Father

I’m currently employed by a company that restores masonry work on all types of buildings around the Chicagoland area. If a piece of a wall is missing at a school or hospital, or the caulk in between windows is peeling off, or you need your office building power washed to make it look new again, they can do the job. Their biggest clients are cemeteries and churches. They upkeep monuments, mausoleums, historic facades of old churches and bell towers.

 

Even though I was initially hired to do marketing and business development, I've become more of an errand boy, a position I don't get much pleasure from. On some of these errands, I’m tasked to pick up some material from one end of the city, and drop it off at a job on the other end. I’ve spent more time in cemeteries this past month than I have my entire life, but it comes with the territory. On this specific day I was told to go to Maryhill Cemetery to pick up a few screws that needed to be replaced. I reluctantly accepted the task and drove over to complete the pickup. I followed one of the construction workers to a warehouse that prepared the concrete space that is eventually lowered into the ground and filled with coffins, one for each tombstone. There he fiddled through a bucket to produce the six screws that I needed to pick up. I cupped my hand, and took the screws back to my car and safely put them into a ziplock bag.

 

I sat in my car and tried to summon up the courage to visit my father’s grave located no more than a hundred feet away from where I was sitting. I haven’t visited his tombstone in over 7 months, since around the time of his birthday back in March. I don’t like coming here, but since I was here I was going to pay him a visit.

 

I drove my car closer to the lot he was buried in walked over to his tombstone.

Alexander Kouvalis

1934 – 2011

Father

Eternal Rest Grant Unto Him

 

The grave lay beneath my boots. The stone horizontal with the ground, maybe one foot by two feet. Here lies a man, who lived a life, who accomplished much, and here is his final resting place. A stone no bigger than a lunch tray, next to hundreds of other lunch trays. If it wasn’t for his accomplishments and his legacy, an interesting man like my father would’ve vanished forever, forgotten completely. A simple stone doesn’t do him justice.

I try to mutter a few words but I can’t. I know I won’t hear anything back. Don’t get me wrong, he wasn’t in the running for Best Dad of the Year, he definitely had his issues. What I miss most at this moment, looking down at his grave, is knowing that whatever strength I could muster to say something, he won’t be there to say anything back. It’s the conversations that I will miss the most, that is the one thing I will never get back. As I think about this, my eyes swell and tears fall onto the stone. I’m the only person here, in my black leather jacket, blue jeans and work boots.  I’m filled with anger and sadness, standing here alone, amongst a vast graveyard looking down at the ground.

 

I hate cemeteries. Never is death so peaceful and accepted as it is in a cemetery.

 

I take in a big breath of autumn air, wipe away my tears and manage to say, “I’m trying my best.”

Another breath and I say, “See you next time.”

 

Until next time old man. I’ll know where to find you.

Bicycle

Summer 1995

When I was 7 years old, I fell in love with riding my bike. I’ve been riding for the last two and half years but it wasn’t until the summer of ’95 that I truly took the simple action of riding my bike to a whole other level. I don’t entirely remember what it was, or how it came to be, but as a seven year old a euphoric sense of creativity found itself into my soul. I’d start daydreaming about miniature battles happening at the edge of my school desk, or ninja’s hopping from one tree or pole to the next as I sat in the passenger seat of my parent’s car. While jumping they’d unsheathe their swords incredibly fast and chop down the pole they just jumped off of. My toys suddenly developed personalities and back stories, ancient roman battle commanders riding on the back of a Transformer fighting a ninja turtle flying around in a spaceship. It was a great time in my  young life, and my bike became my personal bat mobile or Tron battle cycle. 

It was a particularly wet summer that year. With every bright and beautiful day, a torrent of rain showers would pass through days at a time. It allowed me to live in my fantasy worlds at home, making forts and fighting off villains with my Nerf gun, but what I really missed was the joy of riding my bike. The feeling was freeing. I’d have total control of every twist and turn, pedaling as fast as I could down my block. I’d imagine chasing down enemy bikers who stole jewels from the local jewelry shop, or flying a spacecraft through an asteroid field. I’d ring my neighbor’s door to ask if my friend Dave could come along so we could race each other in the park, which offered us a more winding path and obstacles like ditches or low hanging branches.

I’d typically win those races. I didn’t know if it was because I was particularly big for my age, and my robot like legs were working with the utmost efficiency, or if it was my booster engines that helped me fly through the course. A child’s imagination could come up will all kinds of reasons. 

Today the sun was out, puffy clouds floating slowly along the stratosphere and a cool breeze whipped through the leaves. I put on my cool Kansas City Chiefs jacket (I liked the red color mostly, only real reason I could come up with living in Chicago at the time) and went to the porch to grab my bike. My mother and sister wanted to go for a bike ride too, but I didn’t really plan on riding with them. No today I was going to fly and zip around the block, waiting for no one and leaving them in the dust. 

We all unloaded our bikes from the basement. As my sister and mother were getting on their respective cycles, my sister’s pink with long tassles on the ends of the handlebar, and my mothers a sky blue with a grocery basket on the front, I noticed something not quite right with mine. A concrete brick fell on my front tire, and bent one of the support wires near the middle of the wheel. I opened my mouth to complain to my mother but she was already outside, maybe around the corner already. It didn’t matter, I looked it over carefully, decided I could just bend it back into place with my thumb and everything would be fine.

I’m a child engineering genius, or so I thought at the moment. All it needed was some elbow grease, some careful guessing and my wheel is as good as new. I rev up my imaginary dual turbo racing engine and begin pedaling down the block. I see my mother and sister farther down near the end of the block and I decide to test how fast I could go. I start pedaling, wind rushing past me, sun shining, trees buzzing by, the feeling is exhilarating. It just so happened that it wasn’t the trees that were buzzing by, but a giant bee tailing me. 

