Where does your father do his barnacles? Unfucked Edition Part 7

The appointment was to be five hours of processing. First they give you an unsharpened pencil to be used at a booth containing a fidgety touch screen that never seemed to catch where you were pointing the eraser. So while I spent forty-five minutes answering “no,” to every possible way you can ask someone if they’ve ever been anywhere near any AIDS a clipboard lady who checked people in was taken by the plea of an older man who burst into a head-turningly audible sob.

“I lost my son on Monday.” The words shook like children in snow. Behind me I could feel an emptiness form and tug at me like a small black hole. It made my shoulders tense. Don’t look. That was all I could think. Don’t look and maybe you won’t have to share his pain.

“I’m so sorry to hear that, sir. Here sign right here and we’ll get you in a booth right away.”

“Thank you,” He held the plea in his voice.

While the computer was busy getting to the bottom of all my shared needle exploits in the Philippines and North Africa the old man lingered behind me in front of the clipboard lady.

“You know how old I am?”

“No, sir. I don’t.”

“I’m almost fifty. He would have been twenty-one.”

“I’m so sorry, sir. The machine to your right is open. Use the eraser tip on this pencil to answer the questions.”

Don’t look. We get the urge to say something of comfort and warmth to those in pain and at the same time we dread it. What would I say anyways? Life is just organized metabolism. We’re all just shit makers, passing little bits of the environment through our digestive systems and creating new autonomous digestive systems that will one day inherit all the jobs and cars and old blenders and shit while they think more and more about how we were stupid and old for having all the types of jobs and cars and blenders we had. Your boy never had to deal with the burden of age. He was never obsolete or abandoned. That’s good. He’s young forever. Now.

“You have such beautiful hair.” Don’t look. But the voice was louder and beside me now. I looked and there he was talking straight at me. He had lines of highlighted hair that looked damp and his skin was the color of a cigarette filter. He wore a beaded necklace with sunglasses, which gave his overall look a sort of Ron Jeremy half-assly playing a surfer. “Well, right back at you.” I said trying to sound warm. “It looks like you still know how to rock and roll. Right on.” I turned back to my touchscreen before I heard him say thanks.

After proving through rigorous questioning that I never raw-dogged an AIDS-monkey, had an off-market surgery or prison tattoos I was corralled to another corner of the center where physicals were to be given. Sitting outside the door between some Mexican chick with a neck tattoo of some metro-looking clown with a bulging crotch and an end table that had a used band-aid in a ring sticking off of it, I pretended to read my book while I privately catastrophized my future. After a few minutes Juanita was called into the room. The man whose son died sat down next to me as I pretended to be engaged in my reading.

“You know you have the most handsome face and, like I said, I love your hair and the side burns. Very cool.” He leaned over as if trying to breath in the air between my face and the book.

“Thank you.” I said with my eyes never leaving the book. “That’s very kind.”

The man whose son had died, the man that looked like an obese, Sammy Hagar started to cry. There was no one else in our waiting area. I looked around for a nurse or one of those button pagers that would summon one, but no help appeared. Someone had once told me that any interaction you have with another person is a chance to learn something about the human species so I forced myself to act like a nice person.

“Hey, I overheard that you lost your son. That’s tragic. I’m sorry for your loss and I’m sorry no one has come up with something better to say when things like this happen. I can’t really imagine what kind of pain you’re going through, but you know that. What I will say is even though I’m young I have, at least, experienced one form of loss and I can tell you that when you’re moving forward you experience the pain less and less. That might mean writing your thoughts down or memories or talking those out with a family member or friend. Some days are worse than others but after a while if you try to focus on the future at least as much as you’re drawn to the past, overall, the adjustment gets easier. You just gotta keep putting one foot in front of the other, I guess.”

“Thank you,” He said. “You’re very kind.”

“How old was he?”

“Twenty-one.”

“Were you close?”

“Yes, I saw him everyday.” He started to tear up again.

“Death takes us all eventually, man and we don’t even know what the hell it is. I don’t know what you believe, but people are always saying stuff like ‘he’s in a better place’ or ‘he’s watching over you now’ when we really don’t have any clue as to what’s really going on. So I guess what I’m saying is believe whatever you want, whatever gives you comfort and it’ll do it. Placebo effects are powerful and we don’t understand a Godda—, uhm, well, we don’t know anything about them other than the fact that they’re powerful. So even if you believe something totally untrue chances are your body will reward you with something that helps.”

“Thank you.” He said with regained composure. “I’m sorry to ask, but can I have a hug?”

“Of course.” Skin hunger is the drive to feel one another, to release endorphins and strengthen bonds that all social animals tend to have. He was probably depleted so I hugged the man whose son had died. It wasn’t for too long.

“You smell nice.”

“Thank you.” I said and tried to return to my book, but when the man sat back down he sat on the edge of his chair leaning towards me and peering closer into the space between my face and my book. His elbows were on his knees. “Do you model?”

“No.” I laughed.

“You laugh, but you could if you wanted.”

“Thank you. That’s flattering, but I don’t think modeling would be for me.”

“Do you want to see a picture of my boyfriend? He’s got sideburns like you.”

“Sure.” I said, feeling uneasy, feeling as if I was smelled for a reason, like I was identified.

A man with long frizzy hair was leaning over a stickered guitar reaching out for a can of beer. He looked much younger than the man whose son had died.

“Can I take a picture of you?” He was already holding his phone at a calculated angle.

“I guess.”

The man waited for me to strike a pose. I smiled for a bit, but it felt wrong or faulty. I changed to something more serious, something reactionary. It probably was a look of legitimate concern with some mild disgust.

“There we go.” He said. And then as I returned to my book he reached out. “Hold on.” He lightly touched the edge my chin, moving it forward to get my profile.

“I promise you won’t find these on the internet.” He said with a smirk. A nurse called my name and as the door shut behind me I was thankful for it’s invention.

Other Posts:

The Best Fuck You Part 1Part 2Part 3Part 4
Invest in Rain Part1Part 2Part 3
Where does your father do his barnacles? Part 1 Part 2Part 3Part 4Part 5Part 6
Van-life series Part 1
Rushing into a relationship with my unconscious Part1

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