20 minutes

He woke up around normal time.  2:30 am.  It was time to feed his screaming baby.  The screaming wakes him up religiously.  The schedule hasn’t changed in weeks, if anything as time goes on it has been written in pen and no longer pencilled in tentatively.  The screaming comes on as a full wail. No in between.  Ripping him out of bed to quickly soothe the pain that has sent hurled adreniline into his body in it’s ritualistic way.  Covers thrown off the bed fast and precise to not wake up his wife, he jumps to his feet and throws his body towards the crib.  3 steps, in the pitch black.  The frantic action that has tensed up his body to the point where he can feel the muscles harden in his arms, legs and back, slacken.  He doesn’t want to pick up his son in a panic.  Calm, you got him.  He will be fine now.

“Shhhhhh, I got you buddy, it’s ok.  Daddy has you.  You want your bottle?  You hungry”

“Of course I’m fucking hungry, I’m 8 weeks old you SOB.  FEEEEEEEEDDDDDD MEEEEEEEEE!”

The wailing subsides and turns to low grunting murmurs of half sleep and pure hunger.  The shushing continues as he straightens up, baby in his arms, trying to shake off the tenseness that sent him careening towards the screaming pain that woke him. 

Shuffling off the sheets, half naked in the drafty room, he goes to the bathroom to mix the formula.  Water is running to flush out the cold from the pipes.  Waiting for the water to turn warm, the thoughts of the day ahead start to become lucid – unfortunately.  He thinks to himself, the water needs to get warmer faster, so there is no time to think about the day ahead.  Sigh…

“I love you buddy, just hang on.  The water is warming up.  Shhhhh”

One hand clings to the 12lbs of innocence.  The water running, he looks down and thinks of that gummy smile he gets when his mother hands him to him, swaddled, quiet, eyes open and staring off at the cieling.  As she stands there, a woman tolerant of his bullshit, baby in one arm, dinner going in the other.  A simple gummy smile can send a sheer spasm of joy down your spine and back up threw your stomach to  your heart, where it sits there.  It lights your insides like a match and lasts about as long.  Your mouth can’t help but to smile back.  The pain of the day gone, evaporated for a few seconds until your brain, is once again overcome with that same pain of knowing you are failing as a father. 

“Smile for me buddy. I missed you.”  Leaning over close to his son’s ear, out of range of his wife’s.  “I love you buddy, I’m trying, I swear.” 

The other hand is working furiously testing the water to make sure it doesn’t get to hot for the bottle. Screwing the cap back on, swishing the water and formula around cautiously, not wanting to make too many bubbles so they cause insufferable gas.  Stepping off the cold tile of the bathroom onto the carpet, back to the moonlit room.  His body has adjusted to the coolness of the room now.  The warmth of the heavy down comforter no longer comforts him.  Feeding his wide-eyd new born son does.  He knows now his bottle is warm and ready – finally.  The room is dark, it’s just going to take 20 minutes then you can get back to bed. 

“Here you go buddy” as the bottle slides into his mouth, he latches onto the nipple like it could be the last time he eats.  Ever.  Holding him.  Sitting on the floor.  Indian-style.  T-shirt and briefs.  Hunched over.  Baby in his lap.  Slowly rocking. Staring at the perfect skin.  They both crane their heads and start staring out the skylight with the moon light soaking threw it.  Giving the room a cold feeling.  The leaves are off the trees now, the moon light cast ominious shadows on the ground beneath the bare trees.  The moonlit shadows of the limbs appearing on the ground remind you of the dead that is winter.  The end of the cycle of life for the year.  The 20 minute countdown begins.  Just get him fed and you can get back to bed.  “20 minutes buddy, just 20 minutes tonight for Daddy, ok?”

The feeding process is now to the point where it no longers requires devout attention.  He is now at the point of the process that he is afforded time for his own thoughts.  Cradling his son, the weight resting in his lap motionless except for the barely audible swallowing.  Thoughts of the past and future creep in.  They are creeping in like those shadows outside.  Creeping towards him, wanting to do him harm.  Slowly the thoughts of sadness and pain begin to cradle him. 

“I’m trying buddy.  Daddy’s trying.  I love you.”  He stops talking, closes his eyes, rocks some more.  Still hunched over he breathes a sigh.  Shallow, hollow, empty, daft of life.  His eyes fill with moisture, careful not to burst into a full out wail, he opens his eyes, looks back up at the moonlight, shakes his head.  Nothing, powerless, weakened.  Pathetic. 

