{"id":20672,"date":"2024-10-28T05:42:20","date_gmt":"2024-10-28T09:42:20","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/?p=20672"},"modified":"2024-10-28T05:42:20","modified_gmt":"2024-10-28T09:42:20","slug":"black-spots-on-roses","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/fiction\/black-spots-on-roses\/","title":{"rendered":"Black Spots on Roses"},"content":{"rendered":"

I have only the courage for a perfect life.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0\u2014Louis C.K.<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p><\/blockquote>\n

He walks into my caf\u00e9, I know the guy so I make him his large regular, stat\u2014with a drop of cream.<\/p>\n

Sometimes he \u201cbeg[s]\u201d me for another \u201cdrop\u201d and I tell him, \u201cGary, man. You don\u2019t need to beg. We\u2019re friends, man. What else can I get you?\u201d But today, Gary leans forward, breathing emotionally like a heavyset wolfhound, pained, invites me animally into his personal funk (I don\u2019t mind the intimacy, I\u2019m in a good place in my life now), and pulling me in close with his big brown furry eyes\u2014they\u2019re frame-draggers reflecting morass\u2014he moans, \u201cIt\u2019s over. It\u2019s over.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

When I was a kid I was short for my age, and inarticulate. I still feel that way, liminal between stunted and advanced. I don\u2019t have anything of interest to say to anyone, but I\u2019m a good listener.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat the hell, Gary?\u201d I say. The lights overhead perceptively flicker. The ceiling, loaded, pendulous, suggests the stakes are high. I hope someone extraterrestrial is sending me impulsive sympathetic messages. It\u2019s either that, or it\u2019s a wiring problem I\u2019ve been trying to ignore. I purchased this building three years ago and every last of my nickels are promised to the bank. \u201cGary man,\u201d I plead. \u201cWhat could be that bad?\u201d<\/p>\n

Gary drops his head, it\u2019s just too heavy for him. He thuds the sound on my counter then rolls again and again the cranium, side to side, ear-to-ear, crimsoning, repeating, \u201cThere are black spots on the roses. There are black spots on the roses.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

…<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

As usual, Vladislav rings the countertop call bell. Childlike, he brings down his thick right open palm like he\u2019s cuffing something negligibly sentient. The ring reverberates insufferably, like a lady\u2019s shriek.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Vladislav is what you\u2019d call a happy guy. Probably sixty-years-old. He was fired up in \u201922 when Russia invaded Ukraine. He came draped in blue-and-yellow and hurling curses at the Russians, and also at figment enemies derived from Foxhole, an immersive MMO war game he plays with anonymous pals. Vladislav has relaxed significantly since then over the situation, and is back to his former go-lucky self. He is convinced it\u2019s just a matter of time. He\u2019s like a diehard fan of a losing team\u2014breaks my heart.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The bell is yellow, nickel and plastic. It was here by the cash register when I bought Caf\u00e9 D\u00e9licieux. That was too many accent aigus for my taste, so I renamed it Gabrielle\u2019s. I haven\u2019t moved the bell and it hasn\u2019t moved itself: It has an imploring smiley face on it, so that\u2019s maybe why.<\/p>\n

\u201cMorning Santino!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cGood morning, Vlad. What can I get you?\u201d<\/p>\n

Vlad bonks the bell again. He thinks he\u2019s hilarious. Vlad bellows, \u201cService!\u201d grinning exceedingly. I contort my face into something unperturbed, composed. Vlad puffs out his barrel chest. He\u2019s misshapen, looks like a purple organic potato. It strikes me though that the stuff Vlad is made up of\u2014white starchy flesh with a sweet inner heart at core leading vascularly to each pullulating eye\u2014is satisfied with the lodgings.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat can I get you today, Vlad?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cGive me a plain croissant, a diet peach yoghurt, a spoon, and give me a large cup and a water,\u201d blares Vlad.<\/p>\n

Vlad wants the same things every day, but I ask him anyway. It makes guys like Vlad feel good to be asked\u2014esteemed. I plate him his pastry and run up the total.<\/p>\n

