easy installments of $6.95 plus tax and shipping and handling. Belle will like this. I know. She likes tea. She also likes penguins. I remember when we went to the fair once, and I won her a stuffed penguin. Pinky the Penguin was his name, even though he was a regular tuxedo rock-hopper penguin. She loved him, went everywhere with him. Not sure what happened to him, but I’m sure she’ll enjoy the tea timer.
After my second cup of hazelnut brew I have my morning bowel movement. These are important. More than following the routine, having multiple movements in one day is the sign of a well-functioning digestive system. I pride myself on mine.
At noon I am to be in Dr. Hague’s office. Exiting the bathroom, I enter my bedroom and remove my morning robe. I have a routine when I dress myself. First, I place my robe back in the closet next to my evening robe and smoking jacket—the latter I have not worn in quite some time. Opening the top left drawer of my dresser I select my socks. Since I plan on going for a walk down to the park, I choose a sportier sock. Sitting on the edge of my bed I put my socks on—left, then right. In the drawer just beneath my socks are neatly folded white T-shirts. I put one on. Then I select a pair of slacks from the bottom drawer of my dresser. Again, sitting on the edge of my bed I put them on—again left, then right. I do not inspect the fit of my slacks just yet. I tuck my T-shirt into my slacks, zip and button. In my walk-in closet is a selection of belts. My socks are grey-tipped high-cut whites, and slacks an off-khaki. Black seems the safest bet, so I grab one of my many black belts off the holder in the closet and apply it to my person. Now at this point I do not buckle my belt. Instead, I unbutton and unzip my slacks and select a shirt to wear. I choose a white button-up with no breast pocket. Halfway through buttoning up the white shirt I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, have second thoughts, and decide to go with a light blue button-up with a breast pocket. I zip, button, and finally buckle my belt—fastening it tightly around my waistline. In the faux-foyer of my ranch-themed house I finish the rest of my wardrobe. Shoes from Sketchers the doctor suggested I try for my lower-back problems. And finally I put on my light spring jacket—the one with two inside pockets and flaps to cover the outside ones. Fully dressed, I grab my keys from the bowl on the kitchen counter—next to my wallet and my prescription Zaroxolyn—and head out for the park.
The ground is finally beginning to soften as winter makes its swan song. I can smell the melted ice and thawing earth as I walk. A block ahead some children play in the front yard. Witnessing children outside makes me smile. I remember when Belle was that age, playing with the neighbors back on Romaine Street. She drew pictures of her dream house with a purple sun and green clouds, and Willy—Bo and Cheryl’s son from 403—would come over and pretend to be the husband. Meryl fed them apple slices with her own homemade caramel, and lemonade. Belle and the sisters, Nancy and Emily, from down the street rolled down the hill behind our house. A huge man-made hill, left over from a failed building project. The money dried up and this gigantic mound of dirt remained. Slowly the grass began to grow there and after a year and a half no one could tell it was not a natural formation. She loved that hill. All the kids did. Run up and down that hill all day and night. Spring, summer, fall, winter, always playing on that hill. Getting dirt all over their clothes. Making the wives upset. All on Romaine Street. I used to take long walks back then, too, though for different reasons than now. A lot is. The children lower their voices as I pass by, careful not to make eye contact with me. This troubles me. All I want is for one of them to look up at me and notice me—just one glance. The three girls talk about what type of drink they would like poured from the lone magical teapot. One wants tea, the other coffee, the other milk. The little boy and girl making drawings on the sidewalk talk about what colors they like best. The girl: yellow. The boy: orange. He is making a spaceship, she a flowerbed. Our paths will cross and one will have to look up at me. Just one look is all I need. To be noticed. But the moment comes and goes. They keep talking, and pouring, and drawing, and ignoring. And I pass them by. Only two blocks until I arrive at the park. The light jacket I wore may have been not enough. When the wind blows it passes right through me. My arms fix closely to my body for warmth. Clouds pass over the sun and the neighborhood turns a hue of grey-blue. I zip my jacket the rest of the way and put my hands in the exterior pockets.
