Since I left you I've been confused all year long Too scared to make a decision In case it's wrong... (c) Frank Howson 2017
Since I left you I've been confused all year long Too scared to make a decision In case it's wrong... (c) Frank Howson 2017
My birth was a bit messy from recollection and ever since I have been flaying around like a man drowning in gasoline. People have come and gone in my life, some leaving an impression, others facial scars, but still, I wouldn’t change it even if I could shoot them.
Life is funny isn’t it?
Sometimes you win and sometimes the cards are stacked against you. Still, it keeps us occupied doesn’t it? I mean, otherwise we may turn into animals and attack each other thinking there was no purpose to it all. But the good news is, there is. I can say this with all certainty now as only a few weeks ago I was stirring my pot of porridge when I saw God’s face on the surface. He said unto me, “Listen, go forth and tell all the fucking morons that I have spent a fortune on this human experiment and have nothing to show for it. Other than one lovely Jewish boy and he doesn’t count because he is related on his mother’s side. All I ask is that you scumbags make a little effort and be nice to each other. It’s not brain surgery y’know? Oh, and your porridge is ready.”
I have since taken to the streets spreading the good news that God is alive and still loves us. And that we need to be kind to each other. In return I have been beaten, spat upon, cursed, betrayed by friends, had my sex tapes made public by Billy Bush, been blacklisted by Hollywood, been lectured by Robert DeNiro on morality, and treated by the media worse than Donald Trump. It could’ve been less kind, though. I could’ve been treated like Joan of Arc and roasted like a chicken as a public entertainment. Thank God I wasn’t a woman.
These days I keep to myself and have stopped eating porridge lest I get any more messages from you know who. I mean, I myself, even, don’t know why God chose me to be the bearer of his good news although he does have a history of choosing flawed messengers. Life is complicated enough without all that.
Father, forgive us we know not what we do.
(c) Frank Howson 2017
The poet took a machete and cut his way through the field of golden daffodils coughing up blood from too many cigarettes, cheap whiskey and women gone bad. His field of dreams had been burned by looters years before and the only place he felt comfortable with now was a field hoed by blood, tears and guts. He had learnt the hard way that this was the only place a poet could write the truth. That the ugliness outside will always drive you inward.
He was well aware that there was no escape clause in his contract and no safety net for those who braved the high wire. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe in God, they just weren’t on speaking terms since the Almighty had conspired to take Ruby from him in such a messy way.
He thought it was fitting that his best prose was written on toilet paper. He no longer craved awards or acknowledgements because he’d worn his heart out in the wanting when he was hungry and young, during that long drought before the rains came. Now, the only public he had was himself and the voices inside his head. Some belonged to long gone friends who, in his mind, would give him a slight smile and a nod when he wrote something that was real.
This was his domain now. Building monuments in the sand and watching the tide wash them away, lost to everyone but those it really mattered to.
Then he’d wander home to rest in the field of devastation to dream of beauty. After all, that was his job.
(C) Frank Howson 2017
I had been informed that my pause was pregnant. This sent shock waves through my bad luck streak and I cursed my Attila The Hun doll. My shoes had given out months before me selling my secret address to my bookie who lived in Ward 3 on life support. I had plotted for years the perfect getaway but the train didn’t go there anymore and left me at the platform.
Once I remember working for a German Shepherd who lived in Brighton. He barked his orders and wouldn’t engage in any debates. Sometimes baring his teeth. Sometimes his girlfriend. It wasn’t much but it was all I had at the time. I thought I had meant more at one point but it was a misdiagnosis and the praise was meant for someone else.
Everywhere I went I was told I was too loud. Even by Roberta who I’ll never forget, although her family escapes me.The most attractive thing about her was her artificial leg. Head waiters burned my orders, and whores rejected my head. And in Berkeley Square a nightingale sang until a chinless producer bought the song and sat on it. Famous people faked their deaths and went into hiding when they saw me. Years later I was told this had little to do with me and more to do with the Chinese emigrant problem but by then I was already dead and banned from most bowling clubs. To add salt to the cheese, some idiot wrote a book posthumously revealing me to be Jack The Ripper. This really ruined my legacy and the statue that was being erected to me was abandoned.
