Look Ma! No hands!

It is 1966. The construction project that has extended the road I live on is underway. There will be twenty house on this road, a cul-de-sac about two hundred yards long. The road came before the houses. It begins on the other side of a longer road running perpendicularly through it and is wider than mine. There were no houses on either side of the longer road until the 1950s. My parents were early settlers there, among the first. Our house was built in 1956. This new road is wider than mine and has a slight grade, rising from the road that bisects it and my side of it. We children find it an ideal place for bicycling on weekends after the construction crews have gone home. Smooth, no cars, and the cul-de-sac ends on a curve shielded by trees, hidden from parental view. Not that anyone was doing anything bad.
I was eight and late to learn how to bicycle. My brother, Sam, was ten. Having mastered standard bicycling, he and other kids his age are learning to ride with no hands. This starts with doing it while coasting; pedaling comes later. It's something that I and my asymmetrical body never master, but Sam is good at it. 
He's so good that he wants to show off his new skill to our mother, who is thirty-five years old. She and I get in the car, a black Dodge, and drive to the end of the cul-de-sac.

Sam—Sammy—begins the ride to the end. He pedals up to speed, then coasts, then takes his hands off the handlebars. And then, the showstopper: He puts his hands on his hips. This says, I am a cool boy, so skilled at this that I can strike this adult pose casually; riding with no hands is as natural to me as standing around like a grownup. I am a special boy. 
Our mother smiles broadly as she watches her second of three sons do this. At the time, I take this as a sign of how impressed she is with his new ability, happy that he's achieved it. I don't understand that it's more about how cute he is.
When I worked at an art museum store, I sold a mug to a boy around nine who was buying it for his mother. It occurred to me what a remarkable thing it must be to have this thing that came out of you covered with slime and blood grow into a person capable of washing, dressing, and feeding himself and then looking at an array of items and deciding which of them would be something you would like. That boy is a man in his mid twenties now. I hope his mother was able to appreciate such things and not weighed down and distracted by too many of the obligations that fill our days.

First time this year

The elderly woman who called the Complete and Total Loser several times last fall called him for the first time since then this morning.
He had forgotten the name, a man's, on the caller ID and it took the Loser a few moments to remember her. 
She didn't sound well. 
Background: The woman, who is fairly sure that she is in her 80s, is looking for her father who has long been separated from her part of the family. He moved to the Loser's region decades ago, but they have never met. He and the Loser share the same first and last names. (The Loser's late father was an only child and he had no cousins.) The woman lives about four miles from the Loser.
It is statistically improbable that her father is alive.

The woman was pleasant as always this morning but she sounded more disoriented than before. She had, as always, no recollection of talking to the Loser previously and she had no reaction when he gently reminded her that they had conversed several time before. Such occurrences are likely a common element of her life now. 
As he has written here before, part of the Loser wishes he were clever enough to pull off impersonating an elderly man and convincing the woman that he is indeed her father and that he is delighted to hear from her. Think how happy that would make her! He knows, however, that trying that would probably lead to heartbreak and ultimately be cruel. So the Loser says he's not her father and after long apologies from the woman she writes down the Loser's number, vows not to call him again, hangs up and forgets about her search. 
Until the next time.

