Superman in Disguise ...Part 2
Life demands something of you whether you can do it or not—that's what I learned from being a dad and failing, and now that's what I'm learning from Alcoholics Anonymous.
I suppose I'm at the stage of making amends because an elegant, older lady from the group has approached me asking for advice and I don't think I have any.
She's in a place where simple truisms like, keep on keeping on, just aren't going to cut it.
We get coffee in a bistro across the street from the meeting. It’s a chi-chi part of town—large, older homes interspersed with reno’s and the local merchants have invested tons of money in the streetscape—kind of like an upscale Greenwich Village.
And this woman looks like she comes from one of those houses—nicely dressed, hair cut and styled—a classy, older lady. So I listen carefully to her opening words.
“I want to talk to you, Dan, because of all the people at the meeting, you seem to be the one who has it all together—including the way you relate to your adult children.”
I almost choke on my coffee. As far as I know, I only said a few words about my two sons and daughter, and that in response to another woman in the group. I probably only said about a dozen words—twenty, tops!
“Did you miss the part where I said I still drink?”
She waves her hand as if shooing away a mosquito. “That’s to be expected—you’re in a horrid situation and as you said tonight, you’re only human. Besides, we’ve all got something.”
“Why do you drink?” I ask her. As soon as I say it, I want to take the words back. Story of my life.
But the woman doesn’t flinch—I have to give her that.
“I drink because I can’t live with the guilt.”
There’s a pained look in her eyes. I want to ignore it, but can’t. Yep, sometimes life does demand something of you, whether you can do it or not.
“What do you feel guilty about?”
“I killed my baby, “ she says—matter of fact, just like that.
“When was that?” I ask, taking into account she’s somewhere in her mid-fifties.
“Thirty years, two months and ten days ago.” She’s about to cry again.
I figure there are two ways this conversation can go—I can tell her the situation is over and get on with her life, or I can sit here and listen to a privileged disclosure I don’t want to hear. And being me, I opt for the latter.
“You had an abortion?”
She nods and looks away. All the world’s pain is concentrated in her face.
What do you say to someone wracked up with guilt—God loves you and forgives you—now, go away and be blessed? She’s lying awake nights pining for tiny fingernails.
I have to say something—but what?
It’ll be okay. I understand. I feel your pain?
Trite and dumb. It isn’t okay. I don’t understand her pain—or mine, for that matter, and I have no idea what’s happening inside her.
When we feel stuff we’re nobody but ourselves—and this empathy idea is lame. No one can feel what we feel—they only think they can.
So, I tell her. It’s short. It’s blunt. When I finish, she wipes her eyes, gets up and thanks me. A different woman walks out the door.
She leaves me with my burdens and walks out the door free.
I chuckle cynically. “That’s about right.”
I should be feeling pretty down, but I’m not. I should be looking for a bar, but that’s not on the agenda either—I stay right where I am.
This lady, whose name I don’t even know, has confided to me the secret of her life. I gave her the little I have to give. It wasn’t much, but it helped. Strangely enough, I feel consoled.
I stand up, drop a ten-dollar bill for the waitress and start toward the door.
I’m a dad. I’m not a god, although some days I wish I were.
I smile and catch my reflection in the mirror.
Peeking out from the top of my shirt is a superman logo—my favourite t-shirt the kids gave me.
On the outside, I look like Clark Kent, but I’m really Superman in disguise.
All I need is a phone booth, or even a booth in a coffee shop, or just somewhere private to change into my secret identity.
The waitress who’s now clearing our table spies my tip and smiles back at me. I wave her over and whisper slyly, “Can you tell me where I can find the nearest maintenance closet?”
There is nothing like succeeding at doing good, for bringing back some of the zest of life to our own life.
I preferred your ending to him going out and dancing in the rain.
:)
ha ha, I agree - the focus was on his being authentic rather than saving the world but a Gene Kelly moment might have been an intriguing diversion :)
On previous comments we exchanged: I am not 'resistant' to much I dislike, for the simple reason I do not notice. From school days I tended to be the one who is unaware of what is happening. As for unseen currents - even if I am told, I remain blanked out.
I tend to live lost in my own thoughts. For instance, if I am in town and I walk past my brother, if he does not greet me, I will not see him.
I never understand what drives people in real life...so I tend to read what I wrote that day and find myself not believing I wrote it. How can I understand my characters so well, with their different personalities, male and females (never mind the aliens) and yet I miss out on all the clues my own family try to send me?
Now that I think of it, I am not aggressive about harm done to me; but anyone harms someone who 'belongs' to me, family or friend, I am outraged and will get involved, even if asked not to.
I guess what I am saying, is that I am just as much of a mess as everyone else, but the difference is, many seem to beat up on themselves, whereas I tend to like most of my good and bad qualities. I made a rule as a teenager, that I am not allowed to go back in time and fault / criticise myself, as I am no longer the person I was and probably do not even recall correctly the pressures I was under.
I think that's a very sound philosophy and as for attending to the moment, most writers tend to get lost in translating from the inner to outer realms - I'm sure you've noticed that time passes quickly when you're totally absorbed in writing - you don't even think of eating and like a chameleon could probably subsist on air :)
:)