A Quarter Short

My mom used to always give the same advice to me and my brother when we were bored and complained there was nothing fun to do. She hoped that we would take this heeding seriously and store it in our little brains. I did remember the words nearly verbatim, yet I never really understood them – not until later.

She said “Life is short. Your happiest days are as a kid, then once you grow up it’s all over. Life is about having kids and then working until you die. So have any fun you can and don’t complain about being bored. That’s a luxury.” Years later when I was in high school she added, “Unless you’re very well off to afford that boredom; the poor have no choice in the matter.”

Dead right she was – a single mother raising me and my fraternal brother knew that better than anyone. She passed away, much too early from cancer and I ended up with a kid of my own at eighteen. My girlfriend was burdened with more responsibility than she could bear. She had no choice but to bear a child and the only mutual decision we had beyond having sex was deciding not to get married. We broke up so we would not break each other. She moved away. I decided to raise him. At least my ex-girlfriend sends me money to help pay for a babysitter.

Somehow grief-stricken lives bequeath more grief-stricken lives. Bad judgement leads from each previous generation or rather it constrains good decision making. Funny how that happens…Ain’t it?

My mom warned me and I didn’t listen and got a girl pregnant – just what happened with her and my run away dad. I thought I could avoid it – that life was different from me. It’s more funny how the same thing keeps happening from one broken generation to the next. A spiral of despair all the way through time.

My mom’s life was ill fated from the start. Her parents died young, she fell for sweet talking stud in his thirties when she was sixteen got knocked up, emotionally messed up, and lived with her sister who fell into debt and then ran away leaving my mother to raise me and my brother alone while working a dead end job. She died a few months after my son Junior was born from brain cancer at age thirty-three with mountains of medical debt that the hospital was fortunately able to forgive due to her death due to the charity care available. Despite being dismayed at the outcome of her life, she still died happy and told me she was proud of what a father I could be, even if she would not be around to see it. I wish she was still alive so that I could hear more of her wisdom. Maybe that would get me out of the slump of a dump place where I live.

***********

“But I want to go to the monsta truck show Saturday!” Junior complained to me as we walked down the sidewalk.

He almost started yelling, but I glared at him. He crossed his arms, pouting as we walked in the drizzling rain.

If I had been the dad my dad was I would be screaming at my son with a red face and beating him with my belt. I am glad he ran away a few years later. A mild spanking every now and then was not bad, but causing pain to your own kid for being a kid was a bitter kind of love. I think many parents don’t even dish out the right punishment, they just beat their kids because of the resentment they felt as a kid for making a mistake or doing something they did not know any better.

“I have to work overtime. No matter how many times you complain, it won’t change anything.” I said for the third time.

I held the overstuffed laundry basket with weak arms and a sore back. We had to walk from our apartment on the third floor to an exterior building behind the parking lot to wash clothes. It was an unknown inconvenience to those who did not have washers and dryers installed in their places of dwelling. Consequently, it was cheaper as our water bill was a flat rate, but I still had to go get quarters at the gas station or take time off work to drop by my local bank. Another trip just to do a chore that I put off until the last pair of underwear.

“Unfair!” Junior exclaimed, stomping in a puddle and splashing my worn out sandals.

My son was more than fine to go without clean underwear, but I at least needed something to be clean and fresh. Our apartment was not. Our car was not. Our shoes were not. There was never enough time. That was unfair, but I couldn’t tell him that.

 “No fair…” Junior mumbled again as we reached the wooden shed with a beat-up metal door.

I found out he calms down if I don’t react to him strongly in anger, although if I ignore him completely then he just cries more, and at that point, I feel really bad. He was still upset about not being able to go to the monster truck show that I had told him that we – probably, maybe, I’ll try my best – to go to. My mistake was believing too much that we could when the future was far from certain. He was angry, yet I think at age four he had some vague idea that I could not always do the things I said I could. He was a smart kid, but a kid nonetheless.

“Life is unfair. I’m sorry we can’t go. But something you will learn as you grow up is that there are things you don’t get to do, because there are other things you have to do. Now. Please open the door for Deddy.” I said as I punched in the code for the laundry room door pad and turned the unlock latch with one hand and held the laundry basket with the other. The door required another hand to turn the knob so I got my son to do it.

“Ok.” he said, twisting the knob and opening the door with a hard tug.

My son ran inside and turned on the light switch knob. A clicking sound came from it as it rotated and when let go it continued to click since it was on a timer. The room lit up to a dim yellow color and I stepped up inside, thankful to be out of the rain as thunder grumbled behind me and the flash of light became closer.

