A Stirring

You feel in the depth of you a stirring.  You drive in traffic to work and you feel this thing in spite of the ordinary that is your morning coffee, the freeway route so familiar and the dulcet tones of the podcast hosts as they reveal so many aspects of the invisible.

Oil men improving safety records by 85% by getting in touch with their emotions strikes you as so unrealistic.  Which oil executive would ever spend corporate dollars on such a program?  Still, the idea of rough men talking about their backgrounds with one another, opening up and trying to articulate what they felt as the children of the alcoholic, the impoverished, the dispossessed and so on, was more than intriguing.  America selling the idea of smiling to Russians via the opening of McDonald’s in Moscow, also touches a chord.  The man who was trained and later arrives in America to stay appreciates the smile, likes his new ways, but in the end he comes to see the smile as somehow hollow and this too, resonates with you.  Capitalism forces people to put up a front all day every day.  Customer Service jobs are emotional labor, which has a dark side.  People drink or learn to ignore the incongruity of smiling or acting 40 or more hours a week.

Your drive is unremarkable.  It is slower at parts and faster at others.  When your podcast ends you recall listening to Amy Winehouse at 2am on Saturday night with your closest friends in your living room.  You remember her voice and more, her phrasing.  You remember one of your friends comparing Amy Winehouse to Pat Benatar and how rude you were in making the point of there being no comparison.  He really is so anachronistic for the 70s, you think.  Pat Benetar.  Really…  You verbally scolded him knowing full well he simply was not familiar with Winehouse.  But Ms. Winehouse holds a special place in your heart these days for more reasons than her own tragic story. 

You flip your phone over to your Youtube app and speak Amy Winehouse’s name and Valerie into it.  You play Valerie and you play it loud.  The song permeates you on this day.  It eviscerates you wholly.  You see hear smell and feel your former lover in the soul of Amy Winehouse’s voice.  It stirs that thing in the pit of your stomach and as you close in on your office, amidst so many big rig trucks set much higher on the plane of the road, you let it go.  Slowly and softly at first it gurgles upward.  Your body moves from a strange inertia.  You sense the heat coming to your head.  You feel a congestion forming in your face.  Liquid settles into your eyes.  You realize it’s tears, it’s emotion.  You feel the convulsion of that first major surge and you nearly bark as tears burst forth as from a dam and roll down your face freely like released prisoners racing to sustenance. 

It feels so fucking good to cry, you think.  And so, you cry.  You look away from cars and passersby.  You wipe your face slyly and slightly.  And you cry.  And you miss that girl and you understand she is not yours and you have to let go.  You’re thankful you knew her though. Not because you needed to know another girl.  There have been plenty of relationships over the years-you’re not sure there is anything more to be learned from intimacy, at least, Eros intimacy.  This cry though.  This cry is life. 

Nothing makes you cry anymore.  It feels like an every couple of years sort of thing and you worry about those poisons you heard were in tears because of that study some 10 years ago.  Why does 10 years ago feel like yesterday? Surely that study is still valid.  Surely there is poison, physical, chemical, poison, in tears and surely it is good for the body to rid itself of these toxins and surely that is why this feels so fucking good.  You want to cry for about a day-and-a-half but you know the feeling won’t last.  Already as you think about the fact that this feeling, this ecstasy of depression, will too pass a new bump of sadness pulsates through you at the loss of the loss of the loss… 

Your profile on that change management assessment said you struggled with social bonds.  You feel social as anything.  You love a party.  You’re friendly.  You’re still a little angry at some of your best and oldest friends for letting the friendship go like a waterless lawn.  You’re still friends with them but there is a distance, a void of familiarity and ideas, a gap in dreams and fears that began in your 20s and like a tarred tree branch never grew back but also never got diseased.  You’re still friends after all. 

What is there to cry about anyways, you think?  If joy and sadness are opposite sides of the same stone and we can only feel them to the same degree then the absence of sadness is a sign, right?  I mean, what is it you want anyway?  Drama? 

You’re driving to work and there is no reason for reasons right now.  Tears are falling from your eyes, which are set on the road as you navigate the Pomona Freeway, like splashes of water from an overflowing pool.  They glide down your face and you wish you could see them on film.  You think your crying is art because you’re self-absorbed like that perhaps but also because you don’t move otherwise.  Your face is as placid as a painting, your brow in unfurled whatsoever, your body does not jerk or convulse in any visible way.  It drives and your eyes cry and you feel within you, deep down, a stirring.  You’re sad about this new time, happy about the ability to emote, relieved at the end of the salty tear drought and withdrawn at your own sense of alone, of singularity, of one. 

your nightmare about parenting in 90 seconds

you never know when one of those moments in life will happen to occur, one of those moments you will remember until the day you die.

one moment you're finishing dinner and two beers in a mexican restaurant, your stunning wife sitting across from you, your adorable little girl and your super cool little guy adjacent, the mariachi band you just tipped five bucks singing quizas next to your table, it is one of those perfect moments when all the work and self-discipline is worth it because your life is rife with joy and beauty, but the next second, your three-year-old screams out loud as if to signal something other than an outburst of bad behavior or anything you are familiar with.

there is no terror like your three-year-old son choking on a peppermint candy in a restaurant.

your wife cries out to you, "he's choking."

