You’ve Got to Go

     I have my failings.  I remember one time in 1987 a friend and I were sitting on the floor, eating hot dogs, and watching football at his house.  This was a typical day for us.  We would go for a bike ride.  We would visit friends.  We would come back watch tv and eat hot dogs.

     This day his Dad came in after a hard afternoon working overtime, cracked a beer and sat down in his favorite chair behind us.  I wanted to share a little story my Dad told me about when he worked at a small company sweeping up before daybreak in the 60’s.

     He happened to work the night shift with a guy who used to play semipro football but got cut.  He would share stories with my Dad about the good times and the eventual bad.  He mentioned how he was cool with how things had worked out but my Dad could see that he was sad about not having gone fully pro.

     I tried to elaborate on this story and make it a funny anecdote.  “It’s so sad,” I started, “that some of these guys train and put in all their time to play pro ball on tv but are just one injury away from being some janitor.”  I was about to launch into my Dad’s story when I heard a deep sigh behind me.

     “Come on, man,” my friend said standing up.  “Follow me.”  I followed him up the stairs and to the kitchen where he held the door for me.

     “You’ve got to go.  That food you were eating, that tv you were watching, and the house you’re sitting in were paid for by some janitor.  Right now you aren’t worth the trash he picks up.”  I dropped my head in shame and quietly walked to my bike.  I have my failings.

     Sometimes I think I’m funny.  I remember sitting in Carmella’s place after a lazy Sunday in 1989.  The thought was have a quick dinner at the house then possibly catch a movie.  She was a beautiful Sicilian girl who was dating a friend of mine.  We were just catching up before she headed off to college.

     Her Grandfather, who had brought the family over from Sicily, and her Mom were both sitting in the room while we were finalizing plans for the evening.

     “So what are your plans for my granddaughter?” He asked with a thick Italian accent and a raised eyebrow.

     “Well she’s headed off to school in a few weeks so we figured we’d hang out one last time.  It’s not like we can go on a date or anything.  You guys are from Sicily.  That’s like a hard swim from Africa.  There’s a strong possibility we’re related.”  I felt the slick smile cut across my face.  Carmella hit me on the shoulder.

     He looked me dead in the eye for a solid 10 seconds.  He slowly stood up and walked around the corner to the home office.

     “Tania!”  He yelled.  Carmella’s Mom walked into the room and closed the door behind her.  She came out with a half smile on her face.

     “You’ve got to go,” she said rolling her eyes.

     “I figured as much,” I said laughing to myself.  “Give me a call before you leave, Ella.”  She hit me in the shoulder again.  Sometimes I think I’m funny.

     I am not the worst.  

     “Oh shit!” Rob said.  “I told her I’d pick her up by six.”  He was knee deep into setting up the sound system for a show that was supposed to go on later that night.

     “If you’re lucky,” I said looking over loose cables, the soundboard, and stacked up amps, “you’ll make the eight o’clock sound check.  There’s no way you can pick her up and get all this together before the show.”

     “Could you pick her up for me?  I’ll give her a call and let her know you’re on the way?”

     I had dropped him off at her house a few times and she lived across the street from a kid I used to jam with so I knew exactly how to get there.  I took her number just in case.  It was a thirty minute round trip.  Tops, I would be five minutes late getting to her house.  She would be pissed because he had broken another promise but she could see my beaming face.

     We found a pay phone in the lobby - it was 1991 - and I let her know I was on the way.  I gave the phone back to him and laughed as he tried to whisper I love you before he hung up.

      I pulled into the driveway and ran head down to the front door.  Her father answered.

     “Hello, sir,” I said with beaming gig energy.  “I’m here to pick up Dee.  Rob got wrapped up putting the sound system together so he asked me to pick her up.”

     “I’m afraid she’s not here.  Ahh, in the time since you called she got a ride.”

     “Oh cool!  I guess I’ll see her at the gig.”

     As I turned to walk away I could see Dee clear as day through the large plate glass window.  She was sitting on the couch with her head in her hands.  I felt a hot confusion roll over me.

     I drove across the street to my friends house to use the phone.

     “Hello, sir.” I said with a shaky voice.  “I was just there to pick up...”

     “She’s not here!”

     “But sir, I saw her sitting on the...”

     “I said she’s not here!!  And even if she were she wouldn’t be riding in a car with no fucking n*gg*r!  You’ve got to go.  Don’t bring your n*gg*r ass back on this property.”

     The words cut through my chest like hot steel.  I couldn’t breathe.  The rest of the night was a daze.  Later Dee and Rob apologized.  Apparently she forgot that her father was a card carrying racist.  There were so few ‘other’ people who live in the area that it just slipped her mind.

     Sometimes I think I’m funny.  I have my failings but I’m not the worst.