dads. my dad. dads.

Sheila & LarBear. 2012.

This is, I guess, more pertinent, or timely, than most of my posts. Mostly, because it's non-fiction, and it's about my dad. Oh, Larry Marshall, a man that in every moment is a dedicated daddy-o, entrepreneur, non-shirt-wearer when in the yard, self-described short-ditty-songwriter, avid gardener and amateur real-estate aficionado. My dad has always been a driver in my life. It took a long time to realize that he drove so hard because he hoped that the six of his kids would drive ourselves in the same way. He did good.

I will always prefer striving to stagnant, type A to slacker.  In short, I'm an Annie Edison, as opposed to a Jeff Winger. I don't know how to be content, so to this, I say thank you. There's always more out there.

The pair of us would make lists as I grew up. I don't know if he did this with my siblings; I have an inkling this particular habit sank into my sister Colleen's life though. We are so similar when it comes to how we go about dreaming and working to achieve. Perhaps it was a "Father of Girls" move. How lucky were we to have such a caring, thought provoking man as a dad? And remains so.

Me & Dad. 2013.

These lists, ah, these lists, they'd be the lists comprised of all sorts of things: what I was interested in, books I wanted to read, books I'd read, places I'd like to visit, places I'd visited, my favorite facts, things I loved, goals I set, goals I accomplished, people I admired, and so on into all spheres of life. I have kept many of these lists throughout the years: a hoarder of the relics in my own life. And for my unsurprising love of memoirs, I've kept track of myself for years in hopes that eventually I'll be able to piece together where I've been, where I'm going and where I want to be by the time I'm old. To this my dad laughs, then reflects on how he has grown and changed over the years. He'd think about if it were his little life lists. "I look pretty good, right?" A common catchphrase, more than a question. Then, he'd twirl the hairs on the back of his head, smile a side smile, and continue, "...feel like I'm 17, but then I remember I'm not. Doesn't matter. I feel it. Ya know, Bridge, you're as old as you feel." When he said this to me for the first time, he was in the midst of growing his hair a little longer in the back — he called it his stylish baby curls, while everyone else called it a mullet.

 

Birthday. 2010.

He discovers things and shares them with me, and luckily for me, he has promised to keep doing so. The other day he texted (by the way, it was a very exciting day when he learned to text) me about wanting to go to the Elbo Room or the Hideout to check out "Who's who in music land." Someone had recommended he'd like Robbie Fulks. Always an adventure seeker, despite living in the suburbs.

There was a time I remember so clearly: I was a teenager, Armageddon had just come out, and the film's album couldn't get enough airplay. When Chantal  Kreviazuk covered John Denver's "Jet Plane," my dad was so in awe of the song that when he came home one evening, and I greeted him in the driveway, as I was prone to do, he told me to get in his parked car, so we could listen and then re-listen to it over and over again. My favorite moments are when he turns to me and says, "I'm a pretty cool guy, right?" And, he genuinely wants to know my opinion, all the while genuinely believing himself to be a "pretty cool guy." He genuinely is.

I forget how lucky I am to have the kind of parents Steve Martin tends to play in movies. See Father of the Bride or Cheaper by the Dozen, if you're not sure what I'm talking about. Few people know what I have, and I am so thankful.

Colleen. Brigid. Dad. Christmas. 2012.

Something like it.

There were pictures everywhere in his apartment. Not pictures of family or friends, or anything that would speak to who he really was, but rather these faux antique prints. They were cool, mind you, but it bothered me. I couldn't quite figure out why until now. Something inauthentic about the nature of his life. I laid down my coat, as I had a few weeks before, on the floor. He picked it up, put it on the back of a kitchen chair. It hung there limply. We sat. We sat and starred at one another for a few seconds, each taking the other in. It felt like it had been a while, yet none at all, and at the same time it genuinely felt like it wasn't real. Oh, the irony.

