Chapter Three

When we were little, Grandpa used to take Rachel and I to a Jewish nursing home a few times a year to visit the old people. Nowadays, no one is old, crippled, mentally retarded or any other distasteful thing; they’re all variously challenged. I’m not going to pass judgment on whether or not that’s a good or a bad thing but I sure as hell think it sounds dorky. Anyway, I always thought it was really strange to visit a bunch of people I didn’t know and who didn’t know me but they’d just grab us, plop us on their laps and read us stories like we were next of kin. The fact is, I dreaded these visits. Getting sloppy wet kisses from strangers who smelled funny was not high on my list of how to spend a sunny afternoon. Grandpa tried to explain that it didn’t matter whether or not we enjoyed the visit; we were there to do a “mitzvah”, a good deed. Most of the residents had little or no contact with their own families and the only thing that mattered was that they enjoyed the visits.

As I was getting into the car with Rachel for the ride home, the memory of that talk came back to me so clearly I stopped in my tracks for a moment. I guess somewhere along the line, the lesson must have sunk in. I realized that all I had done was a mitzvah, although on a somewhat larger scale. I had the clearest vision of Grandpa I’d had in years and had a small private smile, thinking He would have been proud of me.

Before I had the chance to get too smug, Rachel started the car and the radio came on, tuned to one of the A.M. talk stations. The conversation was about me; some guy saying, “That man’s selfless act is an example of the best America has to offer”.

I reddened and punched the “seek” button as quick as I could reach it. The next station was talking about me. And the next. And the next after that.

The next one had a commercial for one of those mortgage loan companies that sign up people with horrible credit and then take their homes 8 months later when they can’t make the payments. Surprise, surprise. When the commercial finished, the host came back on saying, “Well, we’ve got the latest on the ‘Beltway Hero’, Paul Harkness, who was released just moments ago from Sibley Memorial Hospital. Randi Mansfield is standing by live”.

“Thanks Reggie”, the reporter replied. “Yes, I’m here at Sibley Memorial Hospital where, as you say, just moments ago, Paul Harkness was discharged and left the premises with his sister. Here’s what he had to say”.

Then I listened blankly to Rachel and myself from just moments ago. I said to Rachel, “This is the most bizarre thing ever. Guess I better exercise some real self control. If I fart in public they’re liable to break in with a special report to play it back”.

Rachel smiled and said, “It’ll all die down in a couple of days. They’ll forget all about you as soon as Brittney Spears takes another drive to the coffee shop”.

As I flipped though the stations, I remember feeling some relief at the thought and hoping Brittney was, at that very moment, jonesing for a ‘Grande double caffe, half & half, latte'. And don’t forget the kids, dear.

I turned to the right, partly to watch the scenery going by, mostly to avoid Rachel’s gaze. The day had begun so normally. The usual routine. And there are few things quite so enjoyable as carrying on your usual routine on one of the few spring days D.C. is allotted. When winter finally gives up its grip on this part of the country, we’re rewarded with, at most, a week of beautiful spring weather. Then, the weather, having no respect for what the calendar says, closes in with our own version of summer. A D.C. summer is a physical being with weight and substance; close, sodden, relentlessly hot. It occurred to me that I had just lost one of those precious spring days. Having little hope of enjoying the next few days, I eagerly settled into a childish pout.

I went back to scanning the radio and settled on an oldies station playing the Stones. You can’t always get what you want. Well, you can say that again.