I like to sit at the bench by the swings, overlooking the pond. From there, I watch the water and the surroundings. A willow hangs over the edge of the pond. The way the branch bends gives the illusion the tree is reaching out to touch its reflection in the water. Reaching out toward another world. Occasionally, I will find young couples lounging underneath the tree. My first kiss was underneath a willow. Yves Moore. Her mother was an immigrant from France, her father from the city. Both strict Catholics, and with my brother and I sharing the same room there was no place for privacy. Behind the school we both attended was a large field and a creek that ran through it. At a particular break in the creek was a willow where many of the students went to show their affection. “I don’t want you to think I’m bad at this. I’ve never kissed anyone before.” “Neither have I.” A moment so innocent and brief by most accounts should be forgotten in the course of one’s life, but for whatever reason I never have. Mallards like to rear their offspring in this pond. Watching the younglings imitate the mother as she dips under the water for food, the way the water forms and falls off her back, is worth the walk itself. But today there are no lovers, or mallards. I simply sit and watch the placid water of the pond. Then I feel a presence coming. When I look down, a small dog stands before me. I look around to see if its owner approaches. No one. “Well hey there little fella, where’s your owner?” The dog, a mutt by the look of it—some mix of terrier and pinscher—sits in front of me, cocking its head to the side. I look around again for someone, but I am alone. “Well… looks like you and I are in the same boat, huh? You come to look at the pond, too, huh?” The dog looks to where I point. “It’s good to do things like this. Stare out at a pond and take it all in. A simplicity to it, a purity. It’s refreshing, really.” I look down at the dog. It continues to stare at me, shifting its head side to side. I check the time. “Oh boy, look at that. I got to get back to the house. I have a meeting with the doctor. You wouldn’t know about that, though, would you?” It just stares. “Thought so.” I get up from the bench. The dog stands. “You’re lucky, you know. I envy you.” As I start to leave the dog follows. It trails far enough behind I cannot hear it, but I know its there. When I turn around it stops. “You go on home, buddy. OK? You go home now. Someone’s probably looking for you. Go home.” I turn and continue. I now hear the dog’s paws on the pavement in the distance until I reach the edge of the park. The patter of nails on the concrete stops—I look back to see where it has gone. Next to the sign welcoming visitors to the park, the mutt sits and watches me. “OK. Good-bye then.”
Sitting on the cold wax paper in the examination room while the doctor looks at my results, I focus on a picture of a house: colonial design with two chimneys and six pillars holding up the small portico. This is a commercial painting. I see many of these hanging in a gallery in the town square. Similar paintings are put up in dentist offices, banks, real estate offices, in the homes around where I live. The purpose is to promote a sense of calm and passivity. Tranquility. Serenity. Sanctuary. Safety. Make me feel like I want to be there, walking on the hardwood floors, and looking at the china in the cabinet, or inspecting the marble kitchen top and industrial refrigerator. Get away and go live in there. And on most visits, I do. I picture myself sitting a lacquered red oak table reading the morning paper. Meryl is there. She makes those cinnamon waffles. Belle is there, too. She’s young again, explaining to me the plot of a story she has created. Mr. Frog and Carrot are friends because Mr. Frog doesn’t want to eat her. And Meryl smiles like I remember it always—all within that colonial house. A place and time I can escape to whenever I need. But today, for this visit, I cannot seem to focus like usual. I stare at the painting, but no thoughts come to mind. I just stare and see my reflection in the glass the colonial is encased in. “All signs look good, Mr. Dale,” Dr. Hague tells me. A man in his early forties, male pattern baldness beginning to show, the doctor often smells of department store cologne and medical supplies. A smell I appreciate. “Well, that’s a relief,” I smile. “Yes. You have nothing to worry about. It looks like those walks have been doing you much good.” “Yes. Yes that’s true. I feel a lot better.” “That’s good. OK. So I will see you in a few weeks, right, Mr. Dale?” As I start to put my clothes back on. “Oh yes, Doctor, you bet. I’ll be back again.” “All right. Sounds good. Keep doing what you’re doing. We’re making great progress.”
