No Sad Songs

by Frank Morelli

  I nodded, and we both spent our first day of high school in a perpetual state of gym class—and I was happy (and thankful) to do it.

  And as, methinks, shall all,

  Both great and small

  That ever lived on Earth

  Early or late their birth,

  Stranger or foe, can one day each other know.

  20

  THE MAN IN THE MIRROR

  I miss Gramps. I only get to visit him about once a week since the Crypt Keeper ordered him banished to the funny farm for the rest of his brain-addled life. I hate thinking about him alone in a white room that smells like burnt toast all the time. And I hate theorizing about what Dad must think of me now. I don’t know where he is, but I can feel him watching over me sometimes. And I can tell he’s pissed. I’d be. Scratch that. I still am. Probably always will be to some extent. But there’s not much I can do about it now, other than try to get back to life as Gabe LoScuda.

  Once I look past all of my failings and the total abandonment of my own blood and the disgrace of having my very public lie exposed to the whole community, I can sit back and maybe even enjoy the relief that comes with not having to play nursemaid to a crazy, old man. I might even be able to start figuring out what I want to do with my life. I mean, once I lost Mom and Dad and had Grandpa and Nick to worry about, I really started to believe I had no future. I kind of forgot that I’m a person that can have dreams, too. I don’t have any right now or anything. I’m not like John, sitting around polishing his American Medical Association-approved stethoscope that Mrs. Chen bought him when he decided—at age four—he would be going into medicine, like he was Doogie Howser or something—which actually might not be too far off.

  I never had a clear direction to follow like that. The only things I ever feel comfortable doing are playing baseball and reading poetry, but it’s not like I can hit like Tony Gwynn and Dad once told me, “son, all poets are unemployed.” So it looks like I’m stuck. But at least now that I have some time to think my own thoughts and not have to supply all of my brainpower to another human being, the fog is lifting away. Things are starting to become more clear. Like, I’m realizing some stuff that wasn’t so obvious to me when I was forced to cram my life in between Grandpa’s doctor’s visits and his outsbursts.

  Take today, for instance. I’m in the bathroom taking my sweet ass time—no worry in the world about drugging pudding snacks or wiping drool off grey-stubbled chins. Dad’s old radio is in here with me and I’m jamming out to Power 99, Philly’s favorite R&B station, of all things. I actually have time to stand in front of the mirror and shave with an actual razor that I bought from the actual pharmacy—because I finally had time to stop. It’s, like, total luxury when you think about how I’d been shaving with the cracked, disposable Lady’s Schick I found inside Dad’s shaving kit. Don’t ask me why it was in there, but the thing looked like it was produced during the Nixon administration, and I’m rubbing it up and down my face each day for, like, four months straight. The razor bumps started to look like freaking goiters.

  A Michael Jackson song comes on the radio and I crank up the volume to full blast. Nick’s still asleep—he moved into Grandpa’s old room—but the dude seems to go into hibernation mode each night, so I’m not worried I’ll wake him. The King of Pop is belting out the lyrics to “Man in the Mirror.” It’s not my favorite Michael song—that would be “Billie Jean”—but it’s one of those songs you hear where you definitely don’t change the dial.

  I start bobbing my head to the beat. I think back to my early childhood obsession with the Jackson 5 and Michael’s Thriller album—both things I’d never admit in front of anyone at Schuylkill High, by the way—but they still get my feet moving. I sing along, using the can of Barbasol like one of those giant, old school microphones you’d see on a black and white variety show from the 50s.

  I shave the last strip of stubble off my chin and let Michael carry me through the refrain. Then the beat picks up and my body feels lighter—like I’m bound to pull off a few twists and spins; maybe moonwalk across the tiles like I might have done when I was five. I can’t hold it back anymore. I pop up on my toes, swing my lower leg around a few times as if it were made of rubber, and finish with the ultimate crescendo: a trademark screech and a crotch grab.

