My Enlarged Prostrate

I have long feared that my sins would return to visit me, and the cost is more than I can bear. Benjamin Martin "The Patriot"

These words strike and ring more disdainfully to me more than they ever have.
As I watch my daughter grow from infant to toddler and beyond, I can not help but pray that she does not do all of the selfish things or experience all of the selfish and self-indulgent arrogant philandering and behavior that I dished out.

I listened to a young man just the other night, brashly speak in front of his fiance and my wife of exploits that pale by comparison to my own; I sat quietly, and later my wife asked why I was so quiet gently stroking the dewy glass of beer at our table, and with a simple glance from my sad eyes, she knew.

My past is racy - and I am not proud of it, though I must admit I was then. Like an unstoppable hormonal rage, I played the roll of biker, rocker, and playboy, as if the ramifications of any and all my actions amounted to nothing. I hurt people, mostly women.

Without going into too great of detail, I can tell you that I have sewn my wild oats and scorched the earth behind me. I have seen many tears. I have had stalkers. I have nearly been run through with a kitchen knife. I fell from grace and after 9/11 it hurt.

The culmination of all of my sins hit. I became reclusive, not wanting to associate myself with anyone, disappearing back to a land where I was infinitely successful. I believed that trying to off myself was a good idea. I believed that sleeping around with reckless abandon again was the only way of reclaiming my lost youth, and that led to alot of additional anguish.

Stupid. Sad arrogance.

It has been said that to reminisce and to be discouraged by our past is a waste of time, and I believe it to be true, but as old pictures come to the surface from some long forgone box and explanations droll onward, so to does a personal history - living, breathing coolly on orange embers.

My daughter, not even two, giggles at the lion's mane of hair, the rage of my unwrinkled youth, the people in some of those pictures.

She does not know yet of my successes and losses, and my rotten ways - about which, though I fear the day, must tell her. And explain why people tick one way and tock quite another. I must tell her of the wrongs in my addictions. I must tell her why I can love her mother - my wife the way I can and do. And why her mother and she are the most important people in the world to me.

I am not proud. What is there after all to be proud of? I have lost whatever was gained then, and was stripped to nothing, and because of that haughty history, I stand apathetically as a sociopath, not remembering people's names and not wishing to get involved in their pursuits. I make jokes to cover my iniquities; my "funny" is a grossly exaggerated defense mechanism. I force myself into pseudointellectual profundities to cover my stupidity. And exercise to cover my flabby sloth and miscreancy.

I ask for your forgiveness.

The Last Whimsy

Try, if you will, to imagine yourself soaking up the warm summer sun. Bask in its bright yellowy-orange glow. Feel those tiny little hairs on your arms, rise and change, as your skin begins to absorb all of those wonderful rays and that vitamin D that is so essential to your vitality.
Now imagine, an obscure idea tickling your fancy - an idea that is both desired and dutifully needed in order for you to fulfill your paternal or maternal instincts. The end result comes to you in a flash and the searing imagery burned into you retinas as though you had stared at photograph or stone-emblazed tombstone for too long - its remaining shadows however are those of a child's warm smile and a wife's satisfaction and wanton desire.
Imagine you want to - nay must rise and begin to tinker with this whimsy that has covered you like a wet leather strap.
You begin. The fervor strikes you. Your wallet shivers under the might of parasitic consumerism as your feet lead to an ominous blue and white sign with a name that strikes fear and admiration into any novice craftsman. You see it in the back of the store in brilliant white - a deep-welled tub, sparkling in virgin faux-porcelain. You demand it, a surround, paint, brushes, fixtures, primer for the paint, more brushes, ceramic tile, knives, more PVC, more copper, blue tape, screws, 2X4s, sand, safety goggles, Band-Aids, grout, three more floor tiles, new blades for the new knives. Imagine vultures viciously claiming rights to your hard-earned greenbacks, clutched tightly in your fist.
It only takes 15 trips.
The wet leather whimsy begins to tighten.
Hammer in hand; you strike at various places in the wall. You remember to shut the water off before you destroy everything.
You confidently convince your beloved and yourself that it will only take a few short days to complete the project, and decide to shack up with your in-laws while the project goes through its phases - and you are eternally grateful, assuring them that all will be over with before they know it.
You crawl under the crawl space a cool but dirty and dark space barely big enough for you and your breath. You feel as though you are in the KuChi tunnels of Vietnam. And fear grips you in the dark.
Pounding from above.
Imagine you are the one to enter this cave, with light and equipment and saws and hammers, buckets, and wrenches. You imagine the deep rich fulfillment of pride, which though you place the thought of it "begetting the fall", resides in your new found handimannerisms. You imagine the end result - happy toddler, proud wife, a personal and uninterrupted soak -and you smile.
Days turn into nights and back into days. The sun outside has become an oppressive orb of heat and frustration.
You remember the words of the neighbor contractor, his words still clinging in the air that it would take weeks and not just a few simple days. The old tub weighs no less than a white bull-rhinoceros - you swear as you push it out the door.
Days turn into night and back again, but no sleep for you.
You laugh as that wet leather whimsy tightens as it dries in the sun, and you remember that the Natives used this as a torture to death device.
You remember that you were writing a pseudo-intellectual fable - timely, poignant and pretentious with its French lilt, and well placed adjectives. You remember that motorcycle in the garage, now covered in gypsum dust - those miles you expected to squeak out before riding season ended.
You laugh and nothing is funny.
You help yourself to a cigarette and yet you do not smoke.
You swear and your words hang in the air as though in a Dagwood Bumstead cartoon, because we all know that it is not about Blondie.
The whimsy tightens.
One more time into the crawl space.
One more time to the home and hardware store to open your wallet one more time.
One more time to sleep on the floor in your in-laws place, for which you are eternally grateful. And in order for the baby and you to sleep peaceably the carpet is your domain.
You return to the job. And you do it again...
Rinse and repeat.

The job is done - sort of. Your body and mind (should you still have one) return - sort of.
The baby takes a very happy bath with bubbles and splashing and angry screams as you pour water on her head and it gets in her face.
Your turn.
You consider the idea of the whimsy and make a decision to reconsider doing it again - in the far, far, far future. And you soak.