This kind of man, p.12
This Kind of Man, page 12
Listen: I used to let things like this bother me, but people are capable of overcoming obstacles. For instance, once I started getting insufferable bouts of bronchitis four and five times a year, it was time to quit smoking. Just like if you can’t make the payments on the car you drive, you sell it and buy something you can afford. Spend too much on dry cleaning? Suck it up and iron your own shirts. Then, of course, there are the things you simply decide to deal with. Coffee, in my case, is an Achilles heel. It’s my stomach, coffee kills me. Nevertheless, I can’t, and won’t, go without my morning java, despite my disrespectful stomach. There are just some things you must cope with, and if you don’t master them, they master you.
Question: What do I do for a living?
I work, that’s what.
And whoever said you were supposed to like your job?
My father worked over forty years as a repairman, and I never heard him say a good word about it. He fixed anything: refrigerators, air conditioners, washing machines, name it. He had to spend his days—his entire adult life—going into other people’s houses to fix their things. His job was to make broken things work, the things people were too cheap—or too stubborn—to replace, or too damn ignorant to fix themselves. So, he spent his days inside houses he couldn’t afford and would never live in, being reminded of all the things he didn’t have. He hated them all, and said it was only the job itself, the process of fixing things, that gave him any satisfaction. Doing the job right, he’d say, is something you can hang your hat on. And so, even as he despised these people whose patronage he depended upon, he went out every day and made their broken things unbroken. He did his job.
I understand how he felt.
The thing is, I’m worried about my sister. There’s always been something about her that was too much like a tragedy waiting to happen. So far, she’s had a remarkable run, going pretty much unscathed, but all of us have our day, sooner or later. If she wants to write her poems, teach coddled yuppies-in-training how to decipher that poetry, drink green tea, practice yoga, and even wear a thumb ring, that’s fine. But going out to the desert? Alone?
Question: Are you happy?
This is what she’s always asking me. What is happiness, I say. This would turn the tables on just about anyone else, but not her. I usually get some sort of lyrical gibberish by way of response. Do you know what she wrote when she inscribed my copy of her latest book? People are like snowflakes: they are more alike than not, but despite the similarity of their splendor, no two are exactly the same.
Where the hell am I supposed to go with that? You see what I’m dealing with here?
I’m happy, she says.
What is happiness, I say.
***
Question: What happens if she’s not there?
She isn’t expecting company, and as I drive the rental car away from the airport it occurs to me, for the first time: what if she’s not there? Unlikely. Where the hell else is she going to be? Besides, if I told her I was coming, she might have made it a point not to be there. So, I’m content: the element of surprise can only work to my advantage. Not unlike the Conquistadors, who had a surprise or two for the Indians when they arrived, uninvited, with their Spanish flags and swords. Then, later, the missionaries, who found that the sword was not nearly as mighty, or successful, as the tongue—especially a tongue that spoke so assuredly of the heavens or hells awaiting us all, depending upon our faiths in the Spanish-speaking God. The Mormons swept through this place, as did the displaced Confederate Veterans, and the opportunistic would-be entrepreneurs who rushed after the deceptive siren song of the gold mines.
There was not much any of them were able to do to tame or subdue this dry ocean of gray earth. And perhaps that’s precisely what entices the itinerant souls who are drawn into or driven by this serene, sun-blanched soil—an expansiveness that seems to solicit order and adaptation. I imagine this sense of possibility is what appealed most to my sister, and her poetic sensibilities. To be sure, there’s something almost inexplicably inviting about the crimson sun setting slowly over this space, the acres upon acres of open, still uncharted space. The air is extraordinary, clear and dry, the type of air your body wants to breathe, and you can sense the appreciable contrast to the stifling smog of the city.
But it quickly passes. Because while the differences are drastic: no cars and congestion, or crowds of commuters, there’s also the lack of these same things which, for me at least, provide a sense of security. The rhythm of autonomy is not altogether unappealing. The routine, plodding as it can be, still serves a purpose: it reminds you you’re alive, a functioning part of a system; a bigger, better cycle. To remove oneself from the mechanized march, to step outside of time, couldn’t actually lead to some sort of authentic enlightenment, could it? Not for my money.
The earth begins to open up, as though the air is pressing the ground low and wide. It’s been about an hour, and I notice the occasional trailer. This means I’m getting closer, but I’m already thinking about how far I’ve come, and how long it will take me to get back. Something’s begun to bother me, the way you’ll wake up in the middle of the night with a scratch in the back of your throat and know in the morning you’re going to be sick.
Finally, I see a trailer that more or less resembles the one she described to me. There’s a car out front—not hers—and I pause, uncertain whether I should stop or keep going. Before I can decide, the door swings open and a woman walks out. She’s slightly older, and heavier, and less familiar, which is always the case. But I still don’t recognize her. Then my sister walks out and stands beside her.
Question: Who is surprising whom here?
Okay, I think. One of her professor friends is visiting. No big deal.
My sister gives me a hug and introduces her friend.
“This is Noel, my partner...”