\u201cSantino, how do you know when to water these plants?\u201d<\/p>\n

I have plants all over the caf\u00e9: hanging ones, standing ones, crouching ones. My wife brought them. Vlad is standing on the customer\u2019s side and I\u2019m standing on the barista\u2019s side, between us the bell, a display of chips and energy bars, a small staghorn fern, another fern of the rabbit foot variety, the register, Vlad\u2019s acetonic breath and a world of difference between me and Vlad in terms of life experiences. I\u2019m divorced. My wife is somebody else\u2019s wife now. I still call her my wife. I named the caf\u00e9 after her. Vlad had a girlfriend once, he told me. He kissed her just one time upon which immediately she told him that she wasn\u2019t feeling it and that she was an asexual.<\/p>\n

\u201cI water them when they look sad, Vlad.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSantino, take a look at that one. It looks dry,\u201d says Vlad pointing.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, Vlad. That one has withered away beyond hope.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIs that right, Santino?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes, Vlad. That\u2019s seven dollars even.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSantino, this being Sunday. And as after church I have nothing to do. How about I make you Crepe Suzette?\u201d<\/p>\n

Vlad invites me to things. He has invited me to a Ukrainian Kupala night of singing, dancing, lighting fires and hunting witches. He has invited me to his house for barbecued chicken\u2014shashlik. He has invited me to American-Ukrainian Orthodox church. I haven\u2019t gone to any of those things. Vlad and I will never hang out. It\u2019s understood, withstood stoically, as is Vlad\u2019s fruity breath between us.<\/p>\n

\u201cSounds good, Vlad,\u201d I say. Vlad pays with his card. The register does its magic. I don\u2019t know how these things work. I\u2019m just happy they do. Last month, my bank informed me that someone had hacked my account and cleaned me out. Then the bank replaced all the dough, no questions asked. They asked one question: Do you know someone named Rough Redding? I don\u2019t. I wish I did. Rough Redding sounds like a cowboy\u2019s name, and he was clever enough to steal my fortune of thirty-four hundred, so I wish we could meet and talk and I could find out what makes Rough tick. I imagine Rough found my measly savings a disappointing take.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s the matter with him?\u201d says Vlad indicating Gary down at the other end of the counter. Gary is bent forward at the waist almost ninety degrees. His fists are frozen astride his head, his forehead buttering my countertop with sweat, his brain bobbing in a puddle of cerebrospinal protective fluid. His coffee steaming sluggish. In his own way, Gary\u2019s taking care of himself. I\u2019m reminded of my mother.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

She used to keep me in the bathtub for hours as though trying to shrink me enough to fit back into her womb. That woman refused to ever officially close for business, even though there were no more customers after me and none before. My father didn\u2019t want any more dependents.<\/p>\n

I loved when my mother told me stories which she made up off the top of her head. They were Orwellian, without her knowing they were, about regular pigs that ate like pigs versus radical pigs that fed on power. My mother grew up in German-occupied 1940s France. Her parents were murdered, she survived in the countryside with gangs of orphans.<\/p>\n

My mother used to say that having me was the only thing she thought she did on her own and right in her life. I could have done without the shrinking though.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s wrong, chief?\u201d shouts Vlad across at Gary.<\/p>\n

\u201cNever mind, Vlad,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n

\u201cMaybe he needs coffee. You need a cup of Joe, chief?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHe\u2019s got coffee. Just go sit down, Vlad. Let me deal with it. I\u2019ll bring you the rest of your order.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOkay.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Vlad lumbers with his croissant to the table right next to the table where Rhoda is sitting working on her laptop. Wherever Rhoda sits, Vlad sits as near as he can. At one time or another Rhoda has tried all the tables to get away from Vlad. Vlad is tenacious. I used to wonder if he was predacious. Today there are three other free tables he could have taken.<\/p>\n

