NOTES TOWARD A THIRD ACT
NOTES TOWARD A THIRD ACT
Peak Moments
Monday, November 30, 2015
November 5, 2015
My Dad is putting me to bed. I reach up and feel the whiskers on his cheeks and chin. I think, "Dad, this is my dad."
**
I sit under the dining room table on the gray and blue swirled linoleum. I am playing, pretending I am somewhere else. Duffy, our black beagle, lies by the hot air register, my older brother, Dick, is at school, and the baby, Mike, is asleep in his crib. I can hear my mother in another room, and I know that on this autumn morning all is right with the world.
**
I hold my first love in my arms, her warm breath misting my neck, our young, hungry bodies fitting together just-so.
**
School is letting out for the Christmas holiday. I am standing in the hall outside the room where I have been substitute teaching that day. I'm not even a "real" teacher yet, having subbed in this district for a year and a half now, but the warmth coursing through the halls is infectious.
I think, "I like this," when a group of students walk past on their way to their busses, their streets, and finally their homes where they will surely belong. "Enjoy your break, Mr. Hanley," one of them says, "Merry Christmas!"
"Thanks," I say, "Same to you!" Then I turn to go back in the room and gather my things before I head down to the office to turn in my keys and check out for the day.
**
I look across the room at Julie, my heart pounding in my chest. "The Nightingale" from the Twin Peaks soundtrack begins to play. "I have a crush on you," I say. "Why don't you come over here," she replies, patting the bed next to her. I walk across the room, sit down, and I know that I have to kiss her. When I do, I learn what it means to swoon.
**
I stand there stupidly, which is how many a man has stood after his wife gives birth to his first child. The baby in question has been cleaned, swaddled, and as his mother is otherwise occupied at the moment, the nurse says, "Well, Dad, do you want to hold your baby?"
"Sure," I squeak out as she gently places him in my arms. He fits perfectly. I look at Walter, and Walter looks at me, and I say, "Hi. Hi, it's good to see you."
**
Jack and I stand on a platform at the shore of Duck Lake. He leans on the railing looking out at the water, bony shoulder pitched slightly in my direction. Ripples appear where a fish has tapped the surface of the water as I slip behind my son and prepare to take his picture.
**
Walking downtown one morning last summer, on our way to yet another stop at Starbucks, Charlie says, "Dad?" in a voice that says, "I am about to ask a man something, and that man is my dad."
“I walk across the room, sit down, and I know that I have to kiss her. When I do, I learn what it means to swoon.”