A Distant Fog
Snowy Evans
Copyright 2010 Snowy Evans
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2011 Snowy Evans
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Cover image - by Stefan Kuhn under Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Unported license.
Table of Content
I learned to swim in a most unusual way. My father, never being patient, tossed my young, untrained toddler body in the pool. I struggled to make my way back to the edge of the pool where my father repeated the act once more. This time I swam away from him. This was how I began my love of swimming. I don’t know if this happened or if it was even possible, but it was just short enough to be funny and believable enough to entertain.
I suppose the short straw was pulled by my mother because it was on my 11th year on Earth that she told me the news of the divorce. All these years later I still remember that the day. It was then that my life split in two pieces never to be whole again. It was not required because I could have made the choice between them; instead I was bounced back and forth between my parents for what was known as "shared custody".
My father always referred to his apartment as his “bachelor pad”. He even came up with a slogan that I would repeat, at his behest on cue “I live with my Dad in a bachelor pad”. My father's apartment complex was a dark brick square about 14 stories high with a pool nestled in the middle. The design was poor so throughout much of the day the sun rarely hit the water. The high apartment walls blocked the sunshine so the water stayed cold throughout much of the summer. Most of the people who lived there were like my father, none too interested in swimming but they enjoyed sitting around by the pool on weekends.
My parents called it a “hostage exchange.” Since they lived 50 miles away from each other I was a package to be dropped off to stay with one parent or the other. It was my father’s weekend that I have clear memories of what happened even though it was years ago.
At his apartment building there were a handful of people around the pool; I, of course, was the only one swimming. My father was down there but I paid little attention to his actions until I heard my name called. I saw him waving to me with his left hand, the one which didn't hold the ever present cigarette. I exited the pool, shook the water from my hair and slowly made my way over to the table where he was sitting. I was not surprised he wasn't alone. He was in the company of a dark haired woman whom I'd never seen before but it was obvious my father was putting the moves on her. I don't remember much about her other than she had the look of all of the women he pursued. She had the twin traits of loneliness coupled with the hope that drives a gambler to continue despite never ending losses. She was an easy mark for a veteran such as my father.
“This is my friend, Mary.” My father exclaimed.
I don't remember if that was her real name but for the purpose of my recollection any name will do. Mary smiled at me, said hello and marveled at how much I like to swim. She was trying to pay me compliments but being at the adolescent stage of my life I knew anything she said was more for her benefit than mine. As was the case in most of my father's pickups I was there more for show or showing off, not to be an actual part of the discussion. Even though there were chairs at the table my father liked for me to stand next to him because I was a visual aid he would use in his pick up dance. He would lightly tap me on the shoulder; this was my cue to show the scar above my knee. This was a much told tale, though unrehearsed, there was a script which centered on me following his lead after he recited the story. There is a give and take to make it flow with the impeccable timing of a seasoned comedy team. I would set him up; then he would spin an oft used yarn of how instrumental he was in rushing me to hospital. The story was never told the same way more than once. This was his time to adlib peppering the story with no attention to the facts. All the while he kept his keen eye on his audience. Seeing how close he could draw them into his web.
The scar was from a fall, but he didn't rush me to the hospital. In fact I didn't see him until the next day. My leg was bandaged, covering the 15 stitches I sustained from falling off a swing in the first grade. I didn't really have any interest in being a part of this but I had little choice. My mind was focused on getting back into the water. As I stood there with the wind drying me off my only concern was getting acclimated to the cold water once again. I grew ever more bored with the tiresome display I was forced to endure. I knew I had to at least feign interest in the adult mating ritual to be able to once again find solace in the pool.
