Meaningless

Giovanni Serrapere
Dr. Adam Johns
Seminar in Composition
November 30, 2008
Meaningless

The weather was beautiful outside so Dean thought it would be a good day to work on his garden. For weeks he had been preparing his garden for summer, he had planted tomatoes, cucumbers, basil, zucchini, strawberries, and even watermelon. In his retirement Dean always found time to do some work around the house, even if there wasn’t a problem, he’d find one. He worked as a mechanic for over 40 years before retiring in time for social security. He took a shower and sat on the couch, he wore a new polo shirt and a pair of khakis. Dean’s son Brian was coming to pick him up. They were going out to his favorite steakhouse; he had already decided in his head what he was going to order. Dean looked at his watch impatiently, then like clockwork, the door opened and in came Brian. Dean got up as soon as he came in; Brian nodded his head upward and asked “You ready?” “Of course I am, I’ve been ready for 15 minutes.”
Brian had made reservations for 5:30, and therefore was in a hurry. He was late because he had been stuck in traffic on the commute back home. His Dad would usually yell at him for being late even though he was well in his thirties. Brian wanted to tactfully broach a subject but he wasn’t sure how. He asked his father if he knew what yesterday was, he shook his head no. “It was the 10th anniversary of Jimmy’s Passing.” Brian stated matter of factually. In fact, Dean did know what the day before had meant, but he tried not to think about it too much. “Huh, I totally forget about it.” “It’s crazy, 10 years already; it’s already been a decade.” Dean stayed silent and looked out the window of the car. Jimmy had died of a heroin overdose; he was only 22 years old when it happened. In some ways they both felt responsible, maybe they could have been more available to him, or they should have known he had a problem. They all had trouble when their mother died, but Jimmy took it the hardest. Maybe, he was more honest with his feelings, Dean and Brian just put on a better pretense. The rest of the car ride was imbued with an awkward silence. But it was okay, for Brian was used to these, Dean wasn’t the type of man to talk about his feelings.
At the restaurant, Brian told them we had reservations for 5:30, it was 5:40. They were asked to just a moment, there wasn’t a table ready yet. Dean saw the waitress come by, and asked her “Excuse me, what is taking so long? We made reservations, we shouldn’t have to wait.” The restaurant was busy with most of the tables full or ready to be cleaned, and the waiting area began to grow outside of the doors. Dean’s statement only added more stress to this woman’s workload. But out of experience she dealt with it tactfully, “Sir, I am so sorry about the wait, I will get you a table right away.” How many times had that woman had that woman been hassled by irate customers. She probably had been working there a long time. She would endure any kind of treatment to feed her kids. Waitressing was on the light side of what society can do to depredate you. Dean grinned, “You see boy, that’s how you get things done.” Their booth was near the back of the restaurant, there were moose heads on the wall near them. A young waitress about 20 years old came to their table. She had a flirtatious smile, and assuaged Brian and Dean by using words like “Honey”, and “Sugar”. Dean didn’t have to look at the menu when he was asked what he wanted to drink, it was like a prerecorded message played and said with great decisiveness, “A Peach Tea, and the Texas T-Bone, with a sweet potato on the side.” Brian however ordered his Coors, and needed until she came back with it to order the NY strip steak. Brian asked him about his recent endeavors, and Dean started telling him about his new garden and that Brian was wasting his yard by not planting one. Again Brian wanted to talk about Jimmy, but he knew he would be cut off by his father’s ramblings.
In Brian’s cubicle he sat at his computer and talked all day, most days dragged by, but they all seemed to melt into one long week at a time. He couldn’t even remember what he had done after work most days. His official title was customer service rep, but he might as well have been replaced by a machine. Everything he said was recorded, and he was only allowed to say certain things. But like everyone else he knew he had to pay the bills, and that was about all he could do. He had his mortgage to pay, and his new Mazda didn’t come cheap. Every year Brian looked forward to his 2 weeks off in the summertime. He would go camping up in the Sequoias for a couple of days, and then spend the rest of his time at home. At his desk he had a day calendar, a stress ball, and a copy of ESPN magazine. He thumbed through the pages while he talked with customers. Since he had a headset he thought maybe, he should start bringing in dumbbells to curl while working. Any distraction from the routine lobotomizing monotony of the day would suffice.
The morbid anniversary still haunted him, he wondered what he would be like if he were still alive today. What had Jimmy really missed out on though? He didn’t feel anymore accomplished than when Jimmy had been alive. His job was truly meaningless; he didn’t even get satisfaction from helping the angry or nervous customers. If there was a dream job he didn’t know what it was. When he was a child he wanted to be a doctor so he could make people feel better. As soon as he got to High School, this changed; he got average grades, and didn’t care much for school. Jimmy was even more forlorn than him, most of the time he didn’t even go to class. He thought his Dad was only made worse by Jimmy’s death; he was already a pitiful case before. Brian remembered the times when his Dad had kicked Jimmy out of the house first for quitting school, and then for quitting his job. Jimmy was never motivated; he never saw the reward in working all the time. He was like that even before he started to do heroin. Now Brian could see some reasoning in this sentiment. Jimmy had questioned why we should work, he argued that Mom had been a nurse, had worked hard just to end up dying of cancer. His father’s response was always to call him lazy, he would tell him to quit complaining, and to do what he had to do.
