The Erin Complex: April 2013

            He paced back and forth, his steps quick and long, his hands clasped behind his back. He was wearing an itchy wool sweater that, as he began to sweat, it began to itch mercilessly. Drops of sweat began to bead up on his brow, and he wondered if the time would ever come. Head down, he watched his feet kick out in front of him as he paced. Why had he chosen to dress nicely, was it really that special of an occasion? What was he expecting, anyway? His brand new shiny black leather dress shoes rubbed on his heal uncomfortably. Shaking his head to himself, he realized that maybe being himself, instead of a dressed up pussy, would have been a better choice. Oh, who knows. First impressions are the best or worst, depending on which side of the interaction you find yourself.
            “Grant, are you ready?”
            He stopped pacing immediately, and looked up, his dark eyes searching. They landed on his mother; she had just opened the door across the room and stepped through, letting the door close behind her. She appeared calm, but slightly on edge. Grant wished he could hold his composure like she could. He sucked in a deep breath, his lungs burning, and let it out slowly. He unclasped his hands, now clammy and cold. He cleared his throat and croaked out, “Are you sure I should do this?”
            His mother smiled softly. “You’ve wanted this your whole life, haven’t you?”
            “Yes…” He strode closer to her slowly, running his fingers through his hair. Now that it was happening, he didn’t know if he really wanted it after all. “How do I look?”
            “Handsome.” She reached out and straightened his collar, and quickly took her hands away. She knew how much he hated her doing things like that. He was a grown man. She patted him on the chest and looked into his eyes, full of pride. “You’ve grown into a wonderful man. Just be yourself. He’ll see it.”
            I doubt it, he thought to himself, but to her, he returned the smile. “Thanks, mom.”
            Not another word was shared between them at that moment, but the look in his mother’s eyes begged him to be strong, no matter the outcome. This calmed him a little, but he couldn’t promise her that he’d be strong. He’d played this scenario over and over again in his head, with all the possible outcomes dancing before his eyes. Yet, 30 years of imagining is no match for the one moment of reality. He cracked his knuckles and took his mother’s hand gently. He felt tears ball up in his throat, but he willed them away.
            “Will you be here when I come back?”
            “Yes, in this very room. I’ll wait in the arm chair by the fireplace.” She paused.   Looking down, Grant could tell she was getting choked up as well, but for different reasons. He squeezed her hand.
            “It’s not your fault. I just wanted to meet him… for closure, to know what he’s like.” She looked up with him, her eyes wet, her eyeliner smeared slightly, her cheeks a deep pink. “Please don’t feel guilty.”
            “You’re a sweet boy. Always such a strong soul.” She hugged him, her faced squished against his shoulder. He could smell her favorite perfume, White Shoulders, which reminded him of being a kid. Just the two of them. And eventually his little sister, but in this memory it was just the two of them. She had just sang him his favorite bed time story, gave him a kiss, and hugged him tight. Don’t let the bed bugs bite. If you need me, I’m here. I will never leave you. She was always his rock, his stability. Now he was a hat toss away from the person who made him doubt himself, wonder if he was loved, why he wasn’t like all the other kids. She pushed away from him slightly and made sure his shirt wasn’t wrinkled. Her eyes swimming, she looked up at him and said, “Now get in there before your feet get too cold.”
            She was right. He was about two seconds from saying ‘fuck it’ and getting the hell out of dodge. He nodded, turned around, and headed towards the door she had appeared through. He got to it, pushed it slowly, and walked through. As soon as he was through and into the next room, his mother collapsed into the arm chair and sobbed into her hands.
            Grant’s new shoes loudly tapped on the hardwood floors, and again he regretted his decision to dress all fancy. With one last check of his dark hair, he rounded the corner into the den, where he saw a man at the window, facing out, a burning cigarette in his hand. He was tall, thin, yet you could tell he was aging by his slumped shoulders and beer gut. He had a full head of silver hair, and wore jeans and a tweed jacket. When the man heard his footsteps echoing off of the walls, he turned around, yet still leaning on the window frame.
            Grant stopped in his tracks. “Robert?”
            The man laughed heartily, sucked in a drag of his cigarette, and said, his words full of smoke, “You can call me dad, if you want.”