I could not look over my shoulder for fear of repercussions later. I thought of nothing but the pool. Just behind where Mary was sitting was a lobby covered by smoked glass; I could use it as a mirror to see the empty pool behind me. After serving my purpose I was plotting my escape to the pool when my father brought another character to the drama. Mary, whose son who was close to my age was with her. I knew this was my cue; I would be performing for the delight of my father and Mary. I did my best to appear interested in the fact that he was someone who was near my age. It was then that my father told me that Kevin, again not his real name but you might have guessed that, was in the lobby. He wasn't able to swim in the pool due to the fact that he had light skin and a boil on his back. I had no idea what a boil was. I was suddenly very interested to see one. My father then began to show off his great knowledge about anything and everything connected with boils. When my father said that many people mistakenly believe that boils are caused by bad hygiene it caused me to cringe. From that point on I thought Kevin, and anyone else, who had one, was dirty and couldn't clean himself; therefore, this was the reason they had boils.
Not too long after the discussion of boils Mary waved for Kevin to join our trio. He emerged from behind the smoked glass doors of the lobby. The first thing I noticed was that he was shorter and younger than me. He soon took his place by his mother's side. We exchanged a knowing glance in when our eyes met. Neither Kevin nor I said anything to each other but we were members of the same club, and sharing shame. Throughout our young lives we had been trotted out before strangers scrutinized, and made to perform like trick ponies for the betterment of our parent's liaisons.
I can't remember exactly what happened next but I know we got back to the subject of boils. Kevin's mother may or may not have pointed out the boil; however I do remember my father speaking about lancing boils. As the conversation continued between my father and Kevin's mother my mind began to picture a large lance, like the knights of the old would use in a joust; I had an image of poor Kevin, like a cartoon character running from a knight on a horse. I do remember how out of place Kevin looked; he had such a baby face and his hair was cut in the shape of a bowl. He had freckles just under his eyes and on his forehead and, he was very skinny and as pale as Casper the friendly ghost. I couldn't help wondering when I looked at Kevin and he at me; did he see the same pathetic child that I saw in him?
I don't remember what became of Mary and her son Kevin but it is safe to guess that my father got what he was after and maybe Mary did too. My young adolescent life was populated by these random brief encounters of my father’s insatiable quest for that which brought him fleeting pleasure. He always had his eye out for the next conquest.
After serving my purpose I returned back to the water from whence I came with my scar and the memory of the boil and the boy. No matter how comforting the water I was always expected to emerge from the pool to present myself to any or all that my father saw fit. I am not sure how many times I went through this performance with my father. I suppose it doesn't really matter because once is too many and a thousand would never be enough, at least for him.
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I had never been much into the bar scene but I had recently met a girl through my book writing discussion club. She was about 10 years my junior, ok 12 but who is counting, and she wasn’t all that great of a writer but she got me to go out more and that was a good thing. This had now become a weekly thing for us that is me meeting her after work at Bearnos by the bridge. I had a resurgence of college bravado by attempting to drink all the beers on the Bearnos beer card. These were about 110 different beers that were displayed right across from the bar in a window cabinet. I carried my beer card with me and I hope to make it but it really isn’t that big of a deal if I do or don’t.
I looked up at the precise moment that Debbie was walking through the door well I should be a little more descriptive because Debbie hardly ever made an entrance without fanfare. She pushed her way through the glass door with a cell phone in one hand and the other grasping her best friend Ruthie. Along with them came loads of laughter and outlandish moments of arms, head and body as they signaled that the party had arrived. I couldn’t help but crack a smile when I saw them burst through the doors. While Debbie was not a particularly good writer, well she was bad, but she was drop dead gorgeous. She paused at the top of steps and the air in the room seemed to wait for her next move. She moved her head slowly and dropped her hand from holding onto Ruthie and she had the most wonderful little girl lost look on her face and then she let out a little scream pulled her hands up to cheeks and exclaimed
“Tony!”
She ran to me like she hadn’t seen me in months and hit with me such force that I was almost knocked to the ground. She recovered, nicely I might add, and like the true Diva she was she stood up leaned on me slightly and moved her flowing hair from her face and struck the pose for a magazine cover. Although there were no cameras and there was scant attention, if any at all, paid to her. It mattered not because where ever she was it was the place to be.
Even with a light crowd on Wednesday she was still waving, blowing kisses and smiling like she was a finalist in the Miss America pageant. I was just happy to bask in the light that she brought into any room. I was also rather proud of the fact that she found her way to me first. I know she was a social butterfly and she had to make the rounds, but she always kept her eye on me and we always left together.