\u201cGood morning, Rhoda. You wide awake this morning? From all that partying last night?\u201d says Vlad, trying to be funny again. Rhoda puts on a surgical mask. \u201cI went to Coney Island and rode the Big Wheel,\u201d continues Vlad. \u201cDo you like the Big Wheel, Rhoda?\u201d Rhoda puts headphones on. Vlad is undeterred. From somewhere habitably safe and dark he talks to Rhoda. It\u2019s a place where he\u2019s all alone. He really shouldn\u2019t be thinking he can invite someone, anyone, especially Rhoda, into that isolated country. I mean, he should defend it better.<\/p>\n

Vlad unpacks his knapsack. Out comes an eight fluid onze carton of BOOST glucose control creamy strawberry drink, three different kinds of diabetes medications, an inhaler, an orange flavor 36.8 onze sugar-free fiber powder, Robert Harris\u2019s novel Munich: The Edge of War, Vlad\u2019s electric bill and his phone. I bring him his peach yoghurt, a plastic spoon, a large glass of water and a large empty plastic cup. \u201cNapkins,\u201d he yells. I take a deep breath.<\/p>\n

I know that Vlad doesn\u2019t mean anything by his bad manners but some days I want to bounce him out of here. And some days, when Vlad walks in, instead of ringing the bell and yelling \u201cService!\u201d first, he rings the bell and yells \u201cNapkins!\u201d first. He arrives with a bulbous runny nose, which he wipes with a napkin I hand him, and then he yells, \u201cService!\u201d In other words, it\u2019s always the same routine but sometimes Vlad countermarches. I extend him a handful of napkins which I anticipated he\u2019d need.<\/p>\n

\u201cThank you Santino.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo problem, Vlad.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSantino.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes, Vlad.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSometimes on the avenue I see a truck that says landscaping and groundscaping.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cGroundskeeping.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cGroundskeeping.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes, landscaping is creative but groundskeeping is just mowing grass, trimming hedges, pulling weeds.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI better go back to the counter, Vlad. I have customers.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOkay, Santino. Thank you.\u201d<\/p>\n

Vlad knows that I used to have a landscaping-groundskeeping business. I\u2019ve always enjoyed working outdoors but I needed a change. My wife suggested we go in on this caf\u00e9 together. I put up all the money. My wife is considerably younger, so she didn\u2019t have the financial capital that comes from years of working and saving. My wife enjoys decorating and I like people. Besides, I had this chronic back problem which made it hard for me to continue manual work. She picked out the new paint color for the walls. She picked the scented soap and air freshener in the bathroom. She picked the art and knickknacks. She picked the plants. I have already mentioned the plants but they\u2019re a particular sore spot because they keep growing, trying to live, and requiring my time and good will. It\u2019s a lot to ask. After two years I still find it hard to refer to my wife as my ex-wife, but that\u2019s what she is.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

My father called me \u201cStretch.\u201d He would say it encouragingly, if not affectionately. He\u2019d forecast it from the porch \u2014he was tall with a booming voice\u2014to give the neighbors the impression that he was proud of his son. He wanted the neighbor boys to know that despite my short stature I was every bit their caliber. When someone walked by the house, my father would yell, \u201cWay to go, Stretch.\u201d I\u2019d look up surprised from my book, wondering what I had just done that was praiseworthy. Then, my father would go back to varnishing the front door or fixing the car engine or watering the lawn or just standing holding the railing, smoking a cigarette and thinking hard about something. I worried it was me, that I was disappointing him just by existing. I found it hard to focus on anything but worrying. A lot of times, I just pretended to read.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

There is music coming over the speakers. I keep it low and random. Right now it\u2019s something Latin.<\/p>\n

\u201cRhoda! Want to take Merengue lessons, Rhoda?\u201d says Vlad. Seated, he jerks his upper body, truckish\u2014outsized cabin, big blind spots, doesn\u2019t handle well, crash risk\u2014showing off his moves. Rhoda never introduced herself to Vlad. One day, about a year ago, Vlad overheard me calling Rhoda to the counter to pick up her cold brew, and Vlad hasn\u2019t stopped saying \u201cRhoda\u201d since.<\/p>\n

