Choices

Chapter one

It was not just happenstance that I turned the corner and went into my favorite coffee shop, slash pastry pushing facility on the corner of 49th and Clover Lane that spring morning. It was part of my routine as I walked to work.

Choices had been the “go to” establishment for years if you wanted a good cup of coffee or to sit quietly and either people watch, or to read a newspaper for those that still chose to touch paper and ink, or to drag out the old laptop and use the free Wi-Fi.

This place had it all. The 1950’s tile on the floor, the plaster walls painted a subtle shade of green for that calming effect. Tin tile on the ceiling and lighting that had that warm glow so you had the feel of warmth in your soul, even on a hot summer day. The metal swinging door that led to the kitchen had seen years of use and had seen years of stories, but yet, still silently swayed as if it were hung yesterday. Pastry cases, coffee machines, nice background music, yes this place had everything a man could want in a coffee paradise. Well, everything but one important thing. A person sitting across the small table from me having a witty conversation about absolutely nothing.

When my mother named me, some twenty eight years ago, I was knighted with the name of Alexander. Alexander Wellington lll to be exact and thus I go by Alex to this day. Tall, twenty pounds more on the scales showing than I would like, but I was OK with that. Gym bodies were not natural and I was sure to never fall into that category. A small spare on my “dad body” was good as long as it did not get over inflated.

Hair, good. Face, I thought was average, and IQ that could hold up my end of most any conversation. And this is on a good day, so judge me as you see me, because I tend to sometimes downplay myself as to not come off as more than I really am. I like to leave that observation to others.

Now that you may feel like you know me and where I may have my backside placed in a chair, sipping some delicious hot brew, maybe I should begin to let you in on as to why you might be following me on this journey.

My twenties had not been so kind to me. Loves, likes, friends, familiars, all seemed to slide off me like some expensive Teflon cookware. It’s not that I didn’t try to have all of the above, it’s just that I could not seem to want to put in the effort to have these things stay in my life. Maybe it was immaturity on my part, but I really think it was how I was raised by a single mother, not a mom, who loved society more than she did me…unless I was the lure that put her in the social spotlight and then she turned into the perfect mom, the June Cleaver of Mid Town.

My father, or I guess you could say the man that supplied a fertility ritual for my mother, never appeared again after he learned that what had transpired had responsibility attached and that was something he wanted no part of as he shut the door and walked away into the night and out of our lives. My mother did not talk about him much and told me one day she would set me straight on the real person that he was and not just the perfect little boy dream of the perfect father that I had developed in my young mind. My fantastic fantasy father, who was whatever I wanted or needed him to be as I grew up.

I remember getting the call from our family doctor late that night my mother passed away. I remember him saying he was so sorry to have to tell me she died suddenly of an aneurism and that he was there if I needed anything. All I needed was a stiff drink. Sad to look back and realize, I could not even shed a tear for her although I should I guess, she was my mother. But it helped me to understand that maybe we just did not have that kind of bond between us, and you know, that was OK.

Arrangements made, social obligations completed, mourners passed with fake condolences, all the usual that comes from her type of society she loved. Now, all that was left was the getting on with my life, which I thought I had been doing for the last twenty something years. Then the letter came. Special delivery from her lawyer. He said I was not to have it until she was gone. Scotch in one hand and the unopened letter in the other as I sat in my leather chair in my apartment. I remember it was snowing outside and quiet, the fire in the fireplace was burning low and I just sat there. I swallowed my drink down, placed the letter on the table, wrapped up in a small blanket and slept like a baby in my chair. I would endure her last pitch of mothering tomorrow.

Chapter two

I woke with a dry mouth from the alcohol consumed while I was feeling sorry for myself last night. The fire had gone out and the room was cold even though I had a blanket wrapped around me. My glass has slipped out of my hand but landed upright on the rug under the chair. Thank God for small favors. My body was waking and not liking that fact that I had slept in a chair most of the night. Eyes closed as I tried to remember that last memory of the past evening. Then it hit. The letter.

