As Paul enters his apartment he is greeted by his small dog--a gift left to him by a girlfriend. He pauses--who was that? Was it Tammy? Valerie? No, must have been Angel because she was the one who always watched bachelorette and the Kardashians. She always wanted a purse dog, she said so. He had gotten this one for her and still, she left. He’d had thought she’d take the dob with her but she didn’t. He can’ remember why she left. Was there a fight? An argument? While he picks up the dog with all his matted hair, he snuggles her close and then sets her outside to take a break. Back then there were a lot of women and a lot of arguments. He always wanted to get married but he’d never gotten to ask anyone because he’d give up because there was always something wrong with them--they chewed with their mouth open, they interrupted him, they thought he needed to change or move or believe something different. Or they left--sometimes in the middle of the night or at least that’s what he thought then.
His life is so different now. He wonders how many women he’s actually loved and how many were just because he was sad and lonely. He opens the door for the dog and she comes inside, sniffs her food and lies down on the couch. He grabs a soda and starts for the couch. He sets the soda on the counter considering if he needs the extra sugar before bed. He shifts the dog into his lap and joins her on the couch. As he looks at his hands holding her small body he suddenly feels his age. Where did these age spots come from?
Since he moved to Arizona he’s been in the sun more but he doesn’t remember his hands looking like this before. He goes through the day’s receipts on his phone and tries to see if he can picture each person that he encountered. He moved to Arizona from Birmingham two years ago and he’s been driving for ride sharing companies while also working for mechanics around town. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do when he got to Arizona but he knew he’d figure it out. He was resourceful, bright even--that’s what the teachers always said but he didn’t apply himself. He hated the teachers--who the fuck were they--how did they know what we was thinking? They sure never asked him. They would call home and he'd get whacked. No one at home asked him either.
His mom left when he was six--he remembers her shoes and the way the laundry smells after she brought it in from outside--she’d place it on his mattress and he’d roll around in the still warm clothes and fall asleep as he heard them arguing outside. He never asked why she left or how it made his Dad feel. It wasn’t until a few years ago after his time in rehab and then the AA meetings. He then started to wonder so he’d show up early to his DAd’s place before the drink took hold and he’d ask questions. He learned that they met in elementary school and their parents had been friends. He learned that his Dad had a younger brother who was cuter and more talented and two days before he was born, his Dad’s brother, his uncle, killed himself--he was a talented kid, an artist even, but in the late 60s in Alabama the economy didn’t need an artist so he learned about cars.
Paul found out that his grandfather worked at the local college and the boys could have gone if they had wanted, but by then his dad had already messed around with his mom and she had gotten pregnant. By then his uncle, who he never met, had started to drink with his buddies and they say his brain got stuck. Even on the days he didn’t drink--it seemed like he had--they didn’t know when he’d be home or when he’d be gone for days. When Paul would go see his Dad, he’d go early because by noon the beer and the pain had switched his brain into the same off position as he heard had happened to his uncle. It was as if all the emotions were on a dial and his dial was stuck on anger. At that point there would be no more stories or understanding. He wouldn’t learn that his mom left because he had a breakdown and her family actually took her away and put her in a home. She had always been fragile but when her husband drank and got angry she would shut down. She never really left because even now in the home that they have paid for decades all she does is draw pictures of Paul at every age. He wouldn’t learn that the way his uncle died was not suicide but a horrible accident as he entered the freeway--there was a car already going the wrong way. While he was drunk, he was not at fault. He wouldn’t learn that his uncle was an amazing artist nor that he dreamed of painting his car. No, Paul, would not learn these truths because the opportunity to move to Arizona came and he left, it would be years before he felt ready to ask any more questions.
Paul now was a reformed alcoholic. He woke up one morning and realized that he was missing his life. He wanted something more. He had started to sketch pictures each night and was capturing the faces of the people that he had met throughout the day. It was an exercise for him to try to remember each person that he saw through the mirror of his Kia xx that had 437,000 miles on it.
Today was different, the woman in the car, she mentioned something that struck a chord. She was interested in what he was saying. As he sketched her face, he thought about his mom, his uncle, his dad, the grandparents that died of heartbreak on both sides. He had shared with this woman in the car today about his uncle, about the art, about his desires to create something beautiful and she had listened. Tomorrow, tomorrow Paul would call his dad, he’d try to picture his mom, he’d consider the women in his life, but tonight he would sleep better than he had in years.
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