Early Morning Pep Talk Blues
by Marc Spahn
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: None.
Description: A father gives the only advice he has, the only way he knows how.
_____________________________________________________________________
When I was in high school my father worked the night shift as a forklift operator in a warehouse. He’d been a laborer all his working life and it was as close as he’d ever come to a cushy job. Of all the things it afforded, it did so just barely; every month one bill was neglected so another could be paid. The house payment, the car in ever disrepair, groceries, doctor’s visits, school fees and clothes for me and my two younger sisters, lights and water. All were touch and go.
The alarm clock was always set to wake me each morning but it was nothing more than a failsafe. My bedroom, having been our garage years prior, meant that every morning the whir of the engine, and the squealing of the brakes whose pads were all but gone, and the tires grinding gravel as he turned and pulled into our cracked and pot-holed driveway, headlights shining in through my window; this was enough to pull me from sleep each morning well before the alarm bell.
I’d rise, and dress, and then start my routine while he came in and took off his work coat and boots. Even in the bathroom down the hall I could hear the clink, clink, clink of the ice cubes hitting the glass as he fixed himself a drink.
Coming into the living room I’d see him in the recliner faced away from me, drink in hand, cigarette burning in the ashtray. I’d slip past behind him and go into the kitchen to get my school bag. I always thought if I were quiet enough, or acted hurriedly enough, that I could get out the door and start the day differently than the one before. It never worked.
I’d walk out of the kitchen and into the living room, making a hard line for the door, because, you have to try. He always stopped me, though, and this morning’s test would be the same as the others before it. It took me a long time before I was able to give the right answers to his questions. He’d first ask, and without looking at me,
“What are you going to learn in school today?”
I’d answer, standing there with my school bag on my shoulder, the rest of the house still silently asleep, the ticking of the clock on the wall counting out loud the seconds it took me to respond,
“Everything I can.”
He’d shift in his chair a bit and look out the living room window, but still not at me, as if something outside had him suddenly occupied and his next question was merely an afterthought,
“And what will you do with all that learnin’?”
Moving my schoolbag to my other shoulder and shifting my weight from one leg to the other, I’d then reply,
“Anything I want.”
Nodding, only slightly, he’d take a drag from his cigarette and then continue,
“And what will that make you later on down the road?”
“Happy.”
It wasn’t quite a smile that this answer would bring to his face, but a subtle lightness not there until that moment. He’d then lift and empty his glass and set it back down onto the coffee table. Finally he’d make eye contact, pinning me there against the front door in the living room, and ask his final question,
“And what will you be so happy about?”
The weight of his stare was crushing as he waited for my reply. I’d barely be able to breathe enough to get the words out, but I would. I’d answer like I had on so many other mornings before, and would again on so many mornings after,
“About not being you.”
Satisfied, his gaze would then return to the window, and I’d give a glance to the clock on the wall; he’d take a long final drag of his smoke before snubbing it, and say,
“Good boy. Don’t miss your bus.”
Swearwords: None.
Description: A father gives the only advice he has, the only way he knows how.
_____________________________________________________________________
When I was in high school my father worked the night shift as a forklift operator in a warehouse. He’d been a laborer all his working life and it was as close as he’d ever come to a cushy job. Of all the things it afforded, it did so just barely; every month one bill was neglected so another could be paid. The house payment, the car in ever disrepair, groceries, doctor’s visits, school fees and clothes for me and my two younger sisters, lights and water. All were touch and go.
The alarm clock was always set to wake me each morning but it was nothing more than a failsafe. My bedroom, having been our garage years prior, meant that every morning the whir of the engine, and the squealing of the brakes whose pads were all but gone, and the tires grinding gravel as he turned and pulled into our cracked and pot-holed driveway, headlights shining in through my window; this was enough to pull me from sleep each morning well before the alarm bell.
I’d rise, and dress, and then start my routine while he came in and took off his work coat and boots. Even in the bathroom down the hall I could hear the clink, clink, clink of the ice cubes hitting the glass as he fixed himself a drink.
Coming into the living room I’d see him in the recliner faced away from me, drink in hand, cigarette burning in the ashtray. I’d slip past behind him and go into the kitchen to get my school bag. I always thought if I were quiet enough, or acted hurriedly enough, that I could get out the door and start the day differently than the one before. It never worked.
I’d walk out of the kitchen and into the living room, making a hard line for the door, because, you have to try. He always stopped me, though, and this morning’s test would be the same as the others before it. It took me a long time before I was able to give the right answers to his questions. He’d first ask, and without looking at me,
“What are you going to learn in school today?”
I’d answer, standing there with my school bag on my shoulder, the rest of the house still silently asleep, the ticking of the clock on the wall counting out loud the seconds it took me to respond,
“Everything I can.”
He’d shift in his chair a bit and look out the living room window, but still not at me, as if something outside had him suddenly occupied and his next question was merely an afterthought,
“And what will you do with all that learnin’?”
Moving my schoolbag to my other shoulder and shifting my weight from one leg to the other, I’d then reply,
“Anything I want.”
Nodding, only slightly, he’d take a drag from his cigarette and then continue,
“And what will that make you later on down the road?”
“Happy.”
It wasn’t quite a smile that this answer would bring to his face, but a subtle lightness not there until that moment. He’d then lift and empty his glass and set it back down onto the coffee table. Finally he’d make eye contact, pinning me there against the front door in the living room, and ask his final question,
“And what will you be so happy about?”
The weight of his stare was crushing as he waited for my reply. I’d barely be able to breathe enough to get the words out, but I would. I’d answer like I had on so many other mornings before, and would again on so many mornings after,
“About not being you.”
Satisfied, his gaze would then return to the window, and I’d give a glance to the clock on the wall; he’d take a long final drag of his smoke before snubbing it, and say,
“Good boy. Don’t miss your bus.”
About the Author
Cincinnati-born
Marc Spahn is of Scottish heritage.
Currently living in Taiwan and working as an English teacher, he is at
heart a musician and writer. You can
hear his music here on SoundCloud: https://soundcloud.com/winkingowl