JONATHANSIMPSON
short writes
The Great Coat
I think I was three years old when I first realized that I hated change. I’m pretty sure I would have disliked it even earlier if I could have remembered more. It’s probably a good thing that I don’t remember coming unwanted and illegitimate into the world at a time when such things mattered. A private adoption, not announced or celebrated, would be whispered of only occasionally in quiet conversations among adults.
By three, most had forgotten the details of my unusual arrival into the family and I was now attending preschool, somewhat happily as my adoptive mother was one of the aides. I remember her telling me years later how we all lined up at the sink to have our finger paint etc. washed off. One by one we would step on the painted wooden stool and she would take our small colorful hands into her warm soapy ones. She said she would know when it was me without even looking, just from the feel of my hands in hers.
During that year dinner talk often revolved around the subject of kindergarten. My parents enlisted the help of my older brother in selling me on the idea, but I was not having it. I wanted to stay with my mom in preschool for another year (at least). I was used to that now, and pretty happy with the situation. Not even their animated talk of friends, recess or the playground swayed me. One Saturday afternoon we even drove to the big elementary school. It was still under construction, so my brother ran around and enthusiastically pointed out all of the proposed points of interest. An imaginary playground was hardly something that I was excited about visualizing, and besides, it was incredibly cold and windy on the hilltop school site. Small newly planted trees strained to maintain their foothold. I could hardly stand upright on my own, preferring to stand behind the now comfortable windbreak provided by my mother’s pantyhose covered legs.
It was only a few days later that the box arrived. It was large, wrapped in brown paper like my brothers lunch and tied with string tied so tightly that not even my dad could break through. Mom used her kitchen scissors just enough so that I still had to work to open the package. String, cardboard and tissue paper finally parted to reveal a long, heavy winter coat, complete with fur lining. First my brother told me it was skunk fur and then added “oh, sorry, I guess that stink is just you”. Mom gave him a look so he told me it was rabbit fur instead. I cried and ran outside to make sure that Thumper was still intact. Mom insisted that it was fake fur and that it was to keep me warm next fall in kindergarten. I frowned and Dad added “this is a great coat”. I started crying even before they made me try it on. They pointed out its features: fur lining, large pockets, a hood, and buttons that looked like real bone. I cried myself to sleep that night and when I woke up, the box, the tissue paper, string and even the great coat were gone.
Water and wind proof it may have been, but it was no great coat to me.
The Good Ship Lollipop
A few weeks ago, I read, or heard the death of Shirley Temple Black reported. It reminded me of the day that my father finally shared some of his life memories via the rusted green footlocker in our basement. For so many years it had lain on end, serving as yet another surface for tools to congregate. Its once silver lock faced outward, a constant reminder that it was still a holder of memories, or secrets. I asked periodically throughout my childhood to see inside, but was always rebuffed. It was my dad’s old navy trunk, which was private. I never remember being told, but always knew. Old and forgotten, but not by me, I persisted. Once I even tried to open it, trying every old key I could find in the old Folgers coffee can on the workbench. My fingers were scratched and bleeding from digging through the countless nails and screws that the various keys were now buried with. No luck, the lock held, the secrets remained, as did my curiosity.
In my young mind I imagined the contents to be exciting, maybe even dangerous. Perhaps it held a crisp navy uniform with medals commemorating dad’s bravery. Or maybe something more dangerous like a knife or pistol now locked safely out of, yet right within my curious reach. It wasn’t until I was twelve that Dad finally agreed to open up that mysterious trunk. From his bureau drawer he scooped up a small key (I had never thought to look there). Together we returned to the musty basement, where silently and slowly he carefully removed each wayward tool, returning each to its proper place. I wanted to just fling everything aside, but it seemed this process gave him some much needed time to prepare for the great reveal himself.
Finally free of tools, together we tipped the chest on to its side. Its tired hinges groaning as it resettled itself on the dusty floor. Dad brushed the top off carefully with his bare hands, wiping years of dust on his pant legs. The tiny key found its way into the lock. I held my breath, worried that it would not open after all. The tiny click of success permitted my overdue exhale and Dad slowly opened the trunk. I was surprised to find it relatively empty. The main compartment held a few articles of clothing, once white tee shirts, now yellowed, a white sailor cap, just like in the movies but now permanently creased beyond wear from so many years trunk bound. A few stray buttons whose corresponding uniform was nowhere to be found rested in the corners.