I really had no illusions about our relationship. She felt as though I was some kind of local celebrity because I had been interviewed on the Fox and Friends Morning show about my book that sold close to 900 copies. I was pretty sure she tracked me down and found my small writers book club just to date me. What can I say as a middle-aged blip on the radar screen who could tell interesting stories at dinner parties, but I had no success until my book “The Fourth Wish” was picked up by a small publisher and made me a quasi-celebrity here in Louisville. Oh don’t get me wrong I have plans to build on my success and write more books and become more famous, but I am a pragmatist at heart and I know even with my book deal the odds are against me. I look to the world of music how many groups come out with a solid hit record. Soon it is on the radio and they are touring and making TV appearances and they are loved by everyone. What is the next thing they do? They soon want everyone to hear their “next” great hit. They try and play all their new stuff, and no one wants to hear that. What would happen if they just sat back and said “okay, here is the stuff that we did that everyone liked and we are just going to keep doing that.” Well that is what I am doing.
Back to the table where Debbie and Ruthie have found their seats made their orders and they are giving me the Readers Digest version of all the funny, strange and weird things that took place at their office today. I can picture the two of them running back and forth, getting very little work done erstwhile, and saying “We have to tell this to Tony.” Here is their release. Don’t get me wrong I am glad for the attention and thought, but like Debbie’s writing her storytelling also left much to be desired. I tried to be interested but there were a few too many “like, ya know” and “I can’t believe I am telling you this” with the accompanied eye roll and contrived embarrassment. Ruthie sat on the edge of her chair and only piped in when called upon to agree or provide a wide-eyed “yes, can you believe that!” which after they both would collapse in a series of screams and laughter, and not the usual laughter, but the school girl kind that is funny once or twice but it soon grows tiresome.
After I heard about the copy guy who every time he bent over they saw his butt crack, and the manager with the toupee who didn’t glue it down right today and it kind of bounced around and he walked through the office. Then there was the vindictive girl talk about who sleeps around and why would any guy want that? Of course, there was so much talk about children and babies with more detail than one would find in a medical book. Then as soon as their drinks arrived they were ready to make their rounds around the bar and tell all the people the same five stories that they told to me. This usually took the better part of an hour and they would bring different people over to me but I was happy to stay put and have them buzz around like bees while I remained the hive they would return to.
The two of them made their way off into the ever growing happy hour crowd and left me with their purses and my thoughts. I really enjoy being alone, and I do like so much to watch people, because it helps me in my quest for understanding the human animal. Suddenly Debbie was making her way back to me taking what can best be described as baby steps with her arms held up to help her keep her balance.
“Tony!” She said as though she had been gone longer than 2 seconds.
“There is someone who is dying to meet you. He is my boss. I thought it would be good if you both talked. I think he looks like you.”
Debbie takes a drink of her wine and begins to wave wildly toward the end of the bar. A middle-aged man in a suit comes toward the table. Debbie waves over Ruthie too.
“Don’t they look alike?”
Debbie says with excitement. She then turns to Ruthie who nods her head to support her friend.
I looked this guy up and down and I saw no resemblance as he made his way to the empty chair across from me. He had a strange look on his face and I couldn’t put my finger on it, but it was like he wasn’t there or didn’t care. I don’t know but it was unsettling having this guy at my table. Another thing he didn’t smile. He was overweight and his clothes didn’t fit well. It was like he was wearing clothes that he had grown out of or that were out of fashion. He also had a comb over working. I am not sure where she saw the resemblance but it made me think what does she really think I look like?
Debbie between us and her head racing back and forth with a look on her face like she had just found my twin. “There was a time when you all would have looked alike maybe more like brothers.” She said.
“Maybe like fraternal twins, you are the same age”
Ruthie chimed in.
“Well, boys I will leave you to your man talk”
She and Ruthie disappeared into the happy hour crowd.
After a bit of uncomfortable silence I introduced myself to him. He told me he knew about who I was but didn’t offer his name. He began to talk about my book and was wondering why I didn’t have a real job. Could someone actually make a living at doing this?