            At the word dad he grimaced slightly. He hadn’t thought about this part, and he was confused about whether he even wanted to call this man dad. Not wanting to be rude, he smiled crudely in an attempt to disguise the disgust on his face, and said, “Okay. Dad…” Grant walked towards the man, Robert, and thrust out his hand.
            His dad took it and with a firm grip he shook it. He backed up and took his place by the window once more, looking not at Grant, but outside. No hug. That’s okay, in all of Grant’s fantasies, not once did Robert…er… dad…ever hug him. Although he was being more aloof than he had anticipated.
            Grant drew in a breath to throw out an ice-breaker, but Robert said, absently, “The weather here is hellacious.” Wide-eyed, Grant stopped and sighed out, “Yeah. It takes a special kind of person to live here.” Then it dawned on him, “Didn’t you live here at some point?”
            “Yes,” he croaked out, his voice dry from decades of smoking. “But I don’t like remembering that part of my life. I much enjoy the life I live in Nevada.”
            Looking out at the snow covered tree branches and the beautiful cardinal that decided to look in the window from the tree, Grant merely replied, “I bet.” He had a sneaking suspicion that Robert wasn’t only speaking about the weather here in good old Ohio. If Grant didn’t know any better, that was a jab at him and his mother. Burying it down for the moment, Grant said, “So, how is life in Nevada, then?”
            Opening the window briefly, Robert flicked his cigarette out into the snow, narrowly missing the lovely bird that sat outside. It flew away in a panic and Robert slammed the window shut again, a cool gale finding its way into the house. Finally turning towards Grant, he said, “It’s wonderful. You should think about moving to a warmer climate. It’s like paradise.” He saw the skeptical look on Grant’s face and said with a chuckle, “It is! I wouldn’t lie. Plus, everything a sinner would ever want is in Las Vegas. It might be slimy and full of debauchery but…” he held up both of his thumbs and pulsed them towards himself, “…so am I!”
            Riotously laughter bellowed from the older man, followed by a round of deep coughing, followed again by the laughter. Grant smiled politely, but did not see the humor in it. He was 30 years old and had never been to Las Vegas. He was certain he wasn’t missing much.
            Robert continued with the invitation. “But, I drive a cab, and believe me, in Vegas, you can make a killing driving a cab. It’s easy, too, just the way I like it.” Completely oblivious to his son’s disgust, he continued, “I’ve been married for 25 years to Thelma, and have a son, Robert Jr., who is doing well. He’s going to the University of Nevada at Reno getting a degree in Pharmacy.” He paused with an excited look on his face. “Pharmacy! Can you believe it? He’s a smart kid, that one. He got it all from his mother.”
            Grant was nearly boiling over with anger by the time he was done. Oh, I’m fine, dad, thanks for asking. I just graduated with an MBA from Penn State, but you don’t need to know that, since good old Rob Jr is going for Pharmacy. It’s really awesome that you named your second son Robert Jr, by the way, since you obviously don’t love me as much as good old Robert Jr, that smart kid! Oh, and mom’s fine, not as fine as Thelma I’m guessing, am I right? I have a little sister, too, her name is Ashley. She’s a really great person, but hey, not as awesome as driving a cab down the strip, eh?
            “Sounds spiffy,” Grant replied after an awkwardly long silence. He didn’t mean to say ‘spiffy’ but he just couldn’t help it. He had to say something other than, ‘Oh shut up you egotistical piece of shit.’
            Suddenly realizing he hadn’t said a word to Grant that wasn’t about himself, he shifted his weight and asked, “So, how’s your mother?”
            “Great,” Grant replied, lifting his eyebrows, as if to say What do you think? “She went back to school, got her nursing degree. Now she has a job she loves and a house.” His eyes were bright with pride. “She’s fought hard and won.”
            Robert pressed his lips together and nodded. No reply. Just as expected, Grant reminded himself, so don’t get offended. He was finding it hard to keep his tempter in check. Suddenly unfolding his arms, Robert intently looked around the room for a chair in which to sit down. The only tables in the room were wooden and straight, fairly uncomfortable, but he made his way over to one and sat anyway. Awkwardly enough, it was behind Grant, so he had to turn around in order to see the old man.
            Running out of things to say, Grant offered, “How long are you in town for?”
            “Just today.” Flat, no affect at all. Not surprising. “I gotta fly out and get my ass back to work tomorrow.” He took out another cigarette and lit it with a swift flick of his zippo. “Probably gonna head out soon.”
            Head spinning, Grant stumbled a step back and he frantically found a place to sit. He glanced up at Robert, who didn’t look the least bit concerned that he had almost fainted. Just puffed away on his cigarette; that damn thing got more love than Grant ever had. Without thinking, Grant spat out, “Mom lets you smoke in here?”