Shortly before my demise I was seen out with a short woman who held the title for Best Street Fighter in Brixton. On our first outing she informed me she loved nothing more than a good licking but being unfamiliar with boxing terms it was beyond me.
Misfortune followed misadventure until Miss Fits dropped me for a Portuguese parrot who swore like a trouper.
Not long after, I went off women in a big way and bought a little flat in Whitechapel where I got myself a job as a part time butcher. It paid poorly but the cuts were cheap. I learned a lot on the job, working mostly nights to save the world any embarrassment.
I can be found in most dictionaries under the word Disillusioned.
I started out wanting more but that’s how it goes.
(c) Frank Howson 2017
Freddie Hudson was cursed with a great memory. He could remember everything that ever happened to him. Every slight, every cruel comment disguised as humour, every kiss that led to heartache, every promise not kept, every humiliation, every betrayal by a friend, every stumble and fall in a life lived in search of meaning.
There were also bad memories too.
He remembered coming out of that warm dark tunnel of darkness and gazing up at the doctor painfully dragging him into a cold and clinical world. He had tried with all his might to scramble back but it was no use as the uncaring determined doctor gripped his little head harder and forced him into a place he wasn’t sure about. He always thought perhaps that was why he had a long neck. Some told him, much later, that it was the sign of good breeding but it never convinced him enough to give up his own theory.
On first viewing his parents seemed nice so Freddie decided to hang about and a short time later found himself cradled in his mother’s arms, his grinning dad beside them, in the backseat of a taxi on its way to what would become his boyhood home.
Once settled in his cozy compact blue room he began thinking about the meaning of it all and what all this fuss would eventually come to. He felt awkward imposing on this obviously struggling couple and guilty for the pain he had already caused his mother. This fear of imposing on people would remain with him all his life.
His dad like to drink stout and this miracle brew seemed put the old boy in high spirits – although it clearly had the opposite effect on mum.
“Stout is good for me!” his dad would utter with all the urgency of a serial killer pleading Not Guilty.
“Not when you’ve had ten bottles it isn’t!” Mum would counter in her best Perry Mason voice.
Observing all this sitting on his dad’s lap, Freddie was beginning to suspect he may be a genius. Well, at least in this household. After all, surely the solution to all this was simple. If only mum could just down a few pints herself she could join father and son in singing sea shanties that made absolutely no sense to anyone. And see the fun in it?
She didn’t. And so most nights his parents played another game where they would both reenacted the Battle of the Somme. Freddie very much appreciated the obvious effort they both put into this but it invariably left all three dissipated and feeling defeated.
It wasn’t long before Freddie was up and about and dispatched to school, an institution he loathed with every cell in his body. He thought it truly fraudulent that the teachers spoke gibberish and got paid for it. Yet part of him marvelled at their trickery and on several occasions offered to take over the class with his own form of gibberish which, instead of being rewarded for, got him beaten by the said teachers until he could hardly walk home. Upon completing that long painful journey he’d be greeted at the door by his smiling mum and the words, “How was school today, son?” On one such occasion Freddie found it difficult to speak so his mum cut in with her motivational skills, “Don’t worry, your dad and I were idiots at school too!” Freddie was tempted to ask if he could crawl back into her warm dark tunnel and shimmy up far enough to fall through some trap door and back to whence he came before he was so rudely awakened to this mad place. But refrained in the spirit of good taste and reverence.
Having survived school, Freddie realised he was old enough to be married so he did. He found a girl who seemed to honestly love him so he figured she was a good candidate to try and recreate the joyful association his parents had endured. And so they took that huge journey down the aisle and thereafter were happy and life was simple and good for a time. Until it wasn’t.
Oneday she said something to him that he couldn’t forget. Or forgive. So he went on alone trying to forget her and failing.
But as things developed, there was much to do, and shopping lists of things to clutter a life in order to distract a mind that never slept. Freddie’s religion was to stay busy. In a way he thought this would ward off death. For although this life had holes in it, it was all he knew.
He liked to hang out with his friend Jimmy Helle who’d never uttered anything that wasn’t a lie but his choice of words was compelling. Together they whiled away the days, one telling tall tales and the other pretending to buy them for the sake of a friendship. It was a fine relationship because they needed nothing from each other, other than the shared knowledge that they were witnesses to the futility of the passing parade.