Around 2:45 the bus comes to drop my granddaughter, Jamie, off. “Hehlo, Pappa!” she says as she watches her feet proceed in front. “Hello, pumpkin,” I pat her on the head. “How was your day?” I ask, grabbing her tiny hand. “Good. We made colors books and I made a green unacawn and pink kitty and Missus Bround said I did good.” “She did, did she?” “Yep.” “Well that’s just wonderful, darling. I’m so pleased to hear that. Mrs. Brown seems to always laud you, doesn’t she?” “What’s loud?” “Laud, honey. Praise. Mrs. Brown really likes to say good things about you, doesn’t she?” “Uhm-hmm…” she watches her feet go from grass to sidewalk. “What would you like to eat before Mommy gets here?” I already know the answer. Cookies and ice cream.
“I dunno.”
“Oh, you don’t?”
“Mmm-mmm.”
“Usually you tell me cookies and ice cream.”
“…”
“Well I’m glad you don’t want that today. I’m going to make you a ham sandwich. And if you eat all of it, I may have some ice cream for you. Does that sound good?”
“Mmm-hmm,” she nods.
“Good.”
While we wait for Belle to come, I put in my favorite movie—To The End. It is a romantic film from the fifties. Black and white. No matter how many times I watch it never ceases to move me—especially the final moment shared between the lovers. In the scene, Cary Grant’s character, Robert James, sits a broken and dejected man. He has single-handedly brought about his own ruin and his wife, Helen, played by the beautiful Katherine Hepburn has come back to him one last time. In the apical moment, Helen pleads with Robert: “If you care. If you have any feelings left for me whatsoever you’ll tell me right now. Tell me anything, Robert. I beg you. Tell me you hate me, tell me you love me, tell me you don’t want me to go. Just tell me. Tell me, Robert. I don’t care about anything anymore. I just want you to tell me something. I can’t take this silence anymore. I don’t want to have this between us anymore, Robert. I beg you. Please. Tell me something.” Robert sits in his chair, looking out at the world or his own reflection I have never been able to tell which. His physiognomy is undecipherable, his equanimity unbreakable. In a final act of desperation, Helen falls to her knees before Robert. “Just look at me, Robert. Please. Just let me know you care. Just one sign that you want me to stay, please, Robert, I want to be with you. I don’t care about anything else. Just give me something. Show me.” Robert remains still.
“Pappa?” Jamie asks. Her crayons and white paper scattered all around her on the floor. She presses the violet hard into the coloring book’s page.
“Yes, lovely?”
“Why do you watch this all da time?”
“Because it’s a great movie. Don’t you like it?”
“It’s so sad.”
I laugh. “Yes, sweetie. I suppose you are right. I keep watching with the hope that one time, he will turn and she’ll know and everything will be better. I keep waiting for it. Maybe this time it will happen.”
“No. Is a movie. It always does this.”
“Maybe this time he will look.”
But she is right. No matter how often I watch, and wish, Robert never turns to look—not even to see her leave. “I love you, Robert. Don’t you ever forget. You come find me, Robert. When you’re ready. I’ll be waiting.” As she closes the door behind her, the music crescendos, the orchestra hits those minor notes and the camera focuses on Robert’s face. A close-up. His visage still stoical, attention elsewhere, but slowly a single tear forms and begins to fall down his face as the music dies. And then the credits come. The End. My heart beats flushed with ardor, I tear up. “It’s so beautiful,” I say, wiping my eyes with a tissue.
“Kissy-kissy movies are gross.”
I laugh. “They are?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t like any boys at your school?”
Jamie does not answer at first. That smile little girls are vouchsafed with forms. “No…”
“Is that a yes?”
“No.”
A thought enters my head. I recall the morning with Gene Almann. “Honey… you don’t know how to text message, do you?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“You do?”
“Mmm-hmm. Mommy lets me.”
“She let’s you?”