\u201cRhoda! Want to dance?\u201d<\/p>\n

Rhoda hunches and stares fiercely at her screen as though she wishes it would swallow her up.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I\u2019m not worried about Rhoda. I\u2019m worried about Vlad. Rhoda will take her laptop and her icy brew and leave soon. She\u2019ll choose flight over fright, she always does. One time, Vlad said, \u201cBye-bye, Rhoda. Let\u2019s see a mediator.\u201d It was actually funny. But that\u2019s when I realized that Vlad knows exactly what he\u2019s doing. And also, he can\u2019t help it.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Vlad is stuck with an obsolete strategy. It\u2019s not up to today\u2019s challenges. I could explain it to Vlad in terms he\u2019d understand. I\u2019d say, Vlad. Remember you told me about those 18th-century infantry line formations? Slow-moving, comprised of low-ranking men equipped with just swords or lances or bayonets on muskets. Eventually they faced formidable opponents much better equipped. Rhoda is new technology, man. She\u2019s machine guns. You\u2019re muskets. It\u2019s certain demoralization for you, and death.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou going already, Rhoda?\u201d says Vlad.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

…<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Margaret is beleaguered by medical problems. She doesn\u2019t tell me the details. She walks with a cane. She\u2019s thin and sharp and irritable and fragile and tough.<\/p>\n

Margaret wears a knitted red beret. She didn\u2019t knit it herself. She doesn\u2019t have patience for the crafty arts.<\/p>\n

Margaret is old. She\u2019ll tell you upfront how old. \u201cI\u2019m eight-four,\u201d she\u2019ll say, \u201cand not a day younger.\u201d She won\u2019t abide saccharine compliments saying she\u2019s eighty-four years young. \u201cI\u2019m old, and that\u2019s all there is to it,\u201d she\u2019ll say.<\/p>\n

A few years ago a cancer tried to kill Margaret and the other morning a mockingbird dove at her, almost knocked her off her feet which at Margaret\u2019s age could have been a death sentence. The bird was trying to steal Margaret\u2019s red beret or maybe it wanted the few gray hairs she has left on her head but Margaret was having none of it. She swung her cane at the foolish bird. Margaret will fight just as bravely on her deathbed one day. But not because she\u2019s afraid or because she thinks she has any right to win in the end. \u201cAll living things die,\u201d she\u2019ll say.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Margaret places her cane on top of a table. She takes off her beret and puts it and her totebag also on the table. The cane lands percussively but the stuffed tote and hat come down settling. Margaret always takes this table if it\u2019s free because it\u2019s the one nearest the door. Concierge-like it meets her, unburdens her.<\/p>\n

\u201cHere comes my security,\u201d I joke. I pretend I\u2019m Margaret using her cane to beat off a bird, or cancer. I clench my right fist and wave my right arm about in the air. I stab imaginary foes who have the power to become real overnight. My little pantomime amuses Margaret in spite of herself, but her response is not so much a laugh as a measured statement of tolerance.<\/p>\n

\u201cHa ha,\u201d she says dryly, and \u201cOkay Santino.\u201d<\/p>\n

If Margaret doesn\u2019t like something I say, especially if she smells hyperbole, she puts me in my place. For example, I once made the mistake of complimenting a pair of sporty new sneakers she came in wearing. She told me to lay off.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cShould be called a mugger bird,\u201d Margaret says unsmiling while I make her a macchiato and plate her a banana muffin. She notices Gary who is no longer bent over but standing straight up and down. He is maybe too erect looking at, as though focused on, the menu board above us, and rocking gently helplessly side to side to the dynamic rhythmic grinding of the espresso machine. It\u2019s almost imperceptible but he\u2019s very softly whining. Margaret frowns. She disapproves of Gary\u2019s kind of crazy.<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t want to hold you up here,\u201d she says to me and pulls out of her fanny pack the exact amount she owes, including a dollar bill tip. She lays down the trembling bills and dark pitted pennies.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re not holding me up Margaret,\u201d I say. \u201cI always enjoy our conversations.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOkay Santino,\u201d she replies brittely, \u201cThat\u2019s enough.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Precariously carrying her coffee and muffin Margaret shuffles to her table. Before she has a chance to sit down, Vlad greets her from two tables away, \u201cHow was your weekend, my dear?\u201d<\/p>\n

