No Soldier

My father's flat feet fortunately freed him from having to serve in the armed forces. Yet even without a regimented military background, he's always been focused on punctuality. He's woken up every day at 5:30 AM, 7 days a week for most of his 76 years. Except for holidays when he'll go to whatever mass my mom and I are going to, he attends the 7 AM mass on Sunday morning. It doesn't matter that the mass changed to 7:30 at some point many years ago; he's always gone at 7. He sits and meditates until the services begin, and possibly thinks about how terrible it is that things aren't the way they used to be. He hates to be late for family gatherings, musical engagements, hair cuts, doctor's appointments and other time sensitive obligations. It frustrates him that my mom's the exact opposite, and has often kept him waiting. I've lost track of how many times he's gone outside, started the car, came back in the house, paced around the kitchen, walked to their door and called in “are you ready yet?”, mumbled under his breath, threatened to leave, turned the car off, watched a few minutes of some game, called in “are you ready yet?”, started the car again, told me “you're just as bad as her,” paced some more, and sighed in relief when she finally came outside, only to look completely defeated once she realized she'd forgotten her sunglasses or couldn't find something else that delayed them further. The ”Lateness” episode of “Everybody Loves Raymond” nailed this dilemma perfectly, and made me wonder if it's common for other married couples. He's vented and complained about how embarrassing it is to walk in anywhere late, but he's never dared to actually leave her. Much as any guy might want to, there are some thresholds they know better to cross, compromises that must be made in the name of love and commitment.

I've never served in the military, and the closest experience with any kind of regimented training would have been the all-boys Catholic High School where I wore a jacket and tie every day, and ran around an outdoor track in a t-shirt and shorts even in the dead of Winter. I'm no soldier, nor do I think I'd have what it takes. I need to trick myself to get places on time, setting my clocks ahead, but even then my brain is already making the necessary calculations to keep me apprised of how much time I really have. I definitely take after my mother in this regard, and my dad's never been able to break me of this inclination toward tardiness. When we have concerts during the Summer, he'll sometimes tell me a week in advance what time he's going to leave, and say if I'm not ready he'll leave without me. He never has, so perhaps I see his threats as idle. Ironically, many times growing up I'd overhear my mom advising him to just leave me once, so I'd learn my lesson. When I was taking a shower or getting dressed, and he'd call in the time every five minutes, I'd sometimes find myself slowing down for spite. If I can't motivate myself to be faster, no one else can. About the only time I can speed myself up is running on a treadmill, by thinking of the theme music from The Flash, the theme from Superman, the soundtrack to The Transformers: The Movie, and on really odd days, the theme to Duck Tales. I have no idea why that last one pops into my head on there sometimes.

I wonder about my dad's childhood. Growing up in a small house with four sisters, perhaps he was always rushed. My grandfather, a hardworking Italian immigrant, was one of the pioneers on Long Island of the lunch wagon, and eventually opened a small convenience store in their house. He probably kept an even tighter schedule than my dad did. I think we always have our parents voices and criticisms with us, try as we might to rebel, and end up learning lessons that may have been diluted by our defiance. My dad gets up early because he had to as a kid, he gets ready quickly because his sisters didn't allow him much time growing up, and he practically inhales his food because in a family with five kids, he had to eat fast or starve when my aunts beat him to the punch.

Yesterday morning I had an Italian procession to play in. The band only needed one of us, but my dad was coming along for the ride because he enjoys the music. As usual, I heard frequent updates about the time. It's taken years, but I've finally learned to control my temper, to accept his chronological inquiries as his way and not a personal criticism. There were no threats of leaving this morning since he had nowhere to go. This isn't to say he didn't manage to annoy me: “Fix your collar. Your collar is sticking up. Is that the shirt you're going to wear? You should get one with a better collar. Are you bringing a jacket? Do you want me to drive? I'm not rushing you. You're the one that's going to be late and be embarrassed, not me. It's a good hour's ride; will you be ready by 9:15? 9? Yeah, I'll believe that when I see it. Yes, that shirt is much better. Are you ready? OK, I'll be waiting outside in the car.” To my credit, I said very little and kept my cool. When I think of the times I've lost my temper in my youth, I think of Vincent D'Onofrio in Full Metal Jacket and realize maybe it's a good thing I never went through military training. I suspect I would have broken before bending.

We arrived at the church in plenty of time, and after playing a few hymns, were invited downstairs for breakfast before the procession began. I got a cup of orange juice, a bagel, and some kind of crusty pastry with powdered sugar. I got my dad a hot tea. As I stood by a table in the basement of the church amid the other parishioners, a pretty girl walked by, cast her eyes downward for a second, then walked on with a little half smile. Of the two possibilities, likely and unlikely, I knew which one it would be. I looked down, and sure enough my black dress pants were covered in powdered sugar all the way down to my shoes. I thought I was careful eating the pastry, and I was standing up, but leave it to MCF to defy physics. Punctuality and neatness, hallmarks of a good soldier, are strangers to me. Marching, however, is something I can handle, and the next four hours went well. Of course, it didn't start well.

Many gigs possess a nightmare client, a member of the church or society who demands perpetual “Musica!!!”, and doesn't understand that a band, unlike a jukebox, must rest for a few minutes between songs. The specimen at today's job possessed the unfortunate accessory of a whistle, and as everyone rushed out from breakfast at his shrill cue, I had gotten a cup of hot tea for myself. Ignoring the pain as it splashed out on to my hand, I made my way outside, my instrument under my arm. I downed the tea as quickly as possible and handed the cup to my dad on the sidewalk to throw away for me at the next available trash receptacle. The first few songs I played sounded a little dim and muffled, but it's still early in the season and the last time I played was three weeks ago. I thought it was my rusty embouchure. At one point I caught my reflection in the horn and noticed my hat was missing. This particular group wears a black baseball style hat, and I thought I clipped it to my belt before going to church. Panic seized me for a second before I remembered stuffing it in the bell of my instrument back at breakfast. I removed it and put it on my head, hopefully with no one noticing, and the rest of the day my notes were crisp and clear. I can just picture what kind of soldier I would have made.

Evolution may only be a theory, but we all have animal instincts that we control with conscious effort. At the 5 PM mass I later went to with my mom, several kids made their Confirmation and a Bishop was in attendance. He gave an amazing sermon about the importance of the day and the courage to live the rest of their lives according to their beliefs. He asked them to take pictures to remember the day, not just in their dress clothes, but how they normally dress. He said someday they'd show their kids who would ask, “Mom and dad, were people poor in your day? All the clothes are faded, and the jeans have holes and frayed edges. Nothing looks like it fit right. The boys' clothes are too big, and the girls' clothes are too small.” From this humorous and on-target observation, he went on to ask how many of them divide each other by the way they look, how they dress, or what gadgets they have. Material things don't matter, trends fade, and it's the people on the inside that count. It takes courage to not only endure ridicule if they have, but to STOP doling out ridicule if that was their position on the social food chain. As confirmed Catholics they had to live by the vows they’d make, or their words would be empty. He cautioned them against society's pressure that our bodies are toys to beat up with sex or drugs or alcohol, and we should recognize the gift we've been given and not abuse it. It's easy to go with society, not just because we want to be accepted by the majority and fit in, but because we're indulging in natural, animal instincts.

Only a select few have what it takes to be a soldier. For some of us, simply being human takes great effort, and it's something we should strive for every day until it's as natural as our instincts. In a few short hours I have to wake up, take my dad to meet two other musicians at a train station, and drive all of us to Staten Island to play with yet another band. My natural instinct is to stay up late and keep writing, but I think I'm going to get some sleep instead. Maybe there's hope for me yet...