I reached over to the table and obtained the letter as if it were a grenade with the pin pulled. I was not sure I could handle my mother from beyond the grave any more than I could when she was alive. My finger slipped under the sealed flap and I opened Pandora’s box.

“Dear Son, I am writing this to you because we had said we would talk about things one day, and I knew we never would as long as I was alive, so if you have this, then I have ceased to be in your life more than when I was breathing.

I think it is time to educate you on your father. There are things you need to know, things you may want to know, and things you may want to forget once you hear them.

Your father and I met after college at a mixer at the club. I was the girl fresh from college and your father was, well, your father was a waiter serving me more alcohol than I should have been drinking. My parents had the idea that I was to be whored off to a good family like I was a prized possession, to mix families for business or social climbing, or just so a wedding could be in the making so all the magazines would do articles and newspapers would send the columnists to do stories of the fairytale life of a socialite.

But I was to have none of it. I was a girl with my own mind and ideas as how to live my life the way I had planned it. My parents had other ideas. I would play by their rules. And when I found out who they had offered me up to, I said no. This brought a slap to my face from my mother as she said I was an ungrateful child and that she and my father knew what was best for me, when in actuality, it was what was best for them since I later found out they were broke and needed new backing for their lifestyle and the marriage would ensure they could continue on living the lie they loved. But enough of that.

My revenge brought me another whisky sour to my table. The name on his tag said “Bart”, but I saw him as gift from the universe as I plotted a new plan. As he reached over to place my drink in front of me, I placed my hand on his wrist. He looked up and I smiled at him. His cheeks blushed a touch as I did not let go of him. He asked if there was something else I wanted from the bar, I told him yes, but only he could provide it. I rose and grasp his hand and led him off to a room at the club I knew was rarely used. There we each became a life preserver for the other and we held on for all it was worth, like our ship had just sank. A period of time I was allowed to forget my life and he, his first time he told me later, he would remember forever. I’m sorry this may sound a little more risqué than you would expect, coming from your mother, but you needed to know and said you wanted to know, so now, you do know.

We kept seeing each other just to further embarrass my parents and hopefully null the pending marriage. I thought I had won this battle, but I was so wrong. I never imagined the visit I received from Bart about two weeks later. I knew from the minute I opened the door, his face told me why he was there without even saying a word.”

Chapter three

My day started with a phone call. Miriam’s mom on the other end and sounded so sweet and kind, it made me wonder at once what was up. I knew Miriam’s family thought I was beneath them. I knew we had to quietly remove ourselves from their lives due to not fitting the concept of what a proper husband was for their daughter.

Meet for coffee? Sure, I could do that, so here I sit at the corner table, waiting for my future to unfold from a point of view that I am sure was going to be different than mine.

Miriam’s mom, breezed in like she was a fresh wave of lightly scented perfume that to this day makes me have a lump in the pit of my stomach. That mix of uneasy and fear we all know or have felt at some point of our lives. She sat across the table from me and waved towards the barista for an espresso, as if she was trying to build her courage to deliver her state of the union speech.

Delivered, she took a sip and began…

Miriam had told her only this morning of news that apparently was not meant for me to know. My Miriam was pregnant. I was idled for several reasons. Why had she not told me? Why had she confided in her mother? How long had she known? Why was she not here now so this could be discussed and planned?

Then the envelope was slid across the table. It was not fat and full, it was thin and unpromising and filled with a check with enough zeros to confuse the issue even further. The instruction’s were simple. I was to disappear and never return, or lay any claim or show any responsibility to Miriam or our treasure that lay beneath the surface. It was explained how the new development would play out. A marriage to another family, a quick pregnancy to deliver early, a name to add to hers that meant something in the social circles besides shame and whispers.

I was appalled at first until Miriam’s mother started playing out the future of two paths. One placed me as a partner and the life story it told, and the other where someone else played my role as father that could give my child more. More than I ever could. After some thought, I came to realize that love was not just enough except in fairytales, and in my mind the fairytale was playing at a speed that caused both a tear in my eye, and a realization that I saw I had no choice but to slide my hand across the table and touch the envelope. The envelope that caused my heart to grow a little colder, that plans were going forward where I was not the hero, the man, the dad I had always wanted to be.