No medals, no weapons, no souvenirs taken off an enemy after a heated battle. Just a few books whose glued bindings had long since given way. Ghostlike silverfish interrupted from their peaceful rest scattered from the disintegrating yellowed pages. I tried to hide my building disappointment as Dad flipped the clasp on the second side of the trunk. He lifted the cardboard separator and hesitated, shielding its contents from my once again curious gaze. “I am going to share a great secret with you”, he prefaced. “I don’t normally like to keep things from your mother, but she wouldn’t understand”, he added. “Your mom made me promise to get rid of this years ago, but I just couldn’t”, he finished. I held my breath, excited to finally be shown, finally old enough to be trusted with a secret. This could be a new beginning for us. Maybe now we could be close, friends. Sharing hobbies, interests, time and secrets. A real father not unlike the other black and white TV dads of my youth. Always cheery, always interested, always around.
Dad lifted a picture frame from the case, holding it against his chest protectively. This is it, I thought. This is his certificate of valor or a signed note from a general, the President, or maybe even Marilyn Monroe. “This is my claim to fame” dad announced as he turned the frame around. I recognized the face in the photo – not the President or Marilyn Monroe, but Shirley Temple. A signed photo made out to my dad. He had apparently dated her before he met my mom. We returned the picture and all of the other items to the trunk, locked it and turned it back on end. Disappointed, I almost wished he hadn’t shown me the contents. I would rather relish in my fantasies of navy battleships rather than in his secret love aboard the Good Ship Lollipop!
Atlas the Duck
Atlas the Duck was his name, not merely Atlas, but “Atlas the Duck”. I guess at age four I didn’t want there to be any confusion as to his true species. After all, the tiny yellow fur ball peeping endlessly in my small lap might have been mistaken for a baby chicken, etc. I remember stopping at the roadside fruit stand after a long drive home from some relatives house, I imagine after some holiday celebration, but that isn’t the part I remember. Mom picked out ripe fruit while dad stood by the waiting and smoking. I stayed close by kicking rocks until dad sternly suggested I stop. After kicking one more, I decided to explore the nearby farm. Behind the weathered plywood fruit stand, an old barn leaned precariously over the rusted remains of some old cars. Their steel carcasses lay overgrown with weeds, decomposing like abandoned bodies in a forgotten field. Beyond, a row of cages and coops-most empty, but I was delighted to find a few occupied by rabbits and hens.
A gruff voice startled me before I could even think of opening a single cage. The sun and wind burnt farmer grabbed my arm roughly, his course calloused fingers nearly scratching my tender four year old skin. Terrified, I struggled, pulling away too easily. Before I could scamper away he offered “calm down boy, I just didn’t want you to miss the babies.” He pointed, and I relaxed, my eyes following his. The cage on the end held a mother duck and five ducklings. He showed me how to cup my hands in front of them until one hopped in. I held him long after I heard my mother’s concerned voice calling me. After some amount of begging, Atlas the Duck was soon settled back in my lap, this time in the back seat of the car for the rest of the ride home. We set up my plastic wading pool and all ate dinner outside on the patio so we could watch him swim happily in tiny circles while we ate.
It was only two days later that Atlas the Duck met his untimely death at the hands of our dog Duke, who in his defense, had been descended from a long line of hunting dogs, bird dogs in fact. I remember that tragic day. Mom was out when my older brother discovered the crime scene. He and his friends decided to hold a funeral service for Atlas the Duck. They gathered the neighborhood kids and wrapped what bits remained of Atlas in a burial shroud carefully cut from mom’s old wedding dress. One older kid led the service, complete with readings from the bible. We all bowed our heads, sniffling as Atlas the Duck was laid to rest in a cigar box in our backyard under a huge oak tree. He rested but one day when his tiny furry body was rudely exhumed by that same murderous dog. A thought and sight so disturbing that mom and dad did not even punish us for destroying mom’s wedding dress. We reburied what was left of him and dad even added a grave marker which appropriately read, “Here lies Atlas the Duck”.
Welcome To Nevada
Welcome to Nevada flashed in and out of his periphery as he traveled the nearly empty two lane highway. Childhood images of family road trips threatened to enter his mind. He turned up the radio as if the sound could somehow deter such persistent memories from creeping back in. Sealed in the protective confines of his car, the stark alien like landscape of the Mojave Desert felt oddly familiar. Dust danced off the tires of his car as tumbleweeds bounced by. The occasional appearance of a lone desert tree offered the only hint of a human-like presence, their limbs reaching like arms stretching towards the desert sun after a restful night’s sleep.
