Decorative Sword

Dad calls. I answer. “Hey, Danny, listen, I got a decorative sword.”

“What?”

“Ever since I can remember, I mean ever since I could remember, I’ve wanted a decorative sword.” This reported with enthusiasm in thick Jersey accent.

“Oh, ok.” In all the years I’ve known the man I can’t recall a single instance of discussion about a decorative sword. “Where’d you get it?”

“Sometimes I just leave the TV on to the home shopping station. You know, when I’m dozing off. Most of what they got on the TV there is real crap but every once and awhile there’s somethin’. Then they put on this sword and I thought, this is the one for me.”

Jesus. “Oh, ok.”

“It has like an ivory handle and the blade is like the Washington monument but really nicely done. They do the fine etching work with laser. I thought, if there ever was a decorative sword for me this is it.” “I’ve always wanted a decorative sword but never really found the right one for me but this is the one.”

The word ‘sword’ is always preceded by a ‘decorative’ indicating safety has been considered.

“Ok.”

“It comes with a 500 piece cutlery set. I really didn’t want the cutlery but I had to take it with the package.”

“Seriously? What are you gonna do with ‘em?”

“I put ‘em in the trunk.” “I’m just gonna give ‘em away.” “You know the Saturn’s got 280,000 miles on it now, I think I can get another 100,000 out of it.”

“You know, I’m not sure it’s legal to drive around with that many knives in your trunk. You might want to at least check about that.”

“Well, I really don’t have any other place to put them right now Danny.”

“Ok. Well, I gotta go, I’m right in the middle of something here. Congratulations on the sword. Maybe you can kill some Ninjas with it.”

“Yea right. No, this one is just decorative.”

“Yea, I know, It’s a joke.”

“I know,” Dad answers in half-mocked laughter.

“Ok, I’ll talk to you later then. Thanks for calling.”

“Bye bye.”

“Bye.”

I look over and _ _ _ _’s asleep with the dog. She looks fierce, like a sleeping samurai and the dog looks mangy. We’re nestled in at the lake house, the new one, a little cottage place up the road from the lake front. It all sort of unfurled this way, so instead of sleeping at the studio we’re getting soft under the good fortune of family property. I’m up now, the television like a block of cinder, and listening to the woman across the lawn to the back lose her shit. “I don’t give a fuck. That’s my kid. Maybe you should tell your girlfriend…” All of this through tears and weeping and the battle cries of domestic foulness. Poor girl. I felt sick from fast food burritos so I jammed a finger in and puked it up like it was a routine piss. Standing at the mirror my face looked older, eyes dark and the scruff had turned to a beard. I sat there scratching it, forcing a smile on and off. It was a hot night, some 65 degrees in late October, nearly unheard of. I pop a beer, _ _ _ _ still asleep on the couch.
I look down at the yellow manila envelope. An entire year and there they are, separation papers, not even divorce. What is there to do really? Suck it up and live it. Any pain over the thing is wasted. I have the answers. Move on. Nearly all the friends have moved on, most I don’t even hear from anymore. Some have clearly taken sides, a whole shit storm of abandonment. Not even granted release. The fucked up thing is that I see both sides. I can understand their choices. I can understand hers, even from the beginning. I can see her actions as relationship suicide, I can see mine as indecisive. I can see a whole mess of others who never really live their thing. Success for me now is survival and laughter and good love, the kind that weeps.