Margaret winces to the \u201cmy dear\u201d part. Vlad\u2019s nonsense is a price to be paid. \u201cFine,\u201d she says, sits down, and turns her back to him.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Margaret gets The New York Times<\/em> delivered to her doorstep every morning. She brings it here to read every day. After shaking the rolled-up paper out of its protective blue plastic sheath, she takes a moment to glower at it. She\u2019s thinking, okay, what hellish battle will I have to fight today? Clear-eyed she\u2019s anticipating getting worked up about the state of the world.<\/p>\n

Margaret quickly, deftly, folds the paper the Brooklyn way, in half lengthwise then horizontally in the middle. Everybody used to read the paper this way, and it wasn\u2019t a hundred years ago. I remember my father used to drive to work, one hand on the steering wheel, the other holding the paper. (Regardless what it sounds like, it didn\u2019t feel unsafe.) One eye on the road, the other on the sports section when the papers had daily morning coverage with game summaries, box scores and standings. Now it\u2019s all health and wellness crap. There I go bringing up my father again.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Dutifully, Margaret starts with the front page. She moves on to the Metro section and then to her favorite op-ed columns. She frowns while she reads. She takes small bird-bites of her muffin which she washes down with foamy coffee. The hand holding the paper is steady. The hand feeding herself shakes. The paper is off-white, smooth, heavy-duty. Margaret\u2019s skin is transparent, wrinkled, papery.<\/p>\n

\u201cTsk,\u201d she says, and \u201cAwful,\u201d she blurts out. She can\u2019t help vocalizing her reaction to what she\u2019s reading.<\/p>\n

\u201cUpset about the stock market, dear?\u201d roars Vlad.<\/p>\n

Margaret says, \u201cHumph.\u201d She has bigger problems than Vlad.<\/p>\n

This morning she is reading about the billionaires who are throwing their fortunes at immortality schemes. Guys like Jeff Bezos, Peter Thiel, Larry Page\u2014and isn\u2019t there another Larry?<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd what about the nut who wants us all to live on another planet? When there are children starving in the Democratic Republic of Congo,\u201d says Margaret.<\/p>\n

Whether it\u2019s Elon Musk\u2019s Mars or Tom Hank\u2019s Heaven, Margaret is not having any of it<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

…<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Gary is gripping the edge of the counter. His knuckles are bloodless islands. His nails are bitten down to their raw limits.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

There are mornings Gary comes in, stands by the register for an hour and gives me a whole presentation. He lists year to daily data. He \u00a0refers to studies. He explains indexes. He shows me pie charts, histograms, and scatter plots on his phone. He cites references. Vehemently he calls out conflicts of financial interest. When he goes into \u201cquintiles\u201d and \u201clogistic regression,\u201d he loses me.<\/p>\n

Gary wasn\u2019t always a fanatic. He used to be a truck driver for Tyson Foods. He used to play bass for a cover band performing Springsteen, Kravitz, Dylan, the best of Motown, and \u201cyou name it,\u201d at weddings and corporate events in New Jersey.<\/p>\n

Whenever Gary gets upset, raises his voice, I just ask him to lower it.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

In walks a tall fellow draped in rags. He\u2019s treading sandals like they\u2019re slippers. A pair of dirty sneakers, tied at the laces, hangs off his neck. I guess it makes sense, just in case, to have a second pair of footwear, if your days are spent wandering. I\u2019ve seen him before, down a few blocks near where I park. I\u2019ve seen him drag a dirty blanket, like in that cartoon strip that character Linus does. Except that the cartoon Linus sucks his thumb and this tall fellow wasn\u2019t sucking his thumb when I saw him (I\u2019m just saying without judgment) and he isn\u2019t sucking his thumb now.<\/p>\n

\u201cSir, can I have a tea.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSure,\u201d I answer. \u201cWhat kind? Orange pecoe, English Breakfast, peppermint.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cGive me English Breakfast.\u201d<\/p>\n

