Fuck the Queen. Save my dad.
2003-02-18, 9:21 p.m.
Setting: 5:55 p.m. in a rundown, neo-hippie low-rise apartment resting uneasily in the middle of arkansas. Cue shrill telephone ring. Girl mumbling "dammit mom", ripped from the midst of sleep, fumbling for the phone. Tripping over keyboards and phone cords. Hair paying homage to the Gorgons, penguin pajamas riding low.
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Girl (rude): Hi. Mom. God. What is it? I was. so. asleep.
Woman (sobbing): Yourdad'sintheambulanceonthewaytobaylorindallas.
Girl: Wait. Back the damn truck up. What? WHAT?
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Cue incredible earthshattering scream as girl hits the floor upon finding out that her papa bear... the only man she will ever find faith and love in... the strongest, most sensitive, loving man... she will ever know... is as weak as a toddler... unable to support himself... left side slack... trying to drive himself to the hospital after stroking out in the breakroom at work. in an ambulance to Baylor... in a trauma room... in a CT scan... in an MRI... Cue girl frantically packing bags full of dirty laundry... no underwear to be found... guess she'll fly commando for a while... rushing about... airlines on the phone. No tickets. No tickets, they say. Well, by god, she'll get out her magic wand and zap herself down there. Cue slamming of the door.
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And suddenly... you find yourself flashing back... to that one. cold. night. You know you couldn't have been more than 4 years old... because you lived at that one house. on that one street. the one with the gravel driveway and the climbing-tree in the back... the one with sheets on the windows... and your brother's sunburst comforter... You remember being scared... You were always scared when your daddy was gone for those two weeks of every month... hauling grapes in an 18-wheeler from florida to ames, iowa... picking up carrots in des moines, and bringing them back home to arkansas... you were a dirty little girl back then... punky brewster, velcro, k-mart shoes and a mass of unkempt mud-brown ringlet curls. Waiting for your daddy in the front yard with your thumb in your mouth. You remember... that he didn't come home that night after the end of a 2-week haul... you remember hearing mommy cry in the bathroom... throwing up... crawling into big brother's warm bed... sunburst comforter. sheets on the window... holding his hand.
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You remember that phone call, too... 18 years ago... 2:32 a.m. Sunday night. There was an accident. A jack-knife in the Ozark Mountains. Empty bottle of aspirin. Empty bottle of Jack. Shaky. suicide. note. Tearing through the mountains in a borrowed green Cougar... stockstill and just as silent. staring at your little-girl thumb on top of your brother's little-boy thumb. Sterile. White. Hospital. Northwest Arkansas. Papa bear crying... I just can't take care of you anymore. I can't do it. I had life insurance. I knew it would take care of you. Something. had. to.
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And he did take care of us. And he's almost died twice providing for us. And now it's my turn. I'm coming home, papa bear... I'm coming home.
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