A Striking Resemblance

I had stepped into her role, and I was fine with it. I was the older generation struggling against the natural cycle of life. My son was a man now. He had his own family. I could see my life spread out before me like a brick laden path leading to my end. I was at the midway point and still relevant, but I probably had as many days behind me as I did ahead.

It was okay. The most important job I would ever have in my life was completed. Gus wasn't just an adult. He was truly a good man. I'd made mistakes, but I wasn't ignorant of my successes.

Everything was fine until Shannon began playing Canon in D. That was the song playing when my Lucinda walked towards me at the end of the aisle. I had stood there, my heart beating out of my chest, and I couldn't understand what I had done to be worthy of having her as my bride. Pop and I were agnostic Jews, but she was a Christian who had always dreamed of getting married in a beautiful church.

I was happy to give that to her. If I could've lassoed the stars, I would've given her them as well.

The happiest days of my life were spent with Gus's mother. The worst days of my life were spent watching her fade away as cancer took the woman I loved.

Getting up, I closed the window and lay back down again.

It had taken me a long time to deal with her loss. It was my father that finally pulled me out of my surrender to despair.

He told me I had to snap out of it and that I had a son to raise. I railed against the fates that had left me alone to try to do right by a little boy I couldn't fully understand. I railed against Lucinda for leaving me, and then I dealt with the guilt for blaming her. I railed against my father for making me deal with reality.

I broke his jaw that horrible night. I could still see his hurt, disappointed eyes. He just asked me if I felt better now and told me to go see my son. His face hadn't started to swell yet, but I was still full of shame.

Gus was asleep, so I lay down on the floor next to his bed. There was no questioning the next morning. He wasn't surprised to see his father asleep on the carpet. as he woke me and told me he was hungry. As I poured him his cereal and cut up a banana, I promised myself and Lucinda to never fail him again.

I broke that promise again and again, but in spite of my failings, he became one of the best men that I knew.

I awoke in my own bed with faint echoes of Canon in D dancing through my mind. That was almost immediately ruined by my father getting into the shower and singing some 60s or 70s rock. He was exactly as good of a singer as you would imagine him to be. The sun wasn't fully up yet, and we had two crews running today. I was going to straddle both, so I didn't have to go in to work for a while. I normally didn't need the alarm clock.

I had the ability to wake up when I needed to get up. The problem was that once I was up, I couldn't go back to sleep. Especially not with my father's impression of Rod Stewart wailing in the background. I figured I would get up and do some of the monthly maintenance we needed for the home, but first, I'd stay in bed for a few more minutes and try to hold onto the dreams I'd had of my wife.

Something had shifted while I was asleep. While Canon in D would forever be a part of my heart and soul, it wasn't as painful anymore. The seasons were changing. It was time for me to reap instead of sow. I'd had my time in the sun with Lucinda. That was behind me now. I dated plenty over the years, but I had never truly loved again and knew that I wouldn't.

Pop found me in front of the computer when he came downstairs. "Want some eggs?"

I was constantly astonished by that man's health and constitution. He was as regular as a sunrise. Knowing what he was going to do, I almost shuddered. For him, making eggs for the two of us would include at least half a pound of bacon and ten eggs fried in bacon fat. If he found anything that caught his eye in the fridge, he'd throw that in as well. Sausage, salsa, cheese of questionable age; it didn't matter. It all went in.

"I'm good, thanks. Just paying the bills."

"Yeah? How long you think it's gonna take Shannon to realize we've been paying the utilities?"

I smiled. "I don't know, three, four years? Is everything alright? You doing okay for money?"

He squinted as he nodded. "Yeah. I'm fine. We just rolled the money over we were sending Gus for his college stuff, so it's not any better or worse than it's been for years now. Listen, I'm working the charter tomorrow. Keep an eye out for a package for me."

"Sure. What's going to be in the package?"

I could hear him grumbling about the fridge as he answered. "I got a big box of Nunna."

I rolled my eyes, knowing what was coming next. Still, it made him happy, so I fed him his straight-line. "Nunna? What's Nunna?"

"It's nunna your business, so just let me know when it shows up."