“All da time,” she says enthusiastically.
“Oh my…”
The doorbell rings. Jamie leaps to her feet.
“Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy!”
I stand from the couch, following my granddaughter. The doorbell rings again.
“Okay, okay. I’m coming, hold on.” I look in the peephole. Belle waits on the other side.
Opening the door. “Hello, Belle.”
“Mommy!” Jamie embraces her mother.
“Hi, Jamie! How was your day at school?”
“Good. I did drawrings and glued, and played with Maggie and Olivia.”
“That sounds great. Go get your things and you can tell me about the rest on the way home.”
“Okay!”
My daughter stands before me. She rests against the doorframe, exhaling.
“What a day.”
“An hour later than usual, Belle,” I say.
“Yeah, I know, Dad. I’m sorry about that. It’s just I had a chance to make some overtime money and so I took it. She wasn’t too much trouble, was she?”
“You know she wasn’t any trouble. But I’m just a little worried about you. You know if things are tough… I want to help.”
“You’re doing enough.”
“You’ve been coming later and later, Belle. This is the seventh consecutive school day now. I’ve been counting. And you never call to let me know. You should at least call me and let me know. I worry.”
“I know, Dad. I’m sorry. It’s just… I’ve just got a lot to deal with right now…”
“I understand. But Belle…” I hesitate.
She watches me.
“I can’t help but suspect… that… you are not being entirely honest with me.” It hurts to say it. I feel gutted as the words come almost involuntarily.
“Dad,” she moans. “What are you talking about?”
“I just worry that you may not be working as late as you say. Normally I would not judge, but… if this is some sort of retrograding… Belle… I cannot support that. You have a responsibility to Jamie now and—”
“Are you kidding me?” she interrupts, chuckling at my last remark. “Unbelieveable.”
“You have a responsibility now.”
“Responsibility? You want to talk to me about responsibility, being a responsible parent? You want to give me parenting advice? Dad. No offence, but you were never ‘Father of the Year’ material.”
“As wrong as I may have been back then, I am still your father, and the grandfather of Jamie, and I care deeply for both of you. I want to take care of you.”
“That’s great, Dad. Great. Better late than never, I guess.”
Belle calls out for Jamie. I know I should let the thought pass. I know it is a silly thing to ask, and I have already tested my daughter enough for one day. But I have to know.
“Belle, is Jamie… sexting?”
“What?” she looks bemused.
“I saw it on Gene Almann today. Apparently all the youth is getting involved in this.”
“Dad.” Belle crosses her arms. She juts her chin out slightly as she looks up at me in disapproving shock. “She’s five.”
“I don’t know.”
“That she’s five? Come on.”
“I’m just worried.”
“She can’t even spell.”
“Well that’s good to know.”
“Jesus.”
“She told me you let her text. On your phone.”
“She plays little games on my phone.”
“You can do that?”
“Dad,” she looks at me, hiding her face in her hands momentarily. Belle is tired. I may have done it again. “I’d love to stick around and tell you all about the advancements in modern technology, but I got to go.” She calls out for Jaime, who skips her way in. Her backpack half zipped, the coloring book hanging out and a clustered trail of crayons behind her. Belle sighs.
“I’ll get them.”
“Honey, how many times have I told you to zip up,”—her mother shows her again—“your backpack before you put it on?”
“Saury, Mommy.”
“Here you go, kiddo,” I go to hand Jamie the crayons.
“I’ll take those,” Belle opens her purse. “Jamie, get in the car.”
“Yes, Mommy.” My granddaughter hops away.
“Say bye to your Pappa,” my daughter instructs.
“Bye-bye, Pappa!” Jaime waves.
“Good-bye, sweetheart. I’ll pick you up same time tomorrow.” I missed the hug. The thought to request one comes and goes. I open my arms for my daughter. “Good-bye, honey.”
“See you tomorrow, Dad.”
She provides a curt embrace.
I say my final good nights and good-byes and head back to watch my movie again, where I hope to see Robert turn and tell Helen he loves her.
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