Pop Speak

The two men met up today. They did so about once a year. Sometimes more than a full year passed, but the point was always made for them to see each other. They had to have the meetings. Any one of them could have been the last. It hadn’t always been this way, but, by now, they had been through some cycles.

“You look taller,” the first man said.

“That’s because you’re lying on your back.”

“Fair enough,” the first man said. “You look good though.”

“Yeah, thanks. I wish we could say the same for you.”

The second man sat. He had said we despite the fact that he had come there alone. The second man was the spitting image of his mother. He was a professor, but was awkward in conversation. In this way, he was like his father.

“So, how are you feeling,” the second man said.

“I’m feeling with my hands, just like always.”

“That’s an old joke, Pop.”

“I’m an old man.”

A nurse came into the room, to check what nurses check: fluids, levels, comfort. This last piece was in limited supply. The nurse was smiley, conventionally cute. She had a smart brunette bob, and was one of a few who could fill out scrubs. When she asked the first man how he felt, he did not reply with a lame bit. He answered, “I’m fair. A little better since my son here came to visit.”

“Well then, that’s good,” the nurse said. “I’ll be back with your meds in half an hour. You ring if you need anything before then.”

“I sure will,” the father said.

The nurse said hello to the son. Her smile was in overdrive. She far surpassed what one would expect in a city hospital. The son nodded and offered the politest thanks for her work. Then the men were alone again.

“Nice girl,” the father said.

“Yeah.”

“She reminds me of your first wife.”

The son didn’t answer. He stared at the television suspended from the aged, white ceiling. It was early evening. So he was staring at the local news. The lead story was about the weather. It was a slow news day.

“So, really, how are you feeling?”

“Well kid, other than my heart and my lungs, I’m okay.”

The son shook his head. They paused. Both men looked up at the news. It told them nothing that was actually new, yet they watched intently. The volume was low. The

son could hear his father’s quiet wheezing. After a commercial for insurance, the news went to sports.

“They’re going to stink this year.”

“They might make a run,” the son said.

“Yeah, and I might get up from here and make a run. Maybe a marathon. I know, I’ll—”

“Alright, Pop.”

“I’m just saying, they’re going to be God awful this season.”

“But, maybe not... It’s not like anyone else is so much better.”

They paused.

“That’s true,” the father said. “Although a real quarterback would help.”

“Yeah,” said the son. “One would.”

Another pause.

“See, we agree on something.”

The son gave a skeptical chuckle.

“How’s your work?” the father asked.

“It doesn’t change. Students come, they go.”

“New girls every year though.” The father had lowered his voice as if others were listening.

“Pop.”

“I’m just saying, at least you have co-eds to look at. You know, so it can’t be all boring.”

“Co-eds, Pop?”

“What? What did I say?”

“Nothing... Don’t worry about it.”

The father coughed. And coughed. He hacked for an easy fifteen seconds. Through the rise and fall of phlegm, he said, “Jesus... I thought... I was... supposed to... be... the negative one.”

The son didn’t answer. He poured his father a plastic cup of water from the beige, hospital issued pitcher. He sat them both on the bedside table. He did so knowing that eight ounces of ice water were no match for decades of smoke and bourbon. It was a gesture. And, collecting himself as best as he could in a patient’s gown, the father was grateful.

The son had had enough. He was ready to restart the cycle.

“I’m gonna get going.”

“Alright.”

The son waited for the rest of his father’s response. He knew it would come.

“You know, we can see each other more, when I’m healthy. We don’t always have to wait ‘til I’m laid up.”

“I agree. We don’t.”

The father coughed again, lighter this time. “How ‘bout that?” he said. “We agree twice in one day.”

The son said, “When you’re on your feet, feeling up to it, you know where to find me.”

They paused. The son made no effort to leave besides standing. He hovered over the bed.

“Is your mother going to see me?”

The son felt a pang of something, maybe mercy.

“I’m not sure. Probably.”

“It’s okay if she doesn’t. You can tell her that.”

“If I talk to her,” the son said.

The father smiled. “I’m a bastard,” he said. “But you’ve learned from me.”

The son didn’t answer. He held a hand on the edge of the bed. The father cleared his throat. When he spoke, his throat was blocked again.

“Maybe you’ve learned from me how not to be.”

The son just looked at him.

“That wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.”

The son had had enough. The two men met up today. They did so about once a year. Sometimes more than a full year passed... The son moved his hand from the bed to his father’s forearm.

“I love you, Pop.”

“Yeah. You too, kid.”