His tone was about as inviting as his taste in clothes. He really didn’t interact well with others and I think calling him obnoxious would be a compliment. So I then asked him why he was here and for what reason would he have to meet me?
He eased himself up to the table hunched his shoulders and slowly swirled his glass made a face like you would do if you just tasted something sour and he told me that he didn’t like bars nor people that much but he hoped meeting someone who like to tell stories would cheer him up. He was very unhappy with his life, work, and superiors. He wanted to do something about it but he had no idea.
I was piecing together the puzzle that he laid out, as far as why Debbie would set this up and with the information that her boss provided it became a little clearer. He was going through a mid-life crisis and he needed a change, sounding board or direction. I found it humorous that Debbie thought I could be of any help to this guy, because after all I had none of these problems. So I took a shot in the dark and just asked him to tell me what he was feeling and what he wanted to do, if he could do anything and most important tell me his name.
“I didn’t realize you didn’t know my name. I am Jack Jackson, but most people call me J.J.”
Funny the name didn’t match the man. Usually when you think of J.J. it brings to mind someone jovial the kind of guy you want to have a beer with, but not this guy. He had all of the excitement of a wet newspaper and as his story went on it was just as useful as a wet newspaper.
“I have been working at the company for the last 15 years and I feel that my life has been wasted. I get up each day and hate, and I mean absolutely hate what I am doing. I don’t like anything about it. I look forward to the weekends just do I can quit going into that building. Then about Sunday afternoon I get all upset because I am going to have to go back there once again. My life is has become a series of watching minutes, hours and days go by. I can do the work but it is like I am laying out pieces of my soul daily just for a paycheck.”
I was stunned. I had never seen anyone so unhappy. It was as though there was nothing positive in this poor guy’s life. I had a hundred questions but I kept quiet because this guy was just going right on talking. There was no passion or life in his words. It was as though he was a machine just spitting out words that had no meaning. It was as though he were reading a script.
“Do you know what is like to slowly kill yourself over the span of 15 years?” He asked me. Although it was rhetorical I nearly answered, because I was just the opposite from him. Where he is locked into doing the same thing every day I was trying to eke out a living. There have been times when I had no money and had to either sell something or beg, or borrow just to get something to eat. I had begun to day dream while J.J. was talking. I was thinking about all the times I had trouble making ends meet and how bad I felt about myself. Then I looked at J.J. and heard the word he just said and brought my interest back to what he was saying.
“Sellout”
J.J. said that and just let it hang in the air.
I hadn’t been paying attention to what he was saying so I was worried he asked me a question. I do what I used to do in that situation. I smiled politely and nodded my head hoping that would suffice. J.J. never flinched he had the same half disgusted look on his face that he kept every since he sat down, probably always looked that way I thought. Anyway after a brief pause J.J. continued and I resolved to listen more carefully.
“It was a hard thing for me to come to grips with, being a sellout. I had dreams of being an artist type, musician, or a writer.”
Ah, I thought this is why Debbie wanted me to meet this guy. You see, Debbie was the kind of person I referred to as a “fixer” it was a compliment, or at least it could be if it wasn’t taken to extremes. So now I am losing track of the conversation again and I begin to scan the bar for Debbie. Then again I lost track of J.J. until this time I heard this question.
“Would you like to hear it?” J.J. said with expectation in his voice.
I almost asked him what he said before that, and I could have just said “I didn’t hear what you said before that” or “the music was loud and I didn’t get that.” I did neither and simply nodded my head and waited to see what would happen next.
He leaned back in his chair and for the first time I saw him crack a smile, or something that resembled a smile, and he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a folded up piece of paper. It was like notebook paper and I could still see the paper shreds when it was torn from the spiral notebook. It was old too, it lost that crisp white paper look and was looking crumpled and you could tell he had carried it for a long time and it rarely saw the light of day.
He began to read:
“The only time that I feel anything, is when it rains
It seems nothing is washed away, but it is all the same
The rain ends all too soon, and it is like it doesn’t matter
People mistake indifference with swagger