PBW: Posterity

Photo Blog Wednesday

He squinted at the lithe female form who had walked past his table in the park, ever so slightly bumping him with her hip and casting a coy glance back over her shoulder at him, coupled with an even rarer smile. This was no time to sit and play chess with old men; it was past time he--

"HEY!"

The voice was familiar and distant, but an unwanted distraction he brushed aside like an aggressive wasp. His future girlfriend seemed blurry and indistinct now, but nothing would stop him from at least talking to her. After all, swatting a wasp seldom incurred further intrusions, right? He opened his mouth to say,

"HEY! Are you going to work today? It's seven thirty!"

The dream was done; all that remained was the blinding light on his closed eyelids, and the staccato tone of his father's voice.

“Are you wearing a BEARD now? Is that the way you wanna look?"

He kept his eyes closed, pretending not to be fully awake yet. He heard a sigh of disgust as the 75-year-old man shuffled back down the hallway mumbling the time once more and something about perpetual lateness, along with the phrase, “...hope he doesn’t come with me looking like that...". After nearly a month of his first goatee since college, his father had finally made a small remark a few days prior, but was now resurrecting comments not heard in a decade. The weary 30-year-old began the arduous process of getting out of bed, bending his fingers at first to loosen them up, then his arms, then finally kicking forward with his feet to bring his torso to a sitting position, where he'd remain for another minute letting his eyes finish adjusting and fighting the urge to just lie right back down. Some mornings the call of sleep was stronger than others, and this was one.

In the kitchen his father said nothing as he ate dried cereal and studied the Jumble®. He got a bowl and poured some milk over some cereal of his own, when the silence was broken.

“So is that how you're going to look now?"

He fought the urge to throw something, realizing the bowl of milk would result in a mess in more ways than one. In the past he'd allowed irrational, angry physical responses to make bad situations worse, and hoped he'd one day mature past the outbursts of his childhood. He shot back with words, rather than actions.

“What do you HAVE against facial hair?"
“If you want to look like a bum...."
“Uncle Jerry has a mustache!"
“Yeah! A mustache! Not a beard, a...a ‘grow--tee' or whatever you call it!"
“Well what about your friend Vinnie from high school? He's always had a beard."
“That's different. He plays in a band."
“What?! We're in the SAME band--it's a band of your high school alumni and we play marches, Americana, jazz and broadway medleys. ‘He plays in a band'? What does that even MEAN?"
“All I know is you look like hell."
“What about Tony and Anthony in the Italian band? They have facial hair--"
“--and you think they look GOOD?!"
“OK. Fine. Can I keep it until the weekend at least? It has been getting uncomfortable with the heat and I wasn't going to keep it much longer anyway."
“You do what you want. You're a grown man; I can't tell you what to do. All I know is, you don't look like a person. If it was me, I’d shave.."

He walked away now, conscious of the time and not wanting to hear, “IT'S A QUARTER TO NINE; THEY'RE GONNA FIRE YOU IF YOU'RE NOT CAREFUL!" as he often did while still taking a shower. It was funny. In the last decade or so he'd mellowed out and his parents had softened with age, and they didn't argue as vehemently as they had when he was in college. Back then, any logic he'd introduce to support whatever he was arguing was met with, “What are you using, psychology? Is that what they teach you in college? Your mother and I have been around a lot longer; don't try to use psychology on us, kid." His dad would then turn to his mother and add, “It's no use arguing with him when he uses that psychology." As he struggled with his electric razor, he mused that one didn't necessarily need a college degree to be adept at psychological manipulation. The shaving took extra time, and the 8:45 warning came right on time at 8:40, another example of psychology.

Work had its usual array of stress, compounded by having taken Monday off and knowing he couldn't work too late because of band rehearsal. Ironically, his father called him around 4 PM to let him know Vinnie had delivered some bad news. It seems the school budget had been voted down, which meant the band couldn't use the school to rehearse, or any instruments or music. Until further notice, Summer band was on hold. He easily could have kept the goatee until the weekend as originally planned.

When he got home, his parents asked how his day was as usual. His father added, “You know, a mustache is ok. I didn't mean for you to shave your mustache. I just DON'T LIKE that go-tee, that's all." He was too tired for another debate, or even to draw some explanation of the Old Man Logic Rules of Proper Facial Hair. Obviously there was something from his childhood, perhaps when he was a teenager back in the ‘40s his own father had very specific views. One thing was certain; some generation gaps were too far to bridge entirely. Fortunately, he had taken some photos the weekend prior. He'd record the tale in words and images for posterity, and hopefully recall it at some future point when he found something objectionable in his own offspring.