Able knew what had happened before he felt the thud. He hadn't seen the noodle twisting and contorting through the air, he hadn't yet registered his girl's screams and shouts, but deep, deep in his soul, in same place where he knew that his love for Magema was eternal and boundless, that Dumas was one of the best to ever place his pen upon upon the page, that Nirvana was one of the greatest bands of all time, Able knew, without a shadow of doubt, that he had spaghetti on his face, that he was going to be late for work, and that his favourite t-shirt was likely ruined forever. He closed his eyes and accepted fate's cruel twist as the pasta laced itself through his eyelashes and looped across his forehead. A veggie ball bounced against the top of his head, and splattered marinara sauce through his nest of hair before rolling down his nose and chest, smearing across his prized vintage Bjork t-shirt.
Summer, nineteen ninety five, New York City. He'd driven with two of his friends to see the Icelandic sensation sing. The tour, particularly that show, was legendary. She had been incredible. The night was a dream. From the astounding, abrasive opener, to the final ethereal song of the encore, it felt like Able had been floating. The tour tee commemorated one of the greatest shows he had ever seen. A prized possession, rarely worn, only on the most special evenings. Photo shoots. Big gigs. Big interviews. He wore it when he wanted to impress those he thought worthy of impressing, when he wanted to impress himself with himself.
Occasions like later that night, when Joaquin from Lonely Gods would be joining him for his radio show, selecting songs, discussing the newest album, and, potentially even performing a surprise intimate acoustic set. Details from his management had been sparse, but he was coming and this was a big deal. Given present esteem and regard for the band, this was a huge get for the humble station. A favour to Joaquin's fiancé's hometown. A rare occurrence from the reclusive artist, and Able was ecstatic.
It wasn't the first occasion Able and the young musician would spend time together, they'd met a few weeks prior, backstage at a small show and hit it off. A point of pride for Able, and friction for his jealous colleagues. Their previous conversation had cinched this evening's interview. And this shirt. This magnificent shirt was going to be a major source of discussion, a major moment of comradery with an artist already speculated to be the voice of a generation.
Slow, Able freed his eyelids from the gluey sauce. With equal amounts of reluctance as horror, he looked down to the damage. Able's entire body grimaced. In a rare moment of hush, his children stared at him from across the dinner table. Frozen, waiting for their father's imminent reaction. Even the family mutt Rosetta held her breath, her tail stuck mid-swing. Seconds from their Ram Dass novelty Be Here Now clock clicked in the sudden silence. A small sound of impact emanated from the veggie ball as a chair leg halted its lethargic roll. The enormous angry red stain glared at Able as his gaze took him back down to his cherished shirt.
And from his highchair, Jeffry began to howl.
The boy blubbered some gibberish about how it was all Charlie's fault. His daughter's excited protests echoed back. Emmanuella joined in, her frantic signing noisey enough to add to the commotion. His eye moved to her and in that moment he felt envious of the quiet she was cursed with. Rosie's nails clipped against the hard wood as she rushed after the fallen food, and barked in glee. Cutlery and plates clanked. In her fit of wild expressing, Em's elbow knocked against her water glass, and sent it tumbling to the floor. Glass and water exploded. Despite not being able to hear it, the sound shattered Emannualla's composure, and she erupted in piercing tears. Able's shoulders sank as he surrendered to the pandemonium. To the chaos.
It had all been going so well.
He had his dream job, he was heading to a dream interview. Dinner was served, his children taken care of. Somewhere in the city his dream girl had been having a calm afternoon, grateful for his attention to their family. And she was due back any minute to relieve him to his big night. And all within a moment, no more than three measured seconds, his equilibrium was as ruined as his favourite shirt.
And for the third time in the children's lives, the first in Em's, Able yelled.
His raised voice commanded silence. The children and mutt yielded. In the quiet, controlled vacuum, Able marched to the closet, retrieved a broom and dust pan and went about cleaning the glass. The children's sad eyes watched every move their father made. Following each cautious sweep, and observed the care he took using his phone's flashlight and a wet paper towel to remove every tiny sparkle of glass from the floor. Mindful so that not one of his children, or the beloved dog, may face a single splinter.
As Able tossed the rag in the bin below the sink he looked up at his growing family. Each iris full of a sorrowful hesitation that they may have gone too far, terrorized that individually they may have caused his upset. In their eyes he saw not fear, but love. A panic in an unintended mistake. In jokes gone too far. The eyes read of apology. The apology masking a deeper existential dread that the ones that matter the most may not love us. A look of love so profound, so difficult to describe that many artists, including Joaquin, including Able, spent their entire careers trying to encapsulate it.
He knew that look. His youth had been riddled with it. Able walked to the table and cleared their plates, and told his children that dinner was over, in a voice so low, it menaced the kids in a way that the previous volume hadn't. They waited, and he indulged them. "No more spaghetti," his fingers signed as he spoke the words, increasing with speed and intensity as he finished "because it's time for ICE CREAM!!"
The children's disbelief cheered against the clamour of bowls Able set upon the table. He scruffled each child's hair with affection as he passed, and made each one pinky promise that they wouldn't step on the floor until he gave it another final sweep or tell their mother that they got dessert without finishing their dinner.
Able didn't care that they were being rewarded for shenanigans. He didn't care that his treasured shirt was ruined. As Charlie served her siblings Able breathed a sigh of relief that not a single foot had been sliced. Not a drop of blood had fallen. And when he looked down at the damage done to his most cherished shirt, Able saw a different story to share with the young artist. One beyond dancing to Aphex Twin in an obscure New York club. It wasn't a story of middle aged suburban hell. There was no truth to that. Hidden beneath the cryptic pasta sauce Able saw a story of family, of love. A story to share with another man ready to change.
To the woes of the Fathers. Life is hard. Failure is real. It is a scary world for each of us, scarier still when you're trying to protect those you love more than yourself. There's no manual. There's many mistakes. To those that tried their best, who lifted as many burdens that they could to ease their children's woes. Who tried their damnedest to do better than their fathers did for them, we salute you. You've done an incredible job, Old Boy. More than we appreciate you, we love you. Rest easy, rest well.
Happy Fathers day,
i'm thinking of you.
- Mr. Write