            A half smile spread across Robert’s old, leathery lips, smoothing out the small wrinkles that clung to the parameter. “I guess I didn’t ask.”
            Grant brought a hand up to his mouth and realized that his fingers were trembling. He had tried to be optimistic about this meeting with Robert, but the reality was it was going the worst way possible. But what did he expect? He knew that Robert was self-centered and wanted nothing to do with his old life in Toledo. What this smug Robert guy didn’t know was that, even though he thought it was a memory of a life he wanted to forget, he was actually forgetting real human beings that were once close to him, like his mother, and that were physically part of him, like Grant himself. Robert was too stupid to realize that, so at least he had that part right: his son, fuckin’ Robert Jr, had gotten his smarts from his mother, Thelma. Though that was hard to believe in and of itself, because Thelma once was a dancer at the Paris hotel, and that’s where she had met good old Bobby-boy way back in 1984. It was not only a memory Robert brushed under the table, but family too, whatever ‘family’ means.
            Staring at Robert, with full intention of making him feel uncomfortable, Grant crossed his legs patiently, as the older man smoked his cigarette in what seemed a calm hurry. He looked around the room, his grey eyes flat in the dim lit place, and not once did his gaze meet Grant’s. Not once. I wonder what it would take for him to look at me, to say, ‘Grant, my first son, how have you been? I’m sorry I left you.’ That’s all he wanted. NO! He only wanted two words. I’m sorry. That’s it. He knew in his heart of hearts he would never get it. Not even on Robert’s death bed would he utter them. He felt like being bold and asking him why he left, why he never wrote, why he disappeared and made him feel like the only outcast at school with no father. The kids would make fun of him, asking him how he even came into existence without a father. His 7 year old self would get defensive and cry ‘I have a dad’ to which the bullies would retort, ‘Prove it!’ He never could. He didn’t even have a picture, besides the old black and white wedding picture his mother still had stashed in a photo album somewhere.
            She didn’t like to talk about it, and with good reason. She married Robert without her parent’s blessing. Far from it; they forbade that she get married to him. They said he was no good, that he was a drunk, that he had no job, that he was a loser, that he was with her only for her looks. She didn’t believe it, they were in love, she argued. So, she married him. Almost immediately she was pregnant with her little bundle of joy, and as soon as Robert heard of the baby on the way, he hit the road, Jack. And neither of them saw him again. What a stand up guy! What a role model. And Grant’s mother, Dot, never forgave herself. But she reminded herself on a daily basis for 30 years, If it hadn’t been for my marrying Robert, I would never have been blessed with Grant. And so it was.
            Robert stood, placing his smoldering cigarette butt in a flower vase, thinking Grant wouldn’t notice. He straightened out his tweed jacket and thrust out his hand once more. “Nice to meet you, young man.” Cautiously, Grant took it, amazed at what was happening before his eyes. “I’ll see ya when I see ya, I guess.”
            Turning around on his heel, a mild squeak rose from the hardwood floor and he charged through the door, through the next room, past Dot, and out of the house. Grant stood with his hand still in the air, where he had, just a moment ago, been shaking Robert’s hand. From outside a few seconds later, he heard a car engine turn over and the sound became more and more distant, and then gone. Grant stood dazed in one spot, wondering if what had happened was real. From the rank cigarette smoke that still hung in the room, and the foul taste in his mouth, he would wager it was real. Embarrassed, angry, frustrated Grant bolted out the door and past his mother. She shouted something after him, but he ignored her. He burst through the front door and into the winter air. A tear ran down his cheek, and as he noticed this he became even more irate. Why in the holy hell should he let this stranger get him riled up like this? To cry? Who cries over a stranger?
            His mother called after him again, but he couldn’t talk to her now. He was too filled with contempt and anger. Slamming his car door, he realized why he was angry. He deserved to know his father. Robert took that from him. As he turned the key and shifted it violently into drive, he gripped the wheel and began to scream.

Copyright © by Erin M. Truesdale, 2013

The Erin Complex

Saturday, April 27, 2013

Fate

Friday, April 26, 2013

Opening Scene, "Lost Life"

Monday, April 22, 2013

Excerpt from my story, in progress, "Lost Life"

Adrift

Vile

Sunday, April 21, 2013

The Dark