My father died last year. Natural causes, don’t worry. I’m not a suspect, my alibi was ironclad. My father and I had our differences — I’m smart and funny — but we did share a somewhat dark sense of humor, though some might not notice that about me. He made jokes about his dying all the time, and I made jokes about him dying all that time, as well. So understandably, when he finally died, I had nobody around to mock, so I called up my friend Byron, who lives in Pennsylvania, and made some jokes about his death. But somehow it wasn’t the same.
Byron suffers from melancholy, you see. I mean, he gets melancholic, which I describe, in an envious sort of way, as a ‘single man’s affliction’, because I have daughters who never permit me to indulge in moments of anything even remotely resembling ennui. If ever I was weighed down by the vicissitudes of fate or the apparent pointlessness of existence, they’d rouse me with an argument. Not with me, but with each other. Likely, it would be about who owns which dress.
“No! Es mio!”
Did I mention they’re bilingual? The more heated their arguments, the more likely it is they argue in Spanish.
No, es mio! means ‘No, it’s mine!’ Though I actually try not to learn any Spanish vocabulary, because I somehow associate the language with little girls arguing about dresses.
My friend Byron has no children and no spouse, and no real responsibilities — at least, none he couldn’t shirk. There’s something poetic about him, now I think about it. He’s thoughtful. I mean, he’s not the sort who can somehow sense your hour of need, and run off and fetch you a biscuit. He just has this dreamy, thoughtful air. Contemplative, I suppose. He also has a fine head of hair. In short, good qualities to have in a friend — and if you’re looking for one, and live near Philadelphia, I’d be happy to sell him to you at a fair price.
Since I had children, I just haven’t had the time to put into my relationship with him. Also, there’s something about single people — and single men, especially — that gets my goat.
Single men yawn and say stupid, tactless things like, ‘sorry, I overslept’, then act sad, as if expecting your deepest sympathies. I’m a father, which means I haven’t overslept since the day Boudica arrived. One time, when she was four years old, and upon discovering me asleep, Boudica climbed up on the bed and kicked my head. Not out of malice, mind you, but because she wanted me to make her some crepes. I think it was about five in the morning.
Nobody kicks Byron in the head. It makes me sad for him. The other thing is, he can leave the house whenever he likes, without explanation, without having to wade through a fit of tears, and then he can stay out until he pleases. If he wants, he can even come swanning in the following day, reeking of good whiskey.
If I tried such a thing — well, you have no idea the amount of messages I’d receive from Boudica. All those sad emojis. Picture me there, the next afternoon, crushed by the weight of a hangover and the disappointed stares from my daughters. Then think of Byron, with no responsibilities at all, with his good looks and intelligence, and boundless human potential. Does he go swanning out for whiskey? What does he do with all that free time? Still, I wonder. Is he happy? I really hope not.
Where was I? Right. My father had died, and I only raised the topic to mention he had his first heart attack in his forties. Obviously, it has occurred to me that I, too, might be genetically susceptible to heart disease. I live my life with the grim expectation that I might have a heart attack at any moment. And that when it happens, it might be because of one of my children. So, I do all these things … I eat a lot of salads and I exercise, and I even forbid myself salt-and-vinegar potato chips, because I love them so much, and to such a great extent that conceivably they may, one-day, become something of a lifestyle problem.
In fact, just thinking about salt-and-vinegar chips brings me closer to melancholy than just about any other topic. Fortunately, it soon turns to rancor. I bet Byron can eat all the salt-and-vinegar chips he wants. I bet Byron is eating some right now. I should call Byron. A nice invigorating conversation about American politics to brighten his day…
For years now, I’ve been living with this strange dread concerning this muscular knot in my left pectoral muscle. It’s always there. It feels like a dull ache. I’ll be standing there, perhaps having come back from a run, and I’ll feel this sort of spasm — and for a moment, I think, oh no, here we go. Here comes that dark tunnel. But I have things to do! So many books to write!
And who knows? Hattie is nine-years-old, but one day she’ll be nineteen, and possibly dating a boy, and you know what that means? She’ll need me there, at her side, comforting her at her boyfriend’s funeral; she’ll need to know I’m there for her, with an ironclad alibi.
So last month, with these sorts of thoughts swirling in my mind like cigar smoke, which is another indulgence I cannot enjoy, I finally got fed up with everything and booked an appointment with a cardiologist. He was a nice old bloke called Jim. We discussed my father, then we talked about Winston Churchill for a while, though I cannot seem to remember why. Then Jim put me through a battery of tests. I was subjected to x-rays and ultra-sounds. Blood was extracted from my body. He even made me run on a treadmill until I was thoroughly sick of it.
Finally, Jim sat me down in his office and, with all the empirical data before him, said to me, “You’re a healthy man, Kris. Your calcium level is zero. The odds of you having a cardiac event in the next ten years are less than one percent. You and I have absolutely nothing to talk about.”
He hasn’t met my daughters, but I’ll take it. I’m an optimist at heart.
I’ve been feeling fairly breezy ever since. And this morning, you know what I did? I woke up and thought to myself, I’ve been good my entire life. I deserve to eat some salt-and-vinegar potato chips. Then I walked all the way to the shops — it’s a half-hour-walk — and when I got there, they had no salt-and-vinegar chips! They had other chips, but none that were salt-and-vinegar! So, I walked to another grocery store and … same scenario.
Then I remembered. There’s a cyclone bearing down on Brisbane this weekend and, evidently, the locals have been swarming the stores and buying up all the necessities. Who knew these would include all the salt-and-vinegar potato chips?!
I am struck by the unreasonableness of the situation. *But why all the salt-and-vinegar potato chips?It’s a cyclone! We might have to go without electricity and water for days, so … are we really hoard salt-and-vinegar potato chips? Is this so that, without power and water, we might all feel properly thirsty? What is happening inside people’s minds?
But such are my thoughts. I wanted to talk more about other matters, but my mind won’t seem to let me. I have much to say about the United States manifesting a sudden and bizarre hostility towards Canada (and Mexico and Panama and Greenland and Europe), but I’m sure we’re all thinking the same thing. (ie. That Trump has noticed the way his wife looks at Trudeau. I mean, google it! Look at the pictures!)
I also know I need to be more frequent in my correspondence. I know that my sanity is a rope to which many of you cling. I should not vanish for long spells like this; I’ve been letting you all down. It’s just that, well, I have had a rather trying few months. We all have, I suspect, though many haven’t quite realized it yet.
Do not lose your faith in me. I’ll be back with more nonsense on the far side of this cyclone.
With chaste affection,
Kris St.Gabriel
