It's What I've Always Done

by Richard T. Hellinga

If you can’t help your family and friends, who can you help? It seems like I’ve spent my entire adult life trying to explain that concept to my wife and she still doesn’t get it.

“I told her to have David Post look at it,” I say folding my hands on the table.“He does it for a living. She doesn’t listen to me.”

“I understand that,” says my wife Irene. “But she and Anthony want to live their own way.”

“Own way? I’m not telling them how to live any way. I just suggested to her that she have Dave look at the car.”

She turns from the stove and folds her arms, glaring at me with that accusing way she gets, that scowl with those slate blue eyes she’s got. She scares people with that look, but not me. Not anymore. We’ve been married for 44 years and that look hasn’t killed me yet.

“I’m trying to help them out,” I say. “So they don’t get screwed. And they will. Christ. Do you know there’s only two mechanics in the entire world that Dave trusts? That’s what he told me the other day.”

She shakes her head and moves to the counter and slices some onions. That woman can cook. One of the many things I love about her.

“Whatchya makin’?” I ask turning and hanging my right arm over the back of the chair.

“An omelet.”

“Sounds good.”

“Not for you.”

“What? Why not?”

“You’re getting grapefruit.”

“I want an omelet.”

“You can’t have an omelet.”

I get up from the chair, slowly as usual these days. I can’t just pop up like I used to. “I thought we agreed with doctor Ferguson that I could have an omelet once a week.”

I’ve got a heart condition. Had one heart attack two years ago and now everyone’s paranoid I’m gonna have another if I eat more than three eggs a week.

“We did. You had an omelet Saturday.”

“That was last week.”

She gives me the look again. “Two days ago.”

“But it’s my birthday,” I say.

She pushes the onions off the cutting board and into the frying pan on the stove. They sizzle with the mushrooms. I can smell them cooking now. Boy, do I want an omelet.

“Fine,” I say and pour some coffee for myself and mix in some sugar and sit back down here in the kitchen and watch her work.

“Don’t say anything about the car unless Vicky brings it up,” she says.

“It’s not going to be hard to miss if they drive it here,” I say.

“Paul!”

“All right. All right.” I sip some coffee.

“Did you take your pills?” she asks.

“Yep.”

“Good.”

“You didn’t get the paper, did you?”

“No,” she says.

“I’ll get it.”

“Why don’t you do that. Give yourself something to do.”

So I go out to the front room and open the front door and pick the paper up off the ground. I don’t spring down there and back up like I used to. Every move I make when I have to bend like this is stiff. My muscles don’t have that snap anymore, like when I was half my age. Even five years ago I wasn’t this stiff. All my friends say the same thing, “I can’t bend, anymore.”

A few days ago it rained and everything kind of cooled down a few degrees, into the sixties. Perfect for me. Not too hot, not too cold. A nice day for June. Helen Murphy is out on her hands and knees, across the street, working on her row of tulips out front. She’s always working her garden. She’s got the green thumb of the block. She and Harry had their house built just before we did. It used to be mostly empty lots here. And a golf course before that. Helen and I wave to each other and I go back in.

My bricklayer father put up the walls of our house. And my brother did the electrical. I remember the transformation from the empty plot to a concrete slab to walls with a roof. It was really something. Then the block filled up with houses and people and kids. Then the kids grew up and moved away.

Back in the kitchen, Irene is still cooking. I take off the plastic wrapping from around the Tribune and throw it in the garbage. I sit back down and take another sip of coffee. Then I take out the front section and the section with the obituaries. I skim the obits first. 72, good. 54, bad. 66, not so good. 70, that’ll do. 93, wow, very nice indeed; it would be nice to stick around that long, live to see some great-grandkids, and maybe even outlive this crappy mayor of ours. I put down the obits and grab the front section and turn to page three to read Royko. Leave it to the Cubs—

“Don’t say anything to Anthony either,” says Irene.

“Hold on a minute,” I say. “I’m trying to read what Royko’s saying.”

“Put down the paper a sec and listen.”

“Hold on,” I say. I haven’t even gotten past the first sentence. First she wants me to shutup and now she wants me to stop what I’m doing in the middle of it. What is this? I’m not allowed to do anything on my own birthday? It’s not her birthday. It’s mine. I should be King today.

“Do you want to eat your grapefruit or do you want me to hit you with it?” she asks.

I close the paper and set it back down on the table to my left. Then I fold my arms on the table and look straight at her. “Fine. What?”

