Two Stories About My Son

Wrote these originally as Facebook posts. They are treasures to me, so I had to put them here.

 

He turned to walk up to his mom’s after I hugged him. I could see his face tear apart as he turned his head and his voice trembled as he said “goodbye, I love you.”

I never knew I could love someone so much.


..................................


Dropped my son off at school then went to the grocery store in the way home. We used to always do that together, him “helping” me collect items, us talking about things, him riding in the shopping cart. Today it was just me. Wanted to make free time for us later.

I checked out in record time, of course, and without incident. As I walked out, a young mother was putting her daughter in her cart, the girl must have been no older than 2. They were both smiling.

I never do this but I almost went over to tell her to “treasure every moment,” and that it “goes way too fast,” as people do; but I couldn’t: my face was too contorted and I was doing everything I could not to break down and cry on the way back to my car.

Wednesday

Burned my fingers on the stove last night. Never done that before.

Went to a different coffee shop than normal today. To read a friend’s script. Had to get out of the house.

There were hotter girls there, not that I care. I’ve been avoiding that place like the plague.

Playing Chet Baker: “Autumn in New York.” I don’t want it to end. It’s sixty-something degrees today and the leaves are changing color. A sentimental man’s day dream.

Told my friend I didn’t like the script. Wouldn’t have been able to do that years ago. Progress.

I think I’ll drive out to my favorite woods later.

The couch is full of my son’s stuffed animals. He’s at school and won’t be back til Sunday. He asked me if that was a long way away. I said “no” but meant “yes.”

Why do I still think about her everyday.

A slow, cool breeze is creeping through the window. My fingers have huge burn marks on them, but they are mostly numb now; it doesn’t hurt as much as it used to, but I wish it did.

The Visitor

The auditorium was freshly vacuumed. About a hundred novices stood within it, of various heights and colors, all of them wearing the traditional black cassocks that smelled as new as they were.


Behind them stood a number of older men, wearing the same uniform, just more worn. Some were overweight, others chiseled with large protruding cheekbones.


At the front arrived a man, who came in abruptly through the wooden doors. He crossed the stage in his jeans and inside-out ripped tee-shirt he wore underneath an old leather jacket. His hair was as unkempt as those watching him wasn’t. He was maybe in his late 30’s but he looked late 40’s. All eyes were on him and he could feel it.


He sat down immediately which startled some of the novices, dismissing all formalities.


His face was serious. He looked deep into the back, recognizing, faintly, the faces of some.


You could hear him breathe for a moment into the microphone in front of his face before he finally spoke.

“Once upon a time,” he said, in dramatically cadenced monotone. He stopped abruptly as he could hear a fury of pen scratching in the front-most seats.

“Put your notebooks away,” he said, “Look. At me.”

There was a very awkward moment of dramatic silence before he restarted.

“Once upon time,” he said, “there was a Buddhist monastery, placed high in the mountains of Nepal. It had been there for hundreds of years and was well-renowned in greater Asia and beyond.”

The novices were already wide-eyed; those in the back, not yet.


“It was so high in elevation,” he continued, “pupils who were interested in becoming monks there had to camp several times during the climb before reaching the place to allow their lungs to adjust to the mountainous air.”

“Some of them turned back,” he said, “But most of them continued.”

“Upon reaching the estate, and after months of testing, prayer, and discernment, most of those who made it to the top were allowed to shave their heads and become novices.”


The novices in the audience giggled as only novices do; the priests in the back, laughed at them.


“In one such group, there was a novice named Sashu, who came from a very large family, and all his life had wanted to do something noble that would make his family proud.”


“Upon receiving his robes, Sashu began his duties with the utmost fervor and intensity.”

The novice master in the room gave a large, crooked smile; several of the novices he caught looking at him cowered when they saw he was looking around the room.


“Together with his fellow novices, early in the training, Sashu entered the Great Hall one morning to receive, in simple ceremony, a small pot filled with dirt, no bigger than a cup that could be held by two hands.”