Comment: Not Noelle, Noel.
Question: Partner?
She’s about forty, I figure, but looks at least five years younger: perfectly coifed ponytail, necklace with the new-age turquoise crystal, and of course, two-dozen or so stud earrings. There’s more metal than cartilage in those ugly, abused ears. The only thing preventing her from being a walking mid-life crisis is that she’s very obviously a professor—she’s always been this way. Sandals, canvas smock, the obligatory stench of patchouli, she is appropriately absurd. I hate her already.
“So, you’re the brother I’ve heard so much about,” she begins (I’m not saying her voice is deeper than mine, but if I saw that voice in a dark alley, I wouldn’t not be concerned), holding out her unmanicured man’s hand.
I ignore her and turn to my sister.
“Partner?”
She gives me a look.
“I mean when you say partner, you mean like the two of you are writing a book together or something, right?”
She gives me a look.
I turn to her partner.
“So, you’re the boyfriend I’ve heard so little about...”
He gives me a look.
“Listen, there’s no need to be rude,” he retorts.
Apparently, he’s used to being addressed more respectfully by his colleagues and students. Which is fine with me, as I didn’t come all the way out here looking to make any new friends.
My sister asks me to sit down and offers me something to drink (sorry I don’t have any beer or anything like that, she says), and the initial tension is, unfortunately, eased. Suffice it to say, significant wind has been stolen from my sails. I’d anticipated a more intimate encounter and am being forced to adjust my strategy on the fly. Fortunately, I do that for a living. But as we sit around and idly shoot the shit, I can’t help sensing I’m the only one who seems ill at ease. I have to give the kid credit, she’s utterly unflappable, as though she half-expected me to show up.
I have the privilege of hearing all about the partner she didn’t deem necessary to tell me about until now, and he’s happy to elaborate on all the adventures they have planned. Noel, who asserts he is part Cherokee Indian, is doing research for a book on indigenous cultures; my sister is accompanying him on his excursions. Whatever the hell that’s all about. Needless to say, I see through this charade like thinly sliced Swiss cheese. He does have a vaguely ethnic look, I guess, which he probably disliked intensely throughout his childhood, until he found himself in academia—where it could be used to his advantage. Now, clearly, he’s content to milk it for every ounce it’s worth, as though to make up for lost time.
He sure can talk.
My sister and I barely get a word in edgewise while he elaborates on the reasons he’s always preferred sleeping outdoors, under the stars, to the comforts of modern life.
“So, tell me,” I interject, holding up my hand. “Have you ever actually done an honest day’s work?”
“I spent a summer loading crates, if that’s what you mean,” he says, with precisely the piqued tone I’d hoped to provoke. “And if it wasn’t for my scholarship, I would have had to put myself through school.”
“I bet you would have,” I say.
My sister, who has been staring at him, full of wonder and approval, gives me a look, again. I don’t bother to acknowledge his reply, but wave my arm dismissively, as though he’s a fly buzzing outside the screened porch of our conversation.
“So, are you getting any writing done?” I ask her.
“Yes, it’s very peaceful out here, and naturally conducive to creativity. I think this will be a very productive time for Noel and me.”
Question: What’s going on?
It occurs to me that the room is very warm (how the hell can you live out in the desert without electricity?) and I realize the two of them have continued talking (for seconds? minutes?) but I haven’t heard a word they’ve said. For all I know they’ve been making jokes at my expense, right in front of my face. And just like that, it’s on: I was not, as usual, able to feel it coming, but suddenly the air is suddenly, sickeningly thin. Then, that sluggish feeling of being suffocated, a heart attack in slow motion.
Question: What’s going on!
The first time I remember this happening, I was waiting for another routine flight to take off. As we waited our interminable turn on the runway, I became convinced the oxygen had somehow been released from the plane; for several seconds I couldn’t breathe and almost made a scene. Almost. Since then, the incidents have not been infrequent. Sometimes it’s in a traffic jam, or in a cab, or worst of all, in the middle of the day, for no discernible reason, simply while I’m sitting at my desk, attempting to be productive. It reminds me of when my sister and I used to swim in the lake and try to touch the bottom. It was always the same, going down in warm, brown water that got colder and darker the deeper you went, and the pressure eventually made your ears pop and your eyes bulge. And the awful part, struggling to get back to the top for air, those few moments where you could see the surface glistening above you, but not getting there fast enough. That panic, that fear of dying. This is not something, as a grown man, you feel comfortable sharing with anyone.
What’s going on?
They’re both looking at me, and I’m not sure how to interpret the look on their faces, but I don’t like it.
“Why are you sweating...are you okay?”
It’s him, he is right in front of me—too close—and it is definitely not concern, I decide, but amusement on that smug, smiling face. There’s no doubt he is laughing at me.
Question: What would you do?
Before I can decide, I’ve already taken a swing and missed. He doesn’t miss. And the next thing I know I’m looking up at both of them. Him with his fists still cocked, and her with a dumbfounded expression that probably mirrors mine. Laid out by a lesbo, I think, by a woman! That just figures, my hippie turns out to be a ringer.
