A Letter

I write this to those who have found something in my words; my blog and my odd posts. I thank you all for your reviews and your kind words; for keeping me entertained and supplying me with some motive for going forth. I will strive to remain worthy of your support as well as your continued reading.

Things are not so well for me now and I am reticent in offering explanation because I don't wish to be seen as soliciting. I only have a tale to tell and the medium in which to express it. That is the important thing. Nonetheless, my position is dire, and I don't mean that in any symbolic or literary sense. I am about to become homeless unless there is a miracle, but even if there isn't a miracle in any financial sense, there is the miracle of these words which seem to come to me out of nowhere. They are truly all I have left to give.

I have until the fifteenth. Yesterday I called around to the shelters. I dialed ten numbers and spoke to only one live person who gave me a list of numbers which I then called only to be run through a variety of useless options and never spoke to a live person.

I have until the fifteenth, and two days ago I picked up a roofing nail in my rear bike tire. I usually carry a spare tube but times have been tight. I had to walk my bike several blocks home. It was grueling. I am a back surgery survivor. After one block, my legs were screaming and after two they were beginning to get numb. And the whole time I was walking I kept thinking about the book I am working on; my dying song, or living song, depending on how you look at it. I thought, "I have until the fifteenth to finish this book," and I thought of what I would write about that night when I got home; the home I am about to lose.

Yesterday, I tried a patch on the inner tube. Jeri brought the kit over very late which is usual for her, so half the day was already wasted… but the patch didn't work anyway. I called my father.

"Dad, you're it," I said. "You’re the last one I can turn to."

I explained the situation with the bike tire and how this Sunday was the fifteenth and how I had called all those numbers and how I was going to be sleeping in the dirt if I couldn't make something happen. Most importantly, I described my immediate needs �" a bike tire.

What I did not tell him was how I really felt, except in terms of the things which had recently occurred regarding my sister who feels that my condition is the result of mental illness, to which I say poverty has its own way with people. She has no idea what this means. My sister is on SSI and hasn't worked for years, instead finding it useful to spend her days tending garden and reading bad novels. Her simplemindedness factors in. She more closely fits the norm within the family and so she holds some, which hasn't played out very well for me.

I haven't told him how I feel about the fact that I know he has the money to pay my rent for a few months while I finish this book but he will not. I haven't even asked. If it were me I would just offer; that is, if I were my child and now I see that I am, truly "my child" and somehow I must pull myself up out of this mess on my own. It hurts me that he doesn't offer. He lives in a big house in Canyon Crest and drives an expensive Oldsmobile. He also has savings. He is married to a fishwife named Carol who talks incessantly. Her forty-eight year old son and his wife live with them along with their two year old daughter. It is Carol's house. Dad sold his own to move in with her after his second wife died. It seems someone else's kids have always taken priority over my sister and I, even now at eighty-two, but I am too old to make an issue of this. It doesn't seem appropriate or necessary. He left us a long time ago, but yesterday he came over and took me out and I kept all this in. I needed a f*****g inner tube.

I also kept to myself how I felt about him not reading the story I wrote for him, because I thought if he would read it, he might see that I write well and this new craft of mine is worth supporting… but he hasn't read it. He only reads the paper and watches Fox News and takes care of someone else's kids while I am about to be sleeping in the dirt, that is,  if I can't figure something out.

While we are out looking for an inner tube, I tried presenting my feelings in a way I felt would not upset him. I did this because I needed an inner tube and I was glad for the few bucks he sometimes throws my way. It isn't much; tossing peanuts at the monkey. But hey, there is the moment of my necessity and I mustn't spoil it. I will be a good monkey and not say it; how I wanted to be taken seriously and be seen, perhaps, as a good investment, promising magnificent returns on the dollar… the dollar… the dollar… the dollar… los dolores; sad money.

"I don't want your inheritance old man. I need care now."

But I do not say it.

We went to K-mart and Target and they had every size of inner tube except the one I needed. Dad looked very tired. I felt for him but I had to tell him in the car how I felt about the gossip concerning my supposed mental condition. I had to tell him about the call from my sister and how I felt set-up; about how all the ladies in my life seemed to be setting me up. I had to tell him how they had misrepresented the situation and I am still a viable human being; about how this all went back to narcissism and their refusal to own their own mistakes. But my father does not know what narcissism means. I used Jeri as an example because she is not family and so remains a little outside the touchy-feely perimeter. I wanted him to understand what I meant by "set-up" because that has been my chief complaint. I think he probably knows what a set-up is. I tell him how I was stood up by her on Thangs-giving and Christmas and how her day often does not begin until one o'clock, but the point I was trying to make was that I had hung on her word. I had given her word credence and waited on it. I was the one waiting when the hour struck and the one who remained waiting as the hours passed. That is what I call a set-up and to think of it any other way would be insanity. And yet, I am the crazy one and if I should happen to point out that arrangements were not kept or calls returned, I am proclaimed guilty of heresy and marched directly to the stake. I tried to explain these things to my eight-two year old father and then, somehow, I was a little ashamed to be doing so and so I returned to silence.

He said, "Well, that's nothin' new."    

He took me home; sans inner tube.

"I guess we'll have to try again tomorrow," he said.

"Guess so," I said, "but hey, thanks Dad."

"No problem."

But there was.

It's a nice home; a room-share; perfect for an old goat like me. It has kept me warm and fairly comfortable. I'm going to miss it.