The Zen Calendar

Page-a-Day calendars, made by the company of that name, make great gifts, but shop carefully. If you buy one you can register for another online and get it free. This year, the Complete and Total Loser registered for one with Mensa puzzles in it and it's awful: Nothing but word grids. 
The one the Loser likes is the Zen calendar, and he's been getting it for himself and as Christmas gifts for others for over a decade now.
The quotes are not always from those who practice Zen. They can be from artists, musicians, writers, scientists, politicians, business leaders, teachers, actors, religious leaders -- what matters is that in some part of their lives they've stumbled on something that fits with Zen philosophy and put it into words. The best quotes are the short ones, though the long ones are often instructive and worth reading. (A good example of a short quote is the one last Sunday from W.C. Fields: "My wife drove me to drink -- I'm eternally indebted to her.")
One of the Loser's gift recipients was his father, who died in December of 2011. He loved his Zen calendar, the Loser's father. Born in 1920, he was a depression-era kid and he had the mindset of most of his generation. He read the usual books (though he was far more well-versed in Shakespeare than most), the usual newspapers and magazines, did the usual things (married, worked, lived in the suburbs, raised three sons, just one of them a loser), died a normal death, luckily at 91 rather than younger. 
That traditional upbringing and life made the Loser's father regard the Zen calender as a source of messages from an alien civilization. He was often baffled by its missives of non-competition and acceptance.
The Loser's not sure how many years he bought it for his father, but it was enough that when he gave him a gift-wrapped package for Christmas each year his father would say, "Ah! There's my Zen calendar!" in a sincerely excited way. One year the stores were sold out so the Loser gave him a calendar of quotes from the Dali Lama. They weren't as good: accept no substitutes. It was a lost year and from then on the Loser made sure to buy the calendar online by late November.
In October of 2011 the Loser's mother died. In November his father had a stroke. It wasn't, thank goodness, the kind that left a side paralyzed and drooling, but it was a body blow.
When the Loser went online to purchase the calendar, he couldn't help but think: Will Dad see all of it? The best thing to do when you think that kind of thing when you have an ailing loved one is ignore the thought and act as if it never occurred to you. You certainly don't mention it to anyone you know, not when sober, anyway.
The Loser's father didn't live to see page one of the 2012 edition of the Zen calendar and, in fact, didn't know he was getting it, dying December 15th. It could've been assumed, but he had other things on his mind, of course. 
On January first, the Loser opened his calendar (he's good about not cheating with that kind of thing and as a child didn't open the little doors on advent calendars in advance). He stripped off the cover pages to January one and saw what you can see in the photo below. It seemed to say to the Loser: There's no reason to read the rest of this calendar. Take the year off. Cope.
So he did. Now he's back and reading the current edition, though weeks can go by and he'll forget, so he has to catch up sometimes.

The Loser put his Zen calendar photographs of his late parents. It's still there.

My Dad's Deader Than Your Dad

Was the Complete and Total Loser's father a loser too? Is loserdom in your genes or is it something you achieve? 

Hard to say.

The Loser's father, who died six months ago at ninety-one. 

• His high school yearbook said his ambition was to "live dangerously and write about it," but he stayed stateside during World War II
• He wrote, for a living afterward, but it was public relations copy for corporations

But:

• Millions who saw war died doing so
• Few who love to write make a living as writers

There's more:

• The Loser's father married successfully and had three sons who grew up in turbulent times (60s, 70s) without succumbing to addition, contracting disease, having children out of wedlock or committing crimes; none has spent a night in jail, as far as the Loser knows, and none has been destitute. 
• The grandchildren total was just four but all are thriving.

His only failure was his youngest son, the Loser, the gimp who never married or had much of a career. But parents have their blinders. Sometimes they can't see the good their children do. To the end, the Loser's father saw the Loser as a bright young man with a promising future, even though the Loser was 53 years old with his best days far behind him. 

Thanks for that, Dad.

The Loser's father when young.

The Loser, Christmas, 2010

The Complete and Total Loser’s parents are dying. He doesn’t say that, no one does, but it’s true. His mother has been in declining health for what, a decade now? At least. And she’s gotten substantially worse in the past year, going from frail to feeble. Always the type to require center stage, she lets all around her know this. No stoicism for her! She grunts as if in pain with each step, every movement. Minor procedures are detailed at length and someone must attend if she’s at a hospital even for an outpatient appointment.

The Loser gets peevish with this sometimes but overall is fine with it and does his duty. She is getting ready to commit the ultimate verb. If she needs to be attended by one of her sons, the Loser will comply. When he enters the house he drinks a beer as soon as he can. Then, often, another. He wants to take the edge off and there’s little but edge these days.

More disturbing to the Loser these days is his father, who is in better health than his mother but, a decade older than she is ninety now and hardly robust. A suburbanite since 1950, driving more than a few miles tires him now. Recently he has showed strong signs of clinical depression and his appetite has waned. He barely eats. He, a man whose greatest sin has been gluttony, who has disgusted his son for years by moaning with pleasure (“Umm ... Umm.”) when eating salty, greasy food with his fingers.

