“Hey, it’s Lily. Leave a message and if I like you then maybe, possibly, I’ll give you a call back.”
*Beep*
“Lily, it’s me. Look, we both know what our relationship is, but that doesn’t make any of the things I said to you ok. I’m not leaving the city until we talk, so if you want me out of your life, you’re going to have to look me in the eye and tell me that. I love you. See you soon, I hope.”
That might’ve been the weirdest voicemail ever recorded—and I’ve left voicemails for my deceased wife. In some ways it sounds like something Sting would have written for The Police, but it was honest, and I think it’ll have the intended affect. I’ve never done cocaine, but the rush I have right now has gotta be in the same ballpark. I don’t know where she’s staying, so I wonder where she could be. Where would someone with a fucked up family history go after telling their brother to kill himself? A place with alcohol is a given, but that can only numb so much of the pain.
A grin comes across my face because it’s almost too brilliant.
But...
What if that place had alcohol and beautiful women that will tell you exactly what you want to hear? I just so happen to know of such an establishment.
The cab driver greets me like an old friend when I get in the car. Now this is a true New York City taxi. The dashboard is decorated with ‘I Love New York’ stickers, the radio is is tuned into the local sports station, and hanging from the mirror is the Met’s mascot, Mr. Met. I give him the address to Rouge and we head off into the city. Because I’m selfish, I decide to send Melody a text.
I understand if you never wanna talk to me again. But can I just have a chance to explain myself?
I stare at the words on the screen, angry that I can’t find the words to convey how I really feel, but unsure that they’d work even if I could fine them. I hit send before I give myself the chance to overthink it.
“You flew all the way here with no luggage for a stripper?” my driver asks. He doesn’t tell me how he knows it’s a strip club.
“Not exactly.”
“Man, you gotta be in my top five strangest pickups,” he continues. “I get guys cheating on their wives, dope dealers, and prostitutes that charge anything from five to five thousand dollars. Where you fall in?’
“I think I’d fall somewhere between the prostitute and the philanderer.”
“You a funny motherfucker man,” he says between laughs. “The name’s Trent.”
His voice is one of a true New Yorker, a booming baritone of someone that had to learn how to be heard in a city with so much noise. He kinda sounds like Raekwon of the Wu-Tang Clan. Adverbs are an exception instead of the rule.
“I’m Miles.” I notice he’s wearing a Giants beanie, and decide to have conversation that takes my mind away from everything. “You think it’s time to move on from Eli?”
He scoffs, “It’s been time. Every cat from Long Island to Yonkers know it was that time three years ago, my guy. He brought us two chips, and I got love for my man, so I’m not gonna call him the B word.”
“Bitch?”
“Bum. I can’t do my man like that after all he did for us.” He shakes his head in despair, like he’s watching a friend wither away. “Who’s’ your team?”
“I’m an Eagles fan.”
He blows out his lips, spraying mist all over the steering wheel before laughing. “You gotta be kidding me son. The bum-ass Eagles?”
“You mean the eight and one Eagles,” I correct him. For the first time since I was in high school the Eagles have legitimate Super Bowl aspirations, history be damned.
“You right. Y’all doing your thing right now. That Wentz kid is a stud, reminds me of a young Eli.”
“That’s not the compliment you think it is.”
“True, True, but I’m rooting for you guys. Anybody but the Cowboys.”
I’m liking this guy more and more. “Amen to that.” We share a pound and the conversation switches gears. “So, is this your only job Trent?”
“I do this on the side for a little extra bread. Wife ain’t working, and my son loves baseball, so I gotta do what needs to be done. I make as many games as I can, but it’s hard sometimes. You got seeds?”
“Seeds?”
“Kids man, kids.”
I knew the question was coming, it was only logical, but nevertheless, I wasn’t prepared to answer. There should be a course that trains you on how to reenter society after the loss of a loved one. Specifically for situations like this. Maybe some role playing exercises and a nifty certificate when you pass the final exam. You could even play on the subject matter by calling the graduation a ‘Pity Party’—a burgeoning marketing career awaits me.
We just met and the conversation was going better than any I’d had in months, I didn’t wanna make it awkward. But, I can’t live in a shell forever so I might as well get used to this new normal.
“I did have kids…”I finally say. The words hang there as I listen to the taxi roll over small bumps in the pavement. “they passed away.”
No tears.
No heavy breathing.
No panic attack.
No pain.
Just the simple acceptance of a reality I’ve been been running from; and an acknowledgment that I was finally comfortable enough to deal with it. I can’t help but think of Dr. Felt in this moment and the dedication she showed, so that I could have little moments like this, even though she’d probably deflect all credit.
“That’s heavy man, I’m sorry,” Trent says.
His tone is softer, which I’ve found is common when I tell people about the accident. Their voices get lower and, depending on seating, eye contact ceases. At that point we both start looking for an out; me because it hurts too much to talk about, and them because they can’t help but be curious.
But I understand it completely.
Everyday we’re bombarded with indications of the future—from the next iPhone, to our favorite sports teams planning drafts and contracts years down the line, even political elections. We assume that we’ll be around to see it, and we take things for granted in the process. But then you meet someone that’s terminally ill, or someone with a story like mine, and it humbles you because it makes you stop and realize your mortality. My story is clearly weighing on Trent because we’re riding in silence, which I find happens anytime I tell my story.
“Does your son follow the Mets like you do?” I ask, trying to signal that it’s alright to keep talking.
He smiles at the question. “You wondering if he jumped on the Yankee bandwagon instead of pouring his life into this sorry ass team? He wanted to follow the team I follow. Shit, maybe he’ll see a parade during his lifetime, but I’m not counting on it.”
He won’t.
Sports was one of the things I was most excited about as a father. My childhood friends had two parent families and Dads that would take them to games. Lily’s Dad, Greg, used to do stuff like that with me. I always appreciated the time we spent together, even secretly kept in contact with him after the divorce. Even though the time was fleeting, I welcomed the escape.