I knew what he was going to be in the box, and I also knew that he was embarrassed by how excited and emotional he was about his great-granddaughter. He had left the window open on the computer when he placed the order. It was a onesie in pink with the image of a fishing rod on the front with the text I'd Rather Be Fishing With Pop.

Three or four days a week, he worked on charter fishing boats. It was informal, it was something he enjoyed, and it put a few dollars in his pocket to supplement his retirement. The crew liked having him there. Pop was surprisingly good with the public and was excellent with drunks who got belligerent after a few too many beers while fishing.

Even at his age, he was a big, intimidating guy who had that old-man strength going for him. He'd bring home a cooler full of fish, and those coolers had helped us through a lot of lean times. Thankfully, my promotion came with a hefty raise, and we were living a lot more comfortably now.

"Did you hear that the hospital is messing with the nurses?"

My back was to him, and we were separated by a wall, but I still knew exactly what he was doing, he had his favorite cast-iron pan out, had the bacon cooking, the carton of eggs would be on the counter to the right of the pan and the loaf of bread would be next to the toaster along with his apricot jam. His only concession to his health would be that the bread was seven-grain, and that was only because Kate, his girlfriend, insisted on it.

"Messing with them how?"

I called back. "With money and staffing. And it's not just a bit. It doesn't seem right. I hope some people support them."

"I heard something about a strike at the hospital. That's the nurses?"

"It is. I think they start in four days. I wonder if they can send some cops over to keep an eye on things. People get irrational, you know? Their family is in the hospital and nurses are on the picket line."

"Yeah?"

I had to be careful. I didn't want to lay it on too thick. Pop liked staying busy, and he also had a hero complex. A little nudge was all it really needed.

"Yeah. I'm sure they'll be fine. "

I could hear the sizzling of the bacon while he thought things over. "You have to be a nurse to join the picket line?"

"Good question. I don't think so. I think you just have to support the working man and want to make a difference."

"Hmm. Maybe I'll stop by."

I paid our bills, mowed Mrs. McLarty's lawn, and went to work. It was an uneventful day, which was nice. Everyone except for that idiot Crawford was a pleasure to work with at the hospital. Unfortunately, you could cut the tension with the proverbial knife in there. The strike was days away, and my assumption was that no progress was being made.

Pops' present for Lucinda showed up the next day and he wanted me with him when he gave it to her. It was striking how something so incongruent could be so right. He sat on their couch in his jeans and a white tank top, his tattoos peeking out and his white hair kept short and tight. I could mentally strip away thirty years and see him as I had as a child. He had been a huge, formidable force and age had stripped very little of that away. Pop still had arms and the chest that would put younger men to shame, and he looked exactly like what he was, a retired Marine who could still kick ass. And yet... And yet there he sat holding an 8 lbs. 3 oz. treasure that cooed up at him as he looked down at her in adoration.

They fit together, grizzled old warrior and wondrous, innocent baby. How that worked, I had no idea, but it did. It was inarguable. When we were finally ready to go back to our place, he tried to explain to Marianne how to cook the fish he had stuffed in their freezer. She smiled and nodded, but I knew there wasn't a chance in hell that she would be touching that fish. At the very best, she would allow her cook to prepare it for them. I was astonished that my son had married into a family where his mother-in-law had a private cook.

Grabbing my glasses, I picked up the latest Robert Crais novel and sat down to do some reading. Pop was about to head upstairs when he stopped and turned to me.

"Forgot to tell you, there's a dance at the VFW on Friday. We're going."

"By we, you mean you and Kate?"

He shrugged. "Well, yeah. But you too."

I looked at him over my glasses. "When was the last time you made decisions like that for me? When I was fifteen? Sixteen? I appreciate the heads up. If I decide to go, I'll see you there."

He shook his head. "You haven't been down there in more than six months. Those men and women have supported Gus since you moved into this house, and most of them showed up at the hospital when your granddaughter was born. Don't be an asshole. Get down there, shake a few hands and then leave if you want to."

He was right, and I wasn't happy with that fact. My father holding the moral high ground was never a good thing.