  For a few moments, I’m totally free. Liberated. Ready to take on the world as the new, improved Gabe LoScuda—or at least a man who more closely resembles the Gabe LoScuda of old. I think of John. I think about how he would have shredded the dance floor with this song playing in the background. About how he’d lose himself in the moment in a way I always wished I could.

  I think about what happened that day, when I returned to the lunch table after John and I performed our Rock ‘em, Sock ‘em robots routine and after Mastro wrestled us apart. I think about how Marlie said, “What was that all about?” and how I was like, “He’ll be alright. He just needs to cool off.” And then I think about how she said something ridiculous like, “No. I mean, how do you even know that guy? What. A. Lo-ser!” And how I just picked up my books and said, “Marlie. He’s my best friend.” I walked to class alone that day.

  I think about how, ever since that moment, my lunch dates with Marlie seem to pass without many actual words being exchanged between the two of us. I guess that’s kind of normal when you’re in a relationship. At least, I think.

  And I think about the essay I wrote that was basically dedicated to John, and about how much I miss having the kid around—maybe even more than I miss Gramps. I look at my reflection in the mirror and barely recognize the guy looking back. What happened? What in the hell had I been thinking?

  And that’s when I make a decision.

  Even though I still have plenty of time to loaf around the house this morning watching Sports Center and eating Cheerios out of coffee mugs and taking twenty-minute showers—all the general luxuries I’ve enjoyed since my captivity by Gramps ended—I realize my time might be best spent elsewhere.

  I’m in and out of the shower in under two minutes, and I’m dressed in even less time. Quick-change artistry became somewhat of a specialty when I was taking care of Grandpa. I hop in the Trans-Am without eating a single Cheerio, and guide her around the block. I pull up in John’s driveway just like old times—only I’m early for once. The screen door on John’s porch opens and John shuffles out with his four-hundred pound backpack. It’s loaded down with even more books than usual today.

  He glances at me as he traverses the walkway in front of his house and, for a second, I think he’s going to just step right over to the passenger side and hop in like our normal morning routine. But then his eyes glaze over and he looks off into the distance, far beyond me and the Trans-Am. Far, far beyond the limits of our friendship. And he keeps walking. Right past me and down the driveway. He turns on the sidewalk and heads in the direction of school. On foot.

  I pop the Trans-Am in reverse and inch up along side him and roll the window down. “John!” He keeps walking, so I trail him in my car at a snail’s pace. “Come on, man. Let me at least talk to you for a minute. Just give me one stinking minute.”

  He stops. He doesn’t bother to look at me, but he dismounts from his backpack and lays it down on the sidewalk, which is John-speak for “I’m listening. You have sixty seconds.”

  “Look,” I say, “I don’t know what’s going on between us. But it’s stupid, man. We don’t need to go on this way.”

  I’m silent for a second, waiting for John to respond—to say everything’s alright and hop in the car and go to school like nothing ever happened between us in the first place. But he doesn’t say anything. He just stands there with his bag on the ground and his arms folded across his chest. The silence is killing me so, against my will, I let words continue to tumble out of my stupid mouth. I just wish they’d been the right freaking words. They were not.

  “We’re both sorry,” I say. “We both messed up. But things worked out, didn’t they? I’m not it ja
il. I’m with Marlie now. I—”

  Suddenly John’s face goes blood red and his nostrils flare like he’s a raging bull and I’m a giant red blanket.

  “I’m so happy for you, Gabe. I really am, you know that? It’s great that you’re Mr. Freaking Schuylkill High all of a sudden. Good for you. But would it kill you to say thanks once in a while?”

  “Thanks? What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Exactly,” he says. “You’ve changed, man. And not for the better. Maybe Sofia was right about you. You’re just a poseur, Gabe. You and Marlie deserve each other.”

  I’m speechless. Not because he insulted Marlie for the second time, because I have to say: each lunch period I spend with her seems to nudge me ever-closer to John’s perspective. No. I’m speechless because in all the time I’d known my best friend and after all the stupid and selfish things I’d done, John Chen had never lost faith in me. He knew I wasn’t perfect, but at least he knew who I was. But something had changed, and now John seemed pretty confident we were destined to become nothing more than strangers.