Another pal was Alby who had more moves than a snake and was just as quick to disappear when a bar bill was presented. Alby was so dumb he joined ISIS thinking he was working for the CIA.
Around this time, Freddie had the sobering realisation that he had $32.56 to his name so he wrote a bunch of film scripts and hit the jackpot. Suddenly he found that he was irresistible to many women and it wasn’t long before he chose one of them to accompany him down the aisle. Again.
Things went swimmingly for a number of years and he found himself to be on everyone’s lips, especially actresses in need of a job. Or therapy.
Money rolled in but Freddie was too busy to enjoy himself. Luckily he had a wife who wasn’t so busy so every day she very kindly thought up ways to spend his new found fortune. She was genius when it came to spending money and Freddie thought himself blessed to have her.
Freddie was also surrounded by a team of men who were good with numbers, which was a great relief to him as he’d found math to be as ridiculous as geomatry at school. He was told by these numbers men to just keep on doing what he was doing, whatever that was, and they’d handle the rest.
After Freddie had exhausted himself making 193 films in two years, the numbers men seemed disappointed that the workload hadn’t killed him. So crestfallen were they that they all took holidays at the same time and never returned. Freddie thought it was a little strange that he hadn’t received a postcard or any information on where all his money could be located. This was a major inconvenience as he’d been planning to take his wife (if he could get her out of the shops) and young son on a little holiday of their own.
The kindly men who were good with numbers finally popped up again years later and made a splash in the irrigation business before finally discovering their niche grading horse semen.
Soon Freddie’s name was mud everywhere, including his own home, and it wasn’t long before the Tax Department thought it might be opportune to lend a boot to the situation by charging Freddie with fraud. It wasn’t long before he found himself facing Judge Kafka in the Farce of the Century. Unfortunately Freddie didn’t have Paul Hogan’s millions, or even his own, to make the Laxative Department look like fools, so he had to rely on plain old common sense. Representing himself, Freddie stood and asked the Judge if the definition of fraud was “to financially benefit yourself through deception?” Judge Kafka smiled and affirmed that that was indeed the case. Freddie then stated, “Well I don’t have any money. So I guess I have disadvantaged no one through the deception of myself that the numbers men would take care of business whilst I was making 193 films. No further questions, you Dingbat” and sat.
This sent the court into an uproar. It had been a long while since common sense had been heard in public and the judge toyed with the idea of having him charged with contempt of court. The Lax Department then dropped the charge altogether and wanted to have Freddie retried on the grounds that they couldn’t understand the plot to one of his movies. Freddie stood and asked them if they were able to follow The Lady From Shanghai to which they replied, “Not on your Nellie, no way” and asked the Judge to have Orson Welles joined in the proceedings. That’s when pandemonium broke out in the courtroom and Freddie was convicted for a parking offence, paid the appropriate fine and walked free. Then caught a tram home.
Urged by his wife (it was a public holiday and the shops were closed) to go to Hollywood and make another fortune for his family, Freddie accepted the challenge. Unfortunately, once he was away his wife, trying her own hand at fiction, told his impressionable son that Daddy had deserted them, leaving them penniless, except for a mansion and everything in it.
Whilst pounding the pavements in Hollywood, Freddie’s wife scored another bargain and moved one of her co-workers into the master bedroom to cope with those long, lonely nights and had Freddie served with divorce papers.
Pretty soon Freddie was seen drinking in bars that even Charles Bukowski would’ve turned his nose up at. He started on white wine and soon hit the harder stuff. One night he had a terrible nightmare and glimpsed hell in all its ugliness and debauchary surrounded by lost souls all screaming for mercy. But taking a second look he realised he was actually standing on the corners of Hollywood Boulevard and Western at 3am waiting for the lights to change.
Work started to come Freddie’s way and soon he was being invited to all the right parties. Demi Moore wanted him to write a screenplay and Sharon Stone wanted him to take a shower with her.
Every day without fail Freddie sent home, well what was once his home, gifts, cards, drawings, letters and, when he had it, money, to his son. But strangely the money never seemed to reach his son and somehow ended up in the bank account of a doctor who shot Botox into women’s faces.