you don't know if it is necessarily true. the kid is yelping and he is clearly in pain but you're just not sure. still, you immediately tell her to hand you the boy. you take him by his ribs and you get his face up close to yours and you establish eye contact and you demand of him, "mark, are you okay?"

he cries back to you, "no."

you step out of the commotion, past the mariachi singer and the sublime trumpeter with the ridiculous hairpiece, by a waitress and onto the sidewalk where people take their dinner outside as if dining on a boulevard in paris. you see the people sipping coffees outside next door at the hip, independent coffee shop and you see all the street fair patrons travelling to and fro at the entrance across the street.

you move past a planter to the street's edge and you flip your son onto your left forearm, holding his chest in your hand. your memory of your training in advanced first aid and as an emergency medical technician comes to you like an old friend. it's been 20 years since you even thought about what to do when a child is choking but it feels good to have a friend show up in a crisis and you rap your son firmly between the backbones hoping to jar something loose from in his throat. your wife had added as you walked out that he had a candy in his mouth.

your son screams though not as loud as you have heard before when something less tragic, (like your daughter would not give him the leapster,) has happened. you are worried. a man walks up and offers to call 9-1-1. you tell him maybe, you're not sure. you pull mark up and you ask him again if he is okay or if the thing is still stuck.

he sobs a little and in a high-pitched squeal says, "stuck."

your heart breaks right then and there but at the same time, you're not panicked. you flip him over again and rap him two, three, four times on the back. the boy is tilted towards the ground at about a 38-degree angle. you think of that dinner and the two cups of horchata moving towards his esophagus by sheer force of gravity. nothing happens. your son is crying but not crying, because he is choking. he is crying and he is choking.

you slap him on the back another time or two and you are beginning to panic and you look at the kind stranger who looks at you like he is freaked out and needs something to happen. you flip the boy back up but he is just all furrowed brow and worry and tears falling fatefully down his cheeks. he looks like he wants to quit and you decide that no, nobody is quitting and you are not going to need the 9-1-1 call because that candy that is stuck in your son's throat is coming out and you turn him over again and you lean down and rap him firmly between the shoulder blades and you get your face down next to his ear and you tell him to cough. you say it two or three times, "cough mark. i need you to cough. cough, mark," you yell.

the heel of your right hand bounces onto his back and he coughs and immediately throws up and the stranger is on the front side of him and he is bent down real low near the upchuck and he points with a certain elation and says, "there it is!" "it's out!"

you hold mark in that position so he can throw-up some more if he needs to and you gape at the mostly white peppermint candy with the thin ridges around the edge. it may be slightly larger than a dime but it is as menacing as anything. he turns and tries to pull himself up so you lift him and hug him and the stranger advises you to still take him to the hospital. you say you think he is okay and the stranger, (who is not only not a stranger at this point but as kindred as anyone you have ever met in his kindness and his tender humanity, and his willingness to be involved,) he asks if the candy in the puke is the only one and you tell him it is. your boy had only had one peppermint candy, (you're pretty sure.)

you ask your little guy if he is okay and he responds in the affirmative, his face wet and his eyes swollen. you want to let his mother, (and sister,) know he is okay, so you thank the stranger a couple of times, noticing his cleft upper lip but thinking of the comfort he brought you and how he could not be more beautiful and he tells you it happened once to his four-year-old daughter. you nod and wave and go back into the restaurant squeezing your son extra tight, thankful beyond words for the gift of a tragedy averted.

they are sitting at the table, your wife and your daughter, acting normal as the mariachi band disperses, and you think about how long the ordeal had lasted. it was probably a minute-and-a-half but you remember every detail and think it seems like it had been 5-10 minutes, easy. you tell them he is okay and you explain the story briefly, telling your wife he had finally thrown-up as you tenderized his back, and the candy had dislodged at that moment but you thought he was fine. you sit with him on your lap and you comfort him and rub his back endlessly and kiss his forehead and ask if he is okay and he burrows his head into your armpit and wraps his arms around your middle and you ask your wife if the bill has been paid and she says the waiter took her card but has not returned it yet.

you wait. you are in a bit of shock yourself. you hold your boy. you rock a little marvelling at all the people completely unaware of your drama endured. and the waiter shows up and your wife asks how much to tip and you tell her, remembering the uneven delivery of food, the forgotten tortillas to accompany her fajitas, the unsavory taste of her shrimp...you think, (off night.)

you go outside and sit on a bench, your son still safe in your arms, which are tensed with muscle memory. when your wife comes out peering around you point her towards the obstruction laying in the vomit, which she walks over towards shielding it from your daughter's view who is interested but knows not where to look.

she returns and kisses your son and looks at hims and tells you he has broken blood vessels under both eyes, which when you see them they spark a reconsideration of the panic you skirted throughout the interminable minute-and-a-half.

as you walk home amidst the friday, summer evening revelers, mostly teenagers escaped from their parents who plod through the street fair certain they are having a fabulous time, everything slowly and gently returns to normal. you take a deep breath and dare momentarily to think of another outcome than this one. you shudder. it makes you angry and you want to cry just thinking of such bad things.

at the end you know life is this way. it surprises and shocks you occasionally. you are optimistic in thinking life is not absurd but rather you put your best foot forward every day. you see all the positive ground amassed throughout history, and you trust in personal dignity and good karma and you embrace your vulnerability, your position of limited power, and you hope and convince yourself it is enough and you know that it is enough.