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jackywroteabook · 4 years

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5 Minute Fiction: “SUPERMAN”

{Just a little taste of the writing you can expect in one of my full-length novels, without the sheer number of hours, willpower, & commitment it takes to finish it. All short stories are representative of my writing voice, content, characters, settings, moods, & themes of my general fiction. Enjoy a quick snapshot of the kind of writing a genuine, award-winning Jacquelyn Eubanks Novel™ has to offer. All short stories take approximately 5 minutes or less to read. Like what you read? Buy my books on Amazon (The Last Summer & The Last Time) and follow me on social media (@JackyWroteABook).}

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I remember him in flashbacks. It’s the little things that trigger memories. Last weekend, I was cleaning out his basement and came across a box full of cassette tapes from the nineties. I pulled out each rectangular tape and examined the labels running along the side, noting the bands and album names written in his blocky handwriting, now faded or smudged. One particular tape caught my eye: Crash Test Dummies’ “The Ghosts That Haunt Me”.

His favorite.

Tearing through the boxes almost in a mania, I finally uncovered his old stereo system, the one with three CD slots, huge speakers, and two cassette tape places. I plugged it into an outlet and blew the dust off the tape slot, placed the cassette in, clicked the door shut, and pressed ‘play’.

A sob caught in my throat as the baritone’s voice wafted through the room, crooning to the piano ballad about Superman.

I close my eyes and am plunged into a memory of sitting in Daddy’s lap, listening to this song while he sings along, my curly red hair tucked under his chin. I can feel his throat vibrate with the notes and his whiskers scratch like sandpaper against my cheek. He smells of cigar smoke and some kind of cologne that I never learned the name of, but he always wore it. I’m no older than three.

The hot, silent tears slide down my cheeks like that moment when you reach the top of the rollercoaster and the only place you can go is down, down, faster and faster, at such a steep incline that your stomach drops and you feel like you’re falling and suddenly you can’t contain it anymore, and you just scream.

My father was a man who didn’t say much, but he didn’t need to. His actions spoke volumes.

We were never rich, but my dad made enough to provide a good life for his family. I remember one Christmas, my family was ready to go on our first real vacation – as in, no tents, sleeping bags, or dehydrated backpacking food. We were going to a ski resort in Montreal, and my sisters and I were so excited to finally see real snow after living in southern Arizona our whole lives. I packed my suitcase full of the essentials days before we had to leave – my stuffed animals, a nightgown with Barbie on it, my blankie, and some Froot Loops – and I was so excited that I could hardly sleep. Two nights before Christmas, Dad called everyone into the living room for a family meeting. He explained that we weren’t going on the trip anymore. He looked somberly down at me and my two little sisters, reached for our mother’s hand, and drew in a breath. He then explained that there are a lot of people less fortunate than us. As simply as possible, he told us that the Bank was going to take away another family’s house if they didn’t pay money.

“How much money, daddy?”

“A lot.”

He explained that rather than go on a trip this Christmas, we were giving the money we would’ve spent on vacation to the Bank so the family, who had little girls just like me, could keep their house.

He never told us who the family was.

I never learned how much money he gave them…but, as an adult with a job and children of my own, I can take an educated guess.

Dad spent decades working for the same company, and he hated it. He told me he’d dreamt of being a jet fighter pilot, but his eyesight was so horrendous that it was impossible. So he settled for a job he didn’t enjoy, and it drained him. Hours upon hours, he labored in a DuPont plant mixing chemicals to create car paint. He couldn’t stand the wrath of his superiors on the corporate end, and he never could get close to his coworkers. He was a natural introvert, yes, but he didn’t associate himself with people who degraded his integrity. The men at his job smoked pot during lunch breaks, blew all their Friday paychecks on hard liquor, and frequently invited him into a prostitute trailer parked behind the factory. He didn’t agree with that lifestyle and was persecuted for it mercilessly. Often, the only companionship he found at work was from the radio, which he listened to while eating lunch in the car.

There are things I distinctly inherited from Dad. His passion for politics is a perfect example. I remember nights spent in front of the TV, Tom Brokaw broadcasting the news, my dad and I sharing pita bread and hummus or crackers with canned sardines or smoked oysters. The salty, oily taste of fish in a tin acts as a trigger. During those quiet times spent together, he liked to pass on thoughts and wisdom.

The only person he ever hated was Bill Clinton. He despised that man, and whenever the president appeared on our screen, Dad would shut the television off in a huff. When I asked him why President Clinton bothered him so much, he just shook his head and uttered, “I can’t respect a man who cheats on his wife. How do you trust someone who lies to the very person they promised to always be faithful to?”

I never questioned the morality of my dad. He was a righteous man who read the Bible, attended church, and believed that beer is a sign that God loves us and wants us to be happy.