“In the dirt, they were told, was a seed from some sort of plant or another that could somehow grow at those high heights. Their task was to keep it alive, nourish it, care for it, protect it from the elements - as a test, they were told, to their overall fervor and dedication to their new way of life.”


“This task, they were told, would last the full two years of novitiate. Failure would result in immediate expulsion, and only those who succeeded could become true monks.”


“And so it began: Sashu and his fellow green-eared monks became mountain gardeners overnight. And it was no small task. Each day they had to find sufficient water, and sunlight, and perhaps most challenging of all - protection from the bitter cold mountain wind.”

“The catch, of course, was they had to bring the potted plant, wherever they would go.”

“For instance, if the novice was assigned to shovel the path of snow, he had to bring the pot with him, and wrap it perhaps in a burlap sack or build an igloo for it as soon as he got there. If washing pots and pans, he had to keep it from getting squashed by the mess around. When sleeping, if the plant was small, one had to keep oneself from crushing it, et cetera.”


“What seemed a simple task to begin with, soon became an arduous burden.”

The man looked around the room: he could see more than just novice eyes widen, wondering where this story was going to go.


“One by one, the flies began to drop. A particularly cold winter had wiped out one third of the plants, and therefore one third of the students. Sashu remained, of course, his body becoming thin, yet strong amid the rugged austerity.”


The speaker paused to drink from a glass of water on the table.


“After an entire year with no lessons other than this arduous ritual, the novice master descended from the High Castle in the monastery (for that was what they called it), and assembled the remaining shivering young men in the Great Hall.”


“He was a frail old man, with deep sunken eyes and a rough leathered face.”


“Each young monk stared at him, clutching his pot, now flowing over to some small or large degree with feeble vegetation.”


“‘Follow me,’ the headmaster said, walking out of the Hall into the cold. One of the novices lost his plant right then and there, in a sudden chill gust that sprinted over the mountain.”


“The rest of them began to trudge onward and eventually upward into the Himalayas.”


“Most of them came back, their plants intact. Others didn’t. They had begun their novitiate with around a hundred men and now were down to forty. The headmaster told them to rest up and be ready to climb again.”


“Some of them went to sleep, others ate then slept. Others scrounged for new shields for their fragile plants, ate, and then slept for what was left of the night.”


“Morning came too soon and the novice master was back, rounding them up for another walk along the cliffs. Some of the drop offs were for thousands of feet, and one, if he allowed himself to enjoy it, could see for hundreds of miles in the distance from up there when the clouds cleared.”


“This ritual continued every day. By week two, half of them were gone, their plants failed, they left down the mountain. But not Sashu. He had weaved a satchel from scraps he found around the monastery, and he had even shown the other brothers how.”


“The novice master bowed to him when he noticed this initiative and insisted Sashu lead the next expedition, pointing to a high cliff in the easternmost sky.”

“Sashu set out immediately, at a quick pace, feeling the adrenaline of being chosen such a ‘high honor.’”

“The hike continued through the day, but a series of icy mishaps kept them out later than usual. The sun had gone down and the wind had picked up incredibly.”

“They were huddled in a cave on the side of the mountain. The novice master came to Sashu and mumbled that they needed to leave the cave and head back to the hall.”


“Hesitating for a moment, Sashu waved to the group to follow him down the dark and icy slope.”

“It was a snail’s pace down; but after an hour or two they reached a cavern that the novice master said would take them to the short way home. The cavern held a small ledge that ran around a giant basin, the bottom of which was black. Sashu dropped a chunk of ice down but they did not hear it hit anything.”


“Being the leader, Sashu began edging around the ledge; the others followed, their fingertips blue from cold clutching the side for dear life, their plants hanging from their backs like shadows.”


“About halfway around Sashu realized the novice master was nowhere to be found, though no one could go looking for him, since they were literally between a rock and seemingly infinite crevasse.”

“He continued on, looking every which way to maybe catch a glimpse of his master.”


“Suddenly, it happened: a large sheet of ice fell from the the ceiling above them and struck Sashu in the left hand, ripping his left foot from it’s holding point. He screamed and shifted all his weight to his right hand side, in a desperate attempt to live.”


