The Desert Son

This real-to-life story is a biographical paragraph of a chapter in the book that is my life. It was recently published in the annual Spring edition of the magazine Una Voce.


The Desert Son

by Jeffrey Moore

The phone rang. My parents were calling to inform me Leora
phoned trying to find me. “Holy shit,” I thought, “Leora?” Of
course my parents, and my wife Sonja, questioned who Leora was
and why she wanted so desperately to reach me. Mysteriously, she
didn’t leave a message, only her contact number. I assured them all
it was an old friend from my days in Eastern Washington. This was
true, though not totally. It was 16 years since I last heard from her.
She was a beauty college student, 16 or 17 years old, I don’t quite
remember. I was a 20-year-old disc jockey for the local country
radio station, KWIQ, “the kwiqest country on the Columbia
Basin.” However, it wasn’t quick at all, but in Moses Lake there
isn’t much that is quick. The station played slow, lonely music for
a lonely town. Leora was lonely. So was I. We briefly dated; very
briefly, long enough to know the relationship wasn’t going to last,
but long enough for her to tell me she was pregnant. The news of
the pregnancy sent shivers down my spine, and the phone call gave
me that sensation once more from her. The lonely girl was calling
and I knew why. It was seven o’clock in the morning, the spring
sun was lustrous as I stood in the shower, water cascading over my
head, thinking silently, “holy shit.”

The son we gave up for adoption, who was hidden from the
family and had never been heard of or seen, wanted to make
contact. He was tracing and researching, and had found everyone
except me. He was close and I wasn’t ready. My secret was out.
It’s the type of secret you know you shouldn’t keep, but do. What
started as shame became easy to ignore with time, until it was
finally hidden. I was 20 years old, and in my parents’ eyes had
no proven record for making the “right” decisions. Getting a girl
pregnant certainly wouldn’t change their minds. Early during her pregnancy, Leora and I decided to give him up for adoption. We were young; weren’t in love, hell we were barely friends. Armed with that, I made the decision that no one had to know. The truth is, I was avoiding judgment and feeling the pain of being a disappointment, yet again. Joshua was born on a blazingly hot summer day in August, and his birth wasn’t without complications. He was premature and had trouble breathing because his nose hadn’t fully developed. We spent the next month at Children’s Shriner Hospital in Spokane. My shift at the radio station was five o’clock at night ‘til midnight. With a tank full of gas and a bucket of coffee I would arrive in Spokane by three o’clock in the morning. This routine lasted 33 days until he was fit to be released. There would need to be more done, but he was okay.

An adoption agency in Moses Lake found Joshua a family happy to raise him. I signed the adoption papers, said goodbye and sealed my lips. Eventually, I let a few people know: my wife, my best friend, and a cousin who notarized the adoption papers. I never disclosed the adoption to my kids or parents, still not wanting to be judged for my actions, thinking by this time it was too late anyway. But, I couldn’t forget. My secret shadowed me like a heavy cloak. My own thoughts haunted me. The monkey grew stronger day after day, year after year, yet my back held strong. This continued for 16 years—until that telephone call came from my parents.

One thing was certain—it was time to confess my sins. Repent young man and be free. I knew I had to tell them, but deciding how was difficult. I felt nauseous, my mouth went dry, I felt tingling sensations up and down my arm, and I swear I could feel my balls shrivel. I picked up the phone and dialed. “Hello?” my Mom answered almost asking. “Hi, it’s me. Get Dad on the phone, we have something to talk about,” I said. The phone line made a clicking noise as my father picked up. I assumed he was sitting in his green Lazy-boy in his man room. I spoke without verifying he was on. “The thing is, when I was in Moses Lake, I got a girl pregnant, we gave him up for adoption and he wants to contact me,” I continued at almost a machine gun pace, “Leora is the mother, and how she found you before me beats the hell out of me.” I concluded with, “I know you’re pissed, and I don’t blame you. I am scared; I don’t know what to do, and I’m sorry.” Then I stopped talking. There was nothing left to say. Silence filled the phone line. No breathing sounds, no clicking, just silence. I was afraid I had killed them. Seconds felt like minutes and then astonishingly…. they thanked me. No yelling, no audible judgments, nothing more than a simple heart-felt thank you. My father finally spoke, “I’m pissed, but I’m proud you told me. I know it must have been hard.” He was right. I felt thankful it was over. The secret was no more.

The next few days were a whirlwind; the only thing I was sure of was that I would let Joshua contact me. I was available and willing, but on his terms, when he was ready. Days went by with no contact. A strange curiosity, anticipation, and fear hung over me like an old sweater, albeit an itchy one. I wasn’t completely comfortable with the developments. On some level, I didn’t want to be found; I mean, I did give him up. At the same time I was thankful, excited, scared, even remorseful—all the emotions of a man who left his son in the desert.

We were in J.C. Penney’s purchasing a new work suit for Sonja when my cell phone rang. I knew by the area code . . . it was him. Joshua was calling and I was shopping for a woman’s suit; not exactly the time or place I fantasized the first conversation with a son I didn’t know. Afraid, unsure what to say, I thought of allowing the call go to voice mail, but answered just before it did. Ironically, the call dropped leaving me laughing at myself. I explained the missed call to Sonja then left her to walk outside and call my son. Joshua and I spoke periodically from that day forward. Sometimes the calls were frequent; sometimes a month or more would pass in between. We slowly felt our way through, comfortable for awhile, then protective of our hearts. This continued only by phone or email for a little more than a year. After that year there was silence. Joshua didn’t write, the phone never rang and I obliged. It was heartbreaking to get so close then have him gone. This was my karma; my desert son left me high and dry. As difficult as it was, I made peace with the fact that I would probably never meet him; I would only have the memories of our conversations and emails.

