a heart like pharoah's

Although aware of my unmatchable stride as I raced through the airport terminal for the exit, I made no effort to change. The recycled air of the plane lingered reminiscently on my person, a token of the overbearing sophistication that my family suspected me to be in pursuit of
when I last left them. I was finally back in that insecurity inspiring environment that was once called home, or as I like to refer to it as: my old stomping grounds. Instead of bumping into one childhood friend after another as I had dimly expected, there were only strangers to greet my anxious eyes. It isn’t like I would have slowed down for them anyway.

No one in their right mind desires accompaniment on their way to a funeral, or should I say, on their way to make amends for missing a funeral. When news of my younger brothers passing reached my ears, my first and only reaction was joy. I bypassed the shock and grief characteristic of such a catastrophe and immediately leaped to gratefulness that he had been gifted with departure. It still would have been nice to say goodbye, but at least no one had to pretend. What made it easier was hearing his medium for passing. Nick had been valiant to the end. He leans over to grab a compact disc from the back seat, something by Elton John I think they said, and the little boy who once hid behind the bushes out front during those long hot summer nights, became the young man hiding below the dashboard for a second too long. Death via pursuit of music. I like it. No doubt the drivers education teachers will eat this event up. The death of one, one I cared for, will become the death of another, just an example.

The strap of my one heavy bag dug deep into my right shoulder. The wheels that prompted the accessories purchase in the first place were out of order and the long walk of the terminal towards the exit and subsequently into my mothers minivan, made me repent their loss even more. The moving sidewalk offered momentary relief. My mind wandered.

People say old age is the best way to go out. What a farce. People say its peaceful. I say its boring. Our bodies were made to be used, not cuddled. Americans live long, peanut addicted lives. Long, but nobody asks if they were meaningful, or fun for that matter. At least when I accomplish everything I set out realistically to do, I will join the army and pray for a Republican president.

I leaped off the strip, walked past the Muslims getting security checks and out the door. Amid the mess of taxis and limos I noticed a dirty, turquoise van. There was a chauffeur sitting behind the Windstar’s smudged windows: my mother. I walked up, slid the door open and threw my bag in without acknowledging her. I hopped in next to my luggage although the passenger seat was open. We aren’t exactly on the same page.

"Hello, son," she said with an awkward smile.

"Hi," I retorted listlessly. The motherly interrogation continued.

"How was your trip?"

"Fine."

"Did you have anything to eat or drink on the plane?"

"Just a coke."

"That’s nice."

"Yeah, I guess."

"Do you want to stop and get something to eat at Wendy’s or Burger King or something?

"Fine. Why not?" We pulled away from the curb.

A few minutes later the heavy, 5 star safety-rated automobile, lurched from a stop with the advent of a green light and took the turn into Taco Bell. I was aware of the more than cautious and preparatory tone of my mother and decided to take the experience with a grain of salt.

I held the door for her despite my misgivings and we entered. The walls were covered with greasy green wallpaper. The ceiling was white and the floor a boring, gray tile. No wet floor notices. One look at the work ethic around here should have told me that. A thin Hispanic man was sitting at the table closest to the counter with a laptop. He wore the company uniform and had a head set on. The keys clicked and the drink slurped and the feet tapped. Here was the manager trying to enjoy life while looking over the budget and making a living. A futile attempt in
the world of fast food.

This lanky innovator was interrupted every few seconds with passionate hustles to the drive-up window, where meaningless people, with cars half as expensive as their homes, felt they were entitled to a little extra. I loathed their insignificance and in doing so loathed myself. What
kind of person misses a funeral? What kind of person doesn’t care? What the hell am I going to get at this second class joint? My mother was ordering. I leaned against the far wall of this entrapping cube and breathed a sigh of relief. At least my father isn’t here.

The tables were all empty while our little friend negotiated with the hardworking American types that plagued his highschool dropout run window. I felt sorry for him. He’s the one who needed to be in that car accident. I scanned the dollar menu and made my selections. The glassy-eyed cashier took my order with a soft smile. "One coke, one cheeseburger and one hot fudge Sunday?," she asked. I responded with a nod and a low yes. She brought the food and I carried it over to the table where my mother was sitting.

It had started to rain and she was staring at the water that streamed quickly down the glass window. I made up my mind to be honest with
her this time and sat down opposite to the middle-aged pacifist.

"You know the first time that I loved and lost." she stated. "I was about your age. It was before I met your father. There was this guy and I fell head over heals for him. I thought what we had was the real deal. But then, without him cheating on me or ditching me at a truck stop or
anything, we just started to drift. We just went our separate ways and moved on. It hurt because I still loved him, but it was worth it, because in a way, I felt like I was an adult. I felt I was united with the poets and the authors and my parents and everybody else. I was sharing a common
experience and being fulfilled in knowing that. I’m searching for that feeling this time, that sense of community, and I can’t seem to find it. This time, with your brother I mean, there is no progression, no growth. I don’t want to be part of it all in this way. And I know that I never will."
Her pain was tangible. All I could say was, "I’m sorry for you."

She turned her attention to me and focused her eyes. I stood my ground. "You know what I’m feeling - or you will. At least about your brother you do. That feeling, the loss and despair, is the same for everybody."

"Not for me," I chimed, but she ignored it and continued. "So, don’t be sorry for me. Be sorry for yourself. It must be hard on you." She took a sip from her drink. I was feeling sentimental and decided to let her down softly.

"Mom, do you know that I appreciate everything you’ve done for me?" She nodded and reached over to put her hand on my stiff shoulder. "And do you know that as hard as I try I can’t agree with you?" A quizzical look met my eyes. "I, and this must seem naive, can’t help but feeling that he, that Nick, that your little baby, was lucky to get out. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not depressed. I’m really not. But look around us. There is so much crap everywhere, so many crappy lives. I’m not saying that Nick’s was one of them, but only that even having to witness everyone else’s sometimes is enough to make a man upset."

She sat for a second and thought. The tapping of the keys by the mysterious manager had begun again. Finally, she got up her nerve to speak and let out a frank response, "One day, you will get it. You will put everything on a balance and just be content. Content that your dreams will never be reached but that they’re worth having anyway; content that your working at a fast-food joint and that it’s okay not to be rich;" I glanced at the manager, "content to accept that there are very bad things and very good things and content to say that this was one of the bad
and that it sucked but at least we had each other. You see the point is, with the right perspective, you can try to make the best out of things even though a realist would say forget it. Understand?" She didn’t wait for my response. "Good. Now let’s get out of here."

She rose, slung her purse over her shoulder and walked out. I leaned over and tied my Footlockers. Upon rising and making my way to the door, I dodged the manager on his path to avert another crisis at the window. "Thank you sir," I said to him. He didn’t hear me. In a couple minutes he would be picking up two trays full of food that hadn’t been touched. I heard the rumble of the engine and walked briskly into the rain.

2005.