PROPOCOLA (preview)

(Journal Entry) 

November 8th, 11pm 

I could have lied. I could have said my dad was a good man.  
 

An honest barber. A witty salesman. An unemployed mechanic with hands too calloused to shake and too oily to forget. A decent human with indecent ideas about his place in the world. I could have folded the truths I was told about his inadequacies into a blanketed collection of tall tales—filled with the comfort of warm meals he never left on my childhood tables. No food for thought, just crumbs scattered on kitchen floors
 

I, instead, told everyone who he was: the first Michael Beaman, but, thankfully, not the last.  
 

I don’t know much more about him, to be honest—it’s a clouded image. A few polaroid photos scanned into my computer, capturing childhood moments that have been impossible to recall. A slew of unanswered questions exchanged for blurred pixels. A short story filled with long chapters, bad punctuation, and sentences that run-on more than he did from the law. And he must have been a horrible (or slow) runner because he was often caught and convicted for his dealings.  
 

Bad deals. Not so great transactions, which favored his imagination more than his reality ever could. My mother used tell me, “your dad was so good at lying that he would often forget why he was telling the lie”. His words (and calloused handshakes) had a curvilinear arc. Whatever he told you felt real, then untrue… but then somewhat believable again. His lies bent into circles—conversational arches twisted until they convinced you to reshape your own truth into their collective geometry.  

**********

Harriet placed the phone on the receiver and stared at the handset’s curved, plastic outline. Sitting motionless, she unknowingly mimed the phone’s slouched position, causing her lower back to push against the rounded pillow behind her. The living room’s silhouette came into focus and reclaimed its grip on her attention. Her sofas didn’t match anymore, but the newer—larger—one was growing on her. Its firm pillow seat cushions weren’t as comfortable as she would have liked, but they invited better posture, which she believed livens up conversations.  

Plus, the cushions were better for Cal. When his Caretaker stopped by last Tuesday, for her weekly visit, she mentioned he had a hard time transferring from the old leather sofa he favored for years to his walker. Harriet couldn’t afford a new one, but she also couldn’t afford Cal having another fall. Consignment couches are cheaper than hospital visits, and the traffic to the new thrift store, on 7th Terrence, was less congested during the middle of the week. The following Tuesday, she kissed Cal on the cheek, shared her GPS location with his Caretaker, and drove into town hoping to find a secondhand steal to match the few minutes she stole driving there.   

When she arrived, the store’s furniture department manager honored her expired discount coupon but ignored her request to have it applied to the delivery fee.  

“That’s the crew’s money, Mrs. Spector—their trucks, their fees.” 

“Cal probably coached those boys’ fathers in high school. He coached yours. And your uncle’s.” She shoved the receipt into her purse and fumbled for her keys—trying to soften him with her pausing stare.  

“Ah c’mon now, Mrs. Spector,” the manager sighed. “You know we all love Coach Cal. Breaks my heart he’s not doing so well. I mean it. I’m doing what I can—I promise.” 

“Tell your father I said Hi.” She derisively smiled and exited the store.   

Her last-ditch guilt trip attempt didn’t absolve her of the delivery fee, but the manager threw in some extra pillows, a coupon for a rug, and a dark brown digital clock—which now sat atop of her ageless floor model television. Its orange, bright lettering filtered through the darkness settling into the room and displayed 8:29pm. 

“Dammit.” Cal’s meds were past due.  

She arranged the pillows neatly on the couch before proceeding to the kitchen. As she turned the corner, her fingers slid over the cool countertop to check from crumbs. She pumped a few squirts of sanitizer into her hands and vigorously rubbed them together until the wetness faded into a loud, scratchy dryness. Emptying the pills into her palm, she closed the neon green lids of the weekday medicine container that remained open. The clasping sound echoed in the space in front of her. A few pills spilt back onto the counter, landing next to a stack of enveloped bills she’s only managed to convince collectors to accept half payments for. Using a memory care facility advertising flyer, she swiped the loose capsules and tablets back into her hand and tightened her fist. Sighing, she walked past the stairwell, towards the back guest bedroom Cal was resting in. Before she entered the hallway, she glanced over at the clock again—8:31pm.   

The light emanating from the cracked bedroom door inched into a larger beam as she neared. She softly opened it, hoping the creaks from the loose hallway floorboards announced her pending arrival. Cal was lying on his right side, sound asleep— and snoring. His CPAP mask was propped over his forehead; it hissed every few seconds, ruffling his graying bangs. The drool from his bottom lip soiled the pillowcase, puddling into a large circular stain. She placed the pills on the nightstand, next to a partially filled glass of water, from earlier, and admired her sleeping giant. She stood in silence a minute longer—quieted her breathing to absorb his. His last hospital stay essentially rendered him bedbound. The few admissions earlier this year—prior to the last—were equally debilitating. Despite his waning memory and health, however, he’s still her King. This was her thought, as she pulled a chair close to his bed. She was careful not to wake him—though part of her knew she needed to. The CPAP’s off-button alarm startled Cal, causing him to rip the mask off completely. He abruptly slurped the saliva into the back of his throat and coughed a few times. With his eyes now open, but glassy, he turned quickly towards the shadowed figure now smiling at him. Harriet wiped the remaining moisture from this cheek with a soft rag she’s managed to keep in her pockets for moments like this.  

