What a Man Needs

I am on the verge of something… Is it the precipice, the perch from which to freefall? Is it something grand, a man-sized sky rocket of sorts, a pure ascent to enlightenment? I don’t know. But verges are exciting. All potential potential…

Emerson was upset tonight to notice the flowers he and L. planted out front had died. He was easily consoled; but I was touched that he took exception to their unnecessary demise. A man needs flowers, the impermanent, cyclical beauty they afford. And he needs to appreciate that some things fragile are to be cared for. These flowers were planted with love and effort and then immediately neglected. And they died. Through no fault of Em’s, or course. What would a three-year-old know of caring for flowers? While I regret the lesson of nurturing did not proceed with care and attention and that he did not get to see his flowers thrive well into the early days of autumn, I am pleased a lesson was presented at all. A man needs lessons.

At the daycare of dubious merit—late today—Em hit a girl. Apparently, because “she would not clean up.” Our recited rule each morning prior to lugging all of our shit to the ever-wounded Jeep is as follows: No picking. No teasing. No hitting. And no aggravating. What happens if you do? “No tele-bision and no stories!” The Boy’d had an excellent and incident-free day to that point. When confronted by the teacher, he immediately fessed up and explained his actions. I got this from his daily report card and from the teacher herself. Today, I was prepared to bend our rules. Television and stories would be allowed. But once in the Jeep, I asked why he’d hit the little girl. With barely a pause, the little fucker lied his ass off. “I didn’t…I promise!”

Now I will fuck with a person mercilessly if given an opening. M. says I am like a Goddamn terrier. I will tease and aggravate and annoy. But under no circumstances will I lie to you. I abhor lying. It is probably the only thing in life that I find truly offensive. I try to impart this to the Boy in as healthy and light a manner as possible. I gave him three chances to fix his lie. He caved only when he found out his teacher had sold him out. To great upset and many tears, television restriction was reinstated. A man needs lessons. And so do little boys. We compensated with conversation, playing “dinosaurs,” and an extra long dinner.

And I still read him The Digging-est Dog…

A man has many needs, I suppose. Lessons can be tedious and, if over-emphasized, can zap the joy right out of life.

If the man is me, he needs Esquire, the New Yorker, and Playboy in that order.

He needs the simple pleasure reaped from a fine cigar and nothing less than a mediocre whiskey—fine whiskey is preferred. [Note the distinction: He does not need the whiskey. He needs the pleasure that comes from preparing it, handling it, and ultimately tasting of it. The day he needs it is the day he moves on to a new pleasure.]

A man needs movies. If he is feeling a bit pompous, he needs film. He needs that delightful flip that occurs deep inside, that slight tightening of his throat when the perfect movie ends, fades or cuts to black, and segues to the credits. City Lights comes to mind. As does Lost in Translation and Being There.

A man most decidedly needs books and stories. He needs the feel of the cover (preferably hardback) and the slow turning of the page. He needs the magic of a passage so touching he must pause, compose himself, and reread it. Sometimes after such a passage, he will clear his throat as if to congratulate the words. He needs that reassurance that there are men and women with wonderful or painful things to say and the ever so rare ability to say them.

A man needs sunsets that strip the heart of all its refuse and doubt. He needs the knowledge that Florida, Colorado, New Mexico, and a handful of other places offer such grandeur on a regular basis. He needs the coupling and resulting offspring of his own insignificance and superiority brought about by this beauty.

A man needs the open road at twilight. And the rolling hills of Tennessee. The rush of wind that lifts his hair into and again out of his eyes.

A man needs laughter. If for no other reason, to remind himself he is capable of it. Worthy of it. He needs the lightening of soul, the lessening of burden that laughter affords him.

A man needs a prolonged thunderstorm. He needs its violence and grace. The cleansing power it provides. He needs it to remind him of all that is greater than he will ever be.

A man needs an audience. He occasionally needs to be considered hilarious, or clever, or intelligent, or wise, or even mundane. Sometimes he simply needs to be considered.

A man needs the aesthetic beauty of a woman. Whether strange or familiar. He needs to appreciate her breasts—perfect or imperfect, full or flaccid, bountiful or nonexistent. Her hips, whether too large or too narrow for there is no such thing as either. Her stomach, whether tight and flat or loose and plentiful like his own. The curve of her neck where many treasures reside. Her mouth. Her collarbone. The spots just below her ears.

A man needs friendship, camaraderie. He needs the telephone call of a best friend from two thousand miles away. He needs to know that call will always come—even when he is too self-absorbed or self-involved to acquiesce. He needs the familiarity of that voice to remind him he is sane and loved.

A man needs the occasional visit home to reconnect. To frequent bars where people no longer know him by name nor actually recognize him at all. To walk the streets of his youth. To stand at the railroad tracks and throw rocks at the relic of a train that rumbles through his old neighborhood. Yeah, a man needs Home.

A man needs to see dead flowers through the eyes of his child.

A man needs to be on the verge of something, always—whether grand or horrific.

And, as I say, I am on the verge of something.