At that time, not many homes, especially the older ones like ours, had central air, so we had air conditioners sitting bulky in windows for rooms like the living room and the kitchen.
Even with air-conditioning, we relied on electric fans. We had a couple stored in the attic. Dad bought more at the hardware store before they sold out. He did then what others did, which was to drive to the surrounding towns to buy what fans they had. Fans became the statement of our house and their steady hum-buzz was like living in a beehive. To influence the temperature of their flow, Dad would place bowls of ice water in front of their blades, which brought a cool, though not cold, relief.
Even now, I sweat from that heat. People think it’s Arizona that makes me sweat, but it’s always been Ohio.
Did I tell you the neighbor boy brought me over a fan the other day?
“I just thought you looked awful hot,” he said as he set it up on the table. “Do ya like it?”
“It’s not going to help.”
“Sure it will. And I got somethin’ else that might help ya.”
He ran out of the trailer, returning minutes later with a cane.
“I just worry you’re gonna fall down. I used my allowance to get it. It’s not new. I got it at a yard sale, but I think it’ll work just fine.”
I slapped the cane down to the floor. There is nothing more angering than being told you’re old, and nothing tells it quite like a cane.
“Don’t you know I was friends with the devil once?”
As if that will make me greater than just another old man.
“I’m awful sorry, Mr. Bliss. I just thought it’d help.”
Good intentions slapped down to the floor is a hard scene to come away from. I sighed and did my best.
“Listen, kid. My shoelaces are untied. That’s why I look like I’m about to fall. No cane can ever help me with that.”
“But, Mr. Bliss.” He looked down at my bare feet. “You’re not wearin’ any shoes.”
“That doesn’t matter. The laces are still untied.” I pointed down at the old pair of dirty tennis shoes on the floor.
“But how can they trip you up if you’re not even wearin’ ’em?”
“Because those laces are everything, and when everything gets untied, you don’t stop tripping just because the shoes are off.”
He stepped over to the shoes, where he bent down and ran his fingers over the eyes threaded into the backs of their heels. “There’s somethin’ on the laces.” He grabbed hold of them and looked closer.
“Blood,” I answered as if I were carrying armloads of it, exhausted by that very thing.
I thought he would let go of the laces. Instead, he tied them.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I found myself not stopping him.
“I’m tyin’ them. So they won’t trip you anymore.”
It was the kindest thing anyone had done for me in years. It was so kind, I had to sit down.
After he tied both shoes, he stood and walked around the trailer, staring at the photographs of chimneys and steeples framed on the walls.
“That one over there was one I did in San Francisco,” I told him from my lawn chair. “That one beside it is from a small town called Sunburst—that’s in Montana, in case you don’t know. The big one there is from Baton Rouge, and—”
“You haven’t got any pictures, Mr. Bliss.”
“What do you call those?”
“I mean you don’t have no pictures of family. Of friends.”
“They are my family. They are my friends.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Bliss.” He lowered his eyes. “I didn’t mean to make you sad.”
“I’m not sad, for Christ’s sake.”
“Do you want me to leave?”
“I should kick you out. The disrespect you have for your elders. I’m a man, goddamn it, you respect that.”
He stood there, watching me scratch my chin through my beard. I stopped because he began to look worried I may have fleas.
“You want some ice cream, kid?”
He quietly nodded.
“Help yourself. Lord knows I won’t eat it.” I gestured toward the freezer, directing him to move the frozen dinners out of the way to the carton of chocolate ice cream in the back.
“This carton is all banged up, Mr. Bliss.” He read the expiration date on its side. “This ice cream is from 1984. I’ll throw it away.”
“No.” I flipped the flimsy chair back as I stood.
“But it’ll make you sick. You’ve got to let it go.” He stepped away with the carton.
“You give that to me. Right now, boy. I said give it to me.” I grabbed hold of the carton, trying to yank it from his tight grip.
“Mr. Bliss…” He held on.
“Goddamn you to hell.”
“Mr. Bliss, no—”
I didn’t realize I’d slapped him until long after he left. I stood the lawn chair back up and sat there, holding the ice cream carton to my chest. At first, it was freezing, and burned my skin through my thin shirt in that way all frozen things can. Eventually, the freeze left. The carton was just cold then, until it wasn’t cold at all. It sweated and dripped down onto my lap. I must have sat there for hours like that, holding onto all that melt.
“Mr. Bliss?”