“It’s okay, Honey. It’s ok.” Her hand eased against the side of his cheek.  

“Huh? Why are you… who left the baby into the pool?”. Cal frowned, waiting for an answer.  

“It’s okay, the baby is fine. There is no pool, Cal. The pool is closed. Remember?” 

“The pool’s closed? But... why? Who closed the pool?” 

“Love, it’s me. It’s time for your meds. Do you want to take your meds so we can find the baby?” 

Propped up now, he pressed his hands together in a praying motion and aimed them towards Harriet.  

“We... (pointing his hands back to himself, then back to Harriet)... have to find THAT baby! It’s a pool! We can’t close the pool... until we find THAT baby!” 

“We will, honey, we will. Now take your medicine so we can go get this sorted out and go get that baby.” Harriett eased open his hands and emptied to content of hers into his.  

“Okay. Okay” He stared at her for a moment, then shifted his attention to the array of colorful pills resting in the scoop of his hand. A few were trapped in the deepening creases of his palm lines, others fumbled on top of the others. He swallowed the handful of cardiac and anxiety medicines in one large gulp. The glass of water barely reached his lips before he asked, “You got my keys?” 

“Yep. I got everything, Honey. Now big, big swallow—there you go.” Harriett assisted his shaky grasp of the glass, balancing it with her palm. 

His last gulp resulted in another violent coughing spell. Harriet placed the glass back onto the nightstand and softly rubbed his back, encouraging him to take a few deep breaths.  

“Nice and easy. Good. Good. Now let's lie back down. I will go get the keys and we can go close that pool” 

“No, no, no—not the pool. The baby.” He tried to rise but Harriet eased him back to his pillows, ignoring the moisture on the backside of her hand, as it pressed against the drying puddle. “What about the baby? We gotta ge--” 

“And the baby. We will get that baby. I promise. But you got lay down while I get the keys to the car—so we can go. Ok?” 

“Ok. You get the keys. Then we can… we can go... we can... we can get... ” 

His eyes closed and Harriet sat with him a little longer. She rubbed his chest with a gentleness she imagined would offer him a fractional glimpse of familiarity. She is hopeful the anxiety medicine will start to work before his heart pills—allowing him to finally rest. The light keeps him awake, but when he awakens without it, his blood curdling screams cause her to lose sleep as well. This isn’t balance, it’s negotiation. She has learned to swallow the things she dislikes, so she can stomach a life she dislikes slightly more. It’s not caring for him, amid his failing heart and waning memory, that bothers her. She loves him deeply. Their vows are etched into an eternity, beyond this life, she dreams they will share one day. She’s just tired. And for the first time in their marriage, she feels the burdensome weight of being all alone. If she was widowed, she’d understand the emptiness a bit better because there would be no person around to cast shadows. Yet, Cal’s illnesses and care needs are starting to shade her from a sun she desperately misses. She desires help but has been too afraid to ask. A strong man needs a strong woman; therefore, she has lent him her strength in his moments of weakness. Walking away now would be a travesty. She vowed to honor his life, and she still valued the life he was slowly losing more than she was afraid of the inevitable arrival of either of their deaths. But something inside of her was becoming more exhausted each day—a void her own presence couldn’t fill.  

Quietly, she stepped into the hallway—leaving the door cracked open again. She leaned back, pressed herself into the wall, and dabbed her eyes with Cal’s spit cloth. Realizing this caused her to chuckle. The backside of her hand, holding the cloth, wiped away the rest of the tears that somehow managed to avoid capture. She sighed, as the infesting tension in her shoulders eased against the cool, stubbled groves buried in the paint's texture. She could smell her hair, sour and sweaty, and tugged at the loose tie that kept it off her face most of the day. The light beam, from the door, illuminated one of her favorite photos on the wall directly across from her: Cal standing next to Troy, taken after his last high school football game. Her boys. One, withering away in a small bedroom at the end of a hall. The other, recovering from a cardiac arrest in a hospital ward a few hundred miles away. She wanted to smile but couldn’t. Rapidly blinking to keep her tears from escaping, she bit her bottom lip and tilted her head back against the wall again. The previous coolness has shifted into a soothing warmth, which eased her neck soreness a bit more. The photo held its filching position on her thoughts. It forced her to accept the loss of her imagination and the weighing permanence of her current situation. She wanted her remembered version of them both there with her, but was left with only the reflection of their light, scattered among her darkened emotions.  