She puts the sliced grapefruit on a plate and sets it in front of me. She’s standing over me and I’m looking up at her.

“Please don’t bug Anthony,” she says, using that very gentle tone she gets when she’s dead serious. Irene’s got a lot of sympathy for him. She’s very caring that way, very loving. And maybe I am pushing it.

“He’s been outta work for five months now,” I say. “He doesn’t want a little help? I know lots of people. I could get him a job with the county, if he wants.”

She puts her hand on top of my shoulder. “If he wants is the key there, Paul. Did you ever think to ask him what he wants?”

“It’s not like I’m gonna make him go to a job I choose for him. I was just going to tell him that if he wants me to, I can talk to a few people and—”

“Don’t!” she says. She goes back to the stove and grabs the spatula and turns over her omelet.

“Don’t what?”

She points at me with the black spatula. “Talk to anybody on his behalf.”

“Why not?”

“As much as you think it is, it’s really none of your business.”

“He’s married to our daughter. He’s the father of our grandchildren.”

“If you say anything today, Paul, so help me God.”

“Fine, I won’t.” I dig out a piece of grapefruit with my spoon, put it into my mouth, and start chewing. It’s good. But I’d rather be eating an omelet. Irene makes the best omelets. I like’em with green peppers, ham, onions, and some cheddar cheese. Hell of a lot more tasty than this grapefruit. Why Irene always takes their side I’ll never know. All I wanna do is help. It’s what I’ve always done. If it means that when I was Alderman and the town hall was getting renovated that my electrician brother got to handle the electrical work, then that’s what I’ve done. If he was a jackass I wouldn’t have let him near the place. But he’s not. So I steered the work his way. He did a good job. No problems with the electrical work since. I know what I’m doing.

“You can’t keep your hands off things,” she says. “You’d think after all these years you would’ve learned by now that you can’t make everything fit the way you want it to fit, especially with your daughter.”

“I’m only trying to help,” I say.

Okay, so I didn’t talk to my daughter for a few months after she moved in with Anthony. At the time, everybody else said that’s what the kids are doing. And these days more of’em are doing it. That’s fine. I don’t care what everybody else’s kids do. I care about my kid. How could she do that? I mean what else were they living together for other than to...All right, it’s in the past. They’re married now with two kids. And they won’t accept a dime from us, the ingrates.

I eat another piece of grapefruit, reopen the paper, and fold it over so I can read Royko. Let’s try this again. Irene fixes her plate at the counter. Royko’s ripping on our hapless Cubs.

Irene sits across from me and asks, “So what are you doing today?”

I swallow. “I gotta do some running around for Rossi.”

Brian Rossi is the contractor who pays me a hundred bucks a day to go to the town hall here or in some of the other towns to take care of all the permits he needs to do his work. Always cash. A little extra a day or two a week in the warmer months. Adds nicely to the Social Security and my pension for all those years I worked at Ford and another pension, a tiny one, for being an Alderman here in Fairview. I know all the rules and all the people. I take care of things so Rossi can do his job. Everyone can use a little extra cash now and then. Especially my son-in-law Anthony. That man has failed at more careers in the fifteen years he’s been with my daughter than I want to remember. Not that losing a job is a strike against you. It happens to everybody sooner or later. I’m lucky. I worked and made it to retirement. Never got laid off. But I swear, in the last 15 years, every other family on this block has gotten hit. It ain’t like it used to be. Dave’s been laid off a time or two. Harry Murphy had to take early retirement. Western Electric closed up and Lombardo had to start all over. GTE started fading and my wife got out with early retirement before it went away for good. Sometimes I wonder how we all manage. The town’s not growing like it used to. And this mayor isn’t helping things, that’s for sure. So losing a job or two is no big deal, not in this day and age. But for someone who hasn’t made a success at even one job yet, my son-in-law sure thinks he knows it all. He couldn’t run a jewelry store or an arts supply store, or be a wedding photographer. Good thing my daughter makes good money as a para-legal. I give people their due, but as long as they’ve done something. Like Dave Post. He’s a good bodyman. Ever since he moved to the block over 20 years ago he’s done our cars whenever we’ve had an accident. He always cuts us a deal. And I make sure, when he’s working out of the garage for some extra money for his kids’ college educations, that no one makes it a problem. Not that anyone on the block would. But there’s always a nosy neighbor around that just wants to make trouble.

