Dodger

by Dan Gallagher

6

  AFTER THE GOOD DAY AMERICA interview, things went south in a hurry. Work didn't call me back after I took those two weeks off, and when I went in to see what was up, they said my suicidal tendencies made me a safety hazard and a liability. In other words, you're fired.

  I couldn't find a job right away so I couldn't afford rent the next month. My landlord understood and let me break the lease. I moved in with my dad, and it was a nightmare. I couldn't do anything. I couldn't get high. I couldn't get laid. I couldn't write or play my guitar. I was stifled by condo environment.

  What made it worse is that he had COPD and emphysema and coughed like a merchant marine who'd inhaled enough asbestos to kill a giraffe. So every morning while I laid on the sofa bed and tried to dream of a life far away, I would listen to nonstop, incessant coughing, lungs coming up bit by bit, cell by cell coughing, and you could almost hear the cancer establishing a nice little settlement inside him, electing leaders and forming colonies and monopolies. It bought Park Place and Boardwalk. All four Railroads. Even the Utilities.

  The heart attack got him first, though.

  It was more or less a day like any other. I'd just started a new job at a nameless faceless restaurant and had worked the night shift, then gone out drinking, then went and jammed with Ray till about five. When I finally got up around two the next day, I noticed his bedroom door was closed. He goes to work at nine and isn't home any earlier than five and whenever he leaves, the bedroom door stays open. Always.

  As I turned the doorknob my inner dark side tried not to imagine the worst. Maybe the wind blew it shut. Maybe he's trying on dresses. Maybe he's getting laid.

  But he's not.

  I swing the door open and there he is, my father, lying on the hardwood floor of his room surrounded by dust bunnies. Lifeless. The tube from his nighttime oxygen tank dangled off the bed, once in his mouth, now just a witness. His eyes were closed, and his arms were wrapped around his knees. The fetal position.

  Out the same way he came in.

  David Barry Bailey has left the building. The great gig in the sky. The long farewell. Kicked the bucket, bought the farm, soon to be pushing daisies. Tupac backwards, capuT, finito. He was sixty two.

  I sat on the chair next to him for about an hour before I called. This would be the last time I'd get to spend with him before he was taken away, gone for good, strapped onto a gurney like a piece of meat, a customer, paperwork. The last time I'd ever get to spend with my father as his son. We weren't that close but we were far from apart, and I realized then that just having a dad in my life at all was more than a lot of other people got. He disapproved of every decision I made but held his tongue as long as I was happy. He let me stay with him whenever I lost a job or an apartment. He always made me feel like he was proud even though I'd done nothing to earn it.

  And just like that, I'll never have the chance to.

  Just like that, my dad's gone.

  I inherited the condo.

  It was a one bedroom ground floor on Kimball and Shakespeare, nothing impressive, so I cleaned it up and rented it to this young married couple expecting a baby. I couldn't stand the sight of the place anymore. All I saw was my dad everywhere. His ghost would sit at the counter and smoke, watch the Cubs, do three crossword puzzles in ten minutes. It would haunt the kitchen and make pot roast and split pea soup and the best mashed potatoes in the world. Of course I didn't tell the couple that. I didn't want them paying any less just because my father bit it inches from where their baby would be suckling teat.

  It had only been a year since I left my old apartment and it hadn't been rented, so my ex landlord was cool with me moving back in. The money from the condo's rent and my shit job was enough to get me by and then some. So it did. And it has. To this day.

  But now... that's not enough.

  I want more.

  I want it all.

  “I want to be the Dodger again.”

  Ray nearly spits out his rum and coke. “Uh... what?”

  “You heard me. I want to be the Dodger again.”

  We're sitting in this ridiculous bar the Hunt Club, just around the corner from his place. It's a cross between a hipster haven and a douchefest. No one cool, no hot chicks. Even the bartender and waitresses are homely.

  Ray's girlfriend's kid is visiting so he wanted to go grab a drink on the town, all the way around the corner where apparently, we can get into some serious trouble. He doesn't get out that much.

  Truth be told, I barely see the guy anymore. We've gone from Bert and Ernie to once in awhile pals. Joey and Chandler to acquaintances. Best friends to just friends. Girlfriends have that effect.

  But he's all I've got.

  “Dude,” he says, shaking his aerodynamic head. “You were miserable when all of that was going down. Why would you want to put yourself back in the spotlight? You hate the spotlight!”