The moon shines through the skylight casting more shadows about the room that the baby is looking at now.  A 5-bladed cieling fan sits motionless and looks like a stickman splayed on the cieling.  Vulnerable and frozen in the cold. 

Still rocking he thinks, what is he going to do.  How can he continue like this.  35 more years of this shit?  Still rocking, he blinks away the moisture, both hands are occupied, he can’t wipe away the tear falling down.  He is welling, trying to focus on his son.  His son staring off to the right now, still eating.  Father, unable to focus from the moisture, blinking, going numb. 

About a week before things were great he thought.  He felt he was really going to do it this time.  He liked where he was at.  He fit in this time.  The area was fast paced but the culture was inclusive, understanding, tolerant and helpful.  This is going to be it, just get in, do your thing.  For your son, for your wife.  Sitting at his desk, he knew that he was going to be safe.   You are getting to old man, just dial it in.  Monday through Friday.  You have to do this.  Time to grow up.  Pleading with the other half of his body that has won this battle dozens of time in the past.  Two prized fighters duking it out.  The other begging the other to just let him win this time.  “Please, I’m going to win, I have to win, just make it easier this time, because I’m doing it.” 

The past week had been spent reviewing manuals, understanding how he was going to have to write the programs that would measure this or that.  He was excited at the challenges that lay ahead, but by the security of the work he was going to do and the company it was going to be for.   He was winning the battle.  Taking the body blows this time and retaliating with head shots.  Jabs that allowed him to stay sharp and focused.  He could feel it, he was winning this time. 

Bill walked in, made eye contact with him and he knew it.  He saw the punch but it was too late to do anything about it.  It wasn’t the type of eye contact that you make when you have good news.  He sat down in the chair across from his desk.  Slumped in actually.  Sighed.  The fighter had a smile on his face, his mouthgaurd was visible.  Looked past him, out the window, paused and tried to think of a way to say it.  You could tell he didn’t want to say what he had to say and it was hurting him to say it.

“I can’t keep you past 12/31.  They are cutting resources.  I’m sorry.  I’m doing what I can to keep you”

Still standing.  Hurt.  Stinging.  The shots came raining down like madness, uncontrollable madness.  The shadowed limbs of the tree, were holding him, allowing him to be hit repeatedly.  The cold of the outside was seeping through the windows and into his spine.  HIs shirt held in the cold.  His heart was a brick with holes in it. 

He smiled, nodded, said he understood.  Thanked him for giving him the opportunity as well as keeping him until the end of the month.  “I appreciate it Bill”, he said.  It never dawned on him that Christmas was around the corner, while this entire scene unfolded.  It didn’t dawn on him, that the last day he is working for this guy was New Year’s Eve.  He just sat there, smiled, took it and said thank you.   Punch after punch landing vicious hits that were doing irrepairable damage to his skull.  A body bag, absorbing shot after shot. 

The feeling of defeat was setting in.  He stood up as Bill left, looked out his window on the 29th floor and looked out over the buildings and construction.  Stared.  Deadend.  His soul floating out of his body, leaving him, looking back on the other side of the window at himself.  Asking who this guy is?  “I can’t keep doing this” it said to him.  “How am I going to keep doing this”. 

“I don’t know man.  I don’t know.” he answered back. 

Their eyes looked past each other.  His soul staring back, into the office that he had only about 2 days earlier came to accept would be where he sucked it up.  Did whatever it took to get by, get a pension, a life that would provide his children, wife.  The defeated fighter was looking out the window,  looking beyond the buildings, at the heavens, the sun piercing threw the clouds and casting that stupidly typical, mystical, supposedly godlike picture that implies there is a heaven and God is shining threw.   The rays of light shining goodness down to the sheep.  “What are you going to do now?  What is supposed to happen?  How can you tell your wife, again, that this is happening.”  I don’t know he said in the nothingness as he finally absorbed the last punch the fighter threw before the corner threw in the towel.  Stunned.   

A failure.  He thinks to himself that he can’t keep doing this again.  I can’t keep doing this.  I can’t.  I won’t.  Christmas is in a week.  How I am going to get gifts for everyone.  What am I supposed to do now?  Still staring out the window, head now leaning against the glass, looking at everything and nothing all at the same time.  Taking it all in but not focusing on anyone thing. 

The moon shining in, the sucking noise on emptiness pulls him off the floor. 

Rocking.  Clinging.  Powerless.  Eyes closed.  Finishing up.  Settled down. “I love  you buddy, I’m trying”.

Brain off.  Merry Christmas.  20 minutes is up again.