Nothing...

Where do you begin to tell a story about nothing? Is there a nice way to say that the story you are about to tell goes nowhere? I sit at a small desk, at a small window, ready for the moment an idea will develop in my head. I have been sitting here for almost an entire day trying to think of a way to tell the story of my dad’s passing. A story, which by alone is not much more than a paragraph.

My dad was never there when he was alive. He was a man who wanted freedom and having children and freedom do not mix well. He was not in the best of health when he died, but it was still a surprise. He lived in an apartment complex near our house. I visited him the day before he was found, on the couch dead, by my mom.

It was a hot day when I rode my bike, a small BMX bike, to my dad’s apartment. A swarm of flies gather around the remains of a cat or a rat or some other dead creature: the body almost eaten away by maggots and such flesh devouring creatures. I place my bike against the cement porch and walk up the steps.

The door is open, so I look inside through the screen door as I knock, and wait for him to answer. I hear his voice come from the kitchen, a voice telling me to come inside, and I open the screen door. I look around at the small apartment. For a moment it takes me back to a time when there was hope for the man that made it so that I am here. I think back to when I would stay with him at his apartment, an apartment so far from this one, and I remember how much I loved this man. Now, I am bitter but still somewhat hopeful.

He comes into the living room and smiles slightly as to avoid detection. He talks about something but I forget what. We sit there, on his couch, for an hour while I listen to him talk. I want to love him but, at the same time, I want to leave. I finally find a reason to leave and stand to go. He motions for a hug. I stand there as he wraps his big arms around me. I do not hug him but I feel strange in the one sided hug.

I walk home and go to sleep without another thought about the hug. It would be the next day, after school, that my mom would tell me of his passing. It was not something I could or wanted to believe.

Can I write a paper on such a passing? Where is the Hollywood ending to this story? I should have hugged him and everything would have been grand. But, that is not life. You do not always have those happy endings and sometimes moments of great sorrow do happen. I pace, again, hoping that by some bizarre magic that I will think of something by pacing.

I could bring fiction into the paper. Make some grand story of nothing just as the Hollywood movies do it. I can make my dad out to be a spy or a war hero. Maybe he was a photographer or a journalist reporting from Vietnam. Was my dad old enough to have been in Vietnam? Not that it would matter since its pure fiction anyway, except for the part about there being a Vietnam War.

I stretch and yawn as the sun lingers above the horizon: the blank piece of paper on my desk. I look around the room for a distraction. I look at the various posters on my walls. I want to forget about the paper and do something besides write.

My mom walks by my open doorway. I know that she wants to ask me how I am doing on the paper and what I am going to say about my dad. It’s not that she cares what I say about my dad for his sake, though he’s dead, but she fears how others will think of her because of it.

I write a few words and then it’s a paragraph. 

The sun is my guide as I travel the dirty streets of downtown, passing boarded up shops, on my way to see my dad. He called me that morning to tell me that it would be fine if I came over for a visit. He works as a lawyer, no salesman, but he’s really a spy. I mean he’s a secret agent. He is on a case but today he can see me. It’s as though I have to make appointments to see my dad.

I find the building from memory. The last time I was here he was between cases. Now, I am here to say goodbye.

What is this? Can I turn this into my teacher and expect more than a laugh in the face? I fold the page in half, then I fold it again, and finally I crumple it up and toss it aside. On the floor is a pile of waded up pages from former attempts at my great manuscript. If only Dickens could be here. I could ask him for advice on how to deal with such family drama but actually add drama to my story. It’s not as though my story has the many lawyers that a Dickens’s novel has.

I stare for another hour as the sky turns purple and finally black as the stars begin appearing. My mom appears at the doorway once more.

“So, How far along are you on the great novel of yours?”

“It’s not a novel Mom. It’s a short story for my English class.”

“Why don’t you write about something happy?”

“I have to write about something in my life.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, so I am stuck. I was going to write about Jack’s passing but.”

“But what?”

“It’s boring.”

“Life can be that way.”

“Well, his death is even more boring.”

“What do you mean?”

“He just died. Where’s the story in that?”

“You could always write about his time in prison or his secret life.”

“Secret life, tell me.”

“Maybe you should stick to his death?”

“Maybe the prison thing would work.”

The prison walls were high. How would we ever break him out of prison?

Maybe I will stick to the death thing? All I know is that this story will have a terrible ending and it will be about nothing.