The Man You Still Think I Am

The Man Some of You Still Think I Am

Rick's Mustang was already howling down Highway 90, the four of us barreling toward Barrie like we owned the night. Rick at the wheel, Mousseau and Purdy amped for trouble, me in the backseat lighting a joint—same setup almost every weekend.

Rick was short and barrel-chested, smooth with superiors, like he already understood how the game worked. That '68 Mustang wasn't officially a Mach 1, but it came close enough, and Rick drove it like every road belonged to him. Mousseau had a black belt in something and never let anyone forget it. Purdy was the kind of guy you could hit with a ball peen hammer and wish you'd brought a sledge. I wasn't much for throwing punches. I was there for the laughs and whatever smoke was getting passed around.

We were cooks-in-training at CFB Borden, learning how to peel, chop, and stir our way into the Forces. Days were knives and stoves. Nights were whiskey, cheap beer, and bad ideas. If there was a party in Angus or Alliston, we found it, or created one.

That night it was the Barrie Legion. Somewhere along the way one of us danced with the wrong girl—the drummer's girlfriend, though none of us knew it. Out in the parking lot the drummer came charging over, and Rick answered with a roundhouse kick that folded him over the pavement. He hollered something about a gun in his trunk. Rick cracked him again anyway. We piled into the Mustang and tore off laughing, adrenaline running hot.

Halfway back to Borden we spotted a car on the shoulder. No reason, no grudge—the other three jumped out and went at it, windows shattering, wipers ripped off. I stayed in the car. That kind of meanness never sat right with me, even then. I sat there watching through the windshield, thinking about whoever owned it. Some guy who worked nights, maybe, who hadn't done a goddamn thing to us. I remember thinking they were in for a hell of a morning.

Back on base we hauled a glowing Santa and reindeer display onto a barracks roof, slipping and laughing in the cold. We tipped a Volkswagen onto its side outside the officers' quarters. We stormed the halls banging garbage cans, sprinting out before anyone could catch us. By the time we hit the French barracks, it caught up with us—thirty or forty of them around the four of us, fists everywhere, boots slipping on snow. I saw Purdy go under a pile and disappear, and for a second I thought that was it for him. Then he came back up swinging like a madman, no idea what had even hit him, just throwing punches at whatever was closest. For a moment I thought we might not get out of there. Somehow we did.

Next morning the order came down before we could tie our aprons. Section 119, Actions Unbecoming a Serviceman. Confined to barracks, fined, leave revoked. By supper we were back peeling potatoes with pounding heads, trying not to laugh every time one of us looked up.

We thought we were free back then—young, stupid, and bulletproof. Truth was, we spent most weekends trying to prove something. To strangers. To each other. Maybe to ourselves. Kids believing we were adults, with no idea what that even meant.

That's the guy some of you are still picturing.

—

Patti comes from silver spoon, golden rule, sweetened cereals—a home where Sunday mornings meant church and the rules were clear. I come from blue collar, low dollar, powdered milk, and Puffy's. Two worlds that probably should never have crossed paths. But somehow they did.

She's got that look—big blue eyes with a gold ring around the pupil, a wicked smile. Even now I catch myself wondering how in the world she ever gave me a shot. But she did. Flaws and all.

I won't pretend the crossing fixed me overnight, because it didn't. I partied too much, long after Borden. I spent too many years self-medicating, running from demons that never seemed to stay buried.

Sunday morning. Light coming through the curtains, too bright. My head felt like someone had driven a spike through my temple and left it there. I was sprawled on the couch in yesterday's jeans, one arm hanging off the edge, mouth tasting like an ashtray.

I could hear Patti in the kitchen. The coffee maker hissing. Cupboard doors opening and closing with that careful quiet people use when they're trying not to wake someone but also not trying that hard. Water running in the sink. The clink of bowls on the counter.

Then the kids. Justin's voice, low and sleepy. Jennifer asking where her good shoes were. Jessie Rae padding down the hall in socks.

I opened one eye. The living room swam into focus—toys on the floor, the TV still on from whenever I'd passed out. I could see into the kitchen from where I was lying. Patti had her back to me, pouring cereal into three bowls. Her hair was already done. She was wearing the blue dress, the one she wore to church. Justin sat at the table in his button-up shirt, half-awake, staring at nothing. Jennifer came in holding one shoe, still looking for the other.

Patti set the bowls down without a word. Poured the milk. Sliced a banana over Jessie Rae's bowl because that's how she liked it. She moved through the room like water, efficient and calm, like this was just another Sunday. Like I wasn't a wreck on the couch twenty feet away.

She poured a cup of coffee. Walked it over. Set it on the side table next to my head.

Didn't say a word. Didn't look at me. Just set it down and went back to the kids.

I sat up slow, head pounding, and wrapped both hands around the mug.

—

The doctor's office smelled like disinfectant and old magazines. Fluorescent lights humming overhead. I sat on the edge of the exam table, paper crinkling under me, while he stood there with my chart in his hand.

He wasn't the type to soften things. He looked me square in the eye.

"You stay on the path you're on," he said, "you'll be dead within five years."

Not maybe. Not if you're not careful. Just: five years.

I felt my chest tighten. Not panic. Just the air going out of the room. I looked down at my hands. They were shaking.

He kept talking—liver, kidneys, the usual list—but I wasn't hearing it anymore. I was doing the math. Five years. Justin would be twelve. Jennifer, ten. Jessie Rae, eight.

I thought about Patti setting that coffee cup down. Every Sunday. Every morning. Never a word.

—

I know now what Patti already knew then—happiness isn't something you pick up at a store, and it doesn't come with a shelf life. The moment you stop tending it is the moment you start losing it. She never stopped tending it, even the mornings I gave her every reason to.

I left the asshole in the Mustang. A man sits in my recliner now.

—

Today is March 4th. My granddaughter Moira had a little fever, so her mommy dropped her off with Nanna and Poppa. We watched Minions the day before, and stayed close to my recliner, tucked in and cozy. Even sick, she was an angel—calm, gentle, full of quiet light.

She pointed out a T. rex in a dinosaur video and I thought, how does this little one know that? Sometimes, while she's leaning against me, I do the math. She's two years and three months old. I'm seventy-one. When she's eighteen, I'll be eighty-seven, and I may not be here to see the woman she becomes. But watching her little hands pass me one more book before I've caught my breath—that's happiness. Pure and simple.

Some weeks later it was my grandson Beau, six months old, in his rocker at my feet, making sounds I listen to like they matter. His brother Jack, fifteen months and pure motion, leaned in on Beau, pointed out his nose and ears, then made the introduction official: "Hey, Beau. That's Beau."

I used to rush past moments like that. A baby's weight settling into my arms wouldn't even have registered as something worth stopping for. Sitting there with Jack on my lap, watching the football game, ended up being the highlight of my Super Bowl Sunday. Better than any bar I ever closed.

—

Ninth inning, tie game, and Jack jumps on my lap. "Put on Blippi, Poppa."

I reach for the remote.