Free Time to Go by Stephen Dixon Page A

Two, though he only ran a pharmacy at an Arizona base.” “How would you describe your relationship with your father other than what you checked off on the test?” and he said “Close, or somewhat, though he was much older than most fathers of boys my age when I was growing up, which might explain some things, But I really didn’t know how close I was to him till after he died. Don’t misunderstand me. What I mean is I didn’t know how much I loved and missed him till after he died, Before that, like I suppose most boys and young men to their fathers, you just take the relationship and his presence for granted and never think he’s going to die.” “What would you say if I told you that I think for the present time you and the army are incompatible?” and he said “No we’re not. If you think we are, then you’re dead wrong and you should send me to someone else here to examine me—anyone you want, I don’t care—because I’m just nervous now in front of you, that’s the way I always get with tests and then when I try to explain why I didn’t do well on them.” “No, perhaps in a year from now the army will send you another draft notice; but for now you’ll have to be temporarily deferred,” and he said “My family’s not going to like it, I don’t like it, and I insist you let me see another psychiatrist, because I don’t see how anyone person by himself can make such an important and maybe career threatening decision on someone else.” His brothers all said he was wrong to pretend he was disturbed and he said “I just didn’t want to clean out any stove grease with my bare hands, which I hear some country sergeant always makes the city boy do, or train with live bullets over my head or even hold a loaded gun,” and they said he could have avoided the training and sadistic sergeant and guns by using the same intelligence and cunning he used to get out of the army and he said “Maybe, but at the time it seemed the only solution and now it’s too late. Maybe I’ll be called up in a year as the doctor said,” but he never was.
    Two men tried to rob him on the street. He went crazy, screamed “You can’t do this to me or anyone else in this neighborhood,” and started to swing wildly and one went down and stayed down after his knife flew into the street and he ran after the second one, caught him and picked him up and threw him through a store window and then punched and kicked him till the man said “Please, I give up, get a rag for my neck,” and held them both on the ground till the police came. The newspapers wrote about it the next day. “Male dancer beats up toughs,” the headline of one article said.
    â€œI have to stop teaching,” he told his wife. “I know we need the money and health insurance but I can’t take another week of it no matter how good the kids might be some days.” She said “Just stick in there, you’re only going through a bad period in your work, and in ten years you can retire at half pay and still be young enough to do what the hell you want for the rest of your life and with never a complaint about it from me.” “Maybe I can take up painting now,” he said, “or classical piano playing. Creativeness runs in my family, or did.”
    His dead brother has showed up in his dreams about once a month for the last five years. Usually he was guiding or lecturing him. “You’re not loving enough to your wife…You don’t pay enough attention to your daughters…Be more tolerant of mom, she’s getting old…Go back to choreography if you can’t think of anything else—you never really gave yourself a chance.” “How is it where you are?” he asked the last time and his brother said “Don’t get nervous about it—it’s fine for everyone,