A few weeks really isn't very much time. Don't we all let time slip by without even noticing? Years go by before our base instincts of "Wait! What's happening in my life" kick in. It's adult time, and a lot can happen in adult time. Blink, and you're thirty, or fifty, or dead.

It was late when I came over. Rain swept across the street, my wedges drenched in January precipitation. Not wearing enough make-up for it to run. Buzzed in. Door opened. Welcomed.

"So what's been up?" I asked, knowing his answer would be as void of content as my question.

"You know, just been busy." Ding ding ding. A pause. "You know."

But I didn't know. That's why I asked. How easy is it to get out of actually knowing a person? Very easy.

"Yeah," I smiled. "I know."

A few minutes later, jokes exchanged, conversation came easier, and with that a comfort we all long for. But it's a fake comfort. A fake relationship. More like a relationship that in the end no one wants, so we discard it like the groceries we intended to eat, but instead let spoil.

There are smiles that in the end mean nothing, and a connection that is no connection at all. So we sit at the bottom of the bin; it was anything but pretend, because it happened. And we both wish it didn't.

"And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile" -TS Eliot. The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

but, choices.

There's something that happens right before you're about to take a leap. It's not faith, though. It's the ability to look past the stupidity of that moment, that decision, that That. If you say it's faith you're assuming a definitely positive outcome, and honestly, most big decisions are positive only in that you finally made a choice. They don't necessarily point to a fullness or hopefulness in the future. They might or might not. There's no such thing as a sure thing.

For a lot of leaps I can do that, I can leap however stupidly forward. I can follow a trail of bread crumbs hoping to find a candy house without a witch, all the while knowing there might be a witch. "Oven roast it when you get to it," should be a phrase.

But then again, for the things that involve someone else, limits impose themselves. It hurts too much to treat life and choices like they don't mean anything. Like what I do has no affect, and vice versa. The thing of it is, is, well, it means everything: life and choices. That's all life is, but a collection of choices: the ones you've made, the ones made for you, and the ones others make that affect you. Everything you do and everything you don't finds a way to take its toll on your heart. Heart, humanity, comme ci comme ça. So, there's nothing more natural than that moment of fight or flight, and nothing more telling about a person and their goals based on whether their "F" word has an "L" in it or not.

You only have one heart, after all.Chances are by now we've all been damaged irreparably, so we can't afford to be careless.

Dear Chicago,

You'll never guess.

You know the girl you said I'd meet someday?

Well, I've got something to confess.

She picked me up on Friday.

Asked me if she reminded me of you.

I just laughed and lit a cigarette,

Said "that's impossible to do. "

My life's gotten simple since.

And it fluctuates so much.

Happy and sad and back again.

I'm not crying out too much.

Think about you all the time.

It's strange and hard to deal.

Think about you lying there.

And those blankets lie so still.

Nothing breathes here in the cold.

Nothing moves or even smiles.

I've been thinking some of suicide.

But there's bars out here for miles.

Sorry about the every kiss.

Every kiss you wasted back.

I think the thing you said was true,

I'm going to die alone and sad.

The wind's feeling real these days.

Yeah, baby, it hurt's me some.

Never thought I'd feel so blue.

New York City, you're almost gone.

I think that I've fallen out of love,

I think I've fallen out of love...with you.

-Ryan Adams, Dear Chicago

commuting.

The sound of skinny tires gliding along pavement, like an athletic symphony, plays in her ears. Never mind the cacophony that's actually blasting all around. She's sitting on the edge of a CTA train seat, the Red Line, headed South into the Loop. It smells like the perfectly imperfect blend of ammonia and homelessness that only the floor of an El train can know fully. The person next to her has no problem taking up their own seat and hers. But she can't say anything. After all, it would be so awkward.

This is every single week day now.

But she can hear it, anyway--hear the way a road bike sounds, smoothly dancing down Dearborn street from Chicago's North side on southward. As summer pretends to start, bicycles unsteadily enter the grid-like stream of the city. She can see them from the train, nervous for them, nervous for those riders, the ones who are safe, the ones who aren't, and the cars that can't tell the difference.