“It held.”


“However, his satchel had not, and was resting slightly below him.”


“He could feel the sheer fear mixed with anguish rush through his body while his brothers looked on helplessly, afraid to disrupt another avalanche.”


“Sashu reached in vain: it was just out of his grasp: the small plant inside the woven cloth he had worked so hard to keep alive.”


“His head turn as he felt a presence across the chasm: there suddenly to his left was the novice master: starting at him: a candle in his hands he guarded from the wind as a flame danced around the bony cage of his ancient hand.”

“The old man’s eyes were black and beedy: he stared at Sashu with all his might.”


“Sashu desperately reached again for the satchel, but this time, his footing on his right gave way, and his brothers looked on in horror as he fell deep down to his death, screaming all the way, the plant lying above on the ice.”


“They never heard him reach bottom, but the screaming died away.”


At this point the entire auditorium was silent. One could hear your own heart beat.


“After that incident,” continued the man, “and a long moment of paralyzing fear in between, the remaining novices shuffled their way around the basin to the novice master.”



“There he stood: seemingly not even human. He was so solemn, they gathered round him, feeling as if he was going to say something of great importance, which he was:”


“‘He should have dropped the goddamn plant,’ he said.”


Just then a roar of laughter erupted from the front of the room, in typical nonsensical novice style; followed by sneers from their actual novice master directed to the man on stage, and the chortling from the priests behind, aimed in the same direction.


This lasted for a moment until it became clear that there was something else the man was going to say.


He stood up, slowly, ripping the microphone from its holster, his hand and voice both shaking as he lifted it to his face. There were tears streaming down from his eyes; his voice could only muster a tearful whisper.


“Don’t lose your fucking minds!” he said.


The room was silent.


“Like I did.”


And he dropped the microphone, and walked out.

Bottle Rocket

I remember she came over once after she got out of work, before we were together, to watch a movie. My son was sleeping in the other room.

We watched Bottle Rocket. I told her it was one of my favorite movies. I talked the whole time, not about the movie. I don’t remember what about exactly but she was so interested in what I was saying, sitting next to me on the couch, looking at me. Her eyes, I remember her eyes.

Towards the end she laughed so hard - her whole face would light up when she laughed, which would light up something warm inside me - when Owen Wilson yells at the Indian guy for his incompetence.

That was my favorite part. I can’t watch that movie anymore.

On The Ride Home

I was half an hour late getting my son to his mom’s. It was around noon; I was supposed to be there then. I find it hard to hurry when I have to do that; but it was raining when we got to the parking lot so we ran to the car.

I held his hand more than usual on the way.

The rain stopped when I got there for a moment; I hugged him outside her house. Told him I loved him, missed him already. Told him I’d see him on Sunday. That shit never gets easy.

I headed back the way I came: through the city. It started to rain again - hard. I adjusted the wipers almost to the highest speed. The Drive soundtrack was playing on my stereo: favorite movie, favorite theme song.



I’m a good driver. I see everything: potholes that could cause sudden hydroplane if you hit them wrong, stupid drivers who think they are Vin Diesel on their way back to their desk-jobs, debris. I was driving down a busy two-lane road that connected the west end with the city when I saw them: a mother and her three kids, one in a stroller. They were running while the rain poured down.

“Give them a ride,” I thought.




I didn’t slow down. There were wannabe Fast ‘n’ Furiouses behind me and it didn’t seem safe. I thought about how weird it would be for some random guy to pull over and try to give them a ride in his car.

I passed a turnaround, and then another one. “I don’t need to,” I thought, “I can just go home.”

But at the same time, my nerves were shooting through my body: “Gotta turn around; gotta go back.”

When I got to the next light I took a right, fast. There was nobody on the side streets. I went quick but safely, my foot over the brake. I knew those streets well.



I didn’t see them when I got back. The rain was still coming down hard and it blocked my vision. Then I saw them: they were huddled under a tree in the park, a hundred feet from the road. I pulled into the left lane to the curb and put my hazards on.

