I was almost perfectly relaxed, tranquil, even. I had no job, no plans, no prospects, no vision for the future, but everything was going to be all right.
Time stood still as a white puffy cloud passed over the sun. For a moment, I thought I could glimpse eternity. For just this little while, I felt half-way confident that I would survive.
BERTRAND RUSSELL AND MY SUMMER IN THE SUN BY STEVEN MCBREARTY 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 61
Slathered in suntan lotion, supplemented by an occasional targeted spray of OFF, I sat in a recliner chair reading Bertrand Russell’s History of Western Philosophy in the backyard of my family’s pink-brick ranch-style home in suburban San Antonio, TX., in 1975. It was summertime, late morning, getting hot already. At just this moment in time, I was almost perfectly relaxed, tranquil, even. The fact that I had no job, no plans, no prospects, no vision for the future, seemed somehow to produce a bubble of serenity that everything was going to be alright. The past seemed erased. Everything was now in the present. The book, a hearty swig of canned Coke, perspiration rolling down my bare back—I wore swim trunks only—all made for a congenial, dreamy, soporific effect. My life was going nowhere, but life seemed good. Crepe myrtle and bougainvillea climbing the back fence created a kind of grotto effect. Time stood still as a white puffy cloud passed over the sun. A small plan droned overhead. For a moment, I thought I could glimpse eternity. For just this little while, I felt half-way confident that I would survive.
Survival seemed questionable. The odds of survival fluctuated hour to hour, minute to minute. I was trapped in a vicious cycle of highs and lows after a tragic breakup—tragic to me, anyway—with my girlfriend Jane Fountain, back in our college town of Austin. “Everything will be fine!” “No, my life is over!” Just when I thought I had reached an equilibrium state, a fresh wave of despair rolled over me.
San Antonio was a booming Sun Belt city back then, freeways girdling the city, high-rises soaring to the sky, suburbs eating up farmland as they spread farther and farther out. The NBA Spurs had created a new focal point for civic pride.
Our house was one of those sprawling suburban four bedrooms, one storey, brick all the way around, shingled roof, a huge backyard with carpet grass and languorous old oaks. A sliding glass door opened to a spacious flagstone patio. The door was partially open now, so I could monitor what was going on inside.
Inside, chaos reigned. Chaos reigned in the form of my two younger brothers—Sean, 15, and Dave, 13—running free. I heard the TV blaring, contestants on a game show cheering. The dog barked, as if alarmed at some untoward activity. Somebody yelled. There was a horrendous crashing sound, as if a load-bearing wall had been breached by a bulldozer. The dog came charging out. I ignored the clamor, hoping injuries were minor.
We were one of those big Catholic families you always heard about, five siblings in all, filling up station wagons, filling up the pews at Sunday Mass, wreaking havoc in grocery store aisles.
Sean and Dave were sweet, sensitive, stalwart lads, both nominally Catholic still in a happy-go-lucky, nonchalant, post-Vatican II way. Sean was tall and gangly—passing me in height already—and a fledgling intellectual, quoting Kierkegaard and baseball stats, sometimes in the same conversation. Dave was broad-shouldered and very toned, a workout freak, adept at building and repairing things—the only family member with mechanical skills. He was smart, too, in an analytical way, going on to become a computer programmer. They both wore sleeveless T-shirts and cut-offs—we were very clothes-lite that summer.
There was Anne, off to law school in California. And our special needs child Marie—mentally retarded, in the nomenclature of the day—living in a dormitory at a State school.
Sean and Dave were too young to drive, too young to hold down a regular job, so they were doing the kinds of things red-blooded American teenagers did in the summertime before iPhones and the internet—playing records on their stereos, Monopoly or Risk on the kitchen table, working up the gumption to call some girl on the phone.
Our parents were out working—Mom for the first time in many years—so it was just me and the boys in the daytime, in a kind of anything goes free-for-all. Over the course of the summer, we had morphed into our own private society, a kind of biosphere of brothers. Without specified duties and plenty of free time, I had become something of a mentor to them, leading by example, showing them the ropes of early adulthood. I felt rather like a hip camp counselor, or a savvy youth minister, providing a general model for comportment, but lenient on the details. This role was a boon to my ego and a balm to my broken spirits. I felt wanted again. Religion-wise, I had moved into a skeptical phase, but I kept that to myself.
We were a team, the three of us, a merry crew. We did things. We went places, rowdy and guy-talking, them vying to ride “shotgun” in my car, a beat-up old Ford Mustang that had originally belonged to my father. Sometimes some of their friends showed up and we played touch football or poker at the kitchen table.
Inside, now, the phone was ringing, competing with the stereo and the TV and the barking dog. In those days, before cell phones, before voice mail, before message machines, you couldn’t even see who was calling. You just picked up the phone and hoped for the best. A missed call was a missed opportunity—forever. An answered call could change your life for all time. Maybe it was Jane Fountain! I hoped it was Jane Fountain.
I heard three, four, five rings, in those startling, clangorous tones landlines had. Neither Sean nor Dave made any effort to answer. They seemed to have a toddler’s approach to a ringing phone, as if it were beyond their realm of understanding.
“Anybody getting that?” I yelled (restrainedly), craning my head slightly from my chair in the yard. “Before they hang up?”
“Got it!” Dave yelled back. I heard Dave say hello. A few moments later he poked his head through the open sliding glass door.
“It’s for you,” he said. I pivoted completely now—hopefully—resting the open book on my knees. The Coke and can of OFF perched precariously atop.