  “Because I owe it to my parents.”

  Ray drinks, nods silently. He knows all about my dad.

  And my mom.

  Her death was anything but quick and painless, just like her life. My mom sacrificed everything for me, showered me with love and affection, supported me through all my bad decisions, and still I pushed her away, let her down, and made her regret ever knowing me. Just like every woman. Just like everyone.

  She drove one of the worst cars I've ever had the displeasure of riding in, and just getting into this thing was a task to say the least. You needed to stretch your hamstrings and calves before hopping in the backseat because on several occasions, elderly family members had pulled muscles upon entry or exit. Whenever there were get togethers and my mom would offer those who needed a ride a ride, no one would accept if there was an SUV or a four door available. If a tall person was in back they'd have to lay across the seat because otherwise their knees would hit their chin. This car was an ostrich, ostracized.

  No wonder it took her life.

  People said it was the stormy weather, that the accident couldn't have been prevented, that she never saw the pickup coming and just swerved on instinct, that she did what any other good driver would've done. That the twenty foot hydroplane down a practically underwater embankment was, simply put, God's will.

  My ass.

  The six hours she spent in that rainy, muddy, pitch black ditch saturated her already brittle little body to the point of no repair. Her cell phone was in her purse, which was thrown into the back seat on impact, about three feet from where her outstretched hand landed as the car hit its final resting place. Her leg, which was crushed under the steering wheel, had been visibly stretched to its limit, like she'd been inching closer and closer to the purse until the moment the internal bleeding killed her.

  She fought all the way, right up till the end.

  That was my mother.

  Mary Katherine Bailey.

  Gone, just like that.

  She was a packrat.

  When I went to clean out her apartment, specifically the attic, I found an endless amount of photographs, magazines, brochures, jackets, shoes, radios, televisions, toys, cards, books, CD's, and anything else that would remind a mother of her family. She wanted to remember it all. She cherished every second with us, especially me, and for so many years all I did was take advantage. I robbed her blind. She'd give me money whenever I wanted and of course I'd buy booze and drugs with it. By the time she hit sixty she had nothing saved up for her old age because it all went to my liver and lungs. I never got to apologize for that, for being an unworthy, ungrateful, piece of shit son, and it hurt, a lot, quite fiercely.

  So standing there in the middle of all that nostalgia, I lost it. The tears actually cried me. All I could think about was how much I used her, how much I took her kindness for a weakness, and how I thought it was okay because it'd all pay off once I hit it big, once I made my big splash. I'd be able to repay her and take care of her and help her see some of the world, and finally, finally make her proud of me. She gave up her life for me, she gave up everything to
make me happy, and the least I could do was something I didn't. Something I couldn't. I wasted so much time, I blinked and she was gone, and now all I can do is regret it. Which I do, with every breath.

  But I know she's still watching. I know she's still here, just like Dad.

  I have to make them proud.

  Just once.

  Ray sips his drink thoughtfully.

  “Dude, you know your parents were proud of you. They loved you. I mean, look at my parents. They're dysfunctional as fuck. Your mom, she was like... she was like my mom, too. And your dad was crazy about you. You made him laugh so much. I wish me, you, and your dad would've hung out more. He was cool.”

  I hold back the tears, drink up.

  “I know, Ray. But I need to do more. Now, more than ever. I need to be what they always expected of me and live up to that wonderful person they thought they raised. I need to spread my fucking wings and fly. I need to do things to change things and change things to do things. And I need to start now.”

  I slam my beer.

  “So what do you think?”

  He slams his rum. “I think you're crazy, motherfucker. I think if you let this reporter do this story you'll regret it. What's the saying? Let sleeping dogs lie. Don't awaken the beast. Dude, you know you hate the spotlight.”

  I want the check but the goddamn bartender is chatting with some frat fuck. I spin my stool around, spot a waitress with big unnecessary glasses, cock my head towards her.

  “Yo, Specs!”

  As she approaches her eyes slant under the Coke bottles.

  “Specs?”

  “Yeah, hey, see if you can get our bartender's attention, will ya? We've been waiting like twenty minutes for a check here.”

  I spin back around, smiling to myself. Ray and the waitress are speechless. She leaves and tells the bartender, not only to get us the check, but that we're also fucking assholes. Well, me anyway.

  Who gives a shit.

  I turn to Ray.

  “You know, I think I'll be able to handle the spotlight. This time around.”

  I smile, as does he.

  We bounce.