I rolled down my window.

“You need a ride?” I yelled to the mother. I got out of my car.

She said some street name that they were trying to get to and I said I could get them there, though I didn’t know where it was. The three girls lined up on the curb in front of a giant puddle. Traffic had stopped in the left lane. No one was honking their horns either: they knew what I was doing.

I had my Batman sweatshirt on. The youngest girl must have been two or three, the oldest couldn’t have been more than 6. I picked them up, one by one, while standing in the puddle, and put them in the back seat. I took the stroller from the mother and put it in the trunk. They all were wet. I could tell the mother was embarrassed. They were poor, very poor. She smelled bad; they all smelled bad, like they never took a bath and everyone they lived with smoked.

I turned off the hazards and pulled out from blocking the lane, carefully.

The music changed to “Where’s The Deluxe Model?”




I punched the address she had said into my GPS. God knows how many people I had driven in this car at night.

I could tell they were a little scared, the kids: a strange man picking them up.



“I’m Joe,” I said, “You guys like gum?” It was all I had. My son likes it. I passed it to their mom. I could hear the happy sound of wrappers crinkling. One of the little girls passed it back to me.




The GPS said 4 minutes, which was probably 5 times as long walking. Their mom said something about how they had to change their clothes when they got back.

I let them out. They all said "thank you." I said “don’t worry ‘bout it.” There was a time I didn’t have a car.

I drove back to Liverpool. Felt like I was floating over the road. Sun came out for a second on the way back.

Afternoon

I get up late on Mondays. I get my son Sunday through Tuesday and every other Wednesday, and while he’s gone I put in about 50 hours at two jobs in three days. It pays the bills but it catches up with me every Monday morning.


It’s worth it, though.


We go on “bentures” half the week together. Yesterday we went to a film shoot I was in and I took him to the movies after. He’s really my best friend.

Mondays I wake up with Harrison sleeping next to me. He arrives at some point of the night, most every night, half the time without me remembering exactly when. We have three or four long, most one-sided conversations before 10 AM, myself horizontal the whole time, my eyes half shut.


He’s five now, but smarter than many kids twice his age, I feel. The things he knows, the imagination on this kid. He is so my son.


I get out of bed four or five times, to change him, get him breakfast, get snacks, and help him set up his toys or whatever he wants to do. I have this supernatural ability to be completely aware of what he is doing at all times, even while laying down in the other room. It’s a single parent thing: a sixth sense that is a combination of all the senses.


He comes over to hug me every so often and tell me what he’s doing. He’s so proud, it’s so cute. I ask him what he wants to do today. He says, “I don’t know.” I tell him “I just wanna be with you.” He says the same.

We are alone together.


Later on we will leave the apartment and do something fun.

He goes back to the living room. Certain moments of my life run through my head, back and forth, and intertwine. This lasts for an indefinite amount of time.


I clear the notifications on my phone (and in my head) and put on some jazz. When I finally get up and make my bed, the words “this is what depression looks like” run so hard through my mind they come out my mouth in a whisper.

I put on my robe and turn off the A/C.


I put on hot water for tea and start making some health food shit in the blender.


He is perched on the edge of the couch watching cartoons; not sitting, his butt is on the very edge, his leg holding himself up from a coffee table. He’s smiling and laughing at the skit.

I look at him for a long moment, then I go over and hug him and bury my nose in his long “I don’t want a haircut” hair. I tell him that he’s so smart and he’s my good boy and that I love him more than anything, just in case he didn’t know.

 

Rain

Went for a run on the parkway, mostly because I knew not many people would be there. There were the LARPers by the parking lot, the seniors playing bocce as I warmed up, the skateboarder I triumphantly passed before my knee went to shit, the one or two romantic couples walking closely in their early stages, the one or two not-so-romantic walking far away from each other in their later stages; the Middle Eastern lady and her daughter with their shawls, the one or two dog walkers. A storm was coming.


