I always chose the early evening hours, in my apartment on Seventh Avenue, to sit inside the bay window to type and gaily reminisce the old times. Tonight the words I needed were coming out spelled with numbers and I knew this was a good time to end my pages of words. I filled a cup of water to the tip, daringly dropped ice in, and leaned back in the chair to savor being indoors, warm and unhindered by the demands of daylight. Written in my father’s hand, a small folded page dropped from amongst my stack of unread papers and laid itself at my foot.

When I saw the words, I felt drawn to the worn paper and ink. He had written the few paragraphs clearly and calmly. I did not recognize where these paragraphs belonged in his life, but noted the peacefully written sentences across the page, complete and spontaneous. Within a few words, I realized these were my father’s words of that summer in Gibraltar when I accidentally sank into the Straits and almost drowned. This was a life altering time in my life and in the life of my family. I have spent my life trying to forget what happened when I was ten years old. It read:

“My Dearest Francesca,

“The water dripped onto the rusted drain standing too close to avoid it. Eventually the water welled-up around it and beneath the dripping onslaught like the Cheerios that lay hardened by its side. Between the loose talk and the drunken erratic laughter of my wife, her black horn-rim glasses loose and crooked upon her face, I leaned up against the wall between the two paintings and placed my hands to my cheeks reminiscent of The Scream painting which was a part of our living room while summering in Gibraltar every year. ‘All your great inspirations were an accident; you are single-handedly the dissolution of timeless writing every time you put a sentence down on paper,’ she shrilled with such pristine enlightenment to her voice that I actually saw the haze of the cold, bitter air coming out of her mouth on that warm summer night.

“She sells red paintings she sketches on a pad while laying next to me in our bed and still I have to take shit from her. ‘Our daughter nearly drowned today, shut-up,’ I shouted at her repeatedly but still she harangued on and on while drinking steadily and getting sloppier in her words and appearance. She always lowered her manners and shrilled her distain for the life she leads with me, as she used me for her battering-boy. ‘Our daughter almost drowned,’ I reasoned to try to get her to shut-up and lower her voice as my beautiful daughter lay asleep in her bed, luckily, she was asleep in her bed.

“How undeserving of how blessed we were to have noticed you did not return and motor out to the spot where you sank and find you so quickly. I felt your foot buried in the muck amongst floating dirt particles and seaweed. You are one of the most unlucky kids; first of all to be born to me, the man my wife shouted about in reason, I am what she said, a lousy writer and now to have my daughter sit at the bottom of the sea. I should have left you there rather than to let you know that I too was a drunk like your Mother and that I had a lot of nerve calling myself a writer.

“Never go to war with anyone, especially with yourself. Not in this world. I pulled you by the foot towards the warmer, clearer water not knowing if what I was doing was the right thing for you. A war is just too big to try and stop it and most times you can’t do anything about it. You are just one little minnow on the face of a large Earth torn from it too soon. I looked up towards the clearer water and dragged you along with me by the foot, your second chance at being alive rigorously maneuvered behind me, an arousal of prance in my swim swept over me as I got you to safety. My love for you over-took me, although I offer you nothing in this drunken life. –Your Father, Evan Dresswell”

I stepped out onto the brick walk to clear my head after reading the obscure note my father had written. I was stunned and in many ways familiar with what he said except his knowing that he was every bit the shadow of my grandfather and that the bourbon had ruined his marriage. The lost marriage of little consequence to the ruin of him as a Father and his ability to set the course that would lead him out from under my grandfather’s cape-sized shadow. I was frustrated and mostly angry that he thought he saved my life. He had, but the choice he felt he made to take me out of the water knowing that I might well have been better off drowning, frustrated me.

A shift inside took over me to turn-off and leave the “overwhelming” to be written and thought about tomorrow. Instead, I stepped into a secluded cafeteria, known to locals as having “the best food a public restroom could offer,” to get a sandwich and coffee. I needed time to ponder the blank plates and notice the pattern of timeless geometry amongst the black and white tiles.

There was no one in the cafeteria although I stood in line behind one other customer. I dragged the tray unconsciously along the stainless steel rail pulling down a turkey sandwich, coffee and creamer onto the tray. By chance, I looked up and noticed the man in front of me. He had dark hair, blue eyes, and blotchy-looking dried blood all over his hands. At first I glanced, then, I looked. He seemed okay with it and continued grabbing a sandwich and slice of pie even though I stared at his motions. I thought it was eczema, but it wasn’t – it was dried blood.

I chose a booth in the front window to enjoy the view of Manhattan at night, the dark neon lights of the closed store fronts across the street. I began to eat the turkey sandwich when the man with the dried blood stopped by my booth. His bright pink cafeteria tray in hand, he leaned over politely and said, “I have a disease. It causes my skin to bleed, especially around my knuckles.”

The assortment of emotions, mixed with ego, which I was experiencing, must have penetrated my face to let him know that I was caught in many traps of embarrassment. I stammered out my reply, “Will it eventually kill you?” I heard myself say.
“Oh God,” I said as my voice and eyes lowered, “I can’t believe I just said that. I’m so sorry, really.”
He took the harsh words in stride and stood back to view the empty cafeteria for a seat.
“Should I sit, or should I…” he whispered, his body turning away.
“Please sit and I’ll get you some napkins.” His hand’s blood was not too bad looking. Reaching for the napkin dispenser, while he sat down, I said, “Are you sure you didn’t just kill somebody and haven’t had time to wash?”
“Yes,” he said as he pulled a wilted lettuce leaf from the sandwich, “the cook.”

Quickly he took a big bite and chewed slowly, his eyes wandering the empty cafeteria. I stared at him chew as his cheeks bulged, up and down, just before he gulped down the half-chewed bite.

“I think I’ll let the cook live. This cod sandwich is so good. It’s good fish,” he said. “This place always has good fish.” He winked and smiled, some of the bread embedded in his teeth.
“I’d cross over an electric fence for the salmon dip here, have you tried it? It’s so good. But you have to watch out sometimes it can be hot, it’s like on fire, it’s so hot.”

His fingers’ pressing against the silverware did not seem to bother him and being in a cafeteria late at night did not seem to bother him either. He was as out of touch as I am and he knew my grandfather’s work. Our time together was short as he was finished rather quickly, his bites getting larger and less chewed as our time together wore on. Within five or six bites he was done with his sandwich and pie and, consequently, done with me.

He stood to say good-bye. “I’ve seen you here before maybe we can eat together again sometime…,” his voice trailed off with his ending words. Then, he did something very strange. Leaning forward he used one of his hands, and with his only two fingers that did not have blood, he slightly curled them and used them to move my hair away from above my brow. I blushed in response. “Okay,” I said and slightly looked up at him, some redness hovering about my neck.

For the next several seconds, the hint of softness his fingers laid spread along my forehead. The memory lingered. I felt the slightest tickle of a smile come across my lips and being. It’s too much, I thought, too much. I then sank into a small amount of loving time coming from deep within myself. Quickly I recognized the unintentional release of my unsteady weaknesses. As soon as it began, I held it down. As soon as it began, it crashed in around my face and reddened ears. It was much too reminiscent of the moment that God lost me – and left me to drink in the warm Gibraltar seawater.

My head and stomach started spinning, as soon as it began. All I could think was I had no time for relationships or the screaming chaos that came along with them. Mostly I avoided them over me and the daylight above me too. Choosing, rather, to spend time sailing amongst the uncomfortable streets of Manhattan, possibly the only place in the world where you can lead a complete life, alone, at night.