Peter Alexander's second day on Earth
I'm not good at real-life
situations. Deaths, births, wedding, funerals,
sit-down dinners, going to the grocery store --
these things throw me for a loop. I'm at my best
on stage or in front of a computer. I excel at
answering machine messages and e-mail.
A couple of weeks ago, I was
confronted with a real-life situation. Laura and
Tommy had a baby, Peter Alexander. (Isn't that
name just... Great.) I promised Karri, my
girlfriend, that I'd go to the hospital with her
to peer at the newborn.
But that promise had been given
long ago the morning. When evening struck, I had
doubts. It's not that I don't like babies, I just
don't think they should be exposed to me. I spend
most of my day drinking Frappuccino, smoking
cigars and thinking of evil things to write.
Babies shouldn't know of such things until they
are five.
Still, a promise is a promise, so
I went along. It didn't start very well. Karri was
crabby because we hadn't eaten dinner and I was
pissed because the hospital charged for parking. I
think some things should be free and parking at
the hospital is one of them. Parks, beaches, and
software should also be free. But they're not.
We took the elevator up to the
maternity ward. When the doors opened, I noticed a
sign on the wall that read, "Moody Maternity
Ward."
"I bet," I muttered as Karri and
I looked around for room 204. It's a Dickensian
world, I thought.
We found the room and walked in
to see Lawrence Ferlinghetti holding a baby. At
least it looked like Ferlinghetti. What are the
odds? A Ferlinghetti lookalike and a Hunter
Thompson wannabe in the same room.
Tommy greeted us. "This is Dick
and Cynthia, our neighbors," he said. So it wasn't
Larry after all. Dick held the baby a little while
then he and Cynthia left. Great, I thought. Am I
expected to hold the baby? I spent a summer
bobbling fly balls off the third base line. I'm
supposed to hold a baby? I looked around the room.
Basic hospital drab including the food. Something
familiar caught my eye. An open bottle of
Frappuccino stood on a tray. I took it as a good
sign.
Tommy told us the stats. He was
born Dec. 9 at 5:40 p.m. Seven pounds and four
ounces, I think.
Tommy was the doting father:
proud, a little dazed and trying for all his life
to be useful. Greet the visitors. Swaddle the
child. Go out for pizza. Do anything. That's a dad
for you. Nothing really to do but worry and vomit.
Meanwhile, Laura was recovering
from childbirth and doing well. The worst was
over. She described the experience using a weather
analogy. At 8 a.m., when they arrived at the
hospital, it was foggy. Then it started to rain.
The rain beat harder until it turned into a
vicious storm, almost a hurricane.
Then she got drugs. The sun broke
through and the birds sang. I believe she had a
conversation with a squirrel.
I always thought childbirth was
like stuffing a bowling ball through a piggy bank.
Tommy described his version of
the event, which consisted of him standing around
watching and being available. He helped Laura with
her breathing. He assisted with the video.
"We shot around the gory parts,"
Tommy said. Then it won't sell, I thought.
Tommy appeared more emotionally
spent than Laura, but then he wasn't given any
drugs.
"This may sound strange," he
said. "But when the placenta came out I wanted to
thank it."
Uh-huh. There are certain days --
when you get married, graduate from college, win a
lottery or have a baby -- when you can say
anything and get away with it.
"This is what happens when
English majors have babies," I said. "It was a
metaphor, right."
"No," Tommy said. "It wasn't. The
placenta was like a friend and protector who had
taken care of the baby all those months and I felt
that I should thank it."
I leaped across the bed where
Laura lay, grabbed his throat and pounded him
viciously against the wall. Okay, so I didn't.
(And he has me to thank for that.) I just stood
there with glazed eyes thinking, "I can never
really leave California, can I?"
"Could you wash your hands before
you hold the baby?" Laura asked. No problem. I'll
take a shower if you want, just don't make me hold
the baby. As Karri and I washed our hands, I
muttered, "I'm not holding him. I smell like
cigars and Frappuccino."
We went back to the bed and Karri
did it. She held the little guy. Me? I touched his
robe once.
As Karin held the baby, Laura
confessed that she had forgotten to feed little
Peter Alexander the first night. I laughed. We got
Tommy thanking body parts, but Laura forgets what
her breasts are for. Meanwhile, Karri's whining
because she hasn't been fed and I'm terrified to
hold the kid. The room was crawling with babies.
I looked down at Peter Alexander.
He looked good. His parents had gotten a scare the
first day. The doctor had detected a heart murmur.
Tommy nearly collapsed from the weight of the
news. His dad had died from complications due to a
heart murmur.
I listed to this and thought,
wait a minute. I was a Sagittarian born with a
heart murmur. It doesn't always have to end badly.
I played sports and had a normal life, and by the
time I was 25 the murmur just went away.
I was going to tell them my
story, but then I thought, "What's my point? That
he could turn out like me? They'd be horrified at
the thought."
Yep, I was trying to jump on the
baby bandwagon all right.
As it turns out, the murmur was
nothing serious. The little hole in his heart is
probably already mended.
"He's a bright sweet baby," Tommy
said. Sure, I thought. Not like all those vicious,
stupid babies in the rest of the ward.
I looked down at him again. He
was sleeping like a... but then he moved, his eyes
opened and he met my glance for a moment. And in
that moment, I saw something of his soul or maybe
it was my soul being reflected from those eyes.
And I started to feel better about the situation
and better about myself. Maybe I wasn't such a bad
influence on babies after all. Maybe I had just
forgotten where I came from. His eyes caught my
gaze again and I smiled. And I swear, Peter
Alexander smiled and I'm sure I saw him wink at me
and in that moment I knew a connection had been
made. I had made some small measure of influence
on the child, and I felt his influence on me.
Peter Alexander. Frappuccino
drinker for life.
* * *
STANDARD DISCLAIMER: This column aims to be
funny. If you can read anything else into it, you're
on your own. Copyright 1997 by Mike Jasper.
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