Freddie thought it was about time he wised up, so he married a bipolar movie star in Miami. They returned to L.A and settled in a rented home in Sherman Oaks and there was peace in the Valley. For a time. Some nights her mood swings suited the music and somehow together they stumbled through it. Two against the world. At times Freddie didn’t know if he was coming or going but after four years he found himself between leaving and gone. One particularly hard night, Freddie walked into the darkness and laid down in the road waiting for a bus to run over him. Unfortunately for him there was a bus strike that night and misfortune followed misfortune until the marriage ended.
Somehow he came to be running a restaurant and proved to be so popular with patrons he was voted the unofficial Mayor of Santa Monica. He made some great pals amongst those he worked with like Ben, Gordon, Cathy, Pat, David, Neth and many drinks were consumed after closing time amidst shared laughter and stories. For a time it felt like he was part of a family again.
On the other hand, the two owners he worked for, Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee, were insane. Dum had the personality of white wallpaper and was the only wealthy Jewish doctor in L.A who couldn’t get laid. If he sat beside an attractive woman at the bar of his own restaurant and struck up a conversation with her, she’d be gone within 10 minutes. Sometimes less. Freddie named the empty bar stool next to Dum as the Seat of Death. His partner, Dee, always had a smile on his face even when you told him your mother had just died. He also spoke at a thousand miles an hour like a man who’d found the secret recipe of how to make speed.
Doctor Dum would sit on his regular bar stool every night after boring off every attractive woman in Hollywood and snarl at how popular Freddy was with people. It wasn’t long before Freddie was given his marching orders and on his way again, into the night with a thousand eyes and no particular place to go.
On one such night he gave all of his remaining possessions away and made his bed on the beach thinking, like the Indians do, that it was a perfect night to die. No sadness. No self-pity. In fact he welcomed the chance to now depart this strange world, leaving it like he came into it, with nothing. He closed his eyes and drifted off expecting to enter that warm dark tunnel again that would hopefully lead to a light. Or something.
But instead, he awakened to a new dawn and the disappointing realisation that a homeless person hadn’t killed him during his sleep. Then he looked around and witnessed a dawn of breathless beauty, and finally heard the voice of God as it said unto him, “Leave your cross here and find the music again.”
Freddie misinterpreted this message to mean go forth and populate so he found a jumpin’ little joint on Pico and exchanged numbers with lots of Black girls, until finally he got the right translation that it was all about the music being played at this club by a band of all stars led by Wadstar and Turk.
One night the doorman Basil Wrathbone sussed that Freddie had nowhere to go so he invited him back to his pad to share another 437 beers until they collapsed on the carpet and awoke a week later.
Sometimes between late at night and early in the morning, the bewitching hours, Freddie would see his new best friend appear giving a perfect impression of Creeping Jesus as he quietly inched in the darkness towards the Venetian blinds and nervously peeked out, whispering “The C.I.A are looking for us!” To which Freddie would reply from his living room sofa bed, “Why?” This question would rattle Basil and he’d give a knowing smile and creep back to his room. Sometimes they’d get so paranoid from this nightly activity that they’d watch endless repeats of Sherlock Holmes on TV in the hope that something, anything, would be resolved.
One day Freddie’s cousin thought he may be useful to him so he paid for his airfare to get him back to his suspicious homeland, Australia, the land of second chances and forked tongues.
Freddie returned and everyone patted him on the back. Yes, everyone seemed pleased to see him except his old editor, the famous drunk about town Peter McBland who was genius at cutting the plot out of every film he edited.
Freddie was excited to see his son again but found that the young man’s heart and head had been poisoned by a woman who resented that her only achievement had been hitching herself to Freddie’s wagon. One night he invited his son to dinner and excitedly prepared a roast with all the trimmings and waited. And waited. Sometime after midnight Freddie turned the oven off. And something deep inside him too. Possibly the hope that the truth would win out and a happy ending might prevail. But life clearly wasn’t a movie.
An old friend Richard Masters, whom Freddie had once given a big break to, remembered enough to repay the favour. Richard was now running a very successful underground film festival aptly named P.U.S.S.Y and honoured Freddie by presenting a retrospective of 8 of his old movies. It was a roaring success and audiences cried in all the wrong places and the films were now deemed to be classics.
Freddie was hailed as a legend and people thrust awards at him in the hope that they’d weigh him down and he’d become stagnant like good old safe legends are supposed to behave. But it didn’t work and the bastard continued to live and produce new works.
