Previously

short fiction

Photo by Frank Okay on Unsplash

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After the divorce, I would sometimes park in the driveway of my former home. Not when my kids and ex-wife were there. I didn’t mean to stalk them. I’d like to think that I was stalking the memory of who I used to be.

I'd sit in the driveway and pretend that my ex-wife was still my wife, and that she'd heard me—heard my engine—and texted me:

Honey, before you come inside, can you go pick up a chicken?

And then I'd pretend to text back:

Yes, I believe I am strong enough to pick up a willing chicken. But an angry chicken will fight me if I try to pick it up.

And then I'd pretend she texted back:

Get a fried chicken, you silly goose. And some garlic mashed potatoes from the deli. I don’t feel like mashing anything tonight.

And then I'd pretend to drive to the supermarket for food—the 21st Century hunter—and bring back the vanquished animal and root vegetables to feed my family. Sometimes—most times—love is that primitive. It's easy to love and be loved. All you have to be is useful. All you have to do is provide service. All you have to say is yes, I'll get to that right away.

But, in real life, I continually failed to complete even the simple tasks. I couldn't do the normal shit that normal people do every normal day of their lives. Instead, I'm the guy who has downloaded twenty-five organization apps onto his phone, but has never opened any of them. I can’t organize my organization.

And even when I finally got something done, I'd expect outlandish praise from my wife—my ex-wife. I'd take out the garbage or load the dishwasher or vacuum a room—finish one chore—and I'd want to be treated like Thor.

Inside my marriage, I replaced God's countenance with my own. And I’m a messy God. I am the God of Lost Keys and Debit Cards Forgotten in ATMs.

And yet, since the divorce, I’ve become an expert at organizing my shame and regrets. So, exactly fifteen minutes after I park in front of my former home, I drive away, not wanting to worry the neighbors, not wanting to irritate my wife—my ex-wife—when she returns from work.

Then I drive around the city for a few hours. I travel through neighborhoods where I might someday buy myself a little house. I'm not yet ready for that new kind of permanence. And I simultaneously dread and welcome the day when my grief subsides enough for me to call a real estate agent.

After these self-guided tours through the city, I drive to my small apartment on the hill, and I anxiously await the next Friday afternoon—for my son and daughter to arrive and spend forty-eight hours with me. Sometimes, it's only forty-seven hours. Sometimes, it's forty-nine. And I like to pretend that extra hour makes me a better father. But it doesn't.

Alone in bed, I often ask myself what I want from my changed and changing world. And the answer is that I want to feel adequate.

Is that too much to ask for? I don't think it is. But how does one become adequate?

Last week, in my 12-step meeting, a new man walked in. He looked ten days out of rehab, a pink-cloud who was absolutely positive that he would never drink again. He thought he knew the secret. He was showered and handsome. He sat next to one of the regulars. She’d been sober for seven years and divorced three times. She’d met her last two husbands during meetings. We refer to those doomed love affairs as The 13th Step. Recovering drunks have successfully married other recovering drunks but I’d never bet money on the longevity of those relationships. That woman, despite the years of abuse, was very pretty, though she had extremely crooked teeth that revealed her childhood poverty. She always smiled with her lips closed.

She and the new man were immediately attracted to one another. You could see it. You could smell it. I guessed they’d fall into a brief relationship. They’d take turns being the wrecking ball and the condemned building. I was embarrassed for them. And I was jealous. I’d sometimes wished that woman would fall for me. But I was fifteen years and thirty pounds past being handsome to strangers. And I still managed to hold a decent credit rating despite all my personal chaos. What a strange way to be: too broken for my wife—my ex-wife—and not broken enough for some other women.

Yesterday, I told my therapist that I hoped I’d fall in love again. I hoped that I’d find somebody to make coffee for on cold winter mornings.

"Sounds like progress," he said.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"You’re looking past what will happen in the next week. You’re operating with some degree of hope.”

"Well, shit," I said. "I guess I deserve a parade."

So, here I am, the grand marshal of my own destruction. I am the float made of on-time child support checks. I am the prince and princess of heterosexual failure. I am the drummer and drum of un-bliss. I am every person lining the street to watch. I am the giant human balloon roped to a dozen other humans below.

Look at me being towed through the streets of our city.

Look at me!

I'm the spectacle who pretends that he wants to be ordinary.

Look at me!