Did I blame Miriam? No, she had very little choice or say in the matter. She, too, had a couple of paths options to consider and I guess she chose as well as she could for the future was an unknown, but for all the players concerned, the most important one was decided.

I said not a word, slid the envelope into my pocket, stood and looked Miriam’s mother in the eye. I saw sadness as I really think she and I were for once on the same emotional plain. We both knew it was for the best. I turned and left Choices that day, never to return.

Weeks turned to years. And the little boy I watched from afar grew to become quiet the man of promise. A writer, a newspaper columnist, an author. He seemed lonely at times even when in a crowd, never “with” anyone. He would sit and watch and write. He would see deep inside people, not just the shallowness of their personas, but the internal strife that hid just beneath the surface.

I had read everything written by him and felt I knew him as well as could be from my distant perch of observation that I was allowed by my circumstances. Until the day I received the letter through Miriam’s lawyer.

“Dear Bart”, it said as callous as could be. Miriam’s instructions were clear and to the point. “He knows”.

I had made a decision years before that I would not undo what had been done at birth for him. There was no reason other than selfishness on my part to ride in like a hero and make all of life neat and tidy in my book, but my book was not the most important one on the shelf. I had him to consider and Miriam’s choice to defend and my decision to carry out.

But life and karma has choices to be made, and so I made my choice to set up an appointment for the explanation of questions asked. Choices was just in the next block… and my heart wanted to take the easy way out and run.

Chapter four

I sat at the table. Three letters lay in front of me. One from Miriam, one from a lawyer and one from someone named Bart.

I had almost memorized my mother’s letter, understood the lawyer’s letter but the one from this “Bart” was the most confusing one. It had been delivered to my house and had almost been tossed as it lay on the kitchen side table for about a week before I realized it was not just junk mail.

I opened it one Thursday evening along with others letters, but the simple message was profound and clear. “Meet with me”. Choices on Friday. I had almost missed the appointment. Intrigued, I mentally put the meeting on my calendar of debatable excursions for tomorrow.

So now, here, at the table, coffee in hand, I waited. I watched as person after person came through the door, wondering if this was the Bart I was to meet.

A man and young boy came in, energetic and already bouncing as if caffeine had been a player in this scene. Two older gentlemen came and sat at a table close to mine. I watched and made up the story in my head of why they were here on a Friday. I did this to usually pass the time and to amuse myself while compiling story plots.

An older man with a sad and weathered look, came in and ordered a coffee. Movements were slow and precise as if he was measuring the atmosphere of Choices. Coffee in hand he walked to my table and stood, just looking. I did not feel uneasy as this stranger had invaded my circle of consciousness. I looked up and saw him exhale just a little like he had been holding his breath as to not interrupt my journey of the scenario playing out before us.

Bart? A nod. Sit, I said. He did.

Words did not come easy. Although he seemed like he was delivering a prepared speech at first, became something so heartfelt, I was stunned. This was my dad. This was my story, and his, and hers. Our story.

I learned more about choices that day than I ever could imagine. I learned why they are made and how hard they have to be at times. How choices shape, mold and color our lives and loves.

That Friday, I gained knowledge of a mother turned mom. A father turned benefactor. A stranger turned into a dad and a man turned from existing to becoming a son.

As time passed and stories were told, bounding was to be in the cards of the future, he stood and shook my hand and announced it was a pleasure to finally meet the man I had become. The man he had watched from afar. He took a few steps, then turned around to face me. Back to the table he came, hand slipped inside of his coat pocket and pulled out an envelope.

Yours, he said. Slipped it across the table, turned and left, knowing I would see him again. I held the envelope, a little aged and worn with the name Bart on it. I opened the flap with a single finger.

In front of me was the check, with all the zeros still intact, with my name endorsed. He had never cashed it. He had held it as a father would. His hero cape unfurled in my mind. The man was tossing me up in the air and catching me with love in his eyes as only a dad knows how to do.

He had made his choice a long time ago. A choice I was proud of which to be a part.

I was someone’s choice… and it felt damn good.