(Someone requested I put some of my work from my Fiction Writing days from college up on the site. Though this is not fiction, it is something I wrote for my major several years ago. I hope you enjoy it.)
“Sarah! SARAH!” I blinked out of a daze. I must have zoned out while doing my homework. Luckily for me, I had a living alarm clock that kept me from getting any sleep. He was my father, yelling out my name so that it could be heard in every room in the house. I heard my mother counter yelling, which sounded like, “Bill, would you quit yelling?! Jesus.” My Dad rarely raised his voice to anybody, so when I heard his call, I figured it must be something important; and I use the word important very loosely, here. Only a few things can be important enough to the point of shouting. One: Dad had injured himself in a clumsy attempt to reach the popcorn maker on top of the cabinet. Two: While trying to preserve leftover pizza, he accidentally got the saran wrap bunched up and can’t cover it. I would then need to explain that trying to shake the saran wrap will not smooth it out, it will make it worse. Or lastly: He had discovered a song in his music collection that he really fancies, and wants me to take a listen.
Mentally, I ruled out the first reason. After Dad nearly fractured his skull falling off a chair in attempt to retrieve the popcorn maker, Ma decided to move it to a safer area. It now sits right smack dab in the middle of the counter, away from any potentially dangerous kitchen furniture and/or appliances. I eliminated the second reason as well. Dad is not allowed around saran wrap anymore. Long story.
I suppose that meant that he wanted me to listen to a song with him.
Dad was intent to share his music collection with me. His collection was vast and eclectic, including albums by Led Zeppelin, Supertramp, Neil Diamond, Crosby Stills and Nash, REM, Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, and I could on forever. “Kate!” Another call from my Dad. Another “shut up, Bill!” from my mom. I shook off some fatigue and walked out of my room, hobbling down the hall. Once I entered the kitchen, I was hit by the low, yet booming sounds of a sub woofer. It went straight to my ear drums, throbbing and pounding as the bass seemed to rattle the house. I peeked my head into the dining room, where the music was coming from. “Dad? Did you need something?” He looked over at me from a large, polished wooden table. He had one leg crossed and a cigarette in his hand. His glasses were shaped like aviator sunglasses, and were a bit large for his face. His gray hair (though he insists it’s just a VERY light blonde) was thinning and brushed into a come over. He was rubbing his beard, the way a stereotypical philosopher would. The corners of his lips were upturned, and his cheeks were puffed out a bit, as if he was going to combust with laughter.
“Did you know…”
Oh, God. Here it comes. I started to mentally cringe.
“Did you know that if Olivia Newton John Married Isaac Newton, got divorced, then married Elton John her name would be Olivia Newton John Newton John?” He nodded matter-of-factly.
I flashed a blank stare at him. “No. Isn’t that interesting.” I deadpanned.
Of course I didn’t know that. Why would anyone know that? That’s completely absurd. But boy, I tell you, my Dad sure did look proud after this revelation.
I shook my head and exhaled, trying to refrain from telling him how much of my time he just wasted by filling me in on Olivia Newton John’s fictional love life. “What did you want, Dad?” He smiled at me. It was a warm, genuine smile; a smile that said “I am happy to see you. Spend some time with me,” and I couldn’t help but match it. I found myself laughing and giggling at the stupid Olivia Newton John thing. “Sit down, I wantcha to hear a song.” He motioned me to have a seat. I sat on the floor, in front of the cabinet that contained the stereo and most of the collection. “Okay. Press stop on the cassette player, then press play on the CD player and go to track number two.” I nodded, used to being his music lackey. When I had access to the stereo and he didn’t feel like getting out of his chair, I had to change music for him. I stopped the cassette tape player, and the blaring bass stopped. Thank God. I then switched on the CD player, and played track number two. It was a song recorded live; the track started with the sounds of applause and whistling. The song, which I wasn’t familiar with at all at the time, was by Harry Chapin. It was called “Dreams Go By.”
You and I, we watch our years go by, we watch our sweet dreams fly far away, buy maybe someday, I don’t know when, we will dream again, and we’ll be happy then, until our time just slips away.
I listened to the sappy song, aching for it to end. Those four and a half minutes were the longest four and a half minutes of my entire freaking life. When the song came to a stop and the next track started up, I turned it off. I looked over to my Dad to see if he had any further instructions. When I looked up from the floor, I could see a film of moisture over his eyes. I didn’t say anything. I felt awkward, sad, and concerned all at once, but I decided to wait and let him be the first to speak. Eventually, he turned to face me, oceanic blue eyes meeting my own. I met his gaze and he opened his mouth to say something, his soft spoken voice forcing its way through the room’s silence.
“It’s a sad song.”
“Yeah.” I replied, “It is, Dad.”
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About a year later, my father died. Surprisingly, it wasn’t from trying to reach something on top of a tall cabinet. He had gotten cancer, that at first was curable, then complicated, then terminal.
When he passed, I inherited his music collection. The whole shebang: the CDs, the records, the stereo and speakers, even the 45s that only he and I knew how to play. I never understood why my Dad would cry at certain songs until he died. Maybe it reminded him of a sad time, or a person he was close to. Now when I play certain songs, I cry. Not really out of sadness, but out of happiness that my father and I got to share something special.
