The Trouble with Being Born: A Novel

Father

197 I should eat. I’m not that hungry, but I should eat. I could go down to Tommy the Rock’s, but I don’t really care for Mexican food. My stomach can’t take it any more. Besides, he don’t cook much these days, and I don’t know where he gets those vecchias he has back in that kitchen. I could go to Jo Jo’s, but he charges so much for his damn spaghetti: I don’t want to pay fifteen dollars for a plate of homemades and a beer. I can afford it, sure, but I don’t want to pay that much. There’s Furr’s Cafeteria down the street. I don’t like having to stand in line with a tray. Reminds me of the army. I’m sick of Burger King. The Whopper. That’s insulting. I could go to Whisky Ridge, get me a plate of their spaghetti. But I can’t eat it all, and will have to bring some home. When Jeff came down, I ate it up just like that. It’s not the food, it’s the company. When you have to eat alone, you’re just not hungry, you’re just not hungry. My sister brings me food sometimes, but she’s in Florida. I hope she don’t move there permanently. I tell her: “All your friends are here. You have roots in Pueblo. What are you going to do in Florida?” It’s been hard on her since Ted died. I know that. I could go to Kings and get some sausage. And maybe some bread, make myself a sandwich. Then I’d have to fight the crowd at Kings. All those people, all those people. Where Father 198 father do they come from? I should go see Frances too. I haven’t been there in a couple of days. I could probably eat at the nursing home for free, but who wants to touch that crap? I’m paying a thousand a month out of our savings, for what? For basic room and board, basic room and board. They don’t even give her therapy. It’s just a warehouse for old people. That’s what I call it, warehousing, warehousing. And that insurance. I’ll never get over that. When they said lifetime, I thought it meant for life. Not three years. I blame myself, I should have read the policy. But lifetime is for life! Not three years. In six months, it’s going to run out, and then I’m going to have to pay four thousand dollars a month out of my own pocket. For what? For basic room and board. I should have read the policy. I blame myself. But I thought life meant life. And not once has the insurance guy, the guy who sold me the policy, written or called. They get your money, and it’s see you later. That nursing home, it’s going to bleed me dry. And Frances could live another ten years. Oh God. And these neighbors, these neighbors, not one has written or called, asking how she is. Not one. After all she did for everyone. All the free babysitting she did for next door. I brought her home once, when Jeff and his wife came down, and I had him walk her down the block. That was when she still could communicate, when she still could walk. I had him walk her down the block and back, with his wife and two dogs, so everyone could see her, so all the neighbors could see her. And they never ask. They never write or call. What are you afraid of? I had some cornflakes with my coffee this morning, but that was at five, and it’s almost twelve now. I’m just not hungry. I could go to McDonald’s and then bring Frances a hamburger and a coke. She’s already had her lunch, but food is her only 199 father treat. Her eyes light up when she sees a hamburger, a cookie or some chocolate. And Jeff. She doesn’t recognize me. We lived together over forty years, and she doesn’t even know who I am. I sing songs to her, songs of the forties. That’s my therapy, singing her the old songs, like “I’ll be seeing you in all the...