I hand it to him. On the house.<\/p>\n

\u201cThank you, sir.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo problem. Have a good day.\u201d<\/p>\n

He moves down to the other end of the counter where he puts his medium tea next to Gary\u2019s large coffee. He picks up the sugar canister and pours and pours maybe a quarter cup worth into his tea.<\/p>\n

He is standing shoulder to shoulder with Gary who is frantically straightening the piles of cup lids and stir sticks. \u201cExcuse me, sir,\u201d says Linus. (In my mind, for clarity sake, I\u2019m taking the liberty of calling him Linus.) Gary doesn\u2019t stop organizing. \u201cExcuse me, sir,\u201d he says to Gary again, not any more forcefully but he reaches for a stir stick from the stir sticks dispenser and accidently brushes Gary\u2019s shoulder. At this point, probably no one but me can predict what\u2019s about to happen. I know Gary too well so I yell, \u201cTake it easy, Gary.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I\u2019m too late. Gary freezes. He\u2019s like a robot rebooting. His eyes disappear in his head then resurface like cannons. He turns, lunges at Linus, Gary starts beating on Linus\u2019 chest because Gary\u2019s much shorter and Linus is pegged to the floor because he\u2019s shocked and Gary\u2019s not hitting all that hard. Gary\u2019s arms flail like a mechanized thresher. Linus shrinks somewhat, but reluctantly lifts his fists to defend himself.<\/p>\n

\u201cHey, fellas,\u201d I shout. \u201cGary man, stop!\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

When I was a kid my taller wider-shouldered peers, new baritones when I was still cracking mid-range, used to pick me to settle their fights\u2014only skirmishes. They thought I was smart because I wasn\u2019t particularly athletic. I worked hard and enjoyed being out on a field or the court. I sweated. But I didn\u2019t have the confidence or the grace of the other boys. What I was good at was making a case in very few words that nobody was totally right or totally wrong. Back then \u201cboth-siding it\u201d was considered admirable. The truth is, I was very afraid of making a mistake.<\/p>\n

I try not to hate my wife for leaving me. I have a drinking problem. I couldn\u2019t pick a side, hers or the bottle\u2019s. So she picked for me.<\/p>\n

There go the lights again. Signaling.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I run around the counter. I get between Gary and tall Linus. Gary quits thrashing. Linus takes another step back, he seems not offended. In fact now he has only a quizzical look on his face.<\/p>\n

\u201cGary, man. It\u2019s just fungus, man! Fungus,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n

Gary is sorry for flipping out. I can tell from the way his brown eyes hang wet and wooly, stretched out of shape.<\/p>\n

From a few steps back Linus takes a hard look at Gary as though recognizing something. Softly he says to Gary, \u201cSir, it happens. No hard feelings. It\u2019s a bad time for everybody. Don\u2019t watch too much TV, sir. Don\u2019t listen to what they say. You\u2019ll be all right,\u201d and he leaves\u2014good old Linus, wise\u2014with his energetic tea-sugar solution.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

My father was right, it\u2019s important that people know you\u2019re loved\u2014it\u2019s arguably as important as being loved\u2014because it\u2019s insurance that you\u2019ll be treated okay. It\u2019s a proven theory that hospital nurses will treat a patient better if the patient has a lot of visitors. When my father was in hospice dying of chronic pulmonary disease my mother and I were at his bedside night and day. When he died the nurses cried too.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

But today, Gary leans forward, breathing emotionally like a heavyset wolfhound, pained, invites me animally into his personal funk (I don\u2019t mind the intimacy, I\u2019m in a good place in my life now), and pulling me in close with his big brown furry eyes\u2014they\u2019re frame-draggers reflecting morass\u2014he moans, \u201cIt\u2019s over. It\u2019s over.\u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":182,"featured_media":21150,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[6],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-20672","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction","writer-rita-taryan"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/20672","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/182"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=20672"}],"version-history":[{"count":4,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/20672\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":21151,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/20672\/revisions\/21151"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/21150"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=20672"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=20672"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=20672"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}