“Are you okay?” My sister.
I don’t know yet. I can’t feel anything, and keep repeating to myself: laid out by one punch...
Despite my humiliation, there’s a rather large burden lifted—at least now my sister can put him in his place, show him where her loyalty lies.
“I think you should go.” My sister. (Again).
I’m so contented with the satisfaction of my expectations that I don’t understand why he isn’t saying anything. Only then do I look up and realize she’s talking to me.
Then I feel it, finally. The pain, like a wasp’s sting under my eye, the letdown of this violent energy that’s been slowly imploding, back from the moment my wife told me she was in love with another man, the exhaustion from the plane ride and solitary drive through the nowhere land of this god damned desert, the bitter sum total of my own defeats, all of it. Everything.
Question: What am I doing?
All of the sudden someone is sobbing and that someone is me. Sobbing! I haven’t cried since I was a teenager, but the waterworks are going now and it’s too late to stop them.
“Noel, can you please leave us alone for a moment?”
“Sure, of course, I’m sorry...”
He holds out his hand to help me up and that’s too much. Shrinking before both of them, I turn my head away, practically hearing all the school kids gathered around the sidelines, scoffing at the class bully who just got bitch slapped.
Nothing happens for a while, but I can feel her staring at me, that face, the concern, her shame. That face, which always wanted my help, or used to anyway.
“Are you okay?”
“I’ll get over it,” I say, still unable to look at her.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, it’s not like I’ve never been hit before...”
“No, I mean what’s wrong? Why did you come all the way out here?”
Finally, I look over, and her face looks exactly like I knew it would. I wonder what my face looks like right about now.
“I just...I figured something was up...and I needed to know what...”
“You know, you’re just like our father.”
Okay. So?
“Well, what if I am? What’s so wrong about that?”
“Nothing, I guess. It’s just...you don’t understand, I’m not like him, I never wanted to be...”
“So that’s why you came out here?”
“No, I came out here because I wanted to, that’s all. Now tell me, why are you here?”
I came out here, I guess, because I needed to.
Question: Why?
“I don’t know. I guess the folks and I were worried for nothing.”
“Worried? Why would you be worried about me?”
“Are you saying we shouldn’t be?”
She rolls her eyes and shakes her head.
“I mean what do you expect,” I say. “Do normal people just run off and live in the desert?”
“Normal people live their lives, and allow others to do the same...”
Ouch.
“What are you trying to say?”
“I just wish that all of you would let me live my life!”
Well, that changes everything. Her cry for help was really just a polite request to be left alone.
Question: What happened?
It doesn’t make sense, or even seem possible, seeing the tables turned so decisively. So suddenly. This is the same girl who, while never causing any real trouble, always seemed to be troubled, complaining about how our father never showed her enough attention or support, so ardent to express her alternative points of view. For so long, she was the black sheep, and everything followed accordingly. A family cultivates certain expectations, and if someone stops playing along, it throws a big wrench in the machinery. When had she decided she no longer needed, or wanted, our approval? Perhaps she never did, or she just got over it. Over us. One thing seems certain: by getting away, she’s attained what we wouldn’t have encouraged her to seek and has become all the things we never envisioned her being. And it kind of kills me.
Question: So why is she crying?
“You’re my big brother, and I’m looking at you, telling me that you’re concerned about me...and I feel like I don’t know you. Or that you don’t know me for that matter.”
Nothing like a little salt for the open sore. She might as well be telling me I don’t know myself.
***
I’m out of there. What else can I do?
Sometimes things need fixing, even if they don’t seem broken. And sometimes you just need to drive away. So, I’m driving. Past the sand, and those trailers, and all the strangers I’ll never meet. People who may have come out here to get away from something, or to embrace something they couldn’t find anywhere else.
Not for me. It’s too hot, too clean. Too real. Give me the city any day, and as many different cities as possible. Enough so that, after a while, all the places look the same, and the faces all blend into one another. Everyone knowing what’s expected of them and going about it, living their lives.
Question: What’s wrong?
It’s okay, you can tell me, she says, sounding much more like a mother—or a wife for that matter—than a kid sister. What’s wrong? Why are you so unhappy?
Nothing’s changed, even out here: it’s the same old story. I’m not, I insist, smiling even though it makes the shiner under my eye sting like a son of a bitch. I’m not unhappy, I say, feeling like a priest who has celebrated mass millions of times and suddenly, one day, discovers that it’s just so many fancy words. I’m not unhappy, I repeat, over and over, even as I drive away, as though by saying it enough times, I might make one of us believe it.
As I get closer to the airport, I’m already improving. I’ve forgotten most of what happened, and my eye is mostly numb. Numb, my whole mind is numb. Kind of like a bad dream, it seems so vivid and disorienting when it scares you out of a deep slumber, but then you wake up and quickly get busy, losing yourself in the routine. (Again). Or, if you’re lucky, you’re able to drift back to sleep.
Our Vietnam
First off, I apologize.
The phone is going to ring. It’s going to be me. I need you to answer it.
