away.”
“I remember that trip. You sent me a postcard.” I took out five rolls of socks, five pairs of underwear, five T-shirts, everything in a neat row. I laid them in the top drawer. “You don’t have to worry about me hitting you up for a big tip.”
“No tipping. I’m in the best hotel in the world,” my father said. “Hotel Family. Great service.”
“Where do you keep all your things?” Five shirts. I put them on hangers. Two short-sleeved, one long-sleeved plaid flannel, one dress shirt, one tuxedo shirt.
“I had another shirt for my tux but they cut it off of me in the hospital. I told them not to. Blood washes out. I know that. But the nurse said it was all torn anyway. Couldn’t be fixed. I’m lucky,though, I wasn’t wearing my good one. That one there is real Egyptian cotton. I won it from a guy in a poker game. Just my size, how about that?”
And no ruffles. Maybe he was lucky. “Aside from your other tuxedo shirt. Do you have an apartment somewhere? Do you keep your things in storage?”
“What things?” he asked. He wasn’t following me at all.
“I don’t know. Chairs. You must have a chair someplace. A bed? A toaster, a clock, a plate? People acquire things, you know. It’s part of life.”
“No,” he said. “I don’t have things like that.”
I took my hands out of his suitcase. The contents suddenly seemed to signify too much. “How is that possible?”
He shrugged, and then he winced a little. He was deeply sore. “I’ve had those things before. I’ve had them a couple of times. I’d get some things together and then something would happen and I’d have to get rid of them. Once I got a storage unit. I was out in Utah. I figured it was dry out there and the stuff would be better off. It wasn’t like I left it all in Florida. I went to a little town where I got a good rate and I paid up five years in advance. In five years I thought it might be time to settle down. I’d come back and get the stuff, maybe rent an apartment in New York. But it never turned out that way.”
I waited for the rest of the story. My father smiled at me. None came. “What happened to the stuff?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I think I waited too long. When I finally got back there the storage place was gone. Then I started worrying that I wasn’t remembering the right town. I’d lost the key, hell, years before that. For all I know it wasn’t even Utah. It’s not that I’m senile, this was ages ago, but I’ve never been real keen on details.”
I asked him what he had lost.
“I had a box of records in there and a record player. That’s what I really missed. I had been so careful not to hold on to too many records, to only keep a few that really mattered.” Then my father stopped and he smiled at me. “But it turns out life was fine without them.”
“But you’ve had other things since then, right? I mean, you must buy things. And I send you Christmas presents.”
“Oh,” he said, eager not to hurt my feelings, “and I’ve loved them. I keep them for a while. I use them. That gray sweater you sent last year, the cardigan? It’s in the bigger bag.”
“So this is it? These two suitcases?”
“A man doesn’t need very much if the hotel is good. They give you everything now, you wouldn’t believe it, soap and razors and shampoo. Half the time there’s a barber in the lobby. And they always give you those little sewing kits. I used to save them but now I know that there’s always going to be another one in the next place I go. I can really sew. At least I could. I bet I could have fixed that tuxedo shirt.”
Was it possible that my father was homeless? And was it really being homeless if you played piano every night and did not aspire to owning furniture? He seemed so completely matter-of-fact about the whole thing, and still it seemed impossibly sad to me. “Aren’t there ever things … I don’t know … things that you want?”
My father nodded
“I remember that trip. You sent me a postcard.” I took out five rolls of socks, five pairs of underwear, five T-shirts, everything in a neat row. I laid them in the top drawer. “You don’t have to worry about me hitting you up for a big tip.”
“No tipping. I’m in the best hotel in the world,” my father said. “Hotel Family. Great service.”
“Where do you keep all your things?” Five shirts. I put them on hangers. Two short-sleeved, one long-sleeved plaid flannel, one dress shirt, one tuxedo shirt.
“I had another shirt for my tux but they cut it off of me in the hospital. I told them not to. Blood washes out. I know that. But the nurse said it was all torn anyway. Couldn’t be fixed. I’m lucky,though, I wasn’t wearing my good one. That one there is real Egyptian cotton. I won it from a guy in a poker game. Just my size, how about that?”
And no ruffles. Maybe he was lucky. “Aside from your other tuxedo shirt. Do you have an apartment somewhere? Do you keep your things in storage?”
“What things?” he asked. He wasn’t following me at all.
“I don’t know. Chairs. You must have a chair someplace. A bed? A toaster, a clock, a plate? People acquire things, you know. It’s part of life.”
“No,” he said. “I don’t have things like that.”
I took my hands out of his suitcase. The contents suddenly seemed to signify too much. “How is that possible?”
He shrugged, and then he winced a little. He was deeply sore. “I’ve had those things before. I’ve had them a couple of times. I’d get some things together and then something would happen and I’d have to get rid of them. Once I got a storage unit. I was out in Utah. I figured it was dry out there and the stuff would be better off. It wasn’t like I left it all in Florida. I went to a little town where I got a good rate and I paid up five years in advance. In five years I thought it might be time to settle down. I’d come back and get the stuff, maybe rent an apartment in New York. But it never turned out that way.”
I waited for the rest of the story. My father smiled at me. None came. “What happened to the stuff?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I think I waited too long. When I finally got back there the storage place was gone. Then I started worrying that I wasn’t remembering the right town. I’d lost the key, hell, years before that. For all I know it wasn’t even Utah. It’s not that I’m senile, this was ages ago, but I’ve never been real keen on details.”
I asked him what he had lost.
“I had a box of records in there and a record player. That’s what I really missed. I had been so careful not to hold on to too many records, to only keep a few that really mattered.” Then my father stopped and he smiled at me. “But it turns out life was fine without them.”
“But you’ve had other things since then, right? I mean, you must buy things. And I send you Christmas presents.”
“Oh,” he said, eager not to hurt my feelings, “and I’ve loved them. I keep them for a while. I use them. That gray sweater you sent last year, the cardigan? It’s in the bigger bag.”
“So this is it? These two suitcases?”
“A man doesn’t need very much if the hotel is good. They give you everything now, you wouldn’t believe it, soap and razors and shampoo. Half the time there’s a barber in the lobby. And they always give you those little sewing kits. I used to save them but now I know that there’s always going to be another one in the next place I go. I can really sew. At least I could. I bet I could have fixed that tuxedo shirt.”
Was it possible that my father was homeless? And was it really being homeless if you played piano every night and did not aspire to owning furniture? He seemed so completely matter-of-fact about the whole thing, and still it seemed impossibly sad to me. “Aren’t there ever things … I don’t know … things that you want?”
My father nodded
Similar Books