I later learned Joshua was grounded from the computer and phone, in part for locating us. This time in our fledgling relationship was complicated. He was angry, and I was defensive, and we couldn’t see eye to eye. Leora tried to be a mother, best friend, almost a lost lover, which contrasted my analytical fatherly approach. I was Joshua’s public enemy number one. Correspondence continued to be sporadic, but finally he left me a message to call him. I didn’t recognize the phone number. Joshua didn’t seem upset or anxious, so I delayed calling him back for a couple of days. After dialing the number, the phone went to message, “This is Josh’s Dad, he called from this number, and I am returning his call. Have him call me back. I’ll be home. Thanks.” Two weeks later he returned my call, again from an unrecognizable number. He left a voice message again, “Dad, I need you to call me. I am living with a friend; my parents kicked me out.” Concerned and curious, I called the number back, but had to leave a message. After reaching Joshua, I learned how he had come into his nomadic state. Delicately, in a slow, anxious manner he spoke, explaining his parents took him out of school. “What do you mean they took you out of school,” I asked. His voice cracked, he became angry like children do when they can’t quite hold back. “They think my friends are the devil’s influence,” he answered. The devil’s influence? I knew from other calls that his parents were Russian Orthodox Christian zealots, but pulling your kid from his sophomore year of high school because of demonic friends sounded suspect. “Joshua? Why would your parents think that?” I asked. He said, “Because I am gay.”

The words hung heavy in the air. I fell silent and so did he.

Five…Four…

For a moment, the air, the noise, everything in the room felt sucked into a universal vacuum and I was a space cowboy without gravity or spurs.

Three...Two…

The world fell silent.

One.

My son, whom I’ve never met, was homeless, school-less and gay.

Three weeks later, Sonja and I drove to Moses Lake. We weren’t sure if we could or would bring Joshua home, yet somehow we knew. I saw my son for the first time in a gravel driveway that belonged to a family not his own, a bewildered boy with a life he wished to escape. The family that provided him shelter stood together on the stairs leading to the porch of their farmhouse—mother and father arm in arm. We got out of the car. He stepped closer toward us. The wind and sun enveloped us all. Everyone began to cry as Joshua and I embraced for the first time in the desert where I first left him

Apostrophe T

't
't is such a crime.
how can I can, if I can't?
Surely 't would be nicer,
but maybe it wouldn't.
And I know I should and could,
but 't tells me I shouldn't and couldn't.
Imagine all the things I could accomplish
if do was a do, and wasn't a doesn't.
What if never there was 't?
I could, and would do all the things I should,
I know I could.
even if 't says I can't.

39

So, another season has passed. I find myself staring ahead to forty, not so gracefully seeing 38 come and go. Thirty-nine now. Really? Shit. I hearken back to the time of invincibility and wonder just where the hell it went. Yes, now is the time where I still think about my penis all the time, only now instead of where it will park it shares concerns for prostate and intruding probes. Probes, that’s just a bad word. Perhaps worse is the prober. How do you tell someone, Hi…I probe for a living? That has to be a buzz kill at parties. And what’s the deal with prostate anyway, I always thought enlarging was a good thing.

One thing is for sure, I know little about aging with grace. But, if forty is the new 30, perhaps I get a re-do. Yes, another decade to lose the weight, love sincerely, expect less and give more. Maybe 39 isn't the enemy, maybe it is, but it is what it's made out to be. Preferably, probe free.

Warning: Warning labels make you stupid.

I see them everywhere. From packages on children’s toys to cigarettes, the covering of ones ass(ets) has become an expected part of the new Americana. Yes, the warning label has woven itself from the corporate cotton gin to the tattered illogical masses. I don’t suggest these sirens of public safety aren’t valid in their message, in fact I thank God that McDonald’s took the time to let me know that their cup of hot coffee was in fact, hot. I just wish Ronald could have warned me his new latte tasted just south of sweaty sock. Hot I expected; rank, mildew infested foot flavoring I did not. At the center therein lies the primary negligence of warning labels themselves. Please, I beg of you, do not warn me of the known, and logical; when I yearn for the unrealized and unknown. Here is what I would like to see.

Current warning label on most beer bottles: “…..Consumption of alcoholic beverages impairs your ability to drive a car or operate machinery, and may cause health problems.”

What warning labels on beer bottles should read: “Consumption of alcoholic beverages could lead to sprained/torn ACL, MCL, or both if dancing on barstool, top of bar, or if you’re Caucasian. This product does not contain chemicals halting babymakers from swimming upstream. Consumption of this product will make hot women hotter, average women hot, and ugly women doable. Handle with care.”

Current warning on a long handled lighter: “Do not use near fire, flames or sparks.”

What it should read: “Warning: This product just cost you $4 and may or may not work, especially in producing fire.”

Current warning in owners manual for jet ski: “Warning: Riders of personal watercraft may suffer injury due to the forceful injection of water into body cavities either by falling into the water or while mounting the craft."

What it should read: “Congratulations: Riders of personal watercraft get free enema with every purchase.”

Current warning on virtually all male enhancement pills: “In the rare event that an erection lasts longer than 4 hours, call a doctor.”

What it should read: “In the rare event that an erection lasts longer than 4 hours, call everyone you know, especially your ex turned lesbian.”

No, I don’t dare dream that the warning label syndicate will vanish any time soon. The industry of warning people will only grow stronger with every frivolous lawsuit booked into our court system.