He, a man always preternaturally cheerful and optimistic, famous for being easygoing and likable, affable even, he himself calls it depression. The Loser sees the mild thrill his father gets from his lack of appetite, such a difference from the norm. His father doesn’t show his enjoyment openly, of course, and attributes it rightly to his worry over his ailing wife.

In an early, half awake morning hour today, maybe it was yesterday, another reason occurred to the Loser. His parents are playing an end game. Not a game in the sense of a competition. More of a matching game, like kids trying to see how many times they can throw a Frisbee back and forth without letting it hit the ground. The Loser’s father senses his wife’s coming death and is trying to go at the same time. Suicide by failure to thrive. The notion scares the Loser, but seems apt. (How many times has he had the romantic notion of them dying together, tragically, in a plane crash, asleep, on the way home after a delightful vacation?) It’s a selfish idea, the Loser knows. The abrupt end, no lingering death for either, no obligation to figure out the proper etiquette as they decline, no craziness from them. Just sympathy from others. Casseroles from neighbors while he lived in the house for a few months, settling things.

The Loser wants his father to be happy and is surprised how upset he is by his current state. He’d always thought that an overall happy existence would cancel out any brief time of misery at the end as much as it would had it been in midlife or another time. Now, he’s not so sure of this. His mother has always been like the Loser; a bit of a downer, never fully secure and joyous, with happiness a temporary, aberrational state. His father, though, that sweet, smart, kind man, he wants his father to die happy.

The Loser is a Selfish Prick

Every week, The Complete and Total Loser takes a commuter train from the city to the suburbs. The ride is half an hour long. From the station, it takes the Loser ten minutes to walk to his parents' house, where he has dinner with them.

Dinning room table.

They are both elderly and their physical and mental decline is beginning to accelerate. Tonight, the Loser asked his father what year terrorist felled the Twin Towers. "Ninety-two?" his father, never good at dates, guessed.

His mother, once a good cook, tires easily now. Dinners are frequently store-bought rotisserie chicken or easily prepared stews. Sometimes, they even get take-out Chinese.

Family friends hear of the Loser's visits and tell him he is just so kind to do that. The Loser quickly changes the subject which, to them, appears to be a show of modesty.

It's guilt.

As trying as it is to see his parents, who he loves despite their mistakes (would he have done better?), slip away, the Loser makes himself go so he'll be able to recognize his own fate when it nears and take appropriate steps. Those steps will be to go for a long walk in the woods with a pocket full of sleeping pills and a bottle of good scotch and disappear forever.

The Loser's Parents Return from Florida

They are back from Florida, where they stayed on the coast and watched the sun set over the Gulf of Mexico. The Complete and Total Loser went to a Midwestern college for four years yet in that time has never set foot in the Sunshine State like so many of his peers.
His parents used to go to St. Barts, but they're too old now to cope with the lack of banisters and cobblestone streets there. The Loser imagined all month they were better off in Florida, where he's pretty sure ambulances patrol streets like ice cream trucks and geriatric hospitals are minutes away.
"We didn't see one black face the whole month," the Loser's mother said. This is just reporting; she is no bigot. (If anyone's that it's the Loser, who lives in the city where a large percentage of blacks pose at least a degree of threat and where he has indeed been robbed at gunpoint in broad daylight by two of them.) They said also there were no Jews where they were.
The Loser's father found it extremely relaxing to watch the shore birds. Pelicans, gulls and smaller birds -- sandpipers? -- shared the same sea and shore. "How," he asks, "do they survive?"
This sounds like a dumb question, but it's not.
Twenty-first century Americans are so far from nature that when we observe animals close up, it is astonishing that they can live. No clothes, no shelter, no technology of any kind. No health insurance! Naked creatures with little beaks and webbed feet, surrounded by predators, chased by cars, filth and toxins they can't possibly adapt to quickly enough, their habitat torn down and replaced by inedible structures with confusing reflective surfaces.
Yet some of them survive. And even thrive.