Tom Mendicino - Probation

My feet are sweating despite this freezing room. I slip out of my sneakers and press my toes against the cool tile. The funky scent corrupts the antiseptic sterility of disinfectant. I look down and see my father’s feet. Middle age, decades of pavement pounding, years of being bound in tight leather wingtips, have taken their toll. When did the tiny nails on my little piggies splinter and crack? I tuck them under the chair, out of sight. My mother, lying prone an arm’s length away, is confirmation enough of my mortality. The blinds are drawn so the sun can’t penetrate the room. The only light is electric and is kept as dim as possible, the darkness perpetuating the illusion she’s just asleep. We keep our voices low and step softly so we don’t disturb her. She needs her rest. We don’t acknowledge an explosion wouldn’t rouse her now.

My mother, by Caravaggio, dark tones suffused with mortuary light, anguish revealed, humanity triumphant.

My legs are stiff and I need to stretch. The staff doesn’t mind my pacing so long as I stay out of their way. It’s three o’clock. The shifts are changing. Bloods are being drawn. Doctors are rounding. One last flurry of activity before evening. Barring a code, the only crisis will be the late arrival of a cold dinner tray. I hear conversations, actual and televised, in the other patient rooms. I reminisce, thinking back to the many Oprah hours my mother and I have shared during this ordeal, comforted and reassured by the tragedies of others. Please, the nurse says, pointing at my bare feet. I apologize, embarrassed. She smiles and says she understands my mind’s elsewhere.

Yes, it is. Where, though, I don’t know. Anywhere but here. I want to leave. I want to stay. Time seems to drag, yet races away. I look at my watch. Almost seven o’clock now. It might be seven in the evening or seven in the morning. It’s all the same, night and day, nothing to do but wait. Thank God for the cold. I feel it, so I must still be alive.

Snap out of it. It’s mashed potato time again. My sister asks me to bring her something from the cafeteria, tuna on white toast, maybe some skim milk.

The cashier is bored and passes the time watching the clock, counting down the ninety minutes until the cafeteria closes. She knows me well by now and smiles. We’ve never spoken, not even hello, not once in the past many weeks. She’s never asked why I’m here or how the patient’s doing. She knows one day I’ll disappear and never return, replaced by another just like me. She and I are familiar, intimate even, and totally anonymous. Like all my relationships. Perfect. Right? That’s what I want. Isn’t it?

I sit in the cafeteria, alone, staring at a roomful of tabletops, counting the napkin dispensers, the salt and pepper shakers. I should have brought a newspaper so I could disappear into the world outside the hospital, where skirmishes break out in unfamiliar parts of the globe, Republicans and Democrats argue, scandals erupt, celebrities mate and separate, box scores are tabulated, highs and lows are recorded, barometers fall. What if someone walks in here? What would they think if they saw me in this far corner, alone, mashed potatoes untouched, gazing into space? They’d grab their coffees and doughnuts and hustle out the door. There’s something terrifying about a man sitting alone. People avoid him, run and hide, spooked, afraid, not because he’s a psychopath or pervert, but because he’s ordinary, just like them, an unwelcome reminder of how alone we all are.

I jump up, nearly knocking over the chair, and walk away quickly, with purpose. I leave the tray and the tuna-to-go on the table. I don’t hesitate as I pass the elevator and pick up the pace as I enter the main lobby. The automatic doors open and I run smack into a brick wall of heat. It kisses my bare skin, taunts me, starts an erection stirring in my pants. The temperature’s a cock tease. I stink. My clothes are dirty. My hair is sticky and matted. I don’t care. I need people. I run a red light. Thank God the cross street is empty and no patrol cars are lurking nearby.

I turn left at the interstate bypass. Gastonia and home are to the right. The sun is dying; the last blue streaks of light are fading to black. The radio announcer predicts a break in the heat, expect more typical seasonal temperatures tomorrow. Ahead, nearly at eye level, a full moon is emerging. In a few minutes, its bright light will dominate the heavens.

Buck Moon. I remember its name from Boy Scout Indian lore. It’s the first full moon of summer, the full moon after young bucks sprout their antlers. A lunar celebration of raging hormones, impulsive behavior, and the excesses of youth. The moon’s power controls the sweep of the tides. How can a puny thing like me resist it? It’s the only possible explanation for my abandoning my mother and sister tonight.

I’m entitled to one night’s dispensation. After all, I’m the one who’s been here throughout the whole ordeal, phoning in reports to my sister poolside in Boca Raton. I’m the one who’s had to make all the decisions, be second-guessed, have my judgment challenged, be resented. I deserve one night out. But why didn’t I tell Gina I was leaving? She wouldn’t have begrudged me one night. Of course she would have. She doesn’t realize this has been really hard on me. No one realizes how hard this has been on me. I’ll call her as soon as I get home. First thing. I’ll tell her I felt sick. It’s true. I think I’ve swallowed a tarantula. My throat is scratchy and the glands behind my ears are hard as rocks. I’m infectious. I’m sure of it. The flu maybe. Can’t risk contaminating my mother’s room.

Thank God it’s dark and no one can see me babbling to myself. An hour or two reprieve is all I need. A Thursday night at the Carousel in the dog days of summer. I don’t expect more than a couple of lonely drunks nursing drinks, waiting to get flagged, maybe a hairdresser or two who couldn’t swing a cheap beach share. What a shock to walk through the door and find the place is packed to the rafters! Maybe the buck moon’s raised the testosterone levels of Mecklenburg County. Maybe it’s the heat, all that prickly rash needing to be scratched. Or maybe all of Charlotte has turned out in full force for Elvis Karaoke (full costume encouraged, but not mandatory).

The crowd is middle aged, overweight, attached. Everyone’s out to have fun, more interested in singing than cruising, no reason to feel self-conscious about big bellies, no need to monitor a partner’s wandering eye. The costumes keep it camp; no one’s taking it seriously. I don’t see any Hillbilly Cats, but there are at least three Vegas Legends in white sequins and tinted aviator glasses. The final contestant in the Dueling “Don’t Be Cruel” Competition is wailing away. Our hostess, Miss Priscilla, vintage 1966, dressed for her wedding day with mascara-drawn Cleopatra eyes, asks the finalists to join her on stage. Contestant Number Two must have come with a group, his softball team or bowling league. They scream and whistle and stomp their feet until Miss Priscilla declares him the winner. The Grand Prize is a toilet brush and a bottle of bathroom bowl cleanser, presented on a velvet pillow by Little Miss Lisa Marie.

I drain my beer and order another. I’ll nurse it, then leave. This is fun enough for tables of friends who cheer the talented and make snide remarks about the shrill and off-key. But alone, I feel as sad and pathetic and obvious as in the cafeteria. And then, an aging choir boy steps up to the mike and sings “Love Me Tender” in an achingly beautiful tenor. It’s one of my mother’s favorites and she’ll never hear it again. Maybe I made a mistake, pulling the plug. I must be a heathen, not believing in miracles. The bartender is staring, wondering if I’m drunker than I appear. I should down a large black coffee, suck a pack of Pep-O-Mint Life Savers, head back to the hospital, and fall asleep in a chair in my mother’s room.