Justin Tussing - Vexation Lullaby

I feel hopeful. Despite a lingering hangover, I decide to drive to the lakeshore and look at the water.

You don’t need a map to find the lake in Buffalo. Follow your nose. The lake smells like ozone and, beneath that, orange soda — if you mention this to people in town they’ll argue, but that’s because they’ve grown accustomed to it. I drive around with my window cracked and pretty soon I arrive at a lakeside park.

On a day like this, when the wind teases the water into rows of teeth, it’s easy to think you’re looking at an ocean. Gulls perch on rotting pilings, facing into the wind; when they extend their wings, they don’t fly so much as levitate.

Another car pulls into the lot. The driver glances at me — she says something to me! No, she’s talking to someone on her phone. She leans across the passenger seat, lifts something, and stuffs it in her mouth. She’s eating french fries. She looks at me again and laughs. She’s about Gabby’s age.

Just like that, I’m thinking about my daughter. Why does she get angry so easily? She’s healthy. She’s not destitute. She has a job that she says she finds rewarding. 16And now there’s this person she wants me to meet. She’s found love! Does she live in a place where her friends are being murdered in the streets? Does she live in a place where her religion is mandated? Is the climate inhospitable? Is she told who she can and can’t associate with? No. No. No. No. She lives in America! Some women get used to sadness in the same way some men get used to having a mustache — they think it is part of who they are and forget that it’s a choice. 17Heaven forbid a father try to impart this wisdom to his daughter. Gabby tells me to worry about myself. But I have nothing to worry about. I’m perfectly happy, most of the time.

I spot a bicycle path alongside the lakefront and, despite the weather, I decide to go for a walk. I don’t want to get wet, but neither do I want to sit in the car just because there’s a chance I might get wet.

Also, in the back of my head, it occurs to me that both Gabby and Gene would opt to stay in the car. Since neither of them seems particularly happy, I elect to do the opposite.

There’s enough of a wind coming off the lake that I have to brace myself against it. I cinch my duster around my waist. Another car pulls into the lot. The driver’s hair is razored close to his scalp. He nods to me, another wandering soul.

I follow the path, which is dotted with puddles.

A duster is a very practical coat, especially a leather one such as mine. I got it in Australia in 1992. It’s both a simple jacket and, at the same time, dramatic. Mine’s got a flying yoke, which means that the back is shingled in a way that allows it to breathe. It keeps me dry from my neck to my ankles; I’ve slept in it more than once. On tour, people know me as the guy in the duster. The other thing I appreciate about a duster is that it’s a crime deterrent. Everyone’s seen the movie where the bad guy hides a shotgun in the folds of his coat. The duster is an unknown quantity, likewise its wearer.

•••

ON THE FAR side of a meadow, the path enters a stand of birch trees and I lose track of the lake. The blustery wind sets the white trunks of the trees swaying; I feel like a child lost in a crowd. How many people have lived in Buffalo all their lives and never visited this place? Even those who know about it probably blow right past on their bicycles or while jogging.

When the path emerges on the other side of the trees, it borders a chain-link fence topped with razor wire. Inside the fence there’s a windowless factory. The wall of the building is a maze of pipes, holding tanks, and relief valves. A dozen aluminum chimneys jut into the sky.

A gust of wind catches the collar of my coat, causing it to slap my cheek. My hair is damp and cold droplets run down my neck. I turn around and start back. For the first time, I notice the grass is thatched with soda bottles and paper napkins, every kind of trash. How had I missed it before?

And then, coming up the path, I spot my kindred spirit, the driver from the other car. Like me, he’d rather engage with the world than sit in a hermetic bubble. He’s not a sad person; he’s smiling.

“I wondered where you went,” he says.

I say, “Great minds think alike,” meaning, I guess, that we haven’t been deterred by the weather.

He steps off the path and onto a trail that wends through the narrow trunks, toward the lake.

I ask if there’s a view that way. He says, See for yourself, or something to that effect. And because I have nowhere to be, nothing keeping me on the path, I follow him.

He wears those ankle-high rubber shoes, which I think are called duck boots. As the path gets spongier, the birch trees give way to these head-high reeds. The wind pushing through the brown stalks makes a sound like a thousand fingers counting money.

Somewhere close by the choppy water polishes the shore, but we haven’t reached there yet. My guide turns to me; I read a mixture of hope and embarrassment on his face. Sometimes I make the mistake of assigning my motivations to other people.

The stranger looks down and my eyes follow his. His penis has popped through the fly of his pants.

I spin around and make long, purposeful strides back toward my car. I glance over my shoulder to make sure he isn’t following me. The stranger stands there in his state.

“I have a wife,” I yell.

“Honey,” he says, “we all have wives.”

WHEN I GET back to the parking lot, the fry eater is still laughing on her phone.

At a little before nine, Peter found himself on Six West signing papers Peg Larsen had spread across her desk. One document released him from care delivery duties while another excused him from committee work. Each time she put a sheet of paper in front of him, she asked if he had any questions. He had lots of questions, but none he deemed worth asking. By the time they’d finished, he’d earned the right to add inaugural Rochester Memorial/Tony Ogata Ambassador for Wellness to his c.v.

“If he coughs,” Dr. Larsen said, looking Peter in the eye, “order a chest X-ray. If he gets a splinter, call a surgeon. Remember, just because you’re the only doctor in the room doesn’t mean you’re the only doctor.”

“I wouldn’t think that.”

Peg nodded. “The full support and resources of this institution are available to you around the clock. Identify yourself to the switchboard and they’ll patch you through to anyone on staff. If you need to fly someone out to consult, say the word.”

Despite Dr. Larsen’s lecture, Peter felt nothing less than hope.

There was a knock. Peg got up, paused with her hand on the doorknob. “You’re a good doctor, Peter. I shouldn’t have let things go as far as they did. Please understand this was never personal.”

Peter said, “Of course not.”

Peg sighed, turned the knob, and opened the door.

In walked Martin, carrying a tote bag from the hospital’s gift shop.

“Dr. Vinoray volunteered to serve as your supervisor.” Peg didn’t return to her chair, but stood behind it. “Since we haven’t done anything like this before, I thought you two should sit down for a few minutes and discuss how you can partner. And, I believe, Martin prepared a little kit.”

Martin lifted the tote like a watchman’s lamp. “It’s mostly stuff I want Cross to autograph.”

Peg took a step toward Peter, who pushed himself back from the table. “Please, don’t get up. I have to rush off to update the board. Keep him rocking, Dr. Silver.” She paused at the door. “I feel terrible about yesterday,” she said before excusing herself.