First Off

I was in Minneapolis when my Grandfather died.

I was still there two weeks later when I finally got the news.

A man named Jonathon Briggs contacted me at work on January First. He had been a college friend of my mother's, and had last seen me when I was seven years old. His company did business with the one I work for a few years back, and he recognized me in a brief encounter in the meeting room.

My mother had been in touch with him through e-mail for a while, and had let drop that I was completely out of pocket during this time of familial crisis. This jogged his memory enough to go looking, and find me despite two lateral promotions between groups with poor to no communication.

I am constantly amazed and astounded by the small world syndrome. The very instant I decide I've completely distanced myself from the various vagaries of my past, something comes back to show me how wrong I am.

I spent years being my own man, years spent in an irresistable ignorant bliss, running away from the old self, blind to all of the old bullshit. And here it was, staring me in the face again.

My memories of my grandfather are mostly gentle and prosaic. A too short lifetime of trips to the mall for toys or music, Christmas mornings, Thanksgiving dinners, the odd fishing trip, or the evening bowling. Sick days away from school spent in the care of the old man, playing gin and checkers. The smell of his aftershave, and his bristly stubble rubbing against my face or forehead during a hug or a kiss. The looks of astonishment as I repaired an old television, or tinkered with a computer. The words of encouragement towards refining my skills with electronics. Tens and twenties slipped between fingers with the admonishment not to tell my parents. (Who would eventually think that it was drug money, or other ill-gotten gains.) His random mysterious smiles.

The sick feeling of despair and desperation as his brain slowly ceased to function as he sunk into senility brought on by Alzheimer's disease.

The last time he called me by my name was to ask for a glass of ice water as we watched a golf match on TV. Had I known that would be it, I would have personally axed a chunk of the arctic and brought it to him in a crystal goblet. Instead, it was a recycled plastic fast-food cup filled with tap water.

After that, I was my father. I was a high school friend. I was an army buddy. Anyone but me.

Shortly thereafter, I left. I could no longer deal with a world that could allow something so heinous to happen. Had I been told it was a sign of Armageddon, of the end times, I would have believed.

Maybe at some point I realized it was just the same old bullshit, but it was never a concious decision. Instead, I just buried it and let it lie, just like any other emotion I might have felt in relation to the place, to the life, that I left.

It's not that life was horrible. It was intolerable to me, but not horrible. I'm certain there are worse places to spend your childhood. I've heard about them in music, seen them on the news. Regardless, I had the undeniable imperative to run far, far away and not look back. I didn't ever want to be reminded of that place. I didn't want to remember that I had a childhood.

But there it was. The old me, resurfaced, resurrected, warts and all. Ugly reminder of something I thought was well behind me. For all I knew, or even cared in as much as I thought about it, he had been dead for years. Why did I care now? His mind had passed long ago, isn't that what counts? I couldn't see the import in the passing of the body. His death was a moot point.

But it found me. Damn it all, it found me. It crept in, and settled deep. I needed closure, finality, or something, to make it go away. That deadly feeling washed over me in a tidal wave, and I sunk. Suddenly almost dead to stimuli, feeling deaf, dumb, and blind. I set my body on auto-pilot, no longer in control. No longer with the power to take control. But I could feel it. I was going back.

I was going back to Texas.

--Ian

posted by Ian Quinn  : 8/09/2002 06:37:00 AM