03.28.05, Late Recap

Take that halfday Friday. Haul ass from MetroCenter to Bellevue Center for a gift. Up Highway 70 to Temple Playschool for Mr. Emerson. Come in at 12:15p and all the kids are having lunch. He sits at a table by himself, eating—all the others at another table—and I am suddenly sad for him. But no need as he is fine. I make a mental note to speak with the teachers, stick it to the side. An obvious distraction to the children who are not Emerson, I excuse myself and step outside for five minutes. Routine is pretty important when you are three. Or older. Hands clasped Star Spangled Banner style behind my back, I lean against the wall in the miniature hallway. I look at artwork, Stars of David, snapshots, poorly scrawled first names like Josh and Josh and Jacob and Ben and then again Josh. I wonder sincerely if other people find my son as ugly as I find that lot in the classroom I’ve just left. Jesus, what a group of blank slates. They each sported a Randle Patrick McMurphy-like post electric-shock-therapy gaze that was painful to acknowledge. I felt the immediate urge to rip out the water fountain, toss it through the back plate glass window and free the little monsters. And then there’s my animated little ape dressed in Beefaroni and fruit cocktail running to greet me like he has two slipped discs and one leg shorter than the other. “DAAADDDDYYYY!!!!!!” Could there be anything better. I am certain No!

Get that Boy home and pack travel stuff and Saturday and Sunday stuff. Snacks. DVDs, books, a couple toys. For me, khakis, and jeans, and genie pants (man’s gotta sleep comfortably as he can in another’s house). Button down and polo. And when L. is finally here we add her stuff. And I get my Nikon and video camera. I’ll get booze when I get there. Fast food before we find interstate. Good Friday is code for “everybody in Tennessee meet at Sonic on Highway 70 at 2:00.” More traffic than I’ve ever seen leaving Nashville at one time. Better than an hour and a half to Monteagle. Two major wrecks in Atlanta. Avoid Panola Road!!! Accident!!! Extreme Delays!!! Two miles before Panola Road, we find a five car wreck minutes old. I am thankful for those fuckers that anyone walked away from it. I don’t see how that happened. Six weeks later we are destination successful and arrive in Aiken, South Carolina—just across the river from Augusta. Family has waited many hours past “decent folks'" bedtime for us. Uncle G. has made the trip several hours before us and has had the good nature and decency to have a handle of Makers Mark waiting for me. Good Night, Sweet Boy and where’s the ice?

And Saturday brings Great Grandpa R. and Gigi. (It was they who so graciously hosted us in Australia.) Showers and hangovers and trips to the beer store and the cigar store. And let’s get another bag of ice. My, aren’t the people dressed nicely for a Saturday? Sort of a vibe, eh?

And to the famed Steeplechase we go. And that becomes our Saturday. This renowned event I’ve heard of forever (this time over 30,000 strong) is—apparently—a giant collective act of tailgating with an occasional horserace to interrupt. There are clouds to start and the occasional mist. But later there is sunshine and my coy spring is upon us. Lovely. Warm. She’s missed me. And a car two spaces down plays North Mississippi Allstars and I feel a little better.

Uncle G. and I take a walk to the infield and there are thousands of us. In a line fifty people deep, I spot someone I’ve not seen in almost twenty years. Is it her? I stop and stare like a fool, a flutter in my chest. But then I turn and walk on with Uncle G. in search of liquor.

Back at the house, I drink some. I mostly spend time with The Boy while others reacquaint. I do not feel unwelcome, but feel more welcome alone. I am in bed at 11:39, a recent record.

Easter is a nice time for a non-Jewish Boy who spends most of his time at a Jewish daycare. He spots hidden eggs the same way he spots airplanes on a runway—“And dere’s one. And anudder one…” He finds a money egg and wants to go to the Dollar Store. Breakfast. Goodbyes to Great Grandpa and Gigi. Hosts rushing to get ready for church. I don’t get ready for church and then realize later that I was never invited. This makes me smile. Surely they know I would have politely declined. Perhaps I’ll start taking Em back to Saint Henry’s (or The Hank as I call it). It’s a comfortable church—whatever that means. And on the times I’ve been, it has been a welcome comfort. I could do worse than taking him there. But how I loathe hypocrisy, and I want to make sure I take him for the right reasons. And Digression. A quick trip to Augusta and Em gets to see Aunt Nae and Uncle Steve and Grandma and his day is complete.

Back to Aiken and dinner and awkward goodnights. And for the third night in a row, sleep is miserable. In the morning, the family greets their Monday routines as most of us do. Obligation owns us, no? Goodbyes and goodbyes. Gathering up and it is done. Aiken/Augusta Highway to the 5th Street Bridge where I notice for the first time since I was a child the remnants of a building that was once called The Riverside. I pause in my thinking and drive on. Riverwatch to I-20 and on. As we approach our exit in Nashville, we miss having a serious accident by inches. Three minutes from home. But miss it we did, and I made it home to see my cats and turn my Boy loose on his toys and his homeness.

I shower the weekend off of me, my eyes closed, scalding water rolling off me lukewarm.

I can’t wait to sleep in my own bed. Misshapen from not flipping, it fits me like a glove. I’ll get almost five hours before I awaken to shave, put in my eyes, shower, and face my day. I’ll drift off picturing Emerson on the shoulders of his grandfather, watching a field of magnificent beasts running for glory; running back to me yelling, “Daddy! Didja see ‘does horses?”

I did, Emerson. I did.