The Holiness of You

Hell. Something don’t feel right. What is that. Feels like a hiccup in the transmission. Hmm. I don’t like that.

Another Dispatch from Scott Evers. Read for you by Geezer III.

… West of Barstow. Pushing 70. Got a slushy between my legs trying to stay cool. Air conditioner’s losing the argument. Transmission’s making noises I don’t recall authorizing. Wait a minute. Got to change lanes up here. I’m headed to Tehachapi. Prison. To pick up my son. Long drive. Joshua trees all over the place. Always liked those things. There. And there. Never seem particularly concerned with symmetry. One branch heads east. Another west. One reaches for the sky while another seems determined to return to the ground. And somehow they work. Got four kids. Same roots. Look what happened. Reaching in all directions. Where’s my phone. Come here. — hello darlin’. — — no. still moving. — — how are you holding up. — — i’d be worried if you weren’t. My daughter-in-law Cindy. Waiting outside the prison. Pregnant. Waiting for Jamey. Hoping for the best. Funny thing about becoming a parent. For years your child belongs partly to the realm of necessity. You feed them. Protect them. Explain why the moon follows the car. Then one day they begin disappearing. Not physically. Just beyond your stewardship. The version of them that required you slowly withdraws and somebody else arrives. Same person. Different animal. — — no darlin’. — nobody gets handed a map for these things. — — you’re worried. — — of course you are. — — i’d be more concerned if you weren’t. — — no. — i don’t think that’s what marriage is. — — i think it’s mostly agreeing to be surprised together. — — think about it. Luke surprises me most. My son spent years helping prisoners and somehow ended up becoming a chaplain for the dying. Never saw that coming. Called him yesterday. Asked him how a fellow ends up tending the dying. He said somebody ought to. Fair enough. Luke told me once that dying people mostly want permission to stop pretending they’re not dying. Been thinking about that ever since. Lina surprises me too. Lives in Albuquerque. Travels the world. Runs operations for a textile company. Competent in ways I never was. Gay. Came out years ago. I spent about a week adjusting. Then settled on why the hell not. — that’s true, Cindy. — — it is a transition. — — but transitions are mostly what life is. Here we go. Ha. Tom’s Welding billboard. Vintage. What ‘s this? Some fellow in a BMW appears determined to occupy my back seat. Asshole. … Jane was my first. By another mother. Held her when she was tiny. Then life happened. Funny thing. Not everybody leaves because they die. Phone. My brother. — you should’ve come, Fred. — — that’s what i thought. — — no. i understand. Fred’s funny about serious places. Hospitals. Churches. Schools. Prisons. When Lisa was sick he spent half his visit looking for a vending machine. I think people cope however they can. Maybe that’s what I’m saying about children too. Jamey’s always been a dreamer. Enterprising. A doer. Never had much luck telling him what not to do. Nine months in Tehachapi. Seems an awfully long drive for a mistake. Though maybe all fathers think that. Probably. What fascinates me is how little any mistake seems capable of containing a whole human being. Come on. We’re not on the highway anymore. I’m going as fast as I can. … One of the stranger realizations is discovering your children were never really yours. You helped build the house. You did not create the inhabitant. The inhabitant goes where it pleases. Loves who it loves. Succeeds. Fails. Surprises you. My god. There it is. Concrete. Fences. Barbed wire. Heat shimmering above the asphalt. Where’s the visitors lot. Guess this is it. … Silence. There she is. Cindy. Standing near the entrance. One hand on her stomach. Watching the gate. Worried about a future she cannot see. Waiting for somebody she loves. I suppose that’s parenthood. And marriage. And maybe life itself. Just standing there. Doing your best. Waiting for the gate to open.