"Ahhh," he says. Smack, smack, smack! Click, click, click! My Dad makes these smacking noises when he talks. Even when he doesn't talk. Sometimes when he just sits. Now he's started making clicking noises as well. "Hmm, I don't know. I just don't know."
"Don't know what, Dad?" my wife makes the mistake of asking him. She has a heart of gold, she does. My Dad shakes his head, and lets out a weak laugh.
"I don't know about those house cleaners you have," he tells my wife, seeing as she's the only one listening to him. "You know those house cleaners?"
"The house cleaners?" my wife asks, trying to encourage him on to his point.
"Yeah, ahhh, they broke my radio. I don't know what they did, but they broke it."
"The house cleaners broke your radio?"
"Yeah, I was trying to hear my music, but it's not working. I've done all I can to make it work, but it's broken. I turned it on and off. I changed the station several times. But nothing works. I'm telling you, they broke it."
"Are you sure the house cleaners broke your radio?"
"Who else? It was working before, now it's not. I moved it around. Placed it on the desk. Back to the night stand. They broke it, all right. The house cleaners are hard on my stuff, you don't know how hard." Smack, smack, smack. "You might have to buy me another one." Click!
My wife looks at me. I keep looking at my magazine.
"Honey, why don't you look at Dad's radio?" my wife pretends to ask me, but she's really telling me.
"What?" I pretend to not hear, but she knows I'm only pretending. She turns back to my Dad.
"Dad, do you want your son to look at it?"
"What?"
"Do you want your son to look at it?"
"Look at what?"
"Your radio, Dad? Do you want your son to look at it?"
"Do I want my son to look at it?"
"Yes."
"What?"
"Yes."
"Why would I want him to look at it. It's broken, I've just told you."
I continue to drink my coffee, not saying anything, keeping my eyes on the magazine. My wife walks over and stands next to me. She gives me a nudge. And then she gives me a bigger nudge.
I ignore her.
"Your son's not doing anything," she tells him. "He can look at it, if you want."
"What's the point?"
"And if he can't do anything with it, we'll go buy you a new one."
"Wellll," my Dad says. "Ahhh," he continues, smack, smack, smack. "Why bother?" he finally says in a language I can understand. "I told you, it's not working, but if he wants to look at it, that's fine with me. I don't know what he can do with it. If I can't fix it, I don't know what he can do with it."
My wife whispers in my ear: "Honey, go check on your Dad's radio."
I slowly put down my cup of coffee. It's still reasonably hot, but when I get back it won't be. I get up. My wife mouths the words thank you. I give her a big exaggerated sigh--SIGH!--and then walk out of the peace and comfort of my own home, to the little father-in-law house we have toward the front of our property. My father is following right behind me, mumbling. Whatever he's mumbling about, I can't understand. Everything else, I'm not listening to.
I stop just in front of his door. I wait for him to let me in. We walk over to his bedroom, and I go over to the radio that's sitting on his night stand. Hmmm, I notice, it's nicer than the one I have in my room.
"I tell you," my dad tells me, smack, smack, smack. "It's broken. The house cleaners broke it." Smack, smack, click! "I already tried to fix it, but I couldn't get it to work. I don't know why your wife wants you to look at it."
I'm thinking no kidding. What I really want to do is not mess with the whole thing, and just go buy him a new radio, but maybe one not quite as nice as the one I'm stuck with. But anyway...
...there I am. Standing in front of his radio. Just looking at it. My Dad still going on behind me.
And then I notice something.
I slowly reach down, turn the little knob for the volume to the right... and music magically comes on.
"What did you do to it?" my Dad asks me, surprised.
I turn the knob a little more, and the music gets louder.
"Turn it down," my Dad says. "I don't like it that loud."
No "thank you." No "hey, you fixed it." No "you're the greatest."
"I'm glad I could fix it, Dad," I tell him, and then go back to the wife and cup of coffee both waiting for me back in my house. I'll just leave with him wondering how I did it.
As I leave, all I hear is smack, smack, smack! Click, click, click!
When I get back to the kitchen, my wife asks me how it went. I tell her what was wrong, and she just shakes her head. She doesn't say anything, but we're both thinking the same thing.
Getting old sure stinks.
Raising My Father
RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com
JimDuchene.blogspot.com
@JimDuchene
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