My needs are few. I like coffee in the morning with a cigar. I suppose the cigar is a little out of the ordinary, but what I am saying is that my needs are not extravagant. They are simple and they make sense to me. I am up early every morning and writing by eight o'clock; answering mail and such. There is a rhythm to my days which includes a gift at their conclusion, a gift of so many words. I am glad that some of those words have delighted a few others and that those others have taken the time to let me know. That is why the book is important and why I have spent so many hours on it and why I am always thinking of what I will say next. I am writing a book because that is the only way you might know me and delight with me in these remaining moments here on Mulberry Street; a place which, If I had my choice, I would remain and write of Mulberry Street. There is enough to write about here to last the rest of my days and it would be a comfort to wake knowing that I still have this room and this porch, a coffee and a Swisher Sweet; to know that I am not obsolete and that there are still places left for me to go. That is why "the book." It is a must. It is the very best of what remains to me.

People often make the mistake, when I describe my situation, of thinking automatically that I am asking for something. They are wrong and I will not admit to it, but this does not stop my hope for an offering. Often, they say, "I don't know what to say," and I give them that, even though I know that it is not that they don't know what to say but more that they do not wish to acknowledge something, because we all know something is terribly wrong. It's fairly common knowledge, and so, most of us go on, hoping to heaven, if there is one, that it doesn't happen to us; frightened, and rightly so, because we sense with some certainly that it will; that we will all reach the end some day and find ourselves grasping for that one last shred of dignity; that last remaining modicum of honor. We sense this and so we run. I confess to having done this most of my life.

But there is the book to write and I will stash my laptop at Jeri's and take it every day to the stacks at the public library and finish it. I will probably include this letter in it, because writing takes time and I can't afford to waste any of that. I need to get back to doing some rewriting and getting things arranged just so. It's a lot of work. I will also be chronicling what happens to me next as I move out into the great nothing. That should be interesting and include a wealth of characters. Stay tuned. There is more to come. It never stops… though I sometimes wish it would. The main thing is not to panic and just write this.

I am waiting for my father and it is ten-thirty and I wonder if I should be calling someone, but I called all those numbers yesterday and it left me with such a bad feeling that I just go on writing. I really should be getting my laundry in one last time here on Mulberry Street, not knowing when or where I will be able to wash again, but I continue writing and waiting for my father to return my call.

He finally calls around eleven and says that he has picked up two inner tubes for me and will be dropping them by because, as he says, it's simpler that way. He does not say that it is because he knows I need to talk; that I can't help myself except to try in desperation to help myself. He knows this, so this was simpler and I am not complaining because I will be able to fix my tire and get out of this room sometime today. I may ride to the park and write the next bit in longhand to be typed later. I may sit at some bench down at the park and watch the birds and write in flares using the tip of an ancient writing implement; a ballpoint. He says he is in the Starbuck's parking lot down the street. He had to pick up a prescription at CVS. I ask him if he could please bring me a coffee from Starbuck's and he says fine. A few minutes late rmy cell rings again and I know he is at the curb. I pick up and tell him I will be right there. The electric window goes down and he looks tired. He hands me the two inner tubes and explains that one valve is longer than the other but that it shouldn't make any difference and I tell him that's okay.

"Well, I better go," he says. "I'm pooped."

"Me too," I say. "It's a s****y feeling not being able to get anywhere. I'm stressed enough as it is. At least I'll be able to get out of here for a while."

I emphasize again that these are precious moments remaining to me but I know he is tired and inwardly torn. He thinks he is doing the best thing. He is convinced of that.

"I'll let ya go fix your tire," he says.

I say, "Thanks again Dad," and to some degree I mean it when I say it before I go off to my room to resume writing this. I will get to the tire when I have finished writing this thought I am having, but then… I have another one and so I keep writing this letter and this book which will probably contain this letter. But now this letter must come to a close because I must fix my tire.

Thanks for indulging me.

Sincerely,

Keve

Reviews

[Mark]

Please do not scoff as I write this, as in my case it is most certainly NOT a mere platitude. I wholeheartedly believe that, though your earthly father might be something of a disappointment, your Heavenly Father NEVER shall be. If He is allowing you to go through a rough patch this year...or this decade...there will be a payoff, if you but persevere in your faith and hope, and never give up considering and implementing EVERY conceivable option. You and I have talked several times in the past about our respective histories. You already know that, were it not for a church friend permitting me to stay in his vacation home (for a year and a half, now!), I too would be homeless, and that the very computer I now write you on was a gift from a WC friend. If your family have agendas and burdens of their own, which prevent them coming to your aid, then pray for them, more than for yourself. Do not be too proud to ask the local churches, taking a copy of this letter to them...having, preferably, omitted the word "f*****g", I should think!...They may take your situation before the congregation, and a good-hearted soul might feel moved to help with short-term shelter, as one did for me. I don't know where you live, but if you PM me that inf, I will kick in whatever I can, even if it's just a cheap phone, so that potential employers can contact you. It WILL work out, my friend. Just don't lose heart. God's agendas are far-reaching and frequently obscure, but they ALWAYS redound to the greatest good for the greatest number, however unlikely that may seem to you to be in your present circumstance. Keep the faith, Keve. Mark

[RainQueen]

This is heartbreaking. Amazing the amount of empathy you express for your Dad, even when your own situation is dire.

I wish you could stay on Mulberry Street~