**********

(Journal entry continued)

I never knew this side of him, but I understood it. Even though he was hardly around, I am still very much a reflection of him. He left me crumbs. Not broken conversational bread, but rather warnings disguised as inheritance. A trail that led not to him, but away from whatever he saw in the mirror—despite our physical similarities. Almost like a manual: Never do this, and, Dear God, please don’t do that. It was never handed to me directly but circuitously given to me as a birthright. And so, I carry him, unwillingly, in every circle of my existence—my hairline, my name, my silence. 

- Pretending to be a father will drain you faster than leaving. 

- Loving more than one woman, will eventually cost you the love of all women. 

- If you don’t have something nice to say to your kids, don’t say anything at all. 

- Crime pays; you will always get caught- even after you escape.  

- Putting yourself first, should not require everyone else to be last 

'Big' Michael's Rules. Dictums to live by. A handbook I never asked for, bound in absence, signed privately in silence. He gave this to me—in short order, and in no order. ‘Here ya go, my boy,’ whispered not by him, but by the ghost of my own imagination. I spun his rules counterclockwise, uncoiling the spiral of his life into something straighter and steadier. What resulted was a less polarizing—yet more positive—person, who fits “this” Michael’s perspectives. It was his absence that rounded me out. His vacancy, my symmetry. Because of him: 

- I am always present as a father.  

- I no longer treat romance as a slice to be divided and orchestrated to an audience of onlookers. 

- I speak boldly and kindly to my kids, never robbing them of their belief in the goodness of simply being a good human 

- I never over promise to put them nor others before myself—instead I find balance, when balance is necessary.    

Fatherhood isn’t only about sacrifice; it’s about better managing your overflow. I once read a quote by a rich white guy that said, "Quality time is a phrase made up by rich white guys to make an excuse to see their kids." You don't need excuses; you merely have to be present-- and fully there when you are. What I give my kids is from the abundance of myself. I protect my eagerness to be a “great dad” from running on fumes or becoming so empty that all I have to offer them is my core, my life force. This took years to accomplish. It required balanced introspection (while not being afraid to have moments in opposite extremes), clear (self) awareness, and a raised hand when I/dad recognized I/he needed a 'moment to myself/himself'.
 

If I am not whole, then all I can give my kids (and the world) is a weakened (fractured) version of “me”. Then, the onus becomes theirs to find value in something I haven’t found value in preserving. How can I expect them to respect my time, efforts, and energy… if I willingly give it away without truly grasping the gravity of what will remain? 

**********

Harriett found herself at the hallway opening of the living room, unsure how long she had been standing there. Cal’s snoring in the background has faded, despite her trying to find its hum between the circling ceiling fan blades. The orange glow from the clock is illuminating the front of her now wrinkled night gown. The fatigue of the long day she’s had, which is fighting to not stretch into an early morning, has unsteadied her legs. Her feet, pressed firmly against the floor, held their position a bit longer. However, Cal’s new couch eventually welcomed her into its folds. 

Staring at the ceiling, the fan’s movements nearly invisible, her eyes started to blink away the tears she tried holding back earlier. Her chest felt numb, and heavy. Deep breathing transitioned to shallow whimpers, as she cried herself into a fetal position. She twisted the bottom of her gown into a fist of rage, trembling as she sobbed louder and louder. All the pain and loneliness of living in a home with a shadowed past, poured out onto the free pillows that never quite found a place in their new surroundings. She tasted the salty embarrassment of what her life had become. A widow, still living with a spouse. An untrained Nurse in a home ill-equipped for Nursing care. Her emotions have been invaded by a protocoled existence that will ultimately result in an eventual nothingness. Cal’s ailments are not curable; her love and sacrifices have merely postponed his fate. This version of their lives is how their endings will be defined. Their home, which has represented the hallmark of decades of tireless efforts, has essentially become their resting place.  

The sofa’s firmness pressed against the side of her body, supporting the weight of what her life had become in a way no one else has in years. The more she cried, the less guilty she felt for feeling like a failure. But as her tears started to slow, followed by sniffling and hurried sighs, Harriet allowed herself to embrace a quiet moment of rational calm. She lied there, position unchanged, while the ceiling fan cooled her heated cheeks. The clock face read 9:17pm—it’s been nearly an hour. Her breathing slowed. She wiped the remaining tears from her face. Sitting up, she stared around the living room—its emptiness serving as a last reminder of peace. All the memories of their old home life are long gone. The newness of their current existence has dominated this space. She didn’t like it and it didn’t like her. The mutual starkness of this feeling, however, is not shared—she has borne this burden alone. There was no one coming to fill the void time had left. She no longer cared about the emptiness because, ironically, her heart was full.  

