Bum

The first thing I see when I wake up is dirty walls. It bothers me, but right now I can still figure out how to do things, how to get myself dressed, how to survive. I need to take care of the trees in the backyard. I use the bathroom, it's filthy, but I don't want to waste the time and the little bit of mind I have on cleaning it. I hear my father, younger than me now when he passed away. He reminds me to keep myself clean, so I shower. Hey, at least the tub will be clean today.

The kitchen is just as bad, food I forgot to put away the last couple nights, rotting trash mixed in with the still edible. It's overwhelming if I dwell on it, and anyway, I need to take care of my trees today. I pick through the counters until I find enough to take the edge off.

My brother Rick said he would help with the trees today, so I look for my phone to call him. Or maybe I should just go to his house. That thought is now planted in my mind, so that's what I do. I grab my laptop where I write all my thoughts down, all the knowledge I don't want to lose. History, family, legacy. Sometimes it's more real to me than my current life.

I pull on my nicer pair of pants, with fewer holes than the other, even though it's missing the button. A shirt I like because it's dark and doesn't show stains. Socks, warm, even if they're see through on the bottom. And shoes, a gift from Rick's wife. My old shoes sit by the door, soles half separated.

Walking out to the street, one neighbor calls out "Hello!" and I return the greeting with a smile and a wave. The other neighbor glares at me through his window. He's the one who poisons my trees.

I've used the bus so much my feet take me to the stop without thought. Before I know it, I'm at Rick's house and ask him if we can work on the trees today. He responds with words. I don't really understand all of them, but I'm practiced enough to tell by his tone that he's annoyed but he'll still help me.

I'm sorry I'm such a burden. I'm so grateful for my family. I'm ashamed I need so much help. I'm a good for nothing lout.

I'm used to these thoughts in my head, so I just do as usual and make my face a stone so they don't show. Rick's three children come outside to play. The two boys say hi politely and run off. My sweet Kasey gives me a big smile and I pick her up in a bigger bear hug as she laughs and hugs back. I can't remember if she's 11 or 12, but I know she'll soon be too big for this. I tell her, "You're my little piggie, but soon you'll be my big piggie!" She just laughs and when I put her down she runs off too. I need to get her some more of that Almond Roca she likes.

Rick and I drive back to my house. That evil neighbor poisoned my trees with bags of salt. He's always complaining about the trees and how he thinks the branches will fall in his yard. Rick says the bags aren't salt, they're gravel I had from a previous project. If he weren't my brother, I'd suspect he is also trying to kill my trees. But he's my brother, and I may not know everything anymore, but I know he loves me. Why else would he put up with me?

The big tree by the side of the yard is dying now. I know it. Rick says he doesn't think it's dying and points out green leaves up high. I can't see that far with my cataracts, and anyway, I know in my heart that it's dying. It's complicated, so I just say, "We have to take care of the tree." And tell him, yet again, about my neighbor poisoning the tree and how it's dying and we need to cut it down so it doesn't fall on my neighbor's house. Rick just listens in stormy silence until I get to the reason my neighbor hates us, which gets into our ancestral past. Wars and conflicts from long ago repeating in a cycle, although, granted, now on a smaller scale. I explain my neighbor must be German and Rick goes off to get the ladder.

There's a question of which of us will climb up to cut down the branches. Not so long ago, maybe a couple decades, we were both strong and agile. We built houses together, I helped build the new church his family goes to, rafters and beams as tall as this tree here. Now, even though my joints creak, and my hands shake, I say, "I'll go." I'm thinking of his kids, of his sweet Kasey. He might still be strong and agile, but he also has a lot more to lose.

I climb the extension ladder, one hand on the rungs, one hand on the chainsaw. Up and up, one squeaky careful rung at a time. At the crown, I take a moment to rest. I delight in the fresh breeze, the smell of leaves and grass and houses. I'm still alive.

I pull the starter on the chainsaw, it sputters and doesn't catch. Again, and again. Nothing. Shit. God-fucking-damint-all-to-hell. Stupid, stupid, worthless good for nothing piece of shit. There's no gas. I know I put gas in there, where did it go? I bet the neighbor took it, that lousy German. I'm so angry, but I don't want to worry Rick, so I just call down calmly, "Out of gas, coming down."

When I get down, Rick is obviously annoyed, and says, "Do you have more gas?" I don't know. I never know. I had some gas, but was that today or last year? Why don't I ever know? But my face is a stone, and I say, "I think so, I'll go check."

There's no gas. I ask Rick, "Can we go to the store and get some gas?" His words are gentle, but his face is weary. He's saying we have to get to dinner. It's at our brother Anthony's house tonight. Dinner would be great. They are really good cooks. Their house is warm and clean, and they always have juice. I love juice. Rick says, "maybe we can come back tomorrow. Do you want to put on some nicer clothes?"

These are my best clothes, but I'm too embarrassed to say that, and instead I puff out my chest and say, "I'm as fresh as a young spring chicken! I'm as handsome as I was at 19, and I've been 19 for years now." Rick just laughs and we get back in the car.

At dinner, conversation washes over me, they're all talking so fast I can't make sense of it. Sometimes I'll catch a word here and there, and try to chime in. Share my knowledge. When I talk, they all just sit there, awkwardly, no one makes eye contact with me, no one says what I can feel they're thinking. I get frustrated that I can't get through to them, and just stop talking. Their conversation picks up again, unintelligible. Might as well be French. At least the food is good. I pick up a piece of beef with my fingers, I'm not used to having a clean fork in my house when I eat. So tasty. I lick my fingers clean.

Anthony explodes, and his words, fueled by disgust, come through loud and clear, "Don't eat with your fingers like an animal. It's gross and dirty. Why do you have to be such a bum!" His face is red with anger, he's yelling. I drop my food, wiping my hands on the tablecloth. I turn my face to stone. I won't eat another bite. No one speaks the rest of dinner. No one looks at each other. These feelings, that I've always heard in my mind are finally spoken out loud, and everyone is appalled. Not at the words themselves, because they're true, but because everyone knows you don't say them out loud.

The kids finish eating quickly, excusing themselves one by one. Kasey comes over, I can tell she's been crying. She says, softly, "I don't think you're a bum. I love you, Uncle." And gives me a sweet, gentle hug.

Inside me, a dam breaks free. Inside, I am sobbing. I don't deserve the love of this sweet child. I don't show that, I smile at her and say, "I love you too Kasey." She runs off to play, and outside, my smile turns to stone. But inside, I'm still smiling.