The Language of Men by Anthony D'Aries Page B

six, showering, blow-drying, ironing, heels clicking on wood, then tile, wood, then tile. Perhaps arts and crafts, wedding albums with thick cotton covers and lace trim, or something called
poofs:
little, flower-shaped puffs of satin with a metal clip glue-gunned to the back that one could attach to shoes or blouses or use to cinch a pony tail. Or the beauty parlor in the basement, fully-equipped hair-washing station and spaceman dome, which she assured me was for drying the hair of the strange women who entered our home and not for transforming them into a
Jetsons
character and blasting them into another galaxy.
    Maybe this day she worked two or three jobs, loaded all of her equipment into the car, took a final sip of coffee and burst off the porch like Superman from his phone booth, returning hours later for a quick costume change before shooting back out into the world once again. A different role. A different identity.
    When I was in elementary school, my father would sometimes let me go to work with him. I sat on the edge of the tub at 5 a.m., stealing sips of bitter coffee in his mug while he shaved. The residual shower steam swirled with his cigarette smoke like the off-shore storms we glimpsed on the Weather Channel. As my father splashed water on his face, I watched the exhaust fan suck the tiny hurricane through its golden grate and wondered what happened to the storms off the coast of Florida or Cuba that never touched land.
    "Chilly willy today, boy," he said, tossing me one of his wool hats, which smelled like everything else he owned—Winstons, coffee, gasoline, a hint of Old Spice, a whiff of bologna. I pictured him on a billboard, straddling a dusty horse, cowboy hat tipped over his face, leather reins clenched in his left fist and in his right a small bottle of amber cologne.
Work
by My Father.
    As he finished his routine, I watched the thick exhaust pouring out of his Chevy in the driveway. He dug his old sneakers out from beneath the couch. He held his shoelaces between his callused fingertips, and as he tied, I could almost feel his rough skin guiding a heavy hammer or a baseball bat in my hands. The deli took a piece of almost all his fingers, the flesh slivers ending up "in somebody's ham sandwich, I guess."
    He sparked a Winston in the driveway, told me to tie my shoes and hop in the truck.
The Fox
kicked on: Bob Seger's "Still the Same." My father jiggled the shifter into reverse, and we were off.
    We stopped at 7-Eleven, where my father bought a coffee for himself, and a hot chocolate for me. He always peeled off the lid on the walk back to the truck and took several quick sips, as if there were some secret ingredient, something more than caffeine that satisfied him. My hot chocolate was sweet and made me feel like a little kid, which I was. As we pulled out of the parking lot and headed toward the Expressway, I timed my sips with my father's.
    A few miles before our exit, my father jerked the wheel right and skidded to a halt on the side of the Expressway. My hot chocolate splashed out of my cup and onto my jeans.
    "Sorry," he said, staring out through the windshield.
    The white line cut through the middle of its body. The head and paws stretched onto the highway. Its legs and tail lay in the breakdown lane. Cars rushed by, shaking the truck and whipping the gray and black fur. My father looked in his rearview mirror and stubbed out his cigarette.
    "Hang here for a sec."
    He stepped out; I locked my door. The sun was rising, but the highway was still dim and damp. I looked over at the rusty guardrail splattered with tar, never having been this close before. My father stood between the headlights. His long shadow cut across the breakdown lane and stretched into the pine trees.
    The animal lifted its head. Slowly moved it side to side. One paw stretched further into the highway, then pulled back, back, back. My father knelt beside it. The animal lifted its head again and looked as if it were chewing,