He had that exact phrase – it’s a Ben Franklin quote – on a T-shirt. His best friend, Robert, had a shirt to match it. They were closer than brothers, and I remember Uncle Bob was always at our house bearing gifts and pearls of wisdom for us girls. He and Dad joked that the hope of America rested on my shoulders, and that it was my duty to keep my reputation as spotless as possible so I could be president one day. I never forgot their faith in me, long after Uncle Bob waded into the deep end of atheism and then went under, completely submerged and drowning in the bitterness of his refusal to acknowledge a god. We never saw him again, and even though Dad said nothing, I know losing his best friend like that was worse than if he had died.

Dad’s father died when he was fourteen, and from that moment on he took on the roll of Superman for his mother and brother during their grieving. He loved his father more than words can express, and I knew it; spread throughout my childhood were bits and pieces of Papa, appearing in the forms of a watch Dad always wore, a Free Masons ring, a case full of World War II medals, and a brown leather recliner that he and I always sat in. Dad always loved World War II movies. I never said it aloud, but I always figured those movies helped him feel connected to his father.

In high school, I was bullied and sexually harassed by a gang of undersexed pubescent boys. Every day I would make up outlandish excuses to stay home, or halfway through the day fake sick and get sent home early. Finally, Dad caught on to what was happening, so he went directly to the principal so the harassment would stop. To our dismay, my sexist principal simply had a chat with each of the boys that consisted of approximately two sentences: “She’s obviously mentally unstable. Just leave her alone and the school won’t have to deal with her problems anymore.” Needless to say, this didn’t help the situation; if anything, it was reassurance to the boys that our principal was on their side, and they could continue torturing me without fear of punishment. That’s when Dad decided to take things into his own hands: he signed me up for taekwondo and taught me everything I needed to know about dealing with assholes. By the time I’d reached a black belt and gotten in two fights at school (both in self-defense, of course), I may not have been well-liked, but at least I was left alone. Dad taught me that I didn’t have to be afraid because all the strength, courage, and confidence I’d ever need was already within me.

When I was twelve, I decided that baseball was my favorite sport and I promptly became obsessed with it. In fact, rarely a day went by that I wasn’t glued to the TV, engulfed in a Dodger’s game. I came to know every player, every team, every score, stat, and skill in Major League Baseball. And before I knew it, Dad was joining me. He never, to my recollection, was a baseball fan. But something changed, and all of a sudden he was the one keeping track of scores and standings and waiting for me to join him in watching the game. On my birthday every year, we drove all the way to Los Angeles to watch a Dodger’s game. Just me and him. It was wonderful. On the way home from one of those birthday games, I was falling asleep in the shotgun seat when I heard him whisper, “Thanks, Mack-ster, for reminding me of how much I love baseball.”

I later learned that baseball was his dad’s favorite sport, and the two of them bonded over listening to Dodgers games on the radio when he was a child. After his father died, his love of baseball died, too. I promised myself that I wouldn’t let the same thing happen to me when my dad died. If he ever died.

To me, Dad was more invincible than Superman. He never showed weakness, but he had a quiet empathy that bred an old-world, gentlemanly air about him. He seemed timeless, and even as the years passed he was consistent in character and looks. That’s why our last Daddy-Daughter Night left me numb and disbelieving, as if reality could not be as frigid as the touch of his words.

It was a Tuesday night. He called me up and suggested we go out to Luigi’s, our favorite Italian restaurant. I met him at our usual booth, situated under a wooden overhang covered in fake grapes hanging from vines. It smelled like tomato sauce, basil and garlic. A basket full of breadsticks sat in front of him on the red-and-white-checkered tablecloth, a dish of olive oil and parmesan cheese next to it. We carried on our usual conversation through the appetizer – calamari – and the salad course – with bleu cheese dressing, like always – when the air thickened with words not yet uttered, suppressed and even withheld. I could sense this cloud suffocating and separating us. There was something he wasn’t telling me, I knew, but I couldn’t reach him through the smog of sensitive silence. Finally, when the waiter delivered our entrees (eggplant parmesan for me, veal parmesan for him), he spoke.

“I’m dying.”

His words made the cloud evaporate so quickly that it created a vacuum, a black hole sucking out every emotion, every word, every thought, every sense until I was left with only shock. The breath caught in my throat, and I could feel my chest tighten with the realization that Superman had a kryptonite: Cancer.

I broke down sobbing within a matter of seconds, the tears flooding my eyes and pouring down my face as if a dam burst, throwing away all lessons he’d given me on “mental toughness”. And, to my absolute horror, he started crying, too.

It was the first – and the last – time I ever saw my father cry.

He died that spring.

And the man who shaped me into the person I am, the legacy he left behind, the impact he made on other lives – they are still a part of me, a part of the world, even though he’s no longer physically here. I feel his presence in objects, in sounds, in scents that trigger memories and bring him back to me intangibly. He did everything he could to leave this world better than he found it. He was the greatest man I ever knew.

The last notes of the song echoed in the basement, spreading a warm, bittersweet wave of nostalgia through my body reverberating in my soul as I hung on to the last line of lyrics:

And sometimes I despair the world will never see another man like him…

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