(Photo by Sheirel Mordaunt)


Huge dark grey clouds, like titans, loomed over the edge of the lake as I passed by the road markers I had flown over when I ran this for the Marines. I knew every bench, and the ones I had sat on with her.

Suddenly it came - all at once - like someone had opened a bay door in the raincloud above. There was no invitational sprinkle, it just dumped. In moments the road was a river that ran through my socks. I felt a rush of adrenaline from whatever song played next in my headphones and from the lightning I could see hit not so far behind me.

Visibility lowered to a few paces in front of me. Scared 20-something girl joggers hid hugging tree trunks. I stared at them as I passed by as if to say, “go- lightning is coming-“ which they heard, trailing behind me as I ran towards the finish. There was nothing more I could do for them.

I crossed the zero-mile mark, watched by the bocce players hiding under an awning, and I began to walk, unflinching as kids that had escaped the playground stared from their parents’ cars, as the water came down like a power hose.

It couldn’t phase me; because after all, I had been through so much worse.

Snow

By Joe Cunningham

I had a strange dream the night before last.


For some time now, I’ve been only having two recurring “nightmares,” one might say. A psychologist would tell me I have post-traumatic stress. I would not disagree.


The first dream consists of being trapped in the seminary I was in for seven years. Again. It’s a mental prison. The doors are always open. One can, very easily walk off the lawn to the world outside.


But you can’t. I cannot explain this to someone who has not experienced it. There are no invisible electric fences involved. It is a prison of the mind. One feels so compelled to stay there, one would, actually, murder his own son, if he had one; or in effect, murder the possibility of one, just to stay.


When I have this dream, I forget I have a son, in the real world. I am afraid of nothing, except losing my son. I can tell you this is the most terrifying nightmare I can ever have. When I wake up, every time, I am shaking.

The second dream is like it, but in a different sphere. The form of it changes, but the essence always remains the same. I am usually somewhere familiar. Somewhere that means a great deal to me. Usually in present times. And then she is there: maybe in passing or as confrontational as we will ever get. She is sad. She feels, it is so strong I can feel it too. She knows I love her and she, though cares about me deeply, does not love me too, not like I do.

There are never any words; just this, telepathic understanding.

And even though I understand this dream more than I have ever understood any, it never gets any easier. I think this dream is only slightly less painful than the first dream; but I would not classify it as a nightmare. It is something beautiful. But it’s an ending I keep living over and over and over.


I have these dreams every night that I can remember. Sometimes both in the same night. Sometimes they alternate. Sometimes they mesh together.


Two nights ago I did not.


I was standing in a snow covered field. It was dusk or dawn, I do not know. I suppose it matters.

Lawrence was there. Lawrence Gabriel, the Native American boxer who I contacted to write a book about after he got shot saving the patrons of a bar on the West Side of this city I live in. She is Native American.


Note that.


I couldn’t see him. But I was trying to get into someplace in front of me, when I was stopped by the natives there. Like it was a place only they could be, not white men.


After meeting Lawrence for coffee that fateful day, I began my research on him, his culture, his life, his sport, his everything. It became my life and it became overwhelming for me. Like a chore at times. I paused the project, the way one wishes you can do to a giant of a term paper in college.


But I had already gone so far, our lives had intertwined so much, I ended up having a significant role in the book I was going to write.

We see each other rarely now, because of me. I changed the book to be about me with the subplot to be about him, as a contrast of our lives, one symbolizing the other, and so forth. Typical writer shit. Earlier in my life, in the seminary I was trained to renounce all things: to be detached from all things.


I have been unable to hold onto any friend or family member or significant other since. Except my son.


Recently Lawrence and I reconnected, even if it was only for a moment, even if it was on Facebook Messenger and then after, without talking about the heavy stuff, for a second in real life. In passing.


In the dream, it was only a moment, but the natives changed their mind and I passed through the blockade into native land, where I felt white men had never been. There was Lawrence sitting in the snow, the sky purple and orange, saying to them, as if I had passed some great test, and as if the words had been stuck in time, he said-


“He can come in.”