The laundry room was small enough for one person to stand between two rows of machines and extended for about eight feet. There were six washers and four dryers on either side of the walls. Trash and lint filled the corners and undersides of all the machines, but somehow the trash can was empty.

“Not that one.” I said to Junior as I put the clothes hamper down.

My son was on his tiptoes trying to open the lid on the washer on the far left wall.

“Second washer from the wall. That’s the only washer that works now.” I stated.

“Oh! Ok! I forget!” Junior exclaimed. 

He jumped sideways and flipped open the correct one. I pushed the hamper next to him and he immediately bundled a dirty shirt up into a ball, scooted past me to the door, turned around, held it up like a basketball and threw it at the washing machine. It sailed through the air unfurling, but landed in the washer. He continued to happily tossed the clothes in the air, missing sometimes, but tried again until he got them all. It took longer than if I had simply tumbled the basket in there, but I taught him to get him to think of this chore as something fun. It helped me out and made sure he wasn’t getting into trouble when I wasn’t in the same room as he was – somehow he turned out like my brother rather than me.

While he loaded up the washer, I had to collapse down on the dirty floor and lean against the dryer having lost the momentum that got me out the door in the first place. The rain that pelted the top of this shed did not help my longing for sleep. Normally it would be extra hot due to all the machines running, but today the rain had cooled the temperature.

This shed was an awful place. Every time I did laundry, I could not believe this is how I lived. An apartment filled with bugs, water leaks, a gas heating system from the fifties, and an outside laundry facility with only one working washer and one dryer. Sometimes the washers did not properly spin and the clothes would come out soaked. Other times the dryers would not dry and the worst offenders of them all, the machines that looked in good shape, but ate quarters and failed to start.

The weak have no say in things I thought to myself in a daze.

“Deddy it’s soapy time!” Junior shouted, waking my mind back up.

He finished playing as he called it “stank ball “and was ready for me to pour the detergent, which sat at the bottom of the basket. I summoned all my might and pushed myself up while I remembered that the headache I had this morning was still there. The thumping bastard pounded against my head as I realized I had started back at the bad habit of grinding my teeth. I would need to ask the doctor for more muscle relaxers after that my paycheck hits.

When I finished pouring the detergent and closed it up, I reached in my pocket and took out the change. Between the thumbs inside my head, I inserted the quarters one by one, waiting a second after each one to check if it would get stuck. After the last quarter I chose the light wash option as it was the cheapest option. The machines already went up one quarter in price this year and there was only so much time I could take off from work to get more quarters while the bank was open.

I pressed start and heard the water flowing inside right as the crackle of lightning and booming of thunder shook the shed. Junior gave a small whimper and hugged me tight. I forgot he was afraid of loud noises. Although it was perhaps a good thing to be scared of thunder and lightning. Being fearful of the things that people should be helped keeps them alive.

“It’s ok – Junior.” I said, “let’s stay in here for a while. At least until the lightning moves further away.”

I lifted Junior on top of the broken dryer and then myself next to him. We would have to entertain ourselves here for a little bit. Him so he doesn’t get too scared and me so I don’t fall asleep.

“But the new season of Henry Henkins, Legendary Magician is going to come on soon!” Junior shouted, shaking my thigh.

He loved that cartoon series. I was proud to watch them with him as much as I could. I grew up with a great many animated shows that gave joy to my life. The creators and producers of those shows gave credence to the positivity of cartoons. The many bright hopes of the characters who overcame insurmountable problems was a refreshing and often dark and nihilistic world. And even the silliest shows that were purely humor were a nice way to escape away into the confines of imagination for a short time. I always wished my brother would take more interest in them.

“You can watch it later.” I said, thinking back to how hard it was to record shows using a VHS tape that could only last for four hours. Now the world has not only built in recorders for cable and satellite tv, but dozens of streaming sites. Kids never had it so easy nowadays when it comes to media shows.

“But I have to go to bed! And I want to watch it now!” he raised his voice high enough to sound like a mouse.

“I’ll let you stay a little later than usual. But right to bed afterward. And make sure to brush your teeth this time.” I warned him.

He thought about this for a few seconds.

“Ok!” he said with a smile, then asked for my cell phone.

I gave him it so that he could play some puzzle games, along with some earphones I had in my pocket so the thunder would not scare him as much. It was something to entertain him for the rest of the wash cycle. Getting him to do anything he did not want to do was become more quarrelsome at this age. He wanted to argue back and then throw a tantrum if he didn’t get what he wanted. He wanted a lot and I could not give him a lot. I needed him to do more things he didn’t want and figuring out ways to trick him into doing something as simple as brushing his teeth was exhausting.

