Medicated Absence 
James W. Davidson, Jr. 

​Junior dissected his visit to the clinic, sifted through his recollection of the dialogue, and searched for signs that the redheaded VA doctor was interested. After a decade of hardship, it was her insight that helped him get government provided treatment for hearing loss suffered as a machine gunner. Since then, he hyper-focused on their interactions. Her smiles, head leaning toward a raised shoulder, appeared laced with flirtation. Her inflection seemed adorned with desire. Her meticulous examination, the way she delicately tucked his hair behind his ear before gently inserting the test devices, must mean she deliberately prolonged the visit. Nonetheless, his truck motored north on the interstate, her essence limited to a memory.

The hearing aids Junior would receive next month proposed another opportunity to see her. Until then, he could watch his diet and workout—do some pushups and run. The forty pounds he lost last summer found their way back, and his current lack of activity accompanied a poor diet. It’s the sweets loaded with saturated fat, he figured. No, it’s the alcohol. It’s the sweets and the alcohol. He’d quit drinking and slice off some of his protruding gut. Well, except on the weekends, because after all, he did enjoy the flavor of gin mixed with tonic water’s sweetness. Just on the weekends, and he’d start workouts tomorrow. He’d lose some weight by the first weekend.

The passing exit sign indicated Junior had approximately thirty minutes until he returned to his conventional reality. He thought of phoning his wife to share his news of the hearing aids, but he didn’t want to spend thirty minutes driving and listening to her squelch in his ear. His mother’s muffled voice would ramble about recent home improvements. His father was AWOL to alcoholism.

Wind beat against the truck with a bothersome whistle prompting Junior to check the windows. Neither of them moved. 

It had been a long time since he thought of his father. Junior did not suffer from alcoholism like his father, despite his ignorant psychiatrist’s carbon checklist diagnosis. Alcoholism stole Junior’s father when he was a toddler. After finding work as an upholsterer, he didn’t return home. Following his disappearance, his father was a like a leap year, appearing once every four years for a day, substituting his fatherly responsibilities with intoxicating trips to circuses or amusement parks. Junior, on the other hand, provided for his family. 

The truck tires grumbled, and the wind still hissed. Junior opened the door pushing hard against the force of the wind and slammed it with a quick jerk. The hissing finally subsided.
The alcohol was the reason his father left, Junior surmised. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have abandoned his family, right? He must have thought a lot about Junior, because he knew better than anyone how to incite happiness within him. He gave Junior his first baseball glove at eight, his first fifty-dollar bill at twelve, and his first six-pack at sixteen. But, he always disappeared after one day. Surely he regretted leaving so suddenly. If only he could escape alcohol well enough to be the father he intended. Hell, if Junior could find him now, they’d have the best relationship. 

Junior suddenly recognized the music blaring overwhelmingly loud. He reached for the radio and spun the knob. 

Afflicted by the void his father’s absence left in him, Junior had always determined to participate in the development of his sons. However, his congested schedule included working shifts at the steel mill, playing softball on the company team, and attending management classes at the community college. When he finally had time at home, he brushed off his children’s boring stories and sidestepped their repetitive earfuls, desiring only silence and solitude. Though physically present, Junior was clearly absent from his sons emotionally. 

Junior fixated on the sorrow that he imagined infesting his sons. He tried to conceal the need to wipe guilt-induced tears from his face by turning away from passing drivers. He vowed that when the boys arrived home that evening, he would put away his interests and focus entirely on them. They would all play Trouble. It was the boys’ favorite game. They giggled wildly when the plastic bubble popped and the dice jumped witlessly. 

By the time the front door’s squeaky hinges announced his family, Junior was rooted in his recliner fully absorbed in a baseball game, his self-reflection as much a memory as the redheaded VA doctor. The boys raced toward him hoping for affection. Trip’s backpack, loaded with a sixth grade library, thudded on the floor. He planted a slobbery kiss on Junior’s cheek. Junior used the wet mess as justification to nudge Trip away. 

“Why do you always lick your damn lips right before you kiss me?” Junior asked.
“I’m sorry,” Trip replied. He lowered his head and slid away with collapsed shoulders.
Grant presented a family portrait in crayon stick figures. The adorable kindergarten smile that lit up his proud face temporarily jolted Junior’s heart. He looked at the picture and feigned interest before compensating Grant with a tight hug. Grant locked his arms and refused to release Junior’s neck, forcing him to shout to free himself from restraint. 

“God damn it, you know I have a bad back. Stop pulling on my neck!”
 
Grant walked away and started crying. 

Junior’s wife, Kristen, whisked through the room without greeting and dropped shopping bags on the kitchen counter. It sounded more like she lifted them as high as she could reach then slammed them on the counter. As Junior tried to refocus his angry mind on the game, cabinet doors banged, dishes clanked, silverware clinked, and water spattered against the metal sink endlessly. She knew the noise overwhelmed him, he thought. She deliberately slams everything to piss him off. The noises colluded with the neglected boys’ laughter and popping of the plastic bubble, followed by numerous thumps of plastic against cardboard. The dog barked to go outside, and the cats’ paws rumbled as they chased each other upstairs. Junior increased the volume of the television, but even it joined the fight against his crippled ears. 

After covering his ears for a few minutes, Junior finally conceded and asked about Kristen’s day. The dishwasher door cla-pumped, the water silenced, and her heels clopped across the laminate floor. She flumped in the empty recliner next to Junior. From her first word, he regretted his solicitation. As if subdued in a church pew, he peeked intermittently at the baseball game, which swayed on the television screen like an erotic island dancer. Junior’s shoulders and chest tightened. A tingling radiated in his forearms, and he couldn’t stop wriggling his toes. He took a sip of his water and was instantly disappointed. 
​
The first gin and tonic slid down so stealthily that Junior hardly noticed he was draining his third. Every swallow displaced more shame of his failure to fulfill his plans. The gin paralyzed his frustration as he rejected Kristen’s relentless chatter and recalled the flirtatious, redheaded VA doctor. Soon the chaos of sound that echoed around him dulled to a more tolerable commotion. Perhaps he wouldn’t lessen his gut in a month, he supposed, as he returned to the recliner with his fourth drink. But, the redhead was already attracted to him. So was that shy, blonde clerk who fumbled his bottles of tonic water that afternoon when he stopped to restock. They were just for the weekend, but it was good to have surplus, just in case. Besides, the VA doctor said the hearing aids would improve his quality of life, would help distinguish the sounds, and they were just one month away.

About the Author:
James W. Davidson, Jr. is a Creative Writing and Philosophy major at Winthrop University in Rock Hill, SC. He graduated from Corporate America in December 2015 and plans to pursue a career in teaching

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