And just like that, she remembers what it's like out there; Chicago's impenetrable humid air somehow able to create a breeze beneath her body, whizzing down city streets. And just as quickly, she remembers that feeling of pure fear as doors are flung open, as cars turn right without a second thought, as pedestrians run in a lane designated for someone else. And. the. list. goes. on.

So, she sits on the train, thankful to get a seat, knowing the person next to her could not possibly want to be there any less than her.


LINKS

• On May 29, 2013, Bobby Cann was killed while biking home from work. This page is to honor his memory and his passion for bike safety.
• My Bike Advocate
• Neighborhood Bikeways Campaign

We're Working On It.

1"Get off of my back."
2"You...do it."
1"What are you saying?"
2"I'm saying that maybe you need to chill out."
1"Or maybe you do."
2"What are you saying?"
1"Stop repeating the things I'm saying."
2"Asking."
1"What?"
2"Asking. You were 'asking' not 'saying.'"
1"I fucking hate you."
2"Right."
1"Just chill out, and leave me alone."
2"Why should I?"
1"Because I am 'asking' you to."
2"All I want to do is talk to you."
1"And all I want is some space. So how about you give me that. Huh? Can you just listen to the things I am saying?"
2""
1"Can you just take the hint that maybe, just maybe, I'm not in the mood, and I don't need to explain myself to you. Because I am a person. And the things I say, and the things I think are my own things to have for myself. And, maybe, just maybe, not everything is about you."
2""
1"Yeah...Thank you. Thank you for just shutting the fuck up when I ask you to. Thank you for realizing, maybe after this chat I literally could give two shits if we ever spoke again. I don't want to be mean or anything. But you are making me be mean. You're making me be this way. And, well, I didn't want to be this way. Because it's nice when people want to talk to you, to know you, or whatever. But, it's like I don't really know you, not really, at least, so like, take a step back and reflect on that shit...Count them."
2""
1"Two. Shits. One. Two. That's it. That's what I am giving to you."
2"I get it."
1"Good."
2"I think you're wrong though."
1"Jesus."
2"No, I do. And here's why:"
1"You can't 'Here's why' me, dude. You can't because, I am subjective. Everything about what I think is what I am allowed to think. So, you can take your 'Here's why,' and shove it in your glove compartment."
2"My glove compartment?"
1"Yeah."
2""
1"Fuck you."
2"Well, how's about a 'fuck you'?"
1"I could give a shit!"
2"Then why are you still here. Talking to me? Why? Huh? If you could give two shits?"
1"Because I just am. God. What, I can't be here anymore because you're here? I can do whatever I want. And I do. And will. So, yeah. Just. Chill out. Like I thought you were OK before, but now I'm like 'Fuck this manipulative person.'"
"2"I'm manipulative?"
1"Yes. Yeah. Yes. Yes, you are. You can't just say, 'Hey, we're friends.' 'We're having a good time,' and then be like, that is truth. No, because there are two people here. And not to make your point moot, or whatever, but I'm here too, anyway. And, I don't want to be, so respect that. Just because something isn't terrible, doesn't mean it's great. The opposite of terrible isn't what's happening here. I mean. It is now. But it wasn't. It was just fine. But I don't want fine."
2"You don't."
1"That sounded like a question. But it's not a question. I want to spend my time the way I want to. So, just let me."
2"Fine."
1"Fine."
2"I still think you're wrong."
1"God, you're so condescending."
2"No, wait. Listen...We have a good time."
1"Are you not understanding me? 'I' isn't the same as 'We,' and what I am saying is, you had a good time. I had an OK time. Thus, 'We' did not have a good time."
2""
1""
2""
1"I'm going now...Have a nice life."
2"Have a nice life."
1"Stop repeating the things I am saying!"
2"We have so much in common."
1"Oh. Jesus."