Dean was changing the air filter in the a/c system, when Brian appeared behind him. “You’re lucky I didn’t fall, you scared me half to death.” “I thought I’d surprise you.” Dean wasn’t used to Brian popping in on him; there contact was limited to the weekends mostly. Dean finished replacing the filter and came off the ladder. He made coffee for both of them, and they sat on the back porch. “How do you like my garden, it’s coming in pretty good.” “Nice, it will be good.” he said in a lackluster tone. Dean sensed something wrong but was afraid to ask what, he knew what the conversation would entail. He tried to change the subject and talked about his upcoming vacation. “So you looking forward to the Sequoias?” Brian sat silent for a moment and looked at him saying nothing. “Jesus Christ Dad, you are allowed to talk about it you know! Don’t tell me you haven’t been thinking about. You had a son he died; it’s nothing to be ashamed of.” Dean exploded letting out all his pent-up frustrations, “It is something to be ashamed of, he had a life and he threw it all away. He was weak, he was a drug addict. He was a selfish spoiled brat, who didn’t think about anybody but himself.” “No he wasn’t, we were selfish for wanting him to stay in his empty life! None of us had anything after Mom died, you especially, but you wouldn’t acknowledge that either. Maybe if you had been honest and talked about our problems it wouldn’t have happened.” Dean got up and breathed deeply holding his temper; he walked back in the house and left Brian there.
The next day Brian did something unusual, he decided to take his vacation 2 weeks early. Not only that but he planned to take a trip down to San Diego, maybe stay on Coronado, he hadn’t been there since his Mom was alive. This new venture was needed; a new outlook on things would do him good. The Pacific Coast Highway would be his trail; first he would travel west to Pismo Beach, then drive down to Santa Barbara and spend the night. The next day he would drive down to San Diego and try to find a hotel with vacancy, it would be difficult during summer. As he came near the 101 the air became cooler, and he held his hand out the window. Jimmy had always liked road trips, and maybe he was there with him in spirit. In Pismo, he stopped for gas, and went to a Mexican restaurant near the ocean front. He ordered a Shrimp burrito, which was one of his favorites and a large horchata. He took his meal and walked out onto the end of the pier with his food. The sun was setting on the horizon; the pacific seemed to go on forever. There were seagulls in the distance sailing in the wind, and a pod of dolphins swam in the corner. The ocean reminded him how insignificant he was, he was only one of the billions of people on this earth. He imagined all the people with all of their problems, in all of history. Who was he in the grand scheme of things? Was anybody important, the earth is billions of years old, and all of this was just on earth. What about the rest of the universe? What is he compared to that?
He wanted to get on the road before the sun completely disappeared so he left his spot on the pier. Along the Highway were signs for the various Spanish Missions. They still stood after nearly 300 years, a testament to the struggle to convert the new world. The padres had spent their lives devoted to this cause. Their faith was matched by few; to them it was their purpose. To many it gave meaning to have faith, but it was all an illusion of meaning. For others their faith was a tool to shackle their constituents. The seeds to revolution were squelched, the poor couldn’t be angry if it was all in God’s plan that they suffered. Blood was spilled in the name of Christianity, Native American babies were murdered, villages were massacred, and disease was spread, all for a lie. Their lives were to the conquistadors only a foundation to reach heaven, to achieve glory. After getting to Santa Barbara he decided to keep driving. He would rather spend money for a night in San Diego. At about 1:30 in the morning he got there, he was tired and he quickly found a place to stay that suited him. The alarm was set for 8:00 he would not waste time on this vacation.
There was this nice bakery 2 blocks from the beach; he ordered 2 croissants and a large coffee. He sat on the table outside, basking in the ocean breeze. After he was finished, he walked onto the beach, and walked along the shore. Brian decided to call his Dad, and tell him where he was, he had not told anyone where he was going. Brian hoped his Dad wasn’t angry at him anymore. Dean didn’t pick up the phone, confirming Brian’s fears. This wouldn’t stop him from enjoying himself. The Hotel Del Coronado was a landmark that Brian had always liked to visit, so he sat down at the beachside bar at the hotel. Just being on the beach was infinitely more pleasurable than a day at the office. The openness of the beach represented freedom, while his office life seemed to stifle his whole being. The Hotel was oven a hundred years old, it was just a building albeit stunning, but this artificial thing had more life than he had. It not only had a rich history, but it would last longer than he, just like it outlived its creators. They had spent a lot of time and effort building this, but if one would inquire as to who built it, only a small number of people would know. Architecture that magnificent and still their attempt at immortality failed. It would hurt to go back to the valley and he knew this. The ocean was calling him; he ran out to the sand, took off his shirt and jumped into the oncoming waves. The water was a bit chilly but he didn’t mind, it had been years since he had experienced the simple joy that is the beach. Even his Dad would have no qualms about expressing his love for the ocean. The water had a therapeutic effect on his demeanor, and he decided the best thing to do was to get his Dad to meet him down here. He could afford it, what good was saving up for retirement if he doesn’t enjoy himself. The phone was brought out again, again no answer, so he decided to leave a message.