In fact he lived to be 100 and received a telegram from the Queen which read, “You’re a fucking miracle, Brad.” The fact that the silly old bitch had gotten his name wrong after too many G&Ts didn’t dilute Freddie’s delight in receiving this thoughtful correspondence and so he went on about his life, making mistakes, taking people at their word, searching for meaning in everything, and just being human.
His final words were reported to be, “Awwwfuckyasall!” Or something to that effect as he passed from this earthly world back into that warm dark tunnel of mystery, taking his place in our cherished and grossly rewritten history.
Text (c) Frank Howson 2017
Painting (c) Frank Howson 2017
The hardest thing to get used to in heaven is that there’s no time. Not that much of a problem for me as having been a writer I was used to nights turning into days whilst I chiseled away at a new work. There’s not much point continuing that profession up here as no one seems to have the time to read. But here’s something for old times sake.
What’s heaven like? Well, it’s like Portsea with nicer people. No one brags about what car they own, or their penthouse in London, or how they made a killing on the market this week because of a pending war. Conversations like that seem a little facile here. Oh, and you can’t judge anyone by the cut of their clothes as birthday suits are the fashion of the day in this place.
Yes, we’re a friendly bunch. All the veils that separated us on earth have been stripped away and the fear of intimacy no longer exists. That’s probably because our leader (he hates being called that) is such a down to earth person. On arrival he told me I could call him anything so I now address him as Ted. My first request was to meet Jesus but Ted (whom I assumed was his father) just smiled and said, “Haven’t you worked that out yet? You’re all Jesus.” He really loves answering any questions with a complete mind-fuck that silences you. A bit like Bob Dylan. It may take an eternity for me to get what he means. So, I mainly sit and ponder until my head hurts.
There are some really beautiful women to gaze upon. I like to hit on Marilyn Monroe which is an exercise in futility as there’s no sex here. We seem to not need it anymore, or the expectations and responsibilities that used to accompany it. We generally just chat which consists of smiling and staring at someone while you read their thoughts.
Ted, our leader who hates to be called a leader, loves chatting about his favourite food recipes. He keeps promising to let me taste his Peach Melba but so far he hasn’t delivered. In fact, there are no meals as that’s kinda pointless too.
One day, or was it night?, I asked Ted what the point of creating the human race was, and he answered, “Well I wanted to find out what’d happen if I dumped a whole lot of ignorant people into a paradise, gave them total free will, and waited for the result.” I prompted him for an answer, “Which was?…” And he smiled and replied, “Pointless”. I’m going to need to sit and ponder that too.
The good news for men is we don’t have to shave anymore. And ladies don’t have to pluck anything.
I play cards with Freud, who should be called Fraud as he cheats at everything, and Van Gogh (still a grumpy bastard who can’t read a thing you’re saying). If Grumpy tells me again he only sold two paintings on earth I’m going to have to clock him. Vincent and I currently owe Fraud several million dollars but again it’s kinda…pointless.
Marilyn is looking very alluring as I sit here but the cruel bitch just likes to tease me. She taunts me with tales of how good Milton Berle was in bed and the fact that he used to trip over his own cock. This has obviously left a lasting impression on her. I wish I didn’t have to read her mind, it’s painful.
The one thing we do have is music. Ted is a freak about it. I sometimes think it’s like being trapped in an elevator and having to listen to endless muzak. Wagner is a favourite of Ted’s, although he occasionally, thank God, slips in some Elvis, whom he confidentially informs me was just as chosen as Jesus. I am now pondering the conundrum that both Jesus and Elvis are in us all.
This could take several more eternities to work out before I’ll have a follow-up question that won’t embarrass me in front of Ted.
God, he demands a lot.
It just crossed my mind that, between Freud’s cheating, Van Gogh’s whining, Marilyn’s tauntings about Uncle Milty’s cock, Wagner endlessly played far too loud, and Ted’s oblique answers, this could be hell.
(c) Frank Howson 2017
Harry Grivens had inherited it from his mother. An obsessive excitement about all things Christmas. His mother, Mary, would start her Christmas shopping January every year, her secret way of accruing all the magical gifts that dwarfed her illuminated pine tree every 25th. of December. From her meagre budget she miraculously produced gifts for her children, her husband, her relatives, friends, and even homeless people she had struck up conversations with on the street.