“Good,” says Irene.

“Good, what?” I ask.

“Good that you’ve got something to do.”

“I’m retired. I don’t have to do anything if I don’t want to. That’s the beauty of being retired. I can sit here all day and read the paper in my pajamas if I want. I don’t have to take orders from nobody.” Though if she’d stop buggin’ me I could finish reading this column.

“You’re always meddling. I thought you’d slow down in retirement, but no, you’ve got all kinds of time now to figure out new ways to meddle.”

I set down the paper. “You’re exaggerating.”

“What do you call what you did with one of our trash cans the other day?”

So I threw a trashcan in the middle of the street to slow down that nutty broad Emily McCabe. What’s the big deal? You know what the kicker is: the crazy bitch called the police on me!

I point at Irene with my spoon. “That lady is nuts. She’s always been nuts. And if she’s not careful she’s gonna run over some kids. Everyday she’s racing up and down the street.”

“There are better ways to handle that. And now we have to get a new trash can. That’s an idea. While you’re out and about, why don’t you buy us a new trash can to replace the other one that got bounced halfway down the block.”

“I was trying to make a point.”

“You’re lucky the cop took your side.”

“Of course he took my side. I was right.”

“But what did he tell you to do the next time she was racing down the block?”

“I don’t remember.” I pick up the paper again and fold it back. Someday I hope to finish reading this column.

“Don’t give me that. He told you to call the police.”

“But I was right.”

She rolls her eyes at me and cuts into her omelet with the side of her fork.

“I was right.”

She chews and swallows. I sip my coffee. It’s starting to cool.

“And don’t forget your latest run-in with the city,” she says before I even get through Royko’s next sentence.

“That was nothing,” I say. With my right hand I pick up the spoon and dig out another piece of grapefruit.

“It was not nothing. They passed a law because of you.”

So I went to the town hall two months ago to get the vehicle stickers for our two cars. I go to the window, pay the 20 bucks a piece for them. What a ripoff that is. The original vehicle sticker law was passed when I was Alderman, and it was only two dollars a sticker. Not this collection of morons we got now. No, no. They went and raised it to 20. Their stupidity would be funny if they weren’t taking and wasting so much of our money. Anyways, I got the stickers and I asked the woman behind the counter there if she had a pair of scissors I could borrow. She said, sure, and then she handed me a pair. I lined up the two stickers and cut off the very bottom of them, the part with the name of that asshole mayor of our town, Barry Dennison. Then I handed the scissors back to the receptionist and thanked her. She said, you can’t do that. And I said, who says? There’s no law against it. And I should know because I wrote half the town’s laws myself during the 20 years I was Alderman. She told me I’d have to buy two more stickers and I said no way. There’s nothing illegal about what I did.

So at the next city council meeting this moron of a mayor and his moronic council passed a law stating that you can’t alter, deface, or color the city vehicle sticker in any way shape or form. How crazy is that? Can you believe they actually took the time to write up the law and then vote on it? What a waste. And thanks to their boneheaded handling of the town’s finances, our town’s bond rating is going down and yet they’re not worried about that. No, they’re worried about the retired guy who doesn’t want the mayor’s name on his car. Damn right, I don’t want to be associated with him or his name in any way shape or form. I’ve passed my own personal resolution. How do they like that?

“They should have at least named it Giannelli’s Ordinance, after me,” I say. “So that everyone knows who’s the cause, those petty bastards. That mayor’s pissed off way too many people this second term. Two terms too many, if you ask me. We’re going to vote his ass out next time around.”

“I won’t be voting for him, either. But in the meantime, who are you going to piss off next?”

“No one.”

I pull up the paper so she can’t see me. I’m not out to piss off everyone. But people are doing such stupid things, it requires me to take action. I’ve got all of this free time now. I’ve got more time to help the people I want to help. When I was working, I helped everyone I wanted to help. Now I have the time to do even more, but so few people seem to need anything from me anymore. They’re either retired in Florida or on vacation all the time or they simply moved out of the neighborhood, or really sick or even passed away. More visits to the hospital and funerals every year. Everyone seems to need a doctor more than they need my help.

“In one year of retirement you’ve done quite a bit,” says Irene, taking another bite of her omelet.

“Irene, all I do is I putter around here, read the paper, and inbetween trips to the chiropractor I play some golf. I don’t do anything else. No one needs me to do anything else.”

“You do plenty...What’s wrong with you?”