Cavities were hell on Earth expensive and the braces even more so – I needed to get better dental insurance in the coming years for Junior. School was getting expensive, groceries were already expensive, and my car was draining money from being constantly in repair. Everything was about money.

This was my life, just as my mom said it was going to be.

I heard the sloshing of the washer, the buzzing of game notifications, and the headache-inducing lightning snapping the air – all of it ate away at me. I spend most of the day at work working my bones and joints till sore, feeding my child, then sleeping. On the weekends if I don’t sleep I am running to the store, getting a new tag, renewing drivers license, filing taxes, cleaning the apartment, and finding places to bring Junior so that he has some kind of good childhood. I barely found time to relax.

I now lived a life I never thought I would regret. Choosing to raise my son. Choosing to take custody of him rather than be adopted by a more fortunate family. I almost gave him up at age two when I had to reckon with the truth of the matter. Protective Services takes children from irresponsible parents in order to protect them. If I could not take care of Junior I would be forced to do the same. That did not happen. I worked hard to make sure he had food, got clothes, went to Kindergarten and now first grade, and made sure he had things to do as a kid.

But I hated my life.

I worked a job at a boxing factory doing manual labor making enough to just pay the bills. I had no time to date or find love, and let alone be social and hang out with friends. My life was not my own. My life was to raise Junior.

I chose this life. I ended up with a child I never desired to have, but I chose to take care of him. I was naïve to how hard my mother worked to raise two kids and was arrogant enough to believe I could do the same if not better. There were nights where I cried in my car, overwhelmed with sickening regret that this was my life.

Of course, I could never tell Junior that feeling. I would rather die, then ever repeat it to any soul let alone find its way to his ears. My ex’s parents pressured her to give the child up to adoption once born. I turned eighteen right before he was born. It was ironic since I swore I could never be a father when my ex told me she was pregnant. Yet, when the time came, I had cold feet about giving him up. I thought at the time that he needed someone to believe he was wanted – I was soft on the issue that no one born should regret life. How stupid I was and I paid the price for it. I asked for custody and I showed that I could handle the responsibility, having secured the factory job. I was in a better spot at the time, mentally than my ex and her family did not want the child. I could never have expected it to be this hard.

Junior deserved a better world than what our was currently. Unlike his friends at school, he could not go on expensive vacation or afford the newest game consoles, only the pre-owned older model ones. It was never going to be his fault he was born into these circumstances. He was oblivious to the whole situation; all he knew was that I worked too much and that the babysitter was boring. In reality, she could not keep up with his energy, unlike how I pretended to have more energy than I did – just for him.

Baa-ring! Baa-ring! Baa-ring!

I glanced up from my daze to see Junior hopping happily as the washer sang. I moved down off the dryer and over to the machine to take the clothes out.

“Third dryer on the right.” I said to Junior, “check the lint trap. No one ever bothers to clean it out and one day it is going to cause a fire.”

Soon all the clothes moved into the dryer and after cleaning out the lint, Junior started playing with it by tossing it up in the air and throwing it around. Something so simple as a ball of lint could entertain a child. I was truly envious of that spirit of his as I could barely remember how it felt to be a child and I wasn’t even that old. Somehow those memories slipped away while under chronic stress. Five years of constantly being on edge. Fear of checks bouncing, having no vacation, and dealing with friends from high school dying in car accidents.

While he continued to play, I reached into my pocket and pulled out the rest of the quarters. I slid the first, but it got stuck. I hit the return button, yet it did nothing, so I hit it. And then hit it again, until it finally came loose. At this point my headache was getting worse and I could barely think. I put the last quarter inside and smashed the button while holding onto my head.

But something was wrong. I did not hear anything. After a second of pause I opened my eyes between my fingers so the machine would not start. The same thing happened. I was tired and knew nothing made sense. I looked over to the coin display screen and realized I still lacked one quarter.

One quarter that I did not have.

I clutched the machine and cried.

“Ded..dy.” Junior said, having taken notice of him.

When I did not answer came over to me and hugged me tight.

“Deddy. What’s wrong?” Junior asked, not understanding what happened.

I let my breath stutter for a few seconds, wiped my nose, and cleared my throat.

“It’s – sorry – sorry Junior. I just felt overwhelmed for a second.”

He looked at me, having not heard of that word, although understanding the situation he assumed it did not mean good.

“I felt stressed.”

“It’s ok. You feel good when I hug you, right!”

