Papa Hassan’s Cafe. Sir Salman Rushdie. A lecture on literature in the 21st century.
Sounds of the audience: stomach growling, chest wheezing, coughing, sneezing, scratching, shifting, toes tapping, clapping, laughing, listening – breathing, thinking, cell phone ringing, seat squeaking… I wrote a note, I cleared my throat, a couple continues whispering.
His father was diagnosed with cancer. After several treatments and operations their family would eventually confront the fact time together would be short.
The funeral was held at Temple Beth David in Westminster. I remember sitting between my parents in the middle of the Synagogue. I could see my friend with his mother in the front row as his sister spoke before the guests of the service.
She was in high school at the time and through her tears started talking about how her dad would never get the chance to see her off to College, walk her down the aisle at her wedding or hold her first child. I was suddenly short of breath. My vision seemed to narrow and flatten. I jumped up from my seat, quickly climbing over my parents and everyone else in our row, running straight for the back door.
Outside I took a deep breath while looking up at the clouds in the sky. I started crying uncontrollably, short of breath, unable to focus. I walked over toward the back of the parking lot, which wrapped along the side of the 405 freeway. I placed my hand on the chain-linked fence and watched cars driving by. There were so many people going places. I just wondered, where was everyone off to in such a hurry?
I am thread of fabric sewn together with reluctant habit. Typecast uncharacteristically indifferently, indefinitely.
In this, only my second second, I regret to fit formulaic my acquiescent resurrection.
Born when born again.
As a kid I would prepare for bed by changing into my pajamas, brushing my teeth and washing my face. I would walk toward the back room and say goodnight to my parents as they watched television. Most nights I asked politely if they would turn down the volume as my bedroom shared a wall with the den, but on particular occasions when I planned to pretend to be sleeping I didn’t bother question their noise as this audible distraction would drown out my mischief.
Each tape was labeled precise to its content and genre. I cued the cassette while keeping the audio levels low on my stereo as to not draw attention to my activities. With the lights out I hid under my blankets, cautiously waiting for the disc jockey on the late night radio show to announce the number one hit song for the night.
Quickly I jumped out of bed, simultaneously pressing down both the “play” and “record” button as the music was introduced. Creating “mix tapes” was an extraordinary skill which required proficient expertise with special attention to details. I took this process seriously. I never allowed for an ending of a previous song to overlap with the tune I had selected.
These tapes were created for moments of solitude when listening to your walkman, for extended play in the family van when unwarranted questions were asked after class, and as the heartfelt gift given to the current crush at school.
The ambulance siren in the distance sounds like whining, wailing sadness. An Ending (Ascent). Another toothbrush in my bathroom cabinet. Another dessert in my kitchen fridge. I kick my shoes off while sitting on the couch with my computer in my lap. I write as I drink. I am unrequited and unaware. I don’t understand because I don’t care.
I’m not sure there is such a thing as a broken heart… maybe just a bruised ego.
On another note: Celebrate everything. Life will feel fuller.