Harry always said he’d found the spirit of Christmas in her eyes, which brimmed with tears of joy as she handed out her gifts to each and every one. He called her Mary Christmas.
Now here he was, a boy grown into a man, an old man, rushing around his little rented apartment with all the enthusiasm of his youth. It was dawn of Christmas morn and all his gifts for those nearest and dearest to him surrounded his little electronic tree in the living room. As he manically prepared the turkey, roasted the chicken, and cut the ham into generous slices, he wondered who’d be the first to show up at his door. Everyone had accepted his invitation with such surprise and enthusiasm that he laughed wondering how his little apartment would hold them all. He knew somewhere, in that other country, that thinly veiled dimension, his mum was smiling at him and proud of the efforts he’d made to duplicate her day of giving.
He was betting that his son, Jamie, would be the first to excitedly knock on his door. Harry hadn’t spent a Christmas with him in eighteen years. He stopped carving the ham as he froze in the stunted memory of where all those years had gone. A tear appeared in his eye as he thought about what a wonderful Christmas gift it’d be if God gave him back all those years. He had made so many mistakes. Not out of meanness or not caring but just because so much had happened 18 years ago to pull the rug out from under his established life that he’d had no experience in how to think straight in such circumstances. His successful and envied life had come to an abrupt end at the peak of his ability when he ended his partnership with a man he no longer trusted and who seemed hell-bent on self-destructing, taking all those who rode with him along for the nosedive. Harry had thought he was doing the noble thing by getting rid of this man. Yes, he was standing up over a principle and although he didn’t expect to be lauded a hero, he certainly hadn’t anticipated the trauma and devastation that awaited him and those he’d loved.
He looked down at the cold wet sensation of his finger and realized he’d cut himself with the carving knife. He hadn’t even felt it. Perhaps he was numb to everything when he thought of those wasted years. Perhaps his only way of dealing with the loss. His business partner fine-printed Harry out of his fortune and assets until he had nothing but his integrity left. But Harry was to learn that such a high moral ideal meant nothing to anyone if you had no money and a tarnished reputation by association. They judged winners by who got away with the most money. Harry realized he’d have to wait for a much higher judgment if he wanted an acknowledgment for doing the right thing.
Harry unsteadily sat on the nearest chair and looked down at the blood dripping from his hand. He thought of Pontius Pilate washing the blood from his hands rather than making a decision to save the life of another: and Pilate’s terse remark to Jesus when the prisoner mentioned truth, “What is truth? …Your truth or mine?” Harry’s body started to jerk uncontrollably now as he bowed his head and sobbed for the naïve, good man he once had been. After eighteen years in the wilderness Harry strongly doubted that he’d ever stand up over a principle again. He couldn’t afford to. Everything was gone you see? The work, the money, the house, the marriage, the child whom he’d loved more than life itself, and, now, finally Harry. Looking down at the pool of blood at his feet he realized how deep the cut was and knew he was bleeding to death. The blood was draining from his body and he was feeling weak. Numb. Even more numb than usual. The thought of that ignited something in him and he rose and kicked the chair into the next room narrowly missing breaking many of the gift wrapped presents piled high around his $13.99 electric Christmas tree. He grabbed a napkin from the table and pressed it down hard against the wound. He turned off the oven, made it down the stairs and hailed a taxi to the ER of his nearest hospital.
When the nurse on duty saw the blood soaked napkin Harry was immediately admitted deemed unsuitable for waiting. He was rushed into a room where a nice Indian doctor sowed up his cut and made jokes that Harry laughed at without really hearing. He was concerned, no, distressed, that his son may’ve shown up at his door to find him not home. And that he’d think his father had let him down again. He wanted him to know that he didn’t do these things on purpose and that some things are beyond your control. They just…happen. They just happen. The kindly doctor, aware of Harry’s anxiety and, to him, incoherent rambling about his son, administered a sedative and had a nurse escort his patient to an outside cab rank.
