🕴️ Man is a good man

Man is a good man.
Calls his parents once a week.
Let a stranger use his metrocard.
Got his doorman a gift card to Macys.
He isn’t even rich.
But he’s comfortable.
Gives to charities he believes in.
On the board of a not-for-profit. A good one too.
Volunteers at a braille library.
When he talks to you you have his full attention.

If that’s not enough he also set up a little free library.
Treats his lover like a god.
His children like planets.
He lets his kid sneeze into his hand and doesn’t find it gross. Seriously.
Every so often he calls them in sick to school.
Do a day just for them. Dadsgiving.
Once he took them to a baseball game.
Caught a home run. Gave it to his youngest.
Who gave it to a crying baby.
He taught them right.
Posted about it on his Instagram.
Look. Funny caption.
He has friends.
They tag him in pictures.
Went to the beach.
Did a hangout. It was effortlessly casual.
People smile around him. They seem proud.
He plays a small instrument.
There’s a video.
He plays it very well.
His voice is idiosyncratic.
It’s like that because he’s so vulnerable.
Have to respect that.
He won an award at his job.
Which is teacher.
He could’ve been an astronaut.
He just finds teaching to be more gratifying.
6th grade English.
Man starts to get tired.
Usually once a year.
Sometimes in April.
Sometimes in August.

Man takes a drive.
North.
Maps out the spots he’s already been to.
Careful not to do a line.
Likes to imagine someone somewhere. In front of a map. FBI on their hat.
They’re on to him. But they’re stumped.
Can’t make out a discernable pattern.
He smiles to himself in the car. He drives faster.

He stops at a sign.
Welcome to Connecticut.
Still 30 minutes out. Can’t be too safe.
Takes the bag out of his trunk.
Takes the bag out of the bag.
Unfurls the white coat.
The stitching and name tag match the group employee photo on the homepage.
He did it himself.
Sometimes he’ll check the hospital complaints on Google.
Sometimes they’ll write about him.
When it’s late at night he’ll read them.
Relive it. Think about it from their perspective. A little pick me up.
Those nights he’ll sleep well.

Back in the car now.
Feels the anticipation.
It’s scary. In a good way.
Takes the right into the hospital parking lot.
Parks close to the stairwell.
Gets into character. Shakes it out. Clears his throat. Practices the nod.
Places the stethoscope around his neck.
Game time.

Knows where to go. Did his research.
Walks into the lobby.
Avoids eye contact.
Glances at the welcome desk.
Gives the practiced nod.
Casual. Perfect.
No one was paying attention. Even better.
Makes his way to the elevators.
Presses up button.
Scared of getting caught.
That’s part of the fun.
Nobody stops him.
Up to the 5th floor.
The ICU.

Knows how to spot them.
The families waiting for news.
The ones without hope.
Finds a group.
An old man and two women under 30.
Easy to tell. Mother is missing.
Easy to tell. They’ve been here for days.
Easy to tell. It’s bad.
Cha-ching.
Puts on his sternest face.
He tells himself in his head: Man is a doctor.
Makes himself a coffee.
Approaches the family.

As he gets close they notice him.
They sit up at attention.
Despite their best efforts there’s hope in their eyes.
The old man speaks first:
“Yes? Is there an update on Denise Feingold?”
What a gift. Given the name.
“Yes sir. Perhaps we could find a room to talk in.”

The man leads them to a private waiting room.
Door isn’t locked.
They sit down.
They’re shaking.
So is he. He bites his lower lip.
Can’t help but smile. He lives in this moment.
He finally speaks:
“Wonderful news, Denise is going to make a full recovery.”
The family is silent. They don’t know what to say.
The air in the room lightens. The weight lifts.
The man clenches his teeth. Remember this. This is the feeling.
“But… what about the bleeding?”
“It’s stopped.”
“I thought that a full recovery wasn’t possible?”
“It’s a miracle.”
The family collapses into tears.
Happy, happy, happy.
They’ve been touched by God.
The man’s face is red.
He wants to scream with laughter.
He’s touched something.
Set him ablaze.
He’s about to burst.
“Can we see her?”
“In a few minutes. She needs her rest.”
“Of course, of course.”
He needs to get out of there. He can’t hold it in much longer.
“If you’d excuse me, I have to tell a patient they have rectal cancer.”
Too much information. Doesn’t matter. Family isn’t listening.
They’re crying. They’re hugging. They’re more relieved than they’ve ever been.
He gets up and leaves in a single motion.
They’d find that suspicious later.

He’s spilling.
He speed walks to the elevator.
He holds the down button.
He walks halfway through the lobby. Then he runs.
Up the stairs.
Starts his car.
He’s laughing uncontrollably.
He makes sure to drive responsibly in the garage.
Like a doctor.
Pays his parking.
Then he floors it. Speeds away.
He feels it.
From his fingers to his heart.
Alive, alive, alive.
He’s crying now.
The look on their faces.
He gave that.
Like he’d pants’d the veil of grief.
By now they’d be suspicious.
Soon they’d know.
They’d feel the plummet.
“Why? Who would do that?”
I would. I did.
He’s hard now.

Man saw Moneyball.
In theaters and since. Thinks about it often.
Philip Seymour Hoffman.
Underrated role.
Man is a good man, in the aggregate.
He has more than enough good.
What’s a little something for him?
Remember Dadsgiving?
He deserves.
Nothing wrong with that.
He pulls over at a gas station.
He strips off his jacket. Stuffs it in a bag. Stuffs it in another bag.
Throws it in the trunk.
Takes a nonsensical way home. Doesn’t follow his GPS.
He is ungovernable.

He’ll open the door to his children’s room when he gets home.
They sleep in the same room.
It’s not dark.
They fall asleep to soft pink stars lightly projected across the room.
They’re sleeping soundly.
They won’t wake.
He’ll smile at them from the doorway.
Nothing in his head.
He knows peace.
Released from Samsara.
He will not be reborn.