Pop Star

I was washing my hands longer than usual. Using the disposable scrubbers over and over, thinking. This was not good. This was not good, and I didn't know what to do.

I walked down the hall, doors standing open, me looking in on these old people. Some of them looking back, some looking at nothing. I didn't hate hospitals or anything, but I wasn't exactly thrilled to be here. And I knew Pop was going to be even less than. But I had to come, if anything just to avoid the potential freak-out. Well, I was praying that this tactic would avoid the freak-out, but I wasn't exactly confident at this point.

Finally. A. Kay Marteau. Room 1421. I pushed the door a little, "Pop?" He was standing toward the window buttoning his shirt, looking pale and blue in the light. He stiffened a little, or so I thought.

"Mom, Pop. She told me you were here." That was really as far as then plan in my head and gotten me. "She wouldn't tell me much. Well. Really she didn't tell me anything." He was threading his belt through the loops by then.

"Pop-"

"Oh, would you stop blubber'n? What the hells'a matter with you? Did'joo run down here to see if the ink on'a will was dry? For the luvva. That woman. I have anemia."

"What? Anemia?" This had not been in the rehearsal of my mind. "That's all?" then, "That's not what I meant."

Pop sat down and reached for his shoes, or rather, pointed at them. I set them down in front of him, "But, that doesn't make sense," I said.

Grunting, "What? Why, is she making it out I'm on my death bed? I told her not to say anything, I told her. Damnit," he winced.

"Just take it easy, I'll do that," I said, reaching for the laces.

"The hell you will! Think I can't get along without'cha?" That old fire was still in his voice, and there for an second I wasn't a grown man. I wondered if I had had the foresight to close the door behind me, but I didn't think so.

"Mom just told me you were here, Pop. And even that much I had to drag out of her. She didn't tell me why. It's Franc, Pop. He's going on like you're-"

"What? Like I'm what" he snarled, we now interrupt your regularly scheduled program.

"Bad off. Like you're really...bad off."

His mouth set into a thin line, and for an instant he did look frail, "He's telling people this?" and he was looking at me now, for the first time since I'd entered the room.

"He's telling everybody, Pop. There's this whole...movement. There's supposed to be some...event? I don't know what to even call it. There's a lot of buzz, everyone wants to help."

His eyes narrowed, "Help what?"

Time to kill the messenger. "He's telling everyone you need blood."

Imagine what Clint Eastwood would say if he opened up a trunk full of chopped up kids, that's the same thing Pop said just then.

"But hey, that's great, right? I mean, you do need blood," squeezing those words out between a smile was not having the convincing effect I had hoped for.

"How many people has'ee ...what'sa word? How many?" he looked like he was trying to read a book that was forty yards away.

"I dunno, Pop, lots. I mean, I heard this from other people, not even him. There's going to be a specific day everyone comes together and does this."

He muttered something that sounded like the sharks are circling. "What'see doing this for?"

"I mean, Pop, I had no idea. That you were even. You know. Sick."

"Do I look sick to you?" he yelled, God I wish I had closed that door, not that it'd help. "I'm anemic goddamit, anemic. You think I'm gonna waste ah-way now?"

"Damnit, then doesn't that mean you good-and-well will need blood, since you're 'goddam anemic'?" I yelled back, screw it.

His nostrils flared but that was all, "Yeah. Yes. I will need blood. I nee'da steady supply of blood. I don't need some...event," he sighed, an exhaustion he seldom shared with me and I knew he was tired, "I don't need some mob'a people."

Quietly, "But, Pop...if you get all this blood you wouldn't have to worry about it for a long time, right? I mean, that'd be great...right?"

He closed his eyes, "Blood does'en last like that. It's not much good after forty-two days, the oxygen."

I wanted to reach over and put my hand on his, or do something, at least, but I didn't. I just waited, looking at the bruise on his arm from the transfusion. With his eye closed I could look at my father, something I was rarely able to do. The creases, the gray and the knots. My hands would never look like his, though they had come close, once.

I leaned forward to hear him, "I need blood every so often. I'll always need it. It doesn't go away because of some blood bonanza. These people are jus' gonna pat themselves on the back, like they done got together and saved my life. And I won't have any choice but to smile'n be grateful, any choice."

"Then Pop, why would Franc be doing this?"

Here he grabbed my hand, my wrist, "Because, the ink on the will isn't dry, yet."