Something to consider when reading/listening: Do you believe there is something special about “now,” or might all times exist simultaneously?
ACT ONE
It wasn’t really my favorite movie. But it was the last thing we had.
Every year on the second of February, I’d always say to him— I’d rush to say it before he had the chance to say it to me, I’d bang on his door or I’d rush outside before he could drive away and I’d say, “Dad, dad, it’s Groundhog Day.” Di’n’t matter what sort of mood he was in, or how tired or hung over he was, he’d always reply, “You said that yesterday.” And I thought it was the funniest thing. The way he’d say it so seriously, and then get on with whatever else he was doing.
When I went to university — first person in the family, he was so proud — it became a phone call. Then it became a text. Then, a few years ago, I forgot, and he messaged me. Then at some point, we both stopped. I still noted the date but for whatever reason…
I’m not even sure it’s my favorite Bill Murray movie.
(Breathe)
It’s been a long day. Well, technically I’ve lost five hours, but it’s felt like a long ‘un. And it’s not until I’m back here, in my childhood bedroom with the posters of Oasis and glamor models on the walls — after I’ve had a teary conversation with mum — it’s only then that I realize what the date is.
And, well, y’know, that basically confirms it. It seemed likely anyway, but now it’s certain. Today really was the last time I’ll ever see my dad. That… just now in the hospital was the last conversation we’ll ever have. The second of February. Groundhog Day… If he realized, he didn’t say.
And now, lying here in my teenage bedroom, underneath a poster of a pair of tits — or Liam and Noel as they’re more commonly known — I’m wondering if when I fall asleep I might wake up back in my apartment in Gramercy. With the chance to do the whole day all over again.
It is possible, that’s the thing. Einstein once said time was a stubbornly persistent illusion. The past, the present and the future all happen simultaneously.
4 AM this morning, 9 AM UK time.
Phone was on silent, but I could see the out-turned pocket of the suit trousers I’d chucked on the floor, glowing like a beacon. I put them straight on, grabbed a jacket and belted for the door. It was such a dash, kind of exciting, that I didn’t really comprehend what I was doing. Took a while to feel the wallop of the whiskeys from the night before.
The air hostess wasn’t impressed when I ordered four more on the flight, but I told her my dad was about to die and she slipped me one extra. Didn’t stop the dickhead behind me from kneeing me in the back the whole way though, did it?
Nine hundred dollars, that flight cost me. And another two hundred pounds on the taxi when I got to the airport. Left and arrived in the pitch black, my plane passing the sun like a teenager ignoring a parent.
I even rush up the stairs when I get to the hospital, running across the corridor to get to his bedside and eke out every last second. And I get there and I’ve got absolutely no idea what to say.
“How are you?” Honest; that’s what I ask. And he says, “Never better.” (Laugh)
He asks about the flight. I say it was fine. He says flying is something he definitely won’t miss. Even though he hasn’t done it for at least a decade, has he?
I’m not sure if I should talk about his grandkids. Nate who’s six and met him three times. Tyler who’s three and who he hasn’t seen since he was six weeks old.
I always said it’s cheaper to fly you out to us than to fly the whole family back to see you. And why don’t you just come the same time as mum, you two get on ok now don’t you? But he’s a stubborn bastard. Him not visiting was punishment for me moving out there in the first place.
I think about holding his hand. But it’s got some tubes attached to it.
He looks better than I expected. I tell him that and he nods.
It doesn’t feel how I expected it to feel. I didn’t think I’d cry, but I thought there’d be some sort of outpouring or something.
I didn’t expect all the other thoughts, that was a surprise. I’m sitting there by my dad’s bedside with a fairly high chance this’ll be the last time I ever see him, and I’m thinking about that knobhead who kneed me in the back throughout my nine-hundred-dollar flight. Could he not tell I was finding it annoying? Why are people so bloody inconsiderate? And the security guard who made me take my shoes off, was that really 100% necessary? And then I’m thinking about the overzealous nature of security in general and what was it Tom was saying about this in the bar the other day and isn’t he doing well with that girlfriend of his and isn’t 18 dollars plus service for a cocktail basically legalized theft?
And all the while, as these thoughts are swirling, I’m with my dad, sitting with my dad, for the last time. Yeah, you know, I guess thought I’d be able to pay attention.
