By Alex Rost
My wife – not the mother of my daughters – told me that when I die, the world will thank me for all the women I left behind.
When my daughters’ mother – not my wife – left me she said, “All you’ll ever do in life is try to drink up an ocean.”
A few sober years later she told me that my drinking was the best thing about me.
Despite what she says, I don’t have a warped sense of self. Just your standard college degree.
From her, I learned to leave my guilt by the side of the road. That even those born without ambition accomplish a lifetime.
When my daughter was young, she hid around the house – behind doors, under blankets, in closets – and waited for me to come by, then with a scowl of sincerity she jumped out and screamed, “Huuuuuug!” and threw her body at me with everything she had, wrapped her arms around my neck and dangled there like a baby sloth until her arms gave out. These were called hug attacks.
Sometimes, she lay in wait for ten, fifteen minutes. Silent and poised and patient. I wondered how she’d treat men, how men would treat her, how she’d allow herself to be treated. What the word ‘romance’ would mean to her.
One day, I came walking through the kitchen doorway and heard her blood curling war cry.
“Huuuuuuuuug!”
She caught me by surprise. I jumped, stutter stepped.
She leapt off the kitchen counter, hurled her little body at me before I could recover from my shock. I felt her hands grasp at my neck, miss their hold. I threw my arms out and caught air. She bounced off me and crashed into the open dishwasher.
She was fine. The dishwasher was not.
I could feel a little pop in the hinges when the door closed. I tried to run it. A tiny trickle of water came from the bottom. Nothing crazy. I stuffed a towel under it, satisfied that it could have been worse, and left the room.
A few minutes later I heard excitement from the kitchen. Horseplay. Then a scream.
“Daaaaaad!”
I rushed in. Two of my daughters were on their stomachs, sliding across the tiled floor through a river of foaming suds. My oldest, the one who hollered for me, stood above them pointing at the mayhem.
She learned the devastation of misplaced water the summer before, when a toy clogged running toilet brought a waterfall to the downstairs bedroom. I made sure to remind her often while I hauled out the soggy mattress, ripped up warped floorboards, replaced moldy drywall.
“This is what water can do,” I said.
“THIS is what water can do,” I said.
Over and over.
I told my daughters that when they turned eighteen, they should each expect a bill for what they destroyed.
It will go like –
Acrylic painted TV……………………….… $350
Gas tank filled with hose water………………$820
Tennis racket to sister’s eye/eleven stitches…..$380
Laptop cleaned in tub…………………….….$400
Hidden milk cache spilled under bed………..$650
I’m still working on it.
I learned through my wife – not the mother of my daughters – that time can and will stand still. That a moment can be multidimensional. That an emotion can tear down the walls of reality.
Because there are no supposed to bes. All is chaos. All is beautiful.
Alex Rost runs a commercial printing press in a small shop outside of Buffalo, NY and writes most of his stories on break behind the dumpster. Twitter is @arost154