Today Yesterday Tomorrow
by Troy Jewell
Today I'll consider running to the supermarket. I'll run, walk fast really, because I'm not in great shape. Flabby around the middle and even plump in the buttocks. I've been told. I don't run for a purpose I'll run to simply run. The twitching large muscles of my middle-aged years will groan, grow taut and the smaller muscles, the connective tissues stretch and snap. More than my youth's muscles. My life is falling. My son doesn't love me. He is too young to understand and too old to forget.
Yesterday I will drink a fifth of bourbon. Alone. No I'm not an alcoholic. I know that is one of the signs. I just don't care for people. By myself. In my car most likely I'll drink the bourbon. I know it will be bourbon because loneliness wants bourbon. And scotch. Occasionally it may want brandy but only after a filling meal. A meal of top-grade sirloin. Blood-red, dropping. Bourbon takes chocolate and chips. Really, its beer, but I can't stand beer. I've always thought of it as undignified, sloppy, and dangerous.
Tomorrow I'll search for a woman. Not any woman will do. She'll be handsome in the face - her chin will not jut too far from her neck, and her earlobes must be brown. She'll have brown hair. Absolutely not blonde. My ex was a blonde. Redheads are so rare, so prickly so mythical that they don't interest me. This woman will stand erect, cross her legs at her ankles a classic pose and never where clothing too revealing. I'll find this woman among all others, finding behind other women, men; maybe she'll be another woman before, a man, maybe even a enuch.
I'm not overwhelming. One hundred eighty (systolic) over twenty (diastolic). Blood pressure. Slightly overweight based on height and weight, though, he's really obese. But I have many muscles, he tells himself. Eighty resting heartbeat. Doctors are not quite sure how his pressure is normal but resting it is not. He says it's because when he's resting he's thinking of his heart and how it aches.
Today I should call my son, call his mother, apologize, say sorry, but he won't, nor will I. My son: beautiful, crimson hair, milky skin, not pocked-marked like mine. My son: flys with children at his feet, not crawls with adults above him. His mother: woman I hate, woman I loathe, woman disgust me, woman who didn't tell me.
Yesterday I will find a way to say I love you absently.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow I'll find him. Tomorrow he'll know. Tomorrow he'll love me.
I'm overwhelmed with what is not me, what I should be, and what my son thinks of me. His mother has told him that I'm fat and lazy and a slob and a good-for-nothing womanizer. Those things haven't been true for a while, but some are happening now. I'm overwhelmed with those things I can't change, won't change, love to change. I'm overwhelmed with what my son will do when he's older. I don't want him to be fat, lazy, a slob, or a womanizer. My father was gone too and he was all those things. And, now, I used to be those things, will be those things today yesterday tomorrow and on.
About the author:
Troy Jewell lives in Florida, teaches English at a few nearby colleges, reads lots, and frets over his words. He's now writing a novel and "selling out" is on his mind.