I couldn’t believe this was happening. I was being chased down by a bee. All of a sudden I’m dodging and looking behind me trying to find and outmaneuver this deadly flying foe. I’m riding as fast as I can, looking behind still unable to see where the bee went. My fear, my adrenaline, my excitement rushed out of my body as my bike comes to a stop. I’m now flying through the air bracing for full facial impact with the front lawn of someone’s house. The instance went by incredibly quick, and by the time I knew it I’m lying face down in the grass. I hear my sister crying in the back and my mom yelling profanities. My vision is hazy, and their cries are coming in muffled as if a grenade exploded nearby and I’m caught in the residual after effects.

I squint my eyes and try to see what just happened. My bike is laying on its side with the wheel bent and broken, next to my sister who is crying from what seems to be a scrap on her elbow. I’m not entirely sure how my sister only received a minor scrap on her arm after I slammed my bike full force into her and my mother. My mother, who continued yelling profanities was covering her knee, blood dripping down her leg and through the hand that was covering the gaping hole. My heart started to beat faster knowing that I’d be in big shit back at home, being asked why in the hell I wasn’t looking where I was going.

To be honest, the event happened so quickly. I think I went in an out of consciousness for a few seconds. The one thing I did remember, was the smell and the following fear and disgust that followed. I turned my head the other way, towards the putrid smell of feces, and when I saw what was before my eyes, I couldn’t believe it. To my horror, my whole right arm was covered in what appeared to be the biggest, freshest piece of dog shit I have ever seen. If it wasn’t for the fact that we lived in a populated Chicago suburb, I would’ve believed that I so happened to fall directly on top of feces left over by a horse or small elephant. Immediately I began screaming, and crying. All pain went away as the smell enveloped my nose. As I began wiping my arm on the grass I could hear my mother laughing her heart out and my sister giggling. Imagination can get you into some wild adventures, you just need to know how far you are willing to go blindly before you end up paying for your stupidity. My sister ended up being ok, my mother had to get stitches on her knee, and still has a scar the size of a silver dollar, and sometimes I can still smell the embarrassment on my skin.

Comfort

I wake up anticipating my alarm about to ring at this ungodly early hour. I turn my body over and see there is another 30 minutes before it rings, loud enough to wake up my neighbors below me, I’m sure. I try going back to sleep but I can’t. I’m tired, dead tired, but knowing what I have to do soon keeps me up. I’m anxiety ridden. I’m not entirely sure why but I have some idea.

It’s no use. I toss and turn, bundle myself in a cocoon of thick blankets and try to find a comfortable position but I can’t. I lay there, eyes open, wrapped up and in the fetal position staring at the wall. The sun still slumbers beneath the horizon, lulled by the sounds of passing cars and a lone bird chirping.

I take this time I have, this limbo between the deep night and the beginning of dawn, and cherish what I’m about to lose. I let myself sink into the mattress, close my eyes and try to hold on to this moment. A cool breeze blows through the kitchen window and finds me on the living room floor. A refreshing gift, and with it, I fall asleep…

…and as if a minute passed by, my alarm screams and vibrates on the hardwood floor. I barely think about my neighbors down below, wonder if they would be waking up too, before stretching my arm and ending the unnatural sound that pierced the peaceful night. I force myself to stay awake, widening my eyes and taking deep breathes as I labor to get on my feet.

Standing next to my bed, the blankets that once covered me from head to toe fall to the floor leaving me half naked and exposed. That cool breeze suddenly feels like a sharp cold stab sending shivers up my spine. A sense of emptiness pours over me, starring at this bed on the living room floor. A lone street light a block away finds its way through the trees and into the apartment, casting a small glow into the empty room. Pictures taken down, couches, tables and chairs taken away, rugs removed. Just myself and the mattress. The emptiness within me solidifies with memories of the last two years.

I saved enough money two summers back to buy this mattress to help with my back issues. My former mattress just wasn’t cutting it and I was becoming a cantankerous person throughout the first half of my days. It was an experience I was ready to do away with. A bed is something to rely on after a long day at work, a long trip away from home, or after a being in a fight with a friend. You know that your bed will always be there.

It’s where I hunkered down in the winter, under thick blankets watching great films and reading some fantastic books. Or how about that time I hosted a party with my roommate and offered my bed to two girls who were too drunk to drive back home. They instantly fell asleep and I tried, without much success, to sleep on the rug next to my bed like an obedient dog. I’ve given up my bed to more than a few drunken people, so long as I knew they weren’t leaving drunk.  Eventually I would share my bed with my girlfriend, embracing her and being comforted knowing that we can grow closer by sharing this space together. Of course there was also the time where I plopped myself too hard onto my bed after a very long day of work, and broke part of the frame, which sloped the left side of the mattress, the best side of the mattress.  I continued lying on that side regardless, because I felt a sense of comfort and security on that side.

Looking down at the mattress, I breathe in, let out a long sigh, and grab ahold of the mattress pulling it up and through my front door. I forget how heavy it is, and my grip slips as I pull the bed harder across the carpeted hallway. I see my destination at the other end of the corridor, a tunnel that only seems to stretch further the more I walk through it. Pushing and pulling I finally drag my mattress to the end of the hall. I look through the window and see the black sky turn a dark blue, hints of the morning sun preparing to peak through to welcome a new day. I prop my bed on its side against the wall and look at it one more time.  That sadness still whirling inside of me one final time. Then I remember I’m upgrading to a king size bed and sharing it with the woman I love, that same girlfriend from before.  Better comfort, same sense of security and a chance to make new memories.

Everything will be just fine.