**********

(Journal entry continued)

An empty me serves no purpose to myself or my kids, nor their environment. Thus, I must constantly work on myself. Take time to ensure I am happy. Invest in my own core and my personal infrastructure. Doing so is solely my responsibility; others can offer assistance, but the main efforts are my own. A complete idea of their father is what they deserve. I need to be whole… to be wholesome. Thus, I can’t pull them towards greatness… if I don’t appreciate the value of pulling myself away at times…  
 

Yet, the difference between my (namesake) counterpart and I… is that I also appreciate the value of always circling back.  

I understand that to be a good man, a great father, and the best me… I must make sure that “this” Michael Beaman is always first… and not last.  
 

And more importantly, also make sure he is not merely a collection of blurred pixels… in a photo they can barely remember. 

$0.02 

**********

The grittiness of the bathroom floor tiles didn’t annoy her, but they masked the ground’s sticky coldness. Cupping her hands under the faucet’s lukewarm stream eased her anxiety. She sighed and took a long look at herself in mirror. The smeared fogginess distorted her image but clearly displayed how she felt. Her blemishes and sunspots were hidden; she liked that. She felt pretty, again. Her gown momentarily unwrinkled itself as she pulled her shoulders back, forcing her chest to inch her breasts forward to no one’s attention.  

“Delivery fee? I was told it would be waived. Those bastards.”  

She twisted her shoulders from side to side, and arched her back while pulling her gown down a few inches. After a few smiles, she bit her bottom lip and went back into the living room. Squeezing the cordless phone handset, she dialed out and headed to the kitchen. It was dark, with only the iridescent orange hue from the living room clock edging itself around the corner. An awaited voice mumbled into her ear. Her tears welled again. Standing near the counter, with her other palm pressed against the cold, smooth granite, she nervously started to speak.  

“Yes, umm, I need someone to come to my home. Immediately. It’s my husband.” 

“What seems to be the emergency?” 

“He’s not breathing too well. I think… I think he took too many pills.” 

The voice from the handset vibrated against her cheek, but Harriet couldn’t make out what the person was saying. Her chest tightened, forcing her to breathe through pursed lips. She wanted to speak; she wanted to apologize and explain her actions. It was love; not menace, not malice. Suffering filled her home; it was suffocating. They no longer wanted to be like this—lost in a twisted memory loop, a mortared shell of their former selves. Interruptingly, she provided her address and placed the phone on the kitchen counter. She filled a glass with tap water, took a small sip to moisten the dried sensation her last words left in her throat. The voice continued to pulsate off the counter, but her own heartbeat caused a deafening thump to radiate throughout her chest. Calmly, she emptied the rest of Cal’s pills—from the various bottles—into her hand, swallowed them all, and took one large sip of water. She gave Cal his evening pills earlier so that he could sleep; she swallowed the rest of them so that she could as well. A final moment of rest; a much welcomed effort to crack open a window. It was a release. Her goodbye; her only way of not having to experience his actual death—since he wouldn’t remember hers. Ignoring the rust taste that annoyingly lingered, she grabbed the phone, ended the call, and headed back to the living room.  

A loud ring from the phone startled her; a local unknown number showed up on the caller ID. The clock read 9:30pm. She ended the call, turned the ringer volume to silent, and laid down on the sofa again. Assuming the same position as before, Harriett squeezed her eyes close and pulled Cal’s spit cloth from her gown pocket. She cradled it against her chest and cried. A nauseous sensation tightened the upper portion of her abdomen, as she curved herself deeper into the folds of the cushions. Her thoughts were numb, but she could feel her eyelids retracing the hallway photo of Cal and Troy she stared at earlier. Her stomach twisted into a gnawing pain, pulling her deeper into the couch’s creases. Grimacing, she closed her eyes more tightly, unwilling to let the pain erase the image she had managed to recapture. She smiled and repeatedly mumbled,  

“My boys.”   

Their image faded into a calming darkness. Her breathing slowed, as her pursed lips relaxed into a slightly more opened position. The echoes of the ceiling fan’s vibrations stilled the air until it was interrupted by the sound of feet shuffling on the floor. The light from the clock disappeared as Cal stood over Harriet’s lifeless body. Confusingly, he knelt and grabbed her hand, loosening the cloth that was twisted around her fingers. He held the cloth in his hand and glanced back and forth at it and Harriet’s face. There was a white substance around her mouth. Cal used the cloth to wipe it away, causing it to smear across her cheek. Shaking his head, he rested his heavy palm on her shoulders and gave her a nudge.  

“Harriet. Harriet. Wake up. Wake up, Harriet. Harriet, honey... I found the baby. Harriet?”  

Cal continued trying to wake Harriet up, each nudge becoming softer. Tears ran down his face, but he made no effort to wipe them away with the cloth in his hand. He sniffed and nudged her again, this time slightly more forcefully. 

“Harriet... Harriet I found the baby.”