Rx,
You're almost five, and no baby. Lately, it's crossed my mind several times that there are stories I want you to know.
One is the day my biodad died. We were friends. We could talk about anything and we made each other mad sometimes. We had a couple great adventures in New Orleans together. Biodad had a zest for life while he was slowly killing himself. Such a paradox. It's what happens when shitty stuff happens to little kids a bit too much. This little kid was curious and bright, open minded and happy. Then his dad, my grandfather drank way too much all the time and might have hurt him, or my grandmother, not sure. Either way, the grandfather left the family and became homeless and died on the streets. I think in Oklahoma, maybe Texas.
My biodad then suffered at the hand of my grandmother. I think she may have hit him, I know she told him she wished he'd never been born.
They found out my grandfather died when they didn't hear from him for a long time. They called someone, who? The morgue, the police, I don't know. It was in some other state than Louisiana, where they were living. Had always lived.
Biodad played the drums in a rock band and then the tympani in the Army symphony in Alaska.
I heard Biodad died in the evening. Your dad and I were at our friends' house with other friends too and we were watching the Simpsons and eating pizza. It was such a fun time, everyone was happy. It was simple.
Then your dad's phone rang and it was my mom, your grandmama calling to tell me he was dead. She hadn't been able to reach me on my phone. Your dad gave me a weird look, then handed me the phone. I don't remember what he said. I said Hello, and she was crying pretty hard. She said she was so sorry to tell me that Arthur had died. He was your grandfather.
I started crying and couldn't stop. Your dad led me to the converted garage, now a studio, and I sat on a yellow jacquard sofa. After a moment, my two girlfriends came in and asked what happened, and they sat on either side of me and held me and said nothing while I cried. My guy friends sort of hung out in the background unsure of what to do.
Your dad and I went home. I felt so weird. I felt very numb in the car the whole way home. I felt all the sadness I ever felt about him, the loss he suffered in his life, everything I knew about his pain felt worse than ever and dug into my being. All the lost potential, the life that could've been the life the got away.
His best friend's husband found him. They hadn't heard from him for a couple days; very unusual. They were paying for his apartment. My biodad, your grandfather had been friends with this woman since high school, and now she was married to the mayor of the small town in Louisiana and they were rich. That mayor turned out to be first cousins with Jerry Lee Lewis and Jimmy Swaggart. How weird is that.
He was in bed, the air conditioner was cranked. He had a fan pointed towards his face, and there were dozens of beer cans in the kitchen. He'd been sober for like 3 years.
What happened.
I don't know. I wonder if he killed himself. He was very lonely and bored. He had emphysema and used an oxygen tank while he chain smoked. Did he have respiratory failure because of the large amount of alcohol? I think maybe it was just his one last drunk.
I hadn't talked to him for five months previous. That five months was preceded by a visit your dad I made to his apartment in that small town. It was overwhelming for me and I kind of avoided him afterward. I didn't answer his calls. For five months. And then he died.
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