As Harry climbed the stairs to his apartment his inherited Christmas spirits rose again and he found himself calling out, “Jamie are you there?…Here I come!…I had a stupid accident that’s all….You know me!… Accident prone…Your silly dad, huh?…Don’t worry, just give me an hour and you’ll have the feast of your life!…” But reaching the top floor he realized he was talking to himself. He looked down in hope to see if there were any tell tale signs that his son had come, waited, and gone. But no. There’d been no visitors from what he saw. None at all.
With some difficulty he inserted the key into his lock and opened the front door. He was home. Whatever that meant. A new enthusiasm energized him when he looked at the clock and realized it was still only 10.30am. What an idiot he was. His guests hadn’t arrived yet because it hadn’t reached the appointed hour. Hope sprang eternal again. He turned on the oven and looked around at all his preparations and felt the joy his mother had felt all those years ago, knowing what a wonderful day awaited the cherished ones.
At 2.45pm Harry found himself sitting at the head of his small table, wearing his Christmas hat, and staring at the perfectly roasted turkey, chicken, sliced ham, rustic potatoes and other goodies worthy of a king on a budget. In the background Christmas music played on endless repeat and now he was listening to Bing Crosby, his mum’s favourite. He turned off the pot of boiling water bringing life to his plum pudding and caught a reflection of himself in the shiny salt and pepper shakers. He looked ridiculous. He wearily took his Christmas hat off and went to sit in his living room to gaze at all the unopened gifts.
He’d been hoping to have a beautiful bonding Christmas day with his son which explained his anxiousness about every detail of it being perfect. He’d wanted him to experience the type of Christmas his dad had known when he was young, and his mother was still alive.
Harry’s ex-wife had not allowed their son to spend one Christmas day with his dad in eighteen years and even when Harry had gone to a woman lawyer, who was appalled at the situation and sent Harry’s ex several very serious legal letters, Jamie’s mother defused the situation by agreeing to allow Harry and son a Christmas. But unlike Christmas, it never came. There was always a reason. Harry wondered how someone could hurt another so cruelly. Had he treated her so? Or was she just bitter that the money and the expensive trinkets all went away?
She had also told his son lies. Told him Harry had deserted them both. Left them with nothing. Never paid alimony. Lies, lies, lies. Trouble was, how could Harry set the record straight without telling his son his mother was a liar? He’d attempted to explain the real story one day but it ended bitterly with another two precious years wasted in not talking.
The truth was that eighteen years ago Harry’s career had finished in his homeland. Although he’d taken action to get rid of his business partner, those facts were buried deep beneath the guilty by association tag that was so much easier for people to remember. In the end he was advised by his lawyer, friends and wife that it’d be easier to resume his career in Los Angeles where he was still highly regarded. Over there the only thing that lived was the work, not the innuendo and cocktail gossip. In fact, his wife, so convinced it was the right decision, eagerly drove him to the airport. He’d realized later that she’d wanted him gone as she had a more promising option awaiting his exit. Harry had left her everything his business partner hadn’t taken, mainly a big mansion and everything in it. The sale of it intended as a big one lump sum payment to her and the welfare of their son. In contrast, Harry walked through the airport departure door with a suitcase, the clothes he was wearing and enough money to last him a year in L.A if he lived like a monk. Then one year became two, then three and so on for nine years that seemed to go by like nine months.
Harry sat on his couch and thought that perhaps he deserved this Christmas. He couldn’t wait until New Year’s Eve to pledge that he would never stand up over a principle again; or love something too much lest it be taken from you.
His only ambition now was a simple one – he just wanted his son to know the truth and how much his dad had loved him, and…everything.
Then he looked up and saw his mother standing by the electronic flashing Christmas tree. Her eyes were filled with that all too familiar Christmas joy and her accompanying smile not only warmed Harry’s heart but healed it.
“Have you been a good boy, son?”
“Yes mum, I have tried so hard to be. But I feel old and weary from the trying.”
“What do you want most this Christmas, Harry? And I’ll see if I have it for you.”
Harry’s voice trembled as it always did when he got too emotional, “I want to be home, mum. I’ve been trying to get back there for so long but I think I took the long way. And got lost somewhere.”
Harry felt something and realized his wound had reopened. Maybe they all have to be reopened before one can truly begin again?
No one was in Harry’s apartment to see him go. So many had wanted to be there but things just got in their way. But that was Life, huh?
(c) 2015 Frank Howson