Хэнк Муди - God Hates Us All

4. K. Tried to sabotage her relationship for no other reason than my own libido.

Took advantage of breakup and rebound.

5. Nate. See #4.

6. Herman. Lied about poetry.

7. Zach Shuman. Assistant manager at Hempstead Golf and Country Club. Still a prick. But I got him fired. Worse, I was happy to get him fired. What does that say about me?

8. The kid in my freshman hall whom I sprayed in the face with a fire extinguisher while tripping on mushrooms. Shouldn’t have done it.

Damn: I don’t even remember his name.

I KEEP SCRIBBLING FOR SEVERAL pages, amazed at how many long-forgotten slights I’m able to dig up. The last one turns out to be the most shocking:

27. Dad.

DAD. THERE’S PROBABLY NOT A wrong in the world I don’t blame you for. Fine, you’re never going to win a “Father of the Year” award, but you put a roof over my head and paid for my education, gifts I’ve accepted with a big Fuck You. Somehow I’ve turned you into the Antichrist, when in truth you’re simply just as lost and stupid and confused and flawed as everybody else.

When the plane lands at Kennedy, I call Billycollect, given the loss of my wallet — to tell him I was stuck at the airport without money or means to get into the city.

“I’ll get someone to cover,” says Billy. “But you and the personal days, kid. It’s getting to be a real issue.”

“My bad. Extenuating circumstances.”

“Spare me the ten-dollar words. I’ll be straight with you. You’ve brought in a lot of extra business these last few weeks. Don’t think he hasn’t noticed.”

Billy’s referring to the half-dozen characters I’d created to service Danny Carr’s smoking needs, characters now facing retirement. “You’ve earned a little goodwill. But goodwill is a checking account.

And you’re coming close to being overdrawn.”

“Understood, Billy.”

“Good. Now hurry the fuck up.”

“There isn’t anybody who could give me a ride, is there?” Billy hangs up the phone.

I think about calling Tana, but I haven’t spoken to her since our dinner. There’s only one real option.

After some confusion with a receptionist unfamiliar with receiving collect calls, I’m connected to my father.

“Hey, it’s me,” I say. “I need a ride.”

“Are you okay? Where are you?” He almost sounds concerned.

“The airport.”

“What are you doing at the airport?”

“I’d rather not say.”

A few seconds pass in silence. “You know I just got into work.”

“What an amazing coincidence. I just dialed these digits, completely at random, and found you at the office. Come on, Dad. I wouldn’t be calling you unless it was my option of last resort. Which it is.”

“Kennedy or La Guardia?”

“Kennedy. International Terminal. And not to sound ungrateful, but if you could find it in your heart to repay me that hundred you ‘borrowed’ from me, this would be a good time.”

He arrives an hour later. I climb into the passenger seat.

“You okay?” he asks.

“I’m fine. Let’s go.”

Dad stops staring at me long enough to look into his side mirror. He pulls away from the curb. “Is this drugs? Are you into drugs?”

“I’m not on drugs.”

“Good.” He punches the dashboard lighter and pulls his cigarettes out of his pocket. “You want one?”

“Yes please.” I’d smoked my last Camel somewhere over the Pacific Ocean. My father hands me the pack and, when the lighter clicks, gestures for me to light mine first.

“It’s actually about a woman,” I say.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“That I’m into women?”

“That you’re shaping up to be as big a dope as I am.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” I say with a smile.

“You’ve left me with big shoes to fill.”

“Heh,” he sputters. “Listen. Your mom’s not doing so well.”

“I know. I know I’ve haven’t been so good about visiting, but I’m going to be better here on out.”

“Here on out’s not that long, is all I’m saying. Do we have an actual destination?”

“Train station, assuming you have my money.”

“I have your money. So where the hell were you, anyway?”

I bring him up to speed, or try to. The story has just reached Hooker Hill when we reach the station.

“Guess we’ll finish it another time,” he says, handing me a hundred bucks. “Maybe over a couple of drinks.”

“I’d like that.”

“I’m sorry for being such a dick.”

“You aren’t a dick. And I haven’t always been the best son, either.”

“Visit your mother,” he yells after me as I walk away.

I make it into the city in time to put in a half-day of work, and I’ve got enough money to return to the Island that evening. My father proves to be a master of understatement. My mother is barely conscious when I walk into her hospital room, doped up on serious meds that at any other time I might have coveted. She smiles when she sees me, but can’t quite muster the energy to speak. I’ve been sitting with her for an hour when I see Dr. Best pass by in the hallway. I chase him down.

“She doesn’t look that good,” I say.

“You’re going to have to remind me who you are again. …” I do. “Right!” says the doctor. “I thought we already talked about this?”

“Maybe with my father?”

“Right! So no, not good. Maybe a week or two.”

“A week or two?”

He crinkles his eyes into a face he probably learned at med school on the day they studied Dealing with Terminal Patients and Their Families.

“I wish we could have done more. I’m sure she appreciates you being here. Even when they can’t respond, like she can’t, they still appreciate it.

That’s what they say, anyway.” I realize for the first time that he’s shaking my hand.

I spend the night in her room, listening to her breathe until I fall asleep in a chair. I repeat the same ritual for the rest of the week, waking up in the chair each morning, catching the train, and filing in and out of the city like the rest of the clockpunchers. Each night I return to my bedside vigil, watching my mother slip closer and closer to the finish line.

“AT LEAST SHE DIDN’T SUFFER LONG,” says Dottie, apparently disregarding the twenty-two years my mother was married to my father, who seems as numb and detached during her funeral as he’d been during her life. Not that anyone shows much life during the solemn and humorless service.

My dad’s temperament or lack thereof matches the demeanor of my mom’s stoic relations, several of whom have flown in from the Midwest.

The obvious exception to the emotional void is Tana, an absolute wreck before, during, and after the service. When the service ends, she grabs me in a hug. “I’m so sorry,” she says.

“Walk with me while I smoke,” I say. By unspoken agreement my father and I have avoided lighting up in front of my mother’s family, so as not to remind them of the lung cancer that killed their nonsmoking relation.

“It’s weird,” I say upon reaching a thicket of trees that offers some privacy. “I think I always saw her as a two-dimensional character — you know, Mom.

She lived a whole life inside of her mind that I never gave her credit for. That I’ll never know. I guess it’s true what they say: We all die alone.”

“What the hell is wrong with you guys?” Tana asks.

“That depends on what you mean by ‘you guys.’”

“Men. You all say the same stupid shit. ‘The world is meaningless. We all die alone. Nothing means anything.’”

“If anything meant anything,” I say, “my mother wouldn’t have died of somebody else’s disease.”