ttturner

1. Son.
My mother was... well, I'm sure she did the best she could. She was a single mom, working two jobs. She was just not there a lot, and when she was there, she wanted me to be a good son and tell her I was doing well and making friends and my life was a good life so she didn't feel guilty. I wasn't a very good liar, but I tried to keep my troubles away from her as much as I could and she learned to not ask so many questions. I think it was a relief to both of us when I left home.

2. Army musician.
I can't say solider here, because I wasn't ever anywhere near combat. Which... yeah, that's a good thing, you know? I did go through basic training and learn some skills, but mostly I was an E3 class musician who worked with a regional band. I played percussion. I didn't mind the military lifestyle all that much- it was great waking up in the morning and not having to worry about what my schedule was going to be or what I had to wear for the day. Everything was planned. But my goal was to be there long enough to earn money to go to college on the GI bill, which is what I did.

3. College student.
I didn't fit in all that well at college. I didn't make a lot of friends- it was kind of a repeat of high school in that way. But I did a lot of studying, and learned a lot of things, and completed my degree early. That was helpful. I was also able to support myself with my music by the time I got out of college, which was a good thing. Though I didn't make enough money according to my ex-wife, but well....

4. Husband
I don't want to talk about this, or how it ended.

4. Father.
My son is ten months old, and he's learning to walk. When I hold his hands he can take steps. And he pulls himself up and sort of uses the furniture to get around pretty good to places he isn't crawling. He's a pretty awesome little guy. I'm still not sure if he's mine biologically or not-- I never did get those tests. I'm kind of afraid of what they'll show. I'm not really good at reading faces or maybe I'd be able to tell he has my eyes or looks like my side of the family some, and that'd make me less scared. But I just don't want to take that chance, because I love him and I don't want to have to tell him someday I'm not his real dad if I'm not. So I just take it on faith that I am. And besides, I'm raising him so I'm his parent. That's the way it is.

5. Teacher.
I'm teaching music over at the World's End Academy. It's not a job I thought I'd ever have-- I was a working man back home, doing gigs and all that. But this teaching is steady work that provides the stable income I need to raise Jake. And they've got day care, so my son can be right there where I'm working and I can see him at lunch time and they can come get me right down the hall if there's any problems. I like that security. Plus it's nice to teach folks about music-- even if someone of them are less than attentive.

I'm reading Jake this book we got from the library.

It's about animals and their homes.

"Ducky lives in the pond," I read. Jake laughs and touches the picture of the duck. "That's right, that's the ducky."

The pig lives in the barn. The bird in the nest.

" But crab is home wherever he goes."

Jake doesn't look like he understands yet. But I point at the hermitcrab's shell. "See that? He carries his house around. It's a little tiny house, and he can live in it anywhere."

Just like any place me and the boy are together is home.

Summer kind of snuck up on Tommy. He'd been busy getting himself and Jake settled in their new apartment. Learning to be a father. Teaching at the local school. Now suddenly it was summer. He was teaching music camp, but that was only half a day. He had plenty of time now. Time to spend with Jake.

"What do you want to do, buddy?"

Being only eight months old, Jake just reached for Tommy's finger.

They were a team.

"We're the boys of summer," Tommy said, feeling silly but free at the same time. "We can do anything."

Jake smiled.

Jake wouldn't stop crying, and Tommy didn't know what to do.

He'd fed his baby, rocked him, shook the rattle. He'd changed his diaper. Held him. Put him down. Made funny faces. Tried to sing a lullaby.

Everything he'd learned how to do in the scant month or so he'd been the caretaker of this tiny little life, he tried. All of them failed.

They'd left the hostel where they'd been staying upon first arrival at World's End, and now had their own small apartment. So there wasn't even anyone there he could ask-- especially at this time of night. At least no one would be yelling at the baby for crying - that'd been a problem in close quarters.

"You can't help crying, can you Jake? You don't know how to say words yet. You can't tell me what's wrong."

The baby snuffled and fussed, as Tommy walked the floor with him in arms.

"I wish you could though. That'd make this a lot easier if you could say hey --- hey Da---"

It occurred to him that he didn't know whether or not Jake should call him Dad. What if he wasn't really Jake's father? The ex-wife had refused to get paternity testing done so it was anyone's guess. Sometimes Tommy lay in bed with Jake beside him, studying his features, trying to see himself in them. But he was bad at facial recognition. He supposed he could get the test done here in World's End, now that the baby was in his custody. But part of him was scared of the answer. What if Jake wasn't his baby? What then?

He'd still love the boy. Still take care of him. But he'd be scared all the time that Jake would know somehow. That he'd grow up and demand to know his REAL father, and say Tommy hadn't been good enough. That he'd remember somehow times like these when Tommy hadn't the slightest clue what to do.

He frowned as he felt the baby's forehead. Jake felt warm. He might have a fever. "Shit," he said, then corrected himself, because one shouldn't swear in front of babies. "Shoot. We got to get you some of that baby medicine, I bet." He'd seen it at the local pharmacy when he'd picked up the diaper rash cream, but he hadn't thought to get a bottle then because Jake hadn't been sick then. But he'd remembered looking at the box, which said fever relief.

"That's what we'll do," he said, and tucked Jake into his carrier. He put tiny socks on his boy's feet, and tucked his blanket around him before strapping him in. "We'll walk over to the pharmacy and get you that tonight, and then tomorrow we'll call the doctor to get you looked at. Deal?"

The baby snuffled in response, which was good enough for 'yes', Tommy figured. He locked up the house and carried Jake out into the night to walk downtown for the medicine he needed.

