Life With Sarg - Part V
"Thank you for calling Bridwell's Olds-Honda. This is Robin!"
"It's your dad...he's not breathing...the ambulance is on its way..."
Maybe Gail said more - I don't remember. I don't remember leaving work. I don't remember starting my car. I do remember the 1991 Chevrolet Corsica, aqua blue, dented fender, faded Peace the Bear Beanie Baby taunting me from the back window. "Move dammit!" I screamed, as the driver of this Corsica crawled along oblivious to my panic. "Move, goddammit, MOVE!"
Gail met me in the driveway. "I think he's gone," she sobbed. I think I screamed, I'm not sure. I am sure I did something primal because my mother's neighbor put her arm around me and told me to calm down...not to make a scene... "Fuck off," I hissed. I do remember telling her to fuck off.
Somehow I stormed my way past the paramedics. I knew enough to let them work - they must have known enough to let me close. Kneeling beside flesh and wire, I assessed the situation. This man on the floor was not Sarg. Sarg is never horizontal. This man is pale - Sarg is brown from weekends golfing. Sarg bellows - this man rattles. Yet the smell is undeniable - a smoky tavern with a faint tinge of Old Spice and Vitalis. "Daddy...not yet. Please."
"It's your dad...he's not breathing...the ambulance is on its way..."
Maybe Gail said more - I don't remember. I don't remember leaving work. I don't remember starting my car. I do remember the 1991 Chevrolet Corsica, aqua blue, dented fender, faded Peace the Bear Beanie Baby taunting me from the back window. "Move dammit!" I screamed, as the driver of this Corsica crawled along oblivious to my panic. "Move, goddammit, MOVE!"
Gail met me in the driveway. "I think he's gone," she sobbed. I think I screamed, I'm not sure. I am sure I did something primal because my mother's neighbor put her arm around me and told me to calm down...not to make a scene... "Fuck off," I hissed. I do remember telling her to fuck off.
Somehow I stormed my way past the paramedics. I knew enough to let them work - they must have known enough to let me close. Kneeling beside flesh and wire, I assessed the situation. This man on the floor was not Sarg. Sarg is never horizontal. This man is pale - Sarg is brown from weekends golfing. Sarg bellows - this man rattles. Yet the smell is undeniable - a smoky tavern with a faint tinge of Old Spice and Vitalis. "Daddy...not yet. Please."
posted by Robin at 8:18 AM
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