Such an oddly beautiful place, especially unusual was its extreme lack of color. This muted color palette helped to comfort his general unease. Calming in its bland beauty, only the occasionally appearing flashy billboard reminded him of his purpose. Advertising various hotels, casinos and activities that lay ahead, these brightly colored and illuminated images threatened to awaken his travel weary senses. Preferring to avoid the return of any anxiety, he continued to try to focus on the comforting predictable landscape as his car continued its relentless journey. There was no turning back now, he told himself out loud, as if actually hearing such reassurance would conquer his growing fear. Fear that had kept him from happiness for far too long. Take a chance was the new mantra he was forcing himself to hear. Taking a chance was unfamiliar, so uncomfortable, and so foreign. But his impending 50th birthday had stirred something within him. A stirring or just the slightest hint of something trying desperately to awaken. It buzzed in his ears and seemed to never go away. A possibility, a chance, an opportunity, a risk, a fear, but a need so strong that even his usually paralyzing anxiety could not deter.
“Right turn ahead” the GPS spoke, it’s not quite human sounding voice making the man jump slightly. Slowing slightly, he edged the dusty car off the highway and onto an unmarked gravel road leading off into the desert. The sound of gravel crunching beneath the tires was a pleasant reminder that the next stage of this journey was now underway. This definitely felt like taking a risk, turning off the highway, guided only by the GPS, all his trust placed in the imaginary hands that he associated with that confident robotic voice. Interesting, he thought, that he could surrender his trust under these circumstances. Trusting a human would have been nearly out of the question…nearly. After all, he had gotten himself into the car, on the road with a certain uncertainty, pushed forward through the fear, driven onward by the tiny business card that had been taped to the dashboard for so many years now. Yellowed, peeling tape still managed to keep it affixed directly in his line of sight, and he often found his eyes drawn to it, sometimes lost in memories, only to be startled back to his unpleasant reality by the horn of an impatient driver.
“You have reached your destination” spoke the GPS. As he slowed, the billowing dust created by the car gradually settled from its chaotic swirling. Suddenly aware of how tightly he was gripping the steering wheel, he felt embarrassed, as if his GPS traveling companion was watching (and judging) him. For the first time in so many years, he peeled the business card from its familiar position. The sun bleached dashboard provided a stark contrast to the long preserved rectangle that would now forever be a reminder of the cards previous location.
“Take a chance” he heard, most likely in his mind. If only the comforting voice of the GPS could continue to guide him, he thought. With only his memories and hope to lead him now, he slowly swung his legs out of the car. Take a chance. His feet found the ground and he hesitated while he waited for the last remaining fear to drain down through his body and out through the soles of his feet, deposited permanently (he hoped) into the dusty desert below. Take a chance. He stepped forward hesitantly, but kept moving. Stopping might allow his old friend fear to return, taking over his mind and ultimately his body. Take a chance. He focused on the words in his mind and the small card in his hand. Before he realized it, he had reached a door. Take a chance. Turning the knob silently, he entered, his confidence following closely behind.
The woman at the desk turned at the sound of the door closing behind him. It would be difficult for him to leave unnoticed now. Her dark hair framed her face perfectly he thought to himself. The slightest hints of lines outside of her eyes were the only indication to him of her age. He imagined that these timelines were the result of laughter, while his own no doubt stemmed from worry. Without looking up, she fanned out a stack of photos of beautiful young women on the counter before him. He couldn’t help but watch her lips as they parted slightly with each exhale. She was explaining his options, choices, prices, rules, etc. but her voice was merely a half-muted soundtrack to the pounding in his chest. Could he really do this? Could he really take this chance? A brothel did not seem to be a likely choice for such a guarded, anxious man. A man whose own life had so exhausted him that the just the idea of lying in the arms of a woman and sleeping, finally sleeping, became oddly motivating to continue.
He realized that she was finished speaking as her eyes, such beautiful eyes, finally lifted and met his briefly. Briefly, because he quickly cast down his eyes nervously to the photos on the counter. Well? She questioned him sweetly and not at all with any urgency. With all of the courage he could summon he answered, “I’d like to take a chance”. Great, this is the perfect, safe place for that, and for you”, she replied. “Do you see anyone here that you like?” As he nodded, mumbling “I do”, he raised his hand and laid the small faded business card on the counter atop the photographs, as if showing his hand after a friendly poker game. As her eyes lowered, he watched her face as she took in the image of the hand drawn tiny heart with the letter A inside.
Slow, silent tears escaped from the corners of her eyes as she realized that he had finally taken a chance, taken the right chance, and had found her after so many years. The man who had been searching all of his life for the confidence to take a chance had found the woman who had been waiting her whole life for someone to find her. Taking the small card in one hand and his hand in the other, she led him around the counter purposefully. When he next awoke, it was from the foggy nightmare that had been his life, into the familiar warmth of her body pressed perfectly against his. He smiled silently and felt the last remaining bits of fear and loneliness drain out of his head, down through his body, and out into the dry, dusty desert below them.
