When Johnson was a child, his mother often wagged a finger and said, “I’m keeping an eye on you, buster.” Sometimes she meant it as a joke, other times a warning, but it was also a reminder that she had high hopes for him, her only child in a fatherless home. She seemed to know what he’d been up to, even if he wasn’t up to anything, and his shoulders tensed as he squirmed away.
As an adult now, he was reminded of that guilty sensation his mother had evoked in him. He’d become convinced someone was spying on him. He wasn’t sure who, maybe the government, maybe marketers, maybe foreign countries. He wasn’t sure if they were afraid he was up to something or whether they were studying him for potential. Whatever it was, he had that squirmy sensation in his shoulders, and he decided he’d bore the hell out of anyone watching him so that they’d lose interest.
He spent most of his free time sitting on his old brown armchair watching television alone in his apartment. Maybe his television was spying on him. He’d heard of that. It was an old TV, though, so maybe they hadn’t started bugging televisions when he’d bought it. To be safe, he put on shows that he didn’t actually like watching so he could confuse anyone monitoring his viewing habits. He’d mix it up, watching conservative news, liberal news, old sitcoms, fishing, and bowling shows. Eventually whoever was watching would give up and tune him out.
When he was with his mother now, she’d look at him with dulled out eyes and sigh. His life had not unfolded the way she had envisioned. In the end, he suspected she’d just lost interest in him. He supposed this might be a good thing.
Loved this.
Thank you very much, Carla!
Robert
This piece packs an emotional punch. Beautifully written. I found the following incredibly sad:
To be safe, he put on shows that he didn’t actually like watching so he could confuse anyone monitoring his viewing habits.
What a life he must have lived.
Thank you very much, Isabelle!
Robert
I remember Johnson from our long cold winter on the cape. I often felt sorry for him, especially after he started sleeping in his car. But he had his good points too.
Clever character study. Imagine what his mother must have been like …
Nicely written story. Sad!
Well written. I was drawn into the character and enjoyed the “lethargic” journey from child to adult.
Love this, Rob–thanks. Catherine K.
Thanks very much, Catherine! Very nice to hear from you. I send my best wishes and warm thoughts your way. Rob
Really tough a theme. Splendid
execution
Any parent and any child can relate to this. Parent wishing the best for their child, child feeling like they’ve let down the parent, both disappointed. Beautifully crafted.
A character truly lost to the point where you have to wonder if he’s even a character any more. Masterful.
I’ve got a lot more than five minutes for a McBrearty story — Roberto, you are a master at this genre!
Thank you, my good friend! Means a lot to me when I get the Kysilko blessing!
Robert, Your story kicked off in me a memory of one of my favorite poems when I was a young man, and not just because of the mother with the wagging finger, but also the sense of ennui that you conjure up:
Dream Song 14
JOHN BERRYMAN
Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so.
After all, the sky flashes, the great sea yearns,
we ourselves flash and yearn,
and moreover my mother told me as a boy
(repeatingly) ‘Ever to confess you’re bored
means you have no Inner Resources.’
I conclude now I have no
inner resources, because I am heavy bored.
Peoples bore me,
literature bores me, especially great literature,
Henry bores me, with his plights & gripes
as bad as Achilles,
who loves people and valiant art, which bores me.
And the tranquil hills, & gin, look like a drag
and somehow a dog
has taken itself & its tail considerably away
into mountains or sea or sky, leaving
behind: me, wag.
Over the years, when I find I’ve been feeling sorry for myself, the line from this poem pops into my head, and I tell myself, Yeah, yeah, Kysilko, you and all your plights and gripes as bad as Achilles….
Thanks, Daveed! Great poem! Can totally relate…