It's all train station to me

Drums. Drums, Michael says, fingers playing strings in the air. Hands shaking. Hands always shaking. Not like this, he says. Carrie, he says. 

Dad, says Alex, Dad, I have no idea what you’re talking about. 

Michael, not Mike, never Mike, sometimes Dad, laughs. Shakes his head. 

Alex sighs. Try again, he says. Come on, Dad, try again. Michael looks at him. Closes his eyes. Plugs his ears with his fingers. Fine, Alex says. Fine, have it your way. I was just trying to help. 

Maybe, Alex thinks, maybe a better son would know. He was always the one, wasn’t he, the only one who understood him, who could translate Dad speak into human speak, back when Alex had a Dad who taught him how to cook and who cut up bowls of fruit for him when he was sad.

Dad, remember this joke? he asks. Taps Michael’s arm. He opens his eyes. Tilts his head. The fruit salad joke, Alex says. The one I used to make Opa tell at every gathering. Multiple times in one evening, sometimes. 

No idea, Michael says. Tell me, he says. Alex takes a deep breath.

So, I’m on the train. Watching the guy in the seat across the aisle. He opens his bag. Takes out a bowl, a banana. Apple, orange, kiwi, you get it. Knife and cutting board. Peels and cuts it all into bite size pieces, peels go in the trash, you know, those little metal containers right under that thing that can’t really be called a table. Fruit goes in the bowl. Bowl fills up. He opens the window, picks up the bowl and chucks out the fruit. Just like that, it’s gone. He opens his bag. Another banana, another kiwi. Fruit goes in the bowl, trash goes in the bin. Fruit goes out the window. I watch him do this a few times. Finally I ask him, man, what are you doing? He looks at me. I’m making fruit salad, he says. Can’t you see that? Right, I say. Okay, but why are you throwing it out the window? He rolls his eyes. Well, I don’t like fruit salad, he says.

Michael’s eyes are still open. And, he says. And what, says Alex. Tell me the joke, says Michael. You said you would tell me a joke. 

Okay, Dad. Here’s one.

There are three kinds of mathematicians. Those who can count and those who can’t.

Tell me a joke, Michael says. I want to hear a joke.

A guy is at a job interview. Gets asked, what is your best quality? Well, I’m really good at noticing things in hindsight, he says. That’s not very useful, the interviewer says. Yes, I can see that now, the man replies.

Dad, remember the one with the numbers? In prison? The numbered jokes? Dad, don’t you remember how we went through and numbered all of our jokes, how we spent a day shouting numbers across the house and laughing?

Are we eating soon? Michael asks. Yeah, Alex says. Mom’s in the kitchen. Oma and Opa are coming over soon. We’ll try and get Dan to call, too. We’re having potatoes. Potatoes and cheese. Like every year. 

Every year, yeah, Michael says. Every year, Alex says. Let’s eat, Michael says. Yeah, Dad. In a moment. Soon. 

Carrie, that’s it, Michael says. Snaps his fingers. Carrie. Look up Carrie. 

You said that already, Dad. Michael is nodding. Carrie. Carrie and drums. That’s it. Carrie. Drums. 

Okay, Dad, Alex says. Okay, fine. Here. I’m looking it up. Carrie Underwood, Dad? Is that what you mean? 

Yeah. Yeah, that’s it. Carrie watchyoumacallit. 

Underwood, Dad. 

Yeah. Yeah, that. 

Good, Alex says. Which song, Dad? One where she played the drums? Michael grunts. Dad, help me out here. Look. Carrie Underwood, playing the drums. Happy? 

No, says Michael. 

Okay, Dad. We’re gonna eat soon. I’ll help you later, okay? Let’s eat now. 

What are we having? Michael asks. Cheese and potatoes. Like every year. 

Every year, yeah. 

Yeah, Dad. Every year. The cheese in the pans that you can only touch with the special scraper and we say that every year and every year Opa uses a knife anyway and one time you almost burned your hand so we pour cheese onto your plate for you now and the dates wrapped in bacon, remember those, Dad? You love those. The chicken skewers with the peanut sauce?Dad, remember the snack you used to make us? Celery stalks with cream cheese in the cavity and smoked paprika sprinkled on top. Dad, remember the day you forgot and introduced it to me as something new? Dad, don’t you remember how I cried? 

Hey, Dad. Come, let’s go to the table.

Michael shakes his head. Carrie, he says. Dad, jeez, leave it already, Alex says. I don’t know what you want. Look, it’s Christmas. Can you please not ruin this year? Just this one year. Please.

I never ruin anything, Michael says. Sure, Dad. Sure.

There’s this musical I loved for a while, Alex says. It’s based on a memoir by a woman who’s father killed himself. There’s this song, this opening number, it makes me cry ugly tears every time. It’s about connection, Dad. Can I play it for you?No, Michael says. No, I’m good.

Right, Dad. Okay.

Different drum, Michael says. Different drum. Look that one up.

Alex sighs. This one, Dad? Carrie Underwood performing Different Drum? Rock and Roll Hall of Fame?

Yeah, Michael says. Yeah. That’s the one.

Okay, Dad. Here, I’ll play it for you. Look here, you can watch it. I’ll go see if the food is ready now, okay? You can watch this.

There’s cheese, later. Cheese and potatoes and spilled wine and Dan calls from Texas and Michael cleans up his plate with his fingers and says that was excellent and they all laugh and say you say that about everything. It’s all excellent, Michael says. All of it. What was that song? The song I liked.

Different Drum, Dad? Carrie Underwood?

Yeah, yeah. That’s the one.

Here, Dad. You can watch it again.

Alex is twenty-two. Alex is eighty-nine. Michael is a collection of memories collecting memories. Dad, Alex thinks. Dad, don’t you remember? And sometimes, the Michael in his head says yes.