I lower the paper. “Nothing’s wrong with me except it’s my birthday and you won’t let me eat an omelet or finish reading Royko.”

“I don’t want you ruining your own birthday dinner tonight.”

“I’m not going to ruin anything.”

“She’s your only daughter.”

We only had Victoria. The next time Irene got pregnant she had a miscarriage. And that’s when the doctor found the tumor inside her uterus and they had to take the whole thing out, not just the tumor. I’ve never seen that woman in so much pain. It really tore me up. One of the saddest days of my life was when I took her home from the hospital after the hysterectomy. She kept crying and saying she couldn’t have any children and asking what kind of woman was she if she couldn’t have any children. But I kept telling her I loved her and that I didn’t care if we couldn’t have any more kids as long as she was alive and healthy. And that our daughter needed her mother. She was all the woman I ever wanted and needed, and lucky enough to get. Ever since, I’ve made sure that not a day goes by without me telling her I love her.

“The problem is that no one listens to me,” I say.

She sets down her fork and folds her hands, resting her elbows on the table. “We all hear you. Believe me. What is the problem? You’re acting like the kid on the street who doesn’t get his way and decides to take his ball and go home. Vicky is an adult. She’s been one for quite some time, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“I know that.”

“They haven’t needed us the way they used to in years. If they need help they’ll ask.”

“Fine.”

“You keep saying fine, but you’re not fine. Let it go.”

I set down the paper and take a sip of coffee. It’s cooled off too much. I stand up. Damn slow, like my joints need oiling up. “No. I don’t understand.” I go over to the counter and pour some hot coffee into the mug.

“What don’t you understand?” she asks.

“Everything.” I take another sip. The coffee’s hot now.

“If they didn’t want you, they wouldn’t be coming over tonight.”

I lean back against the counter holding my mug. I feel like there’s some wall that’s got an exit door but I’m blind so I have to feel around the cold bricks with my hands for the door. And there’s no one around to tell me which way I should be going. Right or left. Feeling up or down.

I sip my coffee again and look at Irene. She looks really concerned, that beautiful woman. I set the mug down on the counter. “Some days I wake up and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with myself. Other than the few times Rossi needs me, no one seems to need me to be anywhere or do anything. Even my own family.”

“I need you.”

I pick up my mug and set it on the table. Then I sit down and fold my arms on the table. “That’s not what I mean.”

She reaches out a hand and puts it on my folded arms. “Paul, I need you.”

“I know you do, Irene. And I need you, too. But that’s not what I mean.” I can’t look at her. I can only look at my black coffee. I can’t straighten out what I want to say. “My whole working life I’ve looked forward to having free time, you know. There was never enough free time before. Never enough time to do all the things we wanted. And now, I’ve got all this time and I don’t know what to do with myself. I don’t remember what all those things were that I said I would do if I had more time.”

“Now’s the time for you to think of them.”

“But I can’t.”

She squeezes my arm. “Come on. Off the top of your head. What did you imagine retired life would be like?”

“I don’t know. I just...There were so many things.”

“Name one.”

I can’t think of anything other than how black my coffee is. “I can’t.”

“I said, name one, Paul.”

“Name what?”

“One thing you want to do that you haven’t done yet.”

I jerk my head towards the paper set to my left. “I haven’t finished reading this column.”

She sighs, blinks her eyes slowly, and says. “Paul, I want you to name one thing, a major thing, not something small like reading the newspaper, that you’ve always wanted to do.”

That wasn’t very nice of me to say, and I understand why at this moment I’m sure she wants to strangle me, but I couldn’t help myself. “Fine. I want to go to Hawaii.”

“There you go. Let’s plan a trip to Hawaii.”

“Just like that?”

“Yes. Just like that. There’s nothing stopping us.” She takes a sip of her orange juice.

“Just like that,” I say softly and nod. And now I don’t know what else to say. I’m thinking about swaying palm trees, green mountains, and erupting volcanoes. Boy, that’s gonna be a long flight from here.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” she says.

“Yes, it was,” I say because it was.

“Only because you’re so stubborn.” She goes back to her omelet.

“Being stubborn is nothing new.”

“That’s for sure. So then can you do me a favor?”

“Sure,” I say, picking up the paper again.

“Get some books, call a travel agent, and do some research on our trip to Hawaii.”

“Okay, I will. Just as soon as I finish reading Royko.”

© 2003 Richard T. Hellinga. All Rights Reserved.