“Parlborlo.”
This is what must have come out of my mouth, when I told the gas station attendant I wanted Pall Malls and he handed me Marlboros. I didn’t correct his mistake, I must have been too busy wondering about his hearing deficiencies, as he was also probably occupied thinking about my speech impediment.
The man behind the counter was tan as leather. His hair was a living gradient pattern, from black to grey to white, and everywhere in between, slicked back in a way people don’t do anymore. During our interaction, no more than thirty seconds and interwoven with that of other customers, it came up that the man was a mistake. He hadn’t just made a mistake. He was one. His parents didn’t want him. A mistake.
A lady looking at lottery tickets chimed in that she recently informed her son he was of a similar ilk. Another man buying cigarettes spoke up in turn. His story different, but still ending with that word. Mistake. I did my best to get everyone smiling, “Sometimes its nice to have siblings twenty years older than you,” I said. As if I, too, was in their shoes.
As I walked out the door, the man behind the counter added one last line to the chorus of accidental birth. “A few years of therapy will fix anything,” he said and I walked into the cold.
I sat in my car and wondered if maybe I too was a mistake, for in this moment, it seemed more common than not. I dismissed the idea quickly, using the rationale that no one would want to live with just my brother. I was probably the antidote. Which is better than a mistake.
At Perkins, a mistake was made. Not by anyone present. Not by anyone at all. But we all, unaware, found ourselves stuck in a moment were hurt is inherent. The moments where pain is ingrained in every fiber and confusion clouds the room like the smoke of our cigarettes. Me, my ex, and my new friend. In the same room. Together.
“You can cut it with a knife,” someone said.
I, because no words could explain how torn I was, how brokenhearted and guilty, and amidst all these friends, so alone, was left to simply say, “The gang’s all here.”
…
if our mothers have taught us anything, it is that there is no shame in a
fading light
but instead, a pale worldly beauty
so be tired, good children
be tired, but be strong, in a word: persevere
for the dimmer the light, the longer it shines when we are gone.