I had a drawer in my bedroom with the ties Gus or pop had prepped for me. All I had to do was put it around my neck and pull it tight. Friday night, I chose one that worked with my blue suit, tightened it up, put on some cologne and headed over to the VFW.

The parking lot was packed, which was a good sign. It sometimes felt like the organization was aging itself out. There were few members my age or younger, and maybe that wasn't a bad thing. Places like the VFW had served as more than just a building or a place to drink for generations of soldiers. It was where they came to spend time with others who would implicitly understand what they had been through. For many, it was better than any therapist's couch.

If that was no longer as needed, it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world.

When any fraternal organization in Pueblo had an event that was open to the public, members of all of them would support the event. I could hear the band playing as I paid my entry fee at the door.

Walking around, I shook hands with most of the veterans and answered questions about Gus and Lucinda.

Almost every man in the place had been like an uncle to my son. They taught him how to build a wooden car for the pinewood derbies in Cub Scouts, they taught him how to throw a football, how to break in a baseball mitt, and they taught him how to curse in at least six languages.

There hadn't been a time I could recall when Gus hadn't wanted to be a Marine. The men and women there had babysat him when I had to work overtime, had attended his recitals, had praised him when he was first learning how to play trumpet and had raised money for a scholarship when he went to college.

Pop was right. I owed each and every one of them a debt.

When I was done speaking to someone about my granddaughter, the woman working the bar waved me over. She leaned in close to be heard over the band.

"Steve, this is Emily. She just joined last month. Emily, meet Steve. Second-generation Marine."

Emily looked to be about my age and was cute. She had short red hair, a pale complexion, and a dusting of freckles. She shook my hand.

"Do you dance, Marine? I was feeling old until I stepped in here tonight. You and I are probably the youngest people here. Don't make me get out there with someone who needs a walker."

I laughed, and we hit the dance floor. Emily was funny, smart and retired Army. We stayed out there for a while before finding a table. We were chatting when Kate brought over two beers for us and sat down.

"Taking a break from keeping the women away from your father. He'll be here in a minute." She smiled at Emily. "Hi, I'm Kate."

They were soon chatting like old friends. Kate wasn't joking about Pop. I didn't know what it was, but women always liked him. They'd been together for years and yet he still had single women stop by bringing him cake and pies. Before he left for college, they often claimed it was for Gus, but they found a way to spend as much time as possible with Pop.

Before the evening was over, Emily agreed to go out to dinner with me the following Tuesday. I left happy that I had shown up. It was impossible to be too wrapped up in the birth of my granddaughter, but still, it was good to get out and do something different.

Two days later, the strike started. I noticed Shelley on the picket line, and a few hours later, Pop had joined them.

SHELLEY

I was more nervous on the first day of the strike than I was on the first day working at this hospital. How bizarre was that? When you think about it, it made a certain amount of sense. I was coming to the hospital with an extensive background in the field and having done the same job at a larger hospital with a heavier workload. I knew what I was getting into there, but being a point person for a strike? Totally new.

I showed up early; I had folding tables to put pamphlets on; I brought bottled water, and I went across the street and bought a dozen coffees. It was a sunshiny day, and I was going to be the rootinest-tootinest strike person ever. I had the new sneakers that Dad had bought me, and a smile on my face. I was ready to convert everybody who passed us on the sidewalk to our cause. What shot a bullet through my nauseating optimism? Perpetual, non-ending boredom.

I wasn't engaging in a debate with anyone. Nobody stopped to talk or wanted to learn about the strike. The few of us that were there were delighted when someone would honk their horn and wave as they drove by.

It wasn't heartbreaking, but it was a little disappointing. I was there to fight the good fight and my battling turned out to be with my aching knees. We walked back and forth, we passed out some pamphlets, and we waved at people who honked. That was about it.

I was probably a little too enthusiastic when someone finally approached us. He looked familiar, but Pueblo was a small city. Almost everyone looked familiar. He was a large older man wearing jeans, work boots and a black T-shirt.

"Hey, just wanted to come down and show my support. Anything I can do to help out?"

I shook his hand. "Hi. I'm Shelley. You are...?"

