We were running, around the bend of Pensacola bay, it’s around 10:30 the night is making gasping noises all around us. It was August and hot, that’s the way it is there always hot. He stops suddenly, and I stop too. Worried, maybe it’s his diabetes, maybe his age. “It’s more”, he says, “much greater”, “it’s Jack”. “You’ll love this” he says, the lines around his Irish depressed eyes alive and smiling, even when he’s crying, he’s smiling, the draw of the Irish I suppose, that and his friendship that never goes away.
“That boy Jack” …
He calls his old man from Tallahassee, a number he dials frequently, his voice is damned determined, waking Tom as he fights vermin, in a dream that brings him against the Holy See. Dad he says I’ve come against a sheriff, one who doesn’t understand, the lad I want to be. For if my latitude was proper, I’d drink whiskey from Tampa, to Sumter, and no law man would dare bother me. Dad all I want to do is drive highways, draw simple castles in my mind, occasionally love a girl, feel her body and her curls, should this be for anyone a crime, why is it for me. Tom he listens like a grandpa, it’s easier than the thought of the Dad he has to be, and then he brings himself awake, his body at fifty-four it aches, and off upon an Interstate he speeds. His old Chrysler, is so faithful, it goes forever, and never bleeds, it’s just like he.
His thoughts of Jack are drawn on a rune, an indescribable of a creed, the boy who in his heart wants to move mountains, it’s in his will where nothing happens, a lack of desire, or motivation, commitment or need. Still for his Jack, he flies on a spirit, and in his Irish blue eyes, he always believes, the dreamer in the boy, is a poet that’s lost in the sunshine. It’s his nightmares in darkness that causes him to bleed, if he could choke away one terror, he’d rock the world, and be all he could be.
He thinks of Jack as if he were a fable, a story that professes a certain need, and all of his life, a lesson learned harshly when you begin to bleed, Jack he always gives back more than everything he needs. He’s twenty years of spirit from a bottle, a son of G_D that dreams of favor from all he receives, a gift of charm, that gives and takes, a blessing of a child self-made, better than anything he ever thought he’d see. Tom he drives and rescues his revival, a drunken son, whose blond hair blows in the wet southern breeze. A faraway look in his eyes, Jack looks at his Dad and begins to cry, nobody ever understands, the things that I need, oh Daddy take me home, that’s what I need. And so they drive, and together their hearts receive, better than so many in this world who have need. Better than so many in this world who have need. – 01.10.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל