Broken Circle

1942

“Pa, how’s music going to come out of that box?” Henry asked his father, brow furrowed. 

“Radio waves, son. Ask Mrs Leonard tomorrow in science class. Settle down now while I get this thing ready” the father warmly answered, stepping back to admire the new RCA console radio that sat proudly as the centerpiece of the living room standing four feet tall. Hands on either side of his department store slacks, oxford sleeves rolled up, doctor approved BMI, and not a hair out of place on his pomade styled head. He was proud.

“You know son,” pensively, “this is something your grandfather could only dream of. In old America, you got your stories from folklore. Fellas had to tell you tales. They could be fact, or they could be tall.”

“Boloney!” Sue bursted out, with a fast followed giggle, knowing what a tall tale meant at the tender age of six.

“And she doesn’t mean boloney . . .” Henry wryly added to his sister’s exclamation, drawing on the experience of his nine earthly years.

“You’re skating on thin ice, mister,” Henry’s mother cautioned from her lounge chair. The smell of pot roast lingered. Ma’s nightly dutiful act of love, happy to be off of her feet.

“Gosh, what I’d give to hear my pa’s old pickin’ again,” the father reflected, nostalgic of days long gone. “Him and Uncle Billy really slapped, boy I tell ya. We would sit around and clap and laugh and sing for hours. You kids best appreciate what you’re getting. Get to hear the greatest musicians this side of heaven, even after they pass. In a way, they’ll live on forever.”

Champagne pink walls. Floral accent wallpaper. Plaid curtains. An idyllic countryside farm house with a red barn painting hung on the wall. Everyone gave pause at the behest of the father, taking the moment in.

“Alright, are we ready for the future?” the father polled the room.

Sue ran to take her place on her mother’s lap. Henry Sr sat cross legged, eyes fixed on the radio. Father turned the power knob, emitting faint static. He slowly turned the dial until the room filled with FM music. The family closed their eyes and soaked in the magic of the moment. From The Carter Family to theirs:

I was standing by the window

On one cold and cloudy day

When I saw the hearse come rolling

For to carry my mother away

Will the circle be unbroken

By and by Lord, by and by

There’s a better home awaiting

In the sky Lord, in the sky

. . .

2023

Henry Sr cautiously, methodically scooted up the path, each step riskier than the previous. At this age any fall could be his last despite his relative health. His grandson, Henry Jr, suffered the ongoing inconvenience of transporting his grandfather over for dinner. Henry Jr couldn’t be bothered to help shut his grandfather’s car door, much less hold his grandfather’s elbow for the 30 foot trek to the front door. While Henry Sr’s pace was slow, Henry Jr’s waddle didn’t have much more pep. This whole thing was Henry Jrs wife’s idea, much to his chagrin. Henry Jr would rather be binge watching It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia. The standard suburban American house looked older than it was, paint beginning to chip and fade, and no telling when the last time the land was scaped. No furniture sat atop the porch. No mat reminded you of your welcome.

The Henrys entered the home, stuffy and stale. Junior didn’t announce Senior, but rather assumed his molded seat on the couch in a semi controlled act of collapse. Since he forgot to grab the remote before conceding to gravity, he had to half crunch himself forward to reach it off of the coffee table. A most belabored movement that resulted in slight wheezing. 

“Babe, I really need one of those AR headsets so that I don’t have to use this goddammed remote anymore,” Junior yelled, causing him a few more recovery pants. He could just blink twice to turn the 80” centerpiece on, or however the goggles worked.

Junior's wife emerged from the other room.

“I didn’t even know you were home. Hi, Grandpa! Oh, why are you still on your feet? Sit! Sit!” she insisted, her volume level high and excited. She sat her wine glass down as she showed Senior to the recliner chair. With much effort and eventual relief, Senior half squatted and then let himself fall into the chair. Casually scanning the room, he bore witness to artifacts of lethargy: Amazon boxes, gaming controllers thrown about, 64 oz styrofoam Big Gulp cups . . . 

“Kids! Come and say hi to Great Grandpa Senior.” Junior’s wife vino called as she continued to carry the hosting load. She knew it was futile. “Hun, can you disconnect the WiFi?”

“Jesus H Christ, I just sat down,” Junior exasperated in the most inconvenienced tone he could muster, disincentivizing his wife to request action on his part at every turn. Anger propelled him to jockey himself off of the couch and to the router. He unplugged it.

“Mom! Dad!” Ashley nasally screamed from her room. “The internet is broke!”

Junior's wifes phone buzzed with a text message from their son Derek. It read: “WTF is wrong w internet”. 

20 seconds passed before the two emerged from their dark holes, angrier than Junior.

“Living in this house is the literal worst!” Ashley, 13, seethed. “Bruh, are you serious right now?” Derek, 11, demanded. Shoulders slumped, the two refused eye contact. The number of days since either had seen direct sunlight was anyone’s guess.

Junior’s wife stepped in to negotiate, “Hey you two, if you promise to spend the next two hours in the front room with Great Grandpa, we’ll turn the WiFi back on.” The two of Generation Alpha’s finest sighed with as much exasperation as their father getting off of the couch, which was their way of agreeing to the deal. Luckily for everyone Junior was still standing, lest his rage grow and he swear to God. He reconnected the router before flopping back onto the couch.

“What’s for dinner?” Derek apathetically asked. “We’re ordering pizza, hun.” Junior’s wife responded. “Please tell me you ordered Papa John’s this time. We had Domino’s the last three times.” Derek indignantly shot back.

The conversation was interrupted by digital sound. No warning given, all in the room turned to see Ashley moving with utter, albeit unfounded, confidence in what is known as a TikTok dance. Heel taps, 90° arm movements, left facing sequence, then to the right. Mime a cow. Like thousands of others before her, Ashley performed the synthetically choreographed movements for her 15 second clip.

Moo, moo, moo, moo, moo, moo, moo, moo

Moo, moo, moo, moo, moo, moo, moo, moo

Yeah

Bitch, I'm a cow, bitch, I'm a cow

I'm not a cat, I don't say meow

Bitch, I'm a cow, bitch, I'm a cow

Bitch, I'm a cow, bitch, I'm a cow

. . .

With no moment to process just what Senior had just laid eyes upon, Derek shoved a phone into his great grandfather’s bewildered, aghast face. On the handheld screen a man was posted backwards, right hand completing the tripod, left hand in the air like he was on an 8 second ride. His hips thrusting up and down, RayBans shielding his eyes from the summer sun, snap back hat dawned in the backwards “bro” fashion. He straddled a fire hydrant, open and gushing water. Derek grunt laughing, barely able to get the words out, “Look Great Grandpa!” as the clip repeated. The room filled with an award winning Cardi B tune.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah

Yeah, you fucking with some wet ass pussy

Bring a bucket and a mop for this wet ass pussy

Give me everything you got for this wet ass pussy

. . .

No knock at the door, Junior’s wife looked at her phone and announced the arrival of the pizza. Derek was instructed to retrieve the boxes from the porch while Ashley grabbed the paper plates and Junior’s wife unfolded the TV trays. Junior came out of his comatose state as the commercial product smell danced in his nostrils.

As the family sat in silence, other than the TV, deep sadness overcame Senior. The TV voices echoed the same words espoused for decades. They claimed that people are divided. In fact, they’ve never been more divided, the talking heads said. And what were they divided by exactly? According to the projections of the TV, it was politics. It was race. It was that no one knows what a woman is. Senior surveyed the room. Junior, Junior’s wife, Ashley, and Derek’s faces were lit by the LED blue lights of their phones. They stared with no break between bites of pizza. A laugh track blasted from the TV, recorded who knew how many decades ago; the laughter of the dead. Senior came to the conclusion that he agreed that we as a people are divided, but not in the way the mockingbirds of the TV claimed. No. We’re divided by time. Never had Senior felt so alone in a room full of people. And never had he felt such a failure to this world he would soon leave behind.