  John picks up his bag, slings it over his shoulder, and continues the long walk to school. He doesn’t look back. He can’t bear to see the stupid face of a rotten, unappreciative poseur. Not even for one more second.

  And maybe, just maybe, if I actually look in the mirror long enough and hard enough, I might be able to see the same thing.

  21

  EXODUS

  “Let’s park in the lot today,” Nick says.

  “The paid lot?” I ask, which for Nick was like asking him if he wanted me to drive the car off a cliff.

  “Yeah, he says. “My treat.”

  The light turns green but I don’t push the gas pedal. My foot won’t respond to the shock.

  “What’s the occasion?” I ask as an impatient driver behind me lays on the horn.

  “Besides not wanting to waste half of our visiting hours?”

  “Yeah, because combing the streets for a spot never forced a spare nickel out of your pocket before.”

  “It’s not before anymore,” he says, which ranks up there as maybe the deepest statement that has ever left Nick’s mouth. “Besides, I owe you.”

  I inch the Trans-Am over a series of speed bumps, the way Dad taught me how to take them at an angle. I snatch the little ticket out of the mechanized attendant and begin a spiraling ascent to the summit of the parking garage.

  “You don’t owe me anything,” I say, and I’m a bit confused by his statement.

  “I do,” Nick says. “For so many things. I can’t even list them all. But the most important thing was that you inspired me, Gabe. I watched you with Gramps every day. I know you may not be able to see it now with all the old age and depression in that place.”

  I nod. I can’t stand seeing Gramps holed up in the assisted living wing at the veteran’s hospital. He gets to keep Doc Weston as a protector in exchange for anything that resembles freedom. I’m not sure my grandfather got the best end of the deal, but at least it’s the safest one—for him, for the neighborhood, and maybe even for Nick and me. But no matter how many times I tell myself this is what’s best for Gramps, I can’t help but picture Dad’s face all sour and twisted, just shaking back and forth and saying something like, “Moron!” I guess it’s something I’ll have to learn to live with.

  “But Gabe,” Nick continues, “I don’t know where Gramps and me would be without you. Not getting treatment, like Gramps, I can tell you that. And definitely not putting registration materials together for the Bar exam, like me.”

  “You’re gonna take the test again?”

  “I have to finish, Gabe. I owe that to a lot of people.”

  I pull the car into an empty space on the top tier of the lot, flick off the ignition, and hold out my right hand to Nick. He grabs it and shakes it. “I’m proud of you, Uncle Nick,” I say. And this time, when the words leave my mouth, they don’t surprise me in the least. A pinkish hue rises on Nick’s cheeks.

  “And just think,” he says, “all it took was the threat of my nephew’s jail time on my shoulders.”

  We laugh, and without either one of us being conscious of it, our handshake turns into a bear hug. I feel one of Nick’s hot tears slip off his cheek and roll down the back of my shirt. It makes me jump, and then the whole thing starts to feel awkward, so we gather the last of Grandpa’s things and head for the entrance to the hospital. But as we reach the door, Nick throws one of his mutant-sized arms out in front of me and turns to speak. I can tell the words weigh heavily on his tongue. He measures them with his teeth before he dispenses.

  “You do know that none of this is your fault, right?”

  “Yeah, I know, Nick.”

  I try to side step him and head for the door—anything to avoid hearing this load of crap I’m not prepared to accept; will never be able to accept—but he’s massive, like a blubber-encapsulated boulder. And he’s right in my path.

  “I’m serious,” he says. “You cared for Gramps better than you cared for yourself. I saw it. And I sat there on the couch for most of it, as if you guys were some comedy routine just there for my entertainment. But it’s not funny. None of it is funny … but … but I want you to be able to laugh again, Gabe. Some day. Maybe not today. But some day I want you to remember there was nothing and nobody in the world who could have prevented this. Not you, not me, not Doc Weston or the judge. Not even your father, Gabe. Not even him.”