"Everybody calls me Pop. I thought I could hold one of those signs and walk around a bit. Anybody give you trouble?"

Trouble? We were at a hospital in Pueblo, not a steel plant in Detroit. Did this guy think Jimmy Hoffa was going to show up?

"No, no trouble. We'd be delighted to have you join us, Mr....Pop."

"Okay, good deal. What do I tell people if they ask why you're striking?"

I gave him some of our pamphlets and a folding chair. He read up on what the strike was about and why it was needed. When he was done reading, he got up, grabbed a placard, and started walking. Maybe I had been wrong. If I gave it more time, maybe we would get more engagement.

Nope. It was just him. The day went by, and he was the only one to stop by and engage with us. At the end of the day, I threw away my tepid coffee. Pop loaded my folding tables into my trunk for me and then put the cases of water in the backseat.

"Have you thought about setting up where the guys doing the construction are working? I'll bet you a bunch of them wouldn't cross the picket line."

I smiled. "That's a good idea, but they work all over the parking lot, and I have no idea where they'll be from one day to the next."

"I may be able to help with that. I know a guy. I'll see you tomorrow, Shelley. Keep fighting the good fight."

We had two shifts of picketers, but I felt obligated to stay for both. In the afternoon, there were four women and two men. They asked me to join them for supper at a local diner, but we had spent hours exhausting every topic of conversation and I was ready to get home to watch something mindless on TV.

I ordered a Caesar salad with chicken breast from the bistro across the street and headed back to my place. My phone rang, and I didn't recognize the number. I paused Netflix.

"This is Shelley."

"Shelley, this is Lyle from the hospital. Do you have a moment?"

Even this guy's voice was smooth. I wondered if it was all natural or if he practiced his delivery. Maybe it was a lawyer thing. I could imagine him growing up wanting to be some famous litigator, using only his words to sway a jury and practicing in front of a mirror.

"I have some time. What's up, Lyle?"

"As serious and as ugly as a strike is, it's going to end eventually. When that time comes, I want to ensure that the nurses know they are appreciated. This has nothing to do with the strike and everything to do with an ongoing relationship. I was hoping you would let me pick your brain and we could come up with a few ways to show the nursing staff that we care. If that works for you, maybe we could talk tomorrow over dinner?"

That sounded like a ton of horse shit, but only when I sat back and thought about it. He had a way of making everything sound reasonable on the surface.

"Are you sure that this isn't some elaborate way of asking me out to dinner?"

He chuckled warmly. "No. I wish I was that smart, Shelley. I think of this strike as a necessary evil. When it's over, I'd like us to move forward as smoothly and as positively as possible. I'm being genuine about that. If you'd be interested, I'd like to take you out for dinner another time where we wouldn't discuss work at all."

I was guessing that the man was at least twenty years my senior, but he had a way about him. I really did think that he was being genuine. You know who else was genuine, or at least appeared that way? My ex-husband. He was also smooth, quick with a smile, and handsome. Factor in that he was a cheating piece of crap, and I had little interest in going to dinner with any over-educated, perma-tanned metrosexuals.

"Let me get back to you, Lyle. I'd like to talk to my contact with the union and see if there are any ethical concerns about having a private meeting with someone from the hospital management."

"Of course. And if you're open to dinner without any business-related agenda, that would be lovely."

"Yeah. I'll have to get back to you."

I get it. It was people like me, with an attitude like mine, that made middle-Americans feel that people from the coasts were unrelentingly arrogant. Well, reality is what it is, regardless of whether you find it ugly or not. I came from Los Angeles, and I've been to New York. The very best restaurants in Pueblo would be average in either of those cities. I was tired of people recommending Olive Garden when I asked for recommendations for good Italian.

So, yeah, I convinced myself to allow Lyle to take me to dinner. If it was going to be on the hospital's dime, I would insist on La Forchetta da Massi, probably the best Italian place in Pueblo. I was determined to use the opportunity to pick his brain about the strike and what their plans were. It was a fair swap for letting him know what would make the nurses happy on an ongoing basis after the strike was over. He didn't need to know about my ulterior motives.