Monologue Of A Husky Man
The husky-voiced officer mumbles something to the terrifying man as she handcuffs him.
The terrifying man starts violently coughing. His skin turns gray. He starts gagging. Another male officer, not in gear takes the man, in handcuffs, by the arms. Father hesitates and taps his neck with the pads of his index and middle fingers. The male officer, not in gear, pushes the terrifying man out of the door. I pat my cheek and touch a solid lump, the size of an egg.
Squeak, rattle, squeak, announces two white paramedics in cornflower blue uniforms, before they run into the store wheeling a stretcher.
“You’re going to be okay,” the husky-voiced officer says to Father.
Blood soaks the top half of Father’s shirt. One of the paramedics with a red chinstrap-curtain …show more content…
beard unsnaps his trauma kit bag. I sit cross-legged beside Father on the floor. He grabs my hand. Blood and dirt squishes between our fingers.
“What happened here?” the husky-voiced officer asks Brett.
“Take a deep breath,” the paramedic says to Father and presses Father’s scabbed neck.
“Is your neck tender here?” the paramedic asks.
“Yes,” Father squirms, squeezing my hand. Two cuts are on his forehead.
The paramedic slides two gloved fingers down Father’s scabbed neck and presses.
I roll my tongue around in my bloody mouth, and the taste of blood is metallic, coppery almost.
“I’m proud of you,” Father says. “You’re more of a man than I thought you were. And tough like me. You are a Tynes man. Come home, and I’ll try to work on. You know.”
Hearing those words, “proud of you” and “Tynes man,” the shock is so incredible that I don’t realize I’m squashing Father’s hand in a death grip.
In photography, memorable photographers break something to create it again, to love what they’ve hated and hate what they’ve loved. Is that the nature of father and son relationships? That they need to break. Through photography, I learned faith is the meaning of love between men. If faith deepens through prayer, photography is our prayer. Five times a day or more, we practiced and I continued practicing.
“I’m going to turn your head. Okay,” the paramedic says.
Father twitches and bites his lip. Father’s bottom lip bleeds. His hand squeezes my hand harder. The bullet grazed his neck and went up and hit the bottom of his ear. Ten minutes later, when the police have allowed Junior and Ricky into the store, Father stares at me from the stretcher as if staring through my
body.
“How did this happen,” Father asks, to comprehend why a man shot him. Not even a decadent meal rich with sugar and fat would answer his question. Later tonight, after I tell him why, Father will sleep to forget the horrors he experienced today. And sometime tomorrow, he will wake and remember and forget and remember and eventually he will forget this day even happened. I, on the other hand, will press every detail into the fold of memory to flatten and remove whenever I need to remind myself Father once told me I was tough.
The terrifying man starts violently coughing. His skin turns gray. He starts gagging. Another male officer, not in gear takes the man, in handcuffs, by the arms. Father hesitates and taps his neck with the pads of his index and middle fingers. The male officer, not in gear, pushes the terrifying man out of the door. I pat my cheek and touch a solid lump, the size of an egg.
Squeak, rattle, squeak, announces two white paramedics in cornflower blue uniforms, before they run into the store wheeling a stretcher.
“You’re going to be okay,” the husky-voiced officer says to Father.
Blood soaks the top half of Father’s shirt. One of the paramedics with a red chinstrap-curtain …show more content…
beard unsnaps his trauma kit bag. I sit cross-legged beside Father on the floor. He grabs my hand. Blood and dirt squishes between our fingers.
“What happened here?” the husky-voiced officer asks Brett.
“Take a deep breath,” the paramedic says to Father and presses Father’s scabbed neck.
“Is your neck tender here?” the paramedic asks.
“Yes,” Father squirms, squeezing my hand. Two cuts are on his forehead.
The paramedic slides two gloved fingers down Father’s scabbed neck and presses.
I roll my tongue around in my bloody mouth, and the taste of blood is metallic, coppery almost.
“I’m proud of you,” Father says. “You’re more of a man than I thought you were. And tough like me. You are a Tynes man. Come home, and I’ll try to work on. You know.”
Hearing those words, “proud of you” and “Tynes man,” the shock is so incredible that I don’t realize I’m squashing Father’s hand in a death grip.
In photography, memorable photographers break something to create it again, to love what they’ve hated and hate what they’ve loved. Is that the nature of father and son relationships? That they need to break. Through photography, I learned faith is the meaning of love between men. If faith deepens through prayer, photography is our prayer. Five times a day or more, we practiced and I continued practicing.
“I’m going to turn your head. Okay,” the paramedic says.
Father twitches and bites his lip. Father’s bottom lip bleeds. His hand squeezes my hand harder. The bullet grazed his neck and went up and hit the bottom of his ear. Ten minutes later, when the police have allowed Junior and Ricky into the store, Father stares at me from the stretcher as if staring through my
body.
“How did this happen,” Father asks, to comprehend why a man shot him. Not even a decadent meal rich with sugar and fat would answer his question. Later tonight, after I tell him why, Father will sleep to forget the horrors he experienced today. And sometime tomorrow, he will wake and remember and forget and remember and eventually he will forget this day even happened. I, on the other hand, will press every detail into the fold of memory to flatten and remove whenever I need to remind myself Father once told me I was tough.