I could say I’m scared. Or that the knot in my stomach from a half box of pasta has only grown over the past hour. Grandma used to sing On Top of Spaghetti, it’s an interpolation of On Top of Old Smoky. The song has unclear origins from what I can find. Grandma wasn’t a lovely woman. She was a woman of conviction. And that’s not to say that having convictions are ugly. She was raised by nuns and adopted later in life with her brother. I’m also not entirely sure how much of her life will translate to an adequate answer to why I’m scared.
Grandma was a woman of faith amongst the sort of ideological underpinnings that faith requires. I want to say that I loved her. I loved the box of short bread chocolates she bought around the holidays and the way she spoke kindly about my father. Her home in Ponte Vedra Florida just south of Jacksonville was covered in cement and shells. Each shell protruded from the foundation giving the two-story home texture. Grandma loved orange juice and octopus hot dogs. The kind of hot dog you cut to resemble an octopus. During one afternoon we watched Dad and my uncle play ping pong on the table in the 3-season room. Dad had developed shell shock from watching the markets fluctuate. He and my uncle are competitive men. Dad never really let loose. Seeing his face light up in tandem with my uncle was akin to shell shock. They both truly were their mothers’ sons. Fox news and then a PGA golf tournament played on TV every morning. It was followed by a course of pancakes and bacon. I am no longer a fan of the traditional American breakfast. On the other side of the window to the three seasons room, a statue of Dad’s late German Shepard Sam adorned the fireplace. The fireplace opened on both sides. Our Christmas tree with its yearly unique topper sat in the corner of the adjacent room. Square glass bricks were corner off the room and created a partition between the living room and entry way. Grandma’s kaleidoscope sat on an antique cabinet. The pastel reds and greens and blues felt important. The rooms felt important to. But I try not to read into things. When Dad and my uncle finished ping pong, they decided it might be time to sit down for a moment.
I threw spaghetti on the walls because I didn’t get enough attention. In a fit of adolescent rage, I drew a perfectly anatomical Jesus Christ out of spaghetti on the wall. It went perfectly ignored. Spaghetti on the walls felt like the Christmas tree and sounded like my father’s brow after a long day in the office. I could tell you Grandma was proud of him. And I could tell you that grandma was afraid of people who are Muslim or that she passed away from hepatitis C. She contacted the disease from a dirty needle during a routine surgery in the 80’s. I could tell you that but you’d probably still be wondering why we weren’t at the beach. I hated the beach. Its rotten air contaminated with salt and grass that didn’t feel like blue grass always rubbed me the wrong way. Grandma used to take my sister to go shark tooth hunting and I often found myself preoccupied by my father’s old room. It was filled with old Star Wars figurines and my uncle’s broken red guitar. I’m not sure if her ever knew how to play. The beds had a sinking feeling and deep wooden headboards echoed that sentiment. Dad wanted to be a writer and a cowboy and a loving husband and father and son and brother. And he was. He still is. Grandma held onto delicate things and her children’s belongings. A drab pink curtain covered her daughters’ old rooms and same color could be found in the guest room where my parents stayed. I liked to stay up on Christmas eve. It was before the myth of Santa had been dissolved. It was before the myth of Jesus Christ and the buildings that house his memory became complicated.
The catholic church down the road was filled with retirees and their children and their children’s children. It had an unusual layout. Pews went up and down the center isle and they also cupped the sidewalls in an array. It was clear that this church was a newer one. In the crowd, you could pick out the believers from the non-believers by their attire. Some wore flannels and baggy haircuts. The only separation between my family and theirs was an empty ritual every Sunday. I had grown to love the aesthetics of evening masses back home. It was only by myself that I was able to be present during the service. The noise of a packed room felt like stepping on Legos. And the cops directed traffic on the way out of mass felt unnecessary. I never understood why we they didn’t have hard wood in the church. We returned home to open quarter-zips with the Sawgrass logo and Lego Star Wars for the Nintendo DS. My sister’s presents were American Girl Dolls and sweaters with the same Sawgrass logos. I don’t want to speak ill of the living or dead. Dad was named after his father and his father’s father. They did not share middle names. Gandpa grew up in back of the yards and the greatest gift he received was an education. It’s the same gift he bestowed upon my father. Grandpa only punched a wall once. Once that I know of. He helped pay for my parents’ home. Grandma wasn’t around for that. And she wasn’t around to watch me rediscover faith the wrong way.
I was standing in a home that didn’t feel like it when I told Dad I didn’t want to do school anymore. It had only been 2 years since I’d left a resident facility in Atlanta Georgia. He had had it with my bullshit. Dad wanted me out of the house again. I didn’t want to be homeless again. The backseat of my Subaru Forester was uncomfortable. Covid was a difficult time. And even before covid it wasn’t easy. Right before I went into inpatient treatment, I was 21 and jumping out of a second story window. The hills were quiet and the door bells were loud. Dad was mad. I should’ve listened the first time. The lithium bottle was full. I was on a mission from God. I was the Blues Brothers and the Men in Black and Tom Cruise in Risky Business. I stripped down to the shorts and socks.
It made sense to run to Milwaukee. Somewhere down the next hill and only another 75 miles away. The street lamp round the corner from the lake watched me sit as two cop cars pulled up on either side. Their guns drawn and lights blinding. I tilted my head down as they exited the cruisers. “Remember thyself Capricorn” was the only auditory hallucination I’ve had. The constellation of Capricorn was visible to my mind’s eye. The back of the cop car was comfortable. The road was winding. The precinct was dark. They were never going to take me to Milwaukee.
The hospital was a temporary home. I called mom and dad every day. I wore a gown and socks with treads. then I wore old T-shirts with holes around the armpits. Dad like to tell me about his grandfather. He liked to tell me about a man who moved overseas. The first Walter fought in the French legion during WW1 and survived with a bullet hole in the back of his head. He spoke nothing but Polish and bought my grandfather a car with money he had saved working in the factory. So, when I told my father about going to drop out of school, he only grew angrier.
Medication is almost as brutal as my father’s rage. I used to internalize it. It’s the kind of thing you become accustomed to like listening the song Here to Forever by Death Cab for Cutie. As for the medication, it was like watching a YouTube video about Madness by Machel Foucault for the first time. I only ever read Suan Moller Okin and David Graeber and the back of the bottle of a mood stabilizer that promised me three wishes. I almost believed in the wishes.
To paraphrase the book by Foucault, God is a homeless man living under I-94. He sleeps with shoes on the sidewalk side of the concrete. The blanket is warm and air under the highway is warmer. He feels winter air between the gaps in his blanket and my footsteps as I approach. I am walking to the Potbelly on the other side of the highway.
It’s 11pm I just finished the movie Dream Scenario with Nicholas Cage and want a turkey sandwich. I order from someone who does not get paid enough. They make a turkey sandwich on white bread with cheddar cheese. I don’t order toppings.
The walk sign on a one way just outside the restaurant does not turn. I cross back over the highway thinking about the free cookie I’d received at the end of the night. And maybe I earned it. I’m walking home to write about the pain of being powerless.
I began writing as a way to combat the migraines. Nothing ever sits right in my stomach. Not even the cookie. Maybe God is Nicholas Cage. He’s a Capricorn too