I bent down and gave him a good squeeze.

“Of course I do. Always.”

After what felt like the longest hug I ever had, I sat back down on the floor. It was still cold, a little wet from the rain from a leak somewhere, and at closer glance it was covered in human and pet hair.

“I am one quarter. One more quarter is what we need to finish the laundry. I don’t have that.” I said, thudding my head against the dryer.

“I can look for one in my room!” Junior exclaimed.

I smiled. He really was unaware that it was not the quarter itself that made me cry, rather the pain of adulthood. The agony of living a life with little help and having little preparedness. I think it was time to start looking at other charities for help. Something I did not want to do since my mom died. How much could I be reliant on others? I wanted to be independent. I wanted to work hard and make my own life, yet the world was hell bent on seeing me fail.

“I already took your stash. Junior, remember, last week I needed air for the tires. I will repay you with interest later, but right now. There’s nothing there.”

“The couch!” Junior pointed out.

“Already checked this evening. Nothing.”

“The bathroom!” he persisted.

I considered it, then shook my head.

“I took the last bit of fallen change from there out two weeks ago to turn to cash for the parking deck fee for the ER visit for when you bumped your head on the sidewalk.” I said, wishing I could put a helmet on him at all times.

Junior looked stumped and just sat down next to me. He laid his head on my shoulder while I gave thought to my exhausted mind.

“What if we steal a quarter from someone? That’s not a lot right?” Junior said suddenly.

I almost burst out sobbing again. It took a mighty force of will to calm myself. I had to say the correct thing – use the correct words. In these times the small things mattered.

“No. No Junior. Don’t think like that. Even if it is just a quarter.”

He looked at me a little hurt, knowing he said something he was supposed to, but it made sense in his mind. After all, a stolen quarter was nothing much to a kid. Kids take things all the time without giving a damn. When it’s adults who do it, then it becomes serious.

“Your Uncle. He did something like that.” I said, being open for the first time about why my brother never visited anymore.

“He stole someone’s quarter?” Junior said, confused.

I cracked a smile, but it faded quickly.

“I wish it was just a quarter. He stole about a hundred dollars from some tourists around the entertainment district downtown. He did it with a gun. The cops tracked him down and he went to jail.”

Junior was wide eyed, having thought he uncle was busy or traveling somewhere far off. Instead my brother was in a state prison for a sentence of fifteen years. I had only the heart to visit him once after the trail. It was too hard to see my own brother weep like a kid, finally regretful when he realized there was no getting out of it.

“Why did he do bad things? Is he bad?” Junior asked, confused.

“No. He did bad things. But he is not as bad as some people think. He was just scared like me. He was behind on bills, he couldn’t get hired at companies, and he fell behind on those bills. He made some bad decisions – he did drugs, hung out with bad people who gave him money, but that made him more in debt. One of those bad men convinced him to rob people in order to pay back what he owed them. I was told by your uncle that it worked at first, so he kept doing it, not knowing the cops were already waiting for him.

“Sad.” Junior said, not even remembering his uncle.

It was two years ago when that all happened and Junior was three years old, however I took great strides in telling him about all the stories of my brother throughout childhood. How could I not. He was my brother. I cared for him. I helped hire him as a lawyer and pleaded the best I could for him. This was not all his fault, but he had to take accountability of his actions. I still hope that he will lead a better life once he gets out. I write to him every now and then to tell him how Junior is doing.

“What if we wait til next week to dry the clothes.” Junior reckoned.

I shook my head.

“No. I got told by your school once that your clothes had smelled moldy from trying to save quarters by washing three weeks worth of laundry at once. It never got done drying properly and it was raining that time so I couldn’t put it out on the line outside. Plus those underwear sitting in the dryer are your new ones. We will finish tonight.”

At that moment the light flickered off.

The timer ended.

“Where are you getting the last quarter?” Junior asked me in the dark.

I stood up, stretched my neck, and then turned the light back on with a twist.

“Same as anyone else in this world can do. I will ask someone.”

Mr. Evens was a next-door neighbor at our apartment that more than once helped me with loaning an interest-free payment. Sometimes it was for groceries, other times for Junior’s birthdays, and today it would be for a simple damn quarter. I repaid him every time, but it always hurts to ask him. I suppose people give up their own pride more easily if someone else’s life is on the line. At least that’s the justification I gave myself. That’s the thing about asking for help. Very few want to do it, but they have to because pulling yourself up by the bootstraps is utter bullshit.

I patted Junior on the head. He was worth it. I may be a quarter short, but I had my son.