ACT TWO
I want to tell him that the trouble is — part of the trouble at least — is that he set the bar so high to begin with. He’d take me out on jobs and ask me questions in front of customers. “Do you think we need a snake auger in here, son?” Or “Has the wax ring become porous, do you think?”
And I would think very carefully in my seven-year-old brain, knowing I was in on a joke but also half-believing it, you know, and I’d scrunch up my whole face to express just how deep in thought I really was, and I’d say “I fink so, yeah.” And he’d nod and say ‘“right you are,” and the customers would absolutely love it. And I’d feel a million feet tall.
His work van had a Superman logo on it, and I took it literally. I used to ask him if he really was… and he never denied it.
Then when me and Crissy got our first flat and a pipe burst the night we moved in, and I called every number I could find until I reluctantly called you and you were there within half an hour — God knows how many speed limits you must have broken — even though we hadn’t spoken for about six months. And you sorted it out with your back and your arthritis. And we didn’t speak then either, other than to say hello. But I went out to the van while you were working and under the streetlight could just about make out the Superman symbol. And I thought, well, he’s still never denied it.
I ask if the nurses have been good. And he says someone has to be.
He asks if I’ve got anything else planned while I’m back and I say no, I got mum’s call and I jumped on the first plane. He says he appreciates me making the effort. I say don’t be silly.
And when the nurse comes round to say it’s the end of visiting hours, I plead for some more time. She gives me ten minutes and we literally say nothing. I stand up, pat you on the arm and in my head I hear the words “I love you” but, I don’t know, maybe I say it with my eyes or… And I think you’ve fallen asleep, so I turn to leave and you say, “Will I see you again tomorrow?”
I wait for half an hour outside the hospital, shivering with cold, wondering if I should run back in there and tell you… I dunno…
Then I’m at mum’s and now I’m here. Nearly midnight. In my teenage bedroom. With Noel and Liam ogling Carmen Electra, the dirty sods. And I’m wondering if I’m going to wake up and it’ll be Groundhog Day again. And I’m thinking what would I do differently this time?
And my first thought… my first thought is I’d ask for a different seat on the plane.
I would point out it was Groundhog Day, I’d definitely do that. And we’d see if you remembered the reply.
And we’d talk about what a great movie it was and how it was definitely our favorite. And maybe you’d say, “Favourite film? You joking. It weren’t even my favorite Bill Murray film.”
I’d tell you how much I love you despite our stupid disagreements. I’d tell you none of that stuff matters. I’d tell you I was sorry. Or at least I’d hold your hand. I don’t think those tubes would’ve minded.
ACT THREE
The trouble is, of course, I wouldn’t know, would I? If Groundhog Day happened for real, if I woke up and it was yesterday again, I wouldn’t realize, would I? Because I’d wake up with the same memories I had when yesterday started.
I wake up on the second of February to see my trouser pocket illuminated, and I’ve got no idea I’m about to rush to JFK airport to drink five mini-whiskeys while being kneed in the back. So if I wake up again on the same day, I’ll still have no idea what that phone call’s about or the day I’m about to have. And so I’ll do it all again exactly the same way.
If Einstein’s right, if time really is an illusion, then everything that has happened or will happen is happening right now. So I’m always waking up on the second of February to the news my dad’s about to die. And I’m always sitting by his bedside for the last time. And he’s always holding me in his arms for the first. And I’m always scrunching up my face, in front of his customers, to answer his questions about snake augers or wax rings.
Eternalism, they call it. Dad taught me about that. I was the first person in the family to go to university, but he was a university. He didn’t just know the inner workings of a sink, he knew how the whole world was plumbed.
Look at that. Past tense already.
Maybe it’s happening now, wherever now is.
So as I’m falling asleep, I wonder if I’ll wake up not in my childhood bedroom but in my apartment in Gramercy. At 4 AM, with the turned-out trouser pocket illuminated like a beacon. To fly across the Atlantic to sit by my father’s side, mostly in silence, until, just as I turn to leave, he says, “Will I see you again tomorrow?”
And I scrunch up my face, deep in thought. And I say, “I fink so, yeah.”
[Doe Wilmann first released this piece on his short story podcast, Meaningless Problems.]
The post Short Story: “Groundhog Day” appeared first on Fair Observer.