  Nick reaches in his jacket pocket and pulls out a handkerchief. He gives it to me and I wipe away tears I didn’t know were there. I feel this weird, constricted feeling in the back of my throat that tells me there’s nothing I could say right now even if it were possible to find the words.

  “Tell me you’ll laugh again, Gabe. Promise me, OK?”

  I nod and wipe a few more tears away. Nick slaps me on the back and leads me through the door. “I needed to know that,” he says.

  We sign in at the reception kiosk and head down the hall to Room 706. The hallway is bustling with activity as usual—probably my least favorite part of the visit. A fat, red-faced orderly pushes a cart loaded down with jiggling, green Jell-O in plastic cups. He nods to a nurse as she strains to lift an old woman in a stained nightgown from one wheelchair to another. The lady shrieks as if the nurse were throwing her in the stockade and the nurse tries to diffuse the bomb by making cooing noises and by stroking the lady’s silver hair. It seems to work. Two old men sit in folding chairs outside their rooms. They toss ragged playing cards in a pile from opposite sides of the hallway to complete the objectives of a game that probably doesn’t exist and never will. One of them screams, “Yaaaahtzeee!” out of the blue and at a moment where no action from either man should have warranted such a reaction. One of the fluorescent light bulbs overhead flickers and flashes every minute or so, just like it did on our last two visits.

  This is apparently all you’re afforded after serving your country and dodging bullets for years in a freaking trench in France. Your reward for survival. Not like the kinds of places Nick and I looked at in the Crypt Keeper’s brochures, where rooms were furnished by freaking Waverly; where tennis pros taught forehands and backhands to geriatric cases; where you could dial *9 on your phone and order room service at any time of day. No, those places are only made available to people who spend their lives lying and cheating people out of their money. Stockbrokers and bankers and other assorted a-holes of the socio-economic breed. Not war heroes. War heroes get to spend their final days in places that aren’t even fit to be bomb shelters.

  But we get to Room 706 and I wipe the scowl off my face for Grandpa’s sake, because no one likes to hear that their new place is a dumpster fire.

  Doc Weston and two hefty nurses—who looked like they may have moonlighted on a local roller derby team—surround Grandpa’s bed and move in on him like they’ve cornered a rabid raccoon. Gramps sits in a pile of his robes and socks in the middle of the bed with both hands clamped over his mouth
. I can barely understand the muffled noises forcing their way through tiny gaps between his fingers, but I think he says something like, “I won’t swallow them!”

  Doc stands at the foot of the bed with a tiny cup filled with various pills. “They will help you, Mr. LoScuda. You need to take them.”

  Doc jumps a little when he notices Nick and I hovering at the back of the room. He glances at his nurses who gradually inch toward Gramps with his twin talons clutching at the acrid, hospital air. I can’t bear to watch any more of this.

  “Let me try,” I say to Doc. “See if I still have the touch.”

  I yank the plastic cup out of Doc’s hand before he can protest, and I approach the bed. Gramps sees me, and the glaze of ice over his eyes melts away. He lowers his hands from his mouth and there’s a smile full of ragged, yellow teeth behind it. “Keep your nose clean,” he says. “Keep your nose clean.” He’s excited, and who can blame him after being holed up in this room all week.

  “I’ll keep it clean, Grandpa,” I say to him, and I hold up the cup of pills to show him what I plan to do. No need to fool the old man anymore.

  “No pudding today,” I tell him. “The whole town ran out. Must be a shortage.”

  I hear Nick and one of the nurses fighting back a snicker. I sit down on the edge of the bed. Gramps reaches for a pair of rolled up socks and glares at Doc Weston. I can see the old man’s thoughts register, like a mental news ticker, across his forehead.

  “No grenades today,” I say. “They’ve already surrendered, soldier. Now stand down.”

  Gramps looks at me, then at his sock grenade, then at the glass of water. I hold it out to him. He takes it. Drops the socks on the mattress. I slip the pills in his outstretched palm and he gobbles them up like a bunch of Tic-Tacs and then washes them down with a few hearty gulps of water.