Most recently when I was married and we had our big pre-fab soulless house that looked like all the other houses on the block, we had a maid that Helen hired. I felt kind of embarrassed about it, that we made messes that Esperanza had to clean up. She didn't speak much English, and I didn't know much Spanish, but I looked up the word for 'sorry' which is a lot like pardon in English. Perdona me, I said because I was sorry Helen had given up cleaning and though I usually did some before Esperanza came over so she wouldn't have to clean up the truly gross things anyhow (No one wants to clean someone else's toilet, do they), I didn't always have time to when I was working a lot of late night gigs.

Helen yelled at me about it, said I was just confusing the help and we were paying her a good salary anyhow so I should just stop apologizing and let her do the job she was paid to do. Water under the burnt bridge now.

Now that Jake and I live at the Spandau Charitable Housing complex in World's End, there's a chore sign-up sheet and everyone is expected to do some pitching in to take care of the communal areas. I really like that. This week I'm on cooking prep detail, which is peeling potatoes and chopping up onions and carrots. It reminds me a bit of KP duty in the army. I don't mind it at all. And I don't want Jake to grow up thinking that he should make messes for other people to clean up. So even though I don't think he'll remember much about being a baby when he gets older, I think it's good for him to see me doing my part.

There's some other little things everyone is expected to do here, and I do them every morning. Make our beds. Clean up our sleeping area. Put things away in our footlocker and make sure it's locked securely just in case before heading out for the day.

Someday we might have our own little apartment or house even if I find the right kind of place for a price I can afford. But I'm going to make sure it's a place I can look after on my own (maybe with a little help from Jake when he gets old enough). How much space do two people need anyhow? That's one argument Helen and I had an awful lot. A house shouldn't be a 'status symbol'. It should be a home.

Five Rules to Live By
1. Never let the drummer handle the money.
2. Always arrange payment before the gig.
3. Know your material inside and out.
4. Take care of your own business instead of giving some middleman a cut.
5. Improvisation has a time and place. Know when to, and when not to.

One broken:
Till death do us part.

I remember that night at the Northstar in Philadelphia- I sat at the bar with some girlfriends and the band began to play. The guitarist really put his all into the solo, fingers flying and hair flowing around his face like some sort of rock god. I hadn't been long in the city, but I thought to myself this was what living in the city meant. A bit forward maybe-- but a girl does what she has to do. I had the freedom to go up to that boy and ask him what he was doing after the show.

Turned out he was doing me, and he had dexterous hands alright-- though he lacked a lot in the imagination department. He fumbled with things, and he wasn't even drunk. That should've been my first sign. And the second, that he didn't talk smoothly- that sometimes he tripped over his words like his tongue had grown too thick in his mouth.

And he had absolutely no ambition in life beyond music. That was alright when his band stood a chance of going somewhere - but they never broke into that 'big time', and the venues started getting smaller and smaller. Still, I needed a husband. And we'd been dating all through my college years-- so I suppose it was natural we married.

Did I love him? Oh I suppose so,in the beginning. He had a certain charm about him, at times. He could be attentive and amusing, when he tried. I tried very hard to direct him-- to get him going to college. He'd done a stint in the army- he could've signed up on the GI Bill. He took a few classes here and there, halfhearted as he did anything that didn't involve his music.

He left guitar picks, strings, and music magazines lying about everywhere. He wouldn't cut his hair, or start wearing suits. And I had to fight him tooth and nail to get him out of the city and into the suburbs, to buy a proper home in a development (mostly paid for with MY money) so I could keep up with the rest of the team at my firm.

And do you know how embarrassing it was when he started spouting his environmental nonsense, or how 'The Man' was sticking it to the little guy during those dinners? An eloquent bit of debate could have provided some entertainment - but Tommy was never eloquent. Not him. He used to say that his brain ran faster than his mouth. And maybe that was true-- he was brilliant when it came to things like tuning pianos (he had perfect pitch, could do it by ear) and he could've made a decent enough go of it as a session musician. But he refused to network, couldn't shake the hands and go to the parties necessary to make it work.

And I'll admit--- there were times when I wasn't entirely faithful to him. On business trips with a senior partner, when the situation arose-- yes, I took the opportunity. But Tommy's mistress was music, so didn't I have the right? I couldn't feel entirely guilty about it. I never suspected he knew...

I thought the baby would help. My biological clock had been loudly ticking, and Tommy and I were drifting. It could've been the glue that cemented us together. We tried to get pregnant-- well, I tried and he mostly went through the motions. It took though, and I felt a wonderful feeling -motherhood. Caring about the tiny life inside of me. And the more I thought about that tiny life and our future together- the more I realized there was no place for Tommy in it.

I threw him out. There wasn't any one last straw, just his shiftlessness- his late night gigs in seedy bars, and his silly daytime gigs playing background music at malls - he still wouldn't get a real job, even with the baby on the way. Even when I called in favors and set up situations to assure his jobs wouldn't work out... he still kept stubbornly trying. Clearly, he had to go.

Oh he cried, and he pleaded, and he begged for another chance but-- I'd fallen out of love with him a long time ago, I'd realized. And the last good thing he could've done for me, he'd already done-- given me a child. I'd just have to pray the baby took after my side of the gene pool, and not his. And just in case there was any credence to nurture over nature-- welll. I filed a motion saying he'd been violent with me, and I feared for the baby's safety with him. I had a few friends say they witnessed his bad temper.

Did I feel guilty about it? Oh, perhaps a little. But I wanted a better life for myself and the baby. One without a class-D loser in it. A woman does what she has to do.