August 15th: discombobulated

8/15/09

I got to Dad’s late, after seeing off the New Alternatives youth, who were going to see a production of Rent at a castle in NJ. He was asleep, so I followed the wise path best known to mothers of infants - I let him sleep while taking a moment for myself. He woke up after half an hour, completely discombobulated. He came shuffling out of the bedroom wearing a navy sweatshirt, red socks, black dress shoes, and a wine-red baseball cap. No underwear or pants. He got all the way across the apartment, then said “I haven’t got my pants on,” and reversed course, giving me a good view of his wobbly, deflated ass.

He seemed puzzled by my presence, so I said, “I came by to see how you’re doing.” “I’m doing crazy,” Dad responded. “It’s a good thing I came by, then,” I replied. Dad was genuinely puzzled, “Why? What’re you going to do about it?” “Just keep you company while you’re being crazy,” I answered.

Watching Dad sitting down, his careful maneuvering toward the seat, turning around, and gingerly lowering himself onto the couch reminds me of a plane coming in for a landing.
Sitting next to me, he says, “I’d like to drill right through you and make something great.” This sentence could be creepy, but it resonates with my artistic side and I imagine myself as part of a sculpture. “That sounds crazy, doesn’t it?” Dad asks me. “It sounds artistic,” I reply. “My mind is rolling around,” Dad explains.

I’m helping Dad reconstruct his day before I arrived. I look for clues, like a detective.“You ate a banana – there’s a peel in the garbage. You ate the leftover mashed potatoes – the Tupperware is in the sink. You ate ¾ of a donut – the last quarter is sitting on the counter. And you probably talked to Charlie Burgess at some point today.” “Crossed the Charles, the river?” Dad asks. “No, Charlie Burgess, you talk to him every day,” I explain. Dad responds indignantly, “I do not. You must be thinking of someone else.”

“I’ve wrecked everything, I guess.” Dad says, gloomily. “I don’t think you’ve wrecked anything,” I respond. To lighten the moment, I start singing the Stars and Stripes Forever. Dad joins in, singing at the top of his lungs. “You’re just a little discombobulated today,” I tell him when we’re done singing. “Discombobulated!” he says, “hey, that’s a word I’ve used all my life. It’s a wonderful word.”

Dad asks me a question. “Yep,” I answer. “Yep, yep,” he says, savoring the sound of the word, “I love that. Yep. Yep. Yep!”

“I didn’t know who the hell you were until 15 minutes ago, but now I do,” says Dad, starting to land back in reality. He starts reminiscing about his grad school days. “Three or four guys said, ‘this guy is going to pieces if we don’t do something about it, so they did something about it and it changed my life. They said, ‘you’re going to Oregon.’ I said, ‘I’m not going to Oregon.’ They said ‘you’re GOING to Oregon.’ And I shut up. Before that I was just blah, blah, blah, blah. I never did anything bad, I just did raucous things. My mom said, ‘Oh well, gee whiz, the hell with it.’ She didn’t give a damn, I guess. I finally came back and I was a completely different person.”

“What am I?” Dad asks, abruptly. There are many possible answers. I opt for simplicity. “You’re my Dad!” I tell him. “I’m your dog?” he asks. “No, D-A-D!” I yell. “B-A-G?” he tries again. “D-A-D!!” I get louder. “B-A-D?” he asks. “D! D! D-A-D!!!” I keep trying.

I’m still prepping him for Gloucester. We go through the week, day by day. “Tomorrow is Sunday, and Michael is coming to see you,” I tell him. “Nothing on Monday,” he chimes in. “On Tuesday, they cut my . . . “ “Beard,” I fill in. “And you need to take a bath.” Dad laughs like it’s the funniest thing I could have said. “That’s a good one,” he says.

“Here I am in my mid-nineties . . . “ Dad starts out. “Hey,” I interrupt, “You’re in your mid-eighties, you’re exaggerating.” “I like to exaggerate,” Dad admits.

“I’m lazy today,” I tell Dad, flopping on the couch. “So am I,” says Dad, “although my brain keeps popping, popping.” I have an image of kernels of popped corn flying out his ears.

“You know what I regret,” Dad says, “not having kids.” “You have me,” I remind him, poking him gently. “you’re only ½ a kid, aren’t you?” he says. “I feel like a whole person,” I tell him, feeling oddly indignant at being reduced to a half. Dad doesn’t respond verbally, just reaches out and pats me under the chin, the way you would with a cat.

“You know what?” he says. “What?” I ask, because this is not rhetorical – he will wait for an answer indefinitely. “I’m never going to use that word again.” “What word?” I ask, confused. “I forgot,” he says.

“You know what s the trouble?” he asks again. “What?” I reply. “If we all strip down completely, it’ll be a different world.” He pauses, apparently pondering a word of nudity. “Maybe a terrible world,” he concludes.