A Place Where Strangers Don't Tell Your Secrets
I have my drink (Evan and a splash) and a mammoth CAO Brazilian. I am on the porch. Aside from every known (and unknown) species of bug peppering me like so much Tennessee rain, it is comfortable enough. I am decidedly not a bug guy, so this is a brave night for me. It speaks to how much I want the cigar.
I took the Boy to the Caboose Park this evening where we met B. and his family. It was good for Em as he badly needed a dose of familiarity. B. is Em’s best friend from his “old school.” Watching that Boy’s face light up with pleasure is better than a thunderstorm. I’ve not yet found my comfort zone with the new school and worry that I have somehow failed him by switching. I have always been a slow one for change and recognize my misgivings for the unnecessary second guessing they are. Things typically work out. I expect this will be no different.
What a treat watching the two boys run, dance, and play. They shared a big hug in the parking lot when they said goodbye. There is something about watching children do that that makes my eyes blink and water a little. If only we could remain that innocent—utterly void of self-consciousness. If only.
In the plastic chair next to me I have the latest Esquire, the latest Men’s Health, the June 6th New Yorker, a Ring Magazine, Hemingway’s The Short Stories, and a manila envelope full of articles my Dad sent. I’ve ventured into each one. I am all over the fucking map and cannot seem to settle on a single piece. My free time is so limited and I want/try to do it all in these moments. The end result is that I worry over all of it and rarely complete any of it. Yet another character flaw I hope to not pass along.
And with my complete lack of focus, I have the audacity to wonder why Em can’t put on his shorts and watch the Cartoon Network at the same time. If I weren’t so impatient, it would be the most hilarious part of my week.
When I picked him up from daycare today, a little girl I didn’t recognize sold him out. She looked at me and said, “He was not good today.” What did he do, I asked. “He hit people,” she told me. Em’s initial smile faltered and, had he known the words, You lying little Bitch, he surely would have used them. When we were alone, I laughed and said, “Damn, Boy! She sold you out hard.” He looked at the floor, slowly shook his head, and said, “Yeah.”
But then there was the park and things were as they should be for him. He was back in the place where best friends run and play and laugh and dance. A place where strangers don’t tell your secrets. A place where all that was old is new again. A place where little boys hug hello and goodbye in parking lots and fathers try to swallow their tears.
The rain of bugs is slowing. A train whistle bleats in the distance. My Boy sleeps inside, content.
I have fashioned a late night plan. Instead of catching up on much needed sleep, I will mix another drink, light another cigar, and read my Esquire. Or maybe my New Yorker. Or maybe I’ll revisit Hemingway’s A Clean, Well-Lighted Place or A Way You’ll Never Be, or Hills Like White Elephants, or…
I took the Boy to the Caboose Park this evening where we met B. and his family. It was good for Em as he badly needed a dose of familiarity. B. is Em’s best friend from his “old school.” Watching that Boy’s face light up with pleasure is better than a thunderstorm. I’ve not yet found my comfort zone with the new school and worry that I have somehow failed him by switching. I have always been a slow one for change and recognize my misgivings for the unnecessary second guessing they are. Things typically work out. I expect this will be no different.
What a treat watching the two boys run, dance, and play. They shared a big hug in the parking lot when they said goodbye. There is something about watching children do that that makes my eyes blink and water a little. If only we could remain that innocent—utterly void of self-consciousness. If only.
In the plastic chair next to me I have the latest Esquire, the latest Men’s Health, the June 6th New Yorker, a Ring Magazine, Hemingway’s The Short Stories, and a manila envelope full of articles my Dad sent. I’ve ventured into each one. I am all over the fucking map and cannot seem to settle on a single piece. My free time is so limited and I want/try to do it all in these moments. The end result is that I worry over all of it and rarely complete any of it. Yet another character flaw I hope to not pass along.
And with my complete lack of focus, I have the audacity to wonder why Em can’t put on his shorts and watch the Cartoon Network at the same time. If I weren’t so impatient, it would be the most hilarious part of my week.
When I picked him up from daycare today, a little girl I didn’t recognize sold him out. She looked at me and said, “He was not good today.” What did he do, I asked. “He hit people,” she told me. Em’s initial smile faltered and, had he known the words, You lying little Bitch, he surely would have used them. When we were alone, I laughed and said, “Damn, Boy! She sold you out hard.” He looked at the floor, slowly shook his head, and said, “Yeah.”
But then there was the park and things were as they should be for him. He was back in the place where best friends run and play and laugh and dance. A place where strangers don’t tell your secrets. A place where all that was old is new again. A place where little boys hug hello and goodbye in parking lots and fathers try to swallow their tears.
The rain of bugs is slowing. A train whistle bleats in the distance. My Boy sleeps inside, content.
I have fashioned a late night plan. Instead of catching up on much needed sleep, I will mix another drink, light another cigar, and read my Esquire. Or maybe my New Yorker. Or maybe I’ll revisit Hemingway’s A Clean, Well-Lighted Place or A Way You’ll Never Be, or Hills Like White Elephants, or…
posted by Ryan at 11:35 PM
2 Comments:
You and I have a great deal in common, Ryan. I,too, sit down at night with stacks beside me, hoping to do it all. Last night it was a collection of student writing I'm editing, John Krakauer's book about the Mormons, Stephen King's collection of short stories, and a collection of philosophy essays by Andre Comte-Spoonville. In the end, I read parts of only two. And regarding your impatience, my youngest son, only two, has picked up my personal catchphrase, "c'mon, c'mon" when trying to rush me along. So funny and true it hurts as I laugh.
Ryan,
Great post. You and I have talked about Em. and my boy, and the similarities there in father/son stuff. Just tonight, he asked me to carry him up to bed because "you're strong enough, daddy". There's nothing like carrying your son up the stairs, his head on your shoulder.
And tonight I'm between working on my newest novel, finishing my short story for the paper or working on "Bad Medicine in Rubio, Part II". Methinks all of us are in the same boat regarding divided responsibilities/desires.
Thanks for finally posting something. Need my introspective Ryan musing.
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