For lunch, he treated himself to the local harvest of the sea; he ordered some calamari, and the restaurant’s specialty, fish tacos. Again he opted to sit outside, with a refreshing Corona in his hand, sandals, shorts, and a shirt with flounder on it, he looked like a native. If only Southern California wasn’t so damn expensive, money always seemed to be a problem for him. His whole life was centered on procuring it, but for once he finally got to enjoy the fruits of his labors. Dean still hadn’t called back, so he started to assess exactly what he said. Was it really that bad? Brian concluded that his father was just being his stubborn old self again; he would worry about it until tomorrow. One more day would suffice; it was also all he could afford. There was a jazz concert that night at Seaport Village, he decided to go. The music played like a perfect soundtrack for the setting, he listened pleased. The notes painted the night with bright colors, each sound made a different color. The next morning he got his stuff together and put it in his car, he even bought a sweatshirt that said “San Diego” on it for his Dad.
On the way back instead of taking the 101 he took the I5 straight into the gut of the valley. Down the mountainside after Pyramid Lake, he was now in the valley. He could always tell by the smell of the cows, which were not his favorite. This was just another sign of his rueful life, along with the smog of the valley visible from the mountain top. He stopped in Kettleman City, for an In and Out burger, he ordered a double cheeseburger with fries, and a strawberry shake. He sat on the outside under a plastic umbrella at the table; he ate his food and looked out at the desolate landscape. It looked like a desert, but the San Joaquin was somehow a fertile valley. The land had for generations sustained life; it supplied the nation with most of its food. The migrant workers helped to feed the country, their lives were spent toiling for others. Yet, all they had was just enough to feed their families, and they were looked at as subhuman. They would die in their 50’s, the chemicals from the pesticides, the sun, the dust, and backbreaking work would ravage their bodies. Their lives were essentially sacrificed to give their kids a chance; this was noble but also tragic. Yet Brian was worse off, because he had nobody’s life to enrich. He worked for himself, he worked to pay bills. As he got closer to home he realized how it felt to him, it was like a self inflicted jail sentence. Brian’s routine was his prison he was somehow trapped behind bars as a free man.
His Dad’s car was there when he got there; he decided to knock this time. Nobody came to the door, so the doorbell was rang. Still nobody came; Dean was probably out back in the garden. Brian walked in and called out, “Dad”, he looked in the living room, then out the back door, but no one was there. He walked into his Dad’s bedroom, and saw him laying face down on the bed. The upper part of his body was on the bed while his legs lay scrunched on the ground. He flipped his Dad’s body over, and listened for breathing. There was nothing, that was it, he was dead, and it was his fault. He called 911 and told them the situation; they would have to assess the cause of death. The police questioned him to make sure there was no foul play. It turned out that his Dad had a stroke, 2 days before.
Brian was devastated he sat on the couch in disbelief over what had happened. He was o young how could this happen to him. His retirement had just started; he hadn’t even begun to enjoy himself. All of his life he had worked only to have his wife and his son die before him. Brian didn’t exactly feel like he had been a plus in his father’s life. Brian knew it was his fault, if he hadn’t got in that argument his dad would still be alive. Dean would be buried at the local cemetery, right next to his wife and son. Maybe he was with them right now, probably not but it was a nice thought. Brian didn’t want to have a funeral service; they didn’t keep in touch with their family. He had only met them a couple of times when he was younger. Besides Dean probably wouldn’t want a big expensive fuss for him. For days he stayed in his house, but he didn’t mind, that’s what he normally did on vacation anyway. What was he going to do now? His father was all he had left, friends and girlfriends came and went he never had a close bond with any of them. Would he continue down this dead end path?
He watched as his father was put into the ground. The tombstone was simple and summed up his entire life in a couple of words. “Dean Stanley February 14 1942- June 25 2008 Father, Loving Husband, Hard Worker.” What else could Brian write about his father, his life were those things. All of that hard work and sacrifice pain and anguish just to end up in the same place that Jimmy and Mom were. The picture was sobering, 3 family members in a row, he did not look forward to this sad fate.