Return to Sender

I think I have perfect Karma. Things happen in such a way, that when something bad happens, something equally good happens as well; it’s always been this way. When I was eight, some neighborhood punk stole my bike; the next day I found an Egyptian God card in a new Yugioh pack. In Highschool I failed a math test; after school I nailed a kickflip for the first time. Right now, I’m on a plane back home from my grandpa’s funeral; I’m also 20,000 dollars richer.

Billy Richard “Dickie” Francis, he was my grandpa. I had met him four, now five, well four and a half times in my life; my mom had less than ten herself. Even without him being around, he left an impact on us, both good and bad, much like my Karmic curse. The good: he was a caring, free spirit, and brought us into his light when he was around. The bad: my mom fell for types just like him; I’ve seen my dad about the same she’s seen hers. They both are..er..were musicians, just my grandpa was successful. He loved the blues and people loved him. He was able to build up a reputation and a bar that eventually had vintage drunk yuppies wanting to buy for a couple million, and they did. He still played occasionally and drank constantly with his young Cuban bride. Until he had a stroke.

I had come home from school, mentally preparing for my McShift, when my mom asked me to come into the kitchen. It wasn’t unusual, she always asked me about my day luring me in with some coffee, water, and an allergy pill; summer was coming, and she knew I would forget it in the morning. She’s an emotional person, a cancer, and let the tears run before I knew what was happening. I was more shocked than anything, the thought of this 61-year-old legend passing, never occurred to me. He was more of a memory anyway. After some reassurance that she was ok, we prepared for our trip to sunny San Diego. I called off from work for the weekend; very nice of him to die on a Friday and give me a weekend off: Perfect Karma. At four in the morning, we made our hour drive to O’Hare and got to California before noon, Pacific Time.

“Would you like any refreshments?” “Excuse me?” “Refreshments: Cans of Pepsi products, honey roasted peanuts, popcorn?” the stewardess twanged as she had 15 rows before. “No, I’m ok…wait I’m sorry, you wouldn’t happen to have ginger ale, do you?” She handed me the ale with sugar in her smile and made her way down the aisle, repeating what I was too lost in thought to comprehend. Taking time to be present, I drank my ginger ale, only to be rushed back to past advice Papa Dickie had taught to me when I was six. He told me the best way to get rid of any…” headache” was to mix Tabasco and garlic powder into ginger ale, then chug it all in one gulp, give the biggest belch you possible can, and poof no more hangover…I mean headache. He was always giving me weird advice when I was younger; I wouldn’t have been surprised if he gave me my first lemon as a baby. Chuckling to myself, I was wishing my mom were on the flight back too, so we could reminisce, and perhaps so I could give her a reassuring hug. She had stayed back to do financial stuff, catch up with her half-sister, and make sure his 45-year-old widow was okay; my mom being only 3 years younger. Luckily, Lourdes, his wife, my “grandma,” was extremely accepting of us and the money we inherited; it helps she inherited more, I suspect. My mom was bequeathed 50 grand and his prized 68 VW Bug which she will be driving back to Illinois after settling the accounts; she may be emotional, but she’s as independent and headstrong as anyone I know. I, as I’ve said, received 20,000 dollars, his fender guitar, cherry red of course, some of his most prized records, like Tom Waits’, The Heart of Saturday Night, and his journal. The only one I could bring with me on my plane ride back was that little faded black book, I’ve been too scared to open.

When me and my mom got to San Diego, Lourdes’s son Enrique, was there to pick us up in his 2015 Subaru STI; I think my mom had a little too much fun in the passenger seat, I wanted to puke. He asked us to call him Kique (Key-Kay) and commented on how much I looked like my Grandpa, except I had dimples and straight hair. The rest of the trip was mainly a blur of seeing people, so many people I’ve never met, them repeating what Kique had already said, and acting like we were all great friends; something I find trite and annoying, plus the smog was making my allergies act up. Eventually we saw my Papa’s body, I couldn’t bear look at his face, I had to keep my eyes adhered to his Johnny Cash getup: an all-black suit. Lourdes told us how he died to distract us. So, he was about to leave to play golf at 9am and to get into the mood was sipping a Bloody Maria, tequila over vodka always, and was listening to International Lover, by Prince: their song. He was singing along and was killing it, but right before the break Prince lets out a climatic scream, and my Papa wasn’t about to be stood up by Prince, so he matched him and destroyed him and before he knew it, saw black and passed out. He gave himself a stroke. We all busted out dying of laughter, tears behind our eyes, it was so Dickie, we got sad instantly he couldn’t laugh at himself with us. Lourdes informed us that he struggled with retaining consciousness with more than half of him being paralyzed, and before he died from a second stroke in the hospital, he got out the words, “Nailed It.” A showman till the end.

Before I knew it, I had finished my ginger ale and was holding his black journal, he had written specifically for me. Lourdes made sure to hand it to me and made sure to tell me of its origin. When I was born, my grandpa bought this journal, to be closer to me than he was with his daughter; he knew his mistakes, he knew who he was, and he wanted me to know, that even if he wasn’t around, that he loved me, and that he was always thinking of me. And that’s why I haven’t opened the damn thing.

To distract myself, I put on my earbuds, put my journal on my lap, and hit shuffle on my Spotify liked songs. I bet that mother was laughing a storm from wherever he was because, When Doves Cry, came righ on. I let out an actual LOL so loud that my wing mates glanced my way confused. I reassured them I was sane and that I just was listening to Dave Chapelle stand up. I couldn’t put off reading that cursed journal anymore. I opened to the first page and read.

” Dear Bubba, I can’t believe your mom actually listened to me and named you William Robert, Billy Bob. Hahahahaha, William Robert Lawless, now that’s a name. As soon as your mama told me about your daddy, I told her she gotta marry him, if only for the name, and I’ll be damned if that’s all he ends up giving her. I know his type, I’m his type, and I hate him for it. Listen, I was 19 when I got Emma Rose, your now grandma, pregnant, and no matter what everybody else said, I couldn’t help but listen to be rhythm of the wind, blowing me in the direction I needed, blowing me away from home. I wasn’t a good father, hell, I wasn’t even a father, but I’m 44 now, and I’m going to prove to you, your mom, and your grandma, that I am someone to look up to and love. I’m going to have money one day, though I’ve been saying that for a while now, but I swear I will make up for my downfalls with every cent I earn! I will always hate myself for my past mistakes, which is why I am going to be writing them down here for you, so you can learn from me, for when I’m not there. I’ll also write what I’m thinking at times and especially every time I’m with you. Just don’t expect too much, I tend to get distracted. I can’t wait to teach you about the wonders of women, how to play a guitar to get women, and how to take a proper tequila shot, when they break your heart. I will always love you, forever and always, your new best friend, Papa Dickie.”

I wish I hadn’t read that, not without my mom. Oh God, do I miss him, Oh God do I hate that I never knew him better. I only had one more semester of high school and I could’ve run out to the West Coast, and he could’ve taught me everything he said he would, and I would’ve grown a ponytail, just like him, and got my heart broken by Spanish women, and live life on the breeze, just like him! But I never will. And that’s ok because I’m going to be better than him. I’m going to be the pilot, not a leaf taken hostage. I want my legend to live. Thank you, Papa Dick, thank you for doing the best you could, I love you.

I read the rest of his journal, after a quick trip to the bathroom. I read about his feelings on leaving my grandma, stories he heard about my mom, his attempt at being a hairdresser (for the ladies), and all the mischief from when he visited me. As I said, I have perfect Karma. My grandpa has just passed, but I am blessed with his rich spirit.