THE PESO PARADOX

From the R.M. Dolin novel, “AN UNSUSTAINABLE LIFE – The Book of Isaac”

Chapter 7: The Peso Paradox

Isaac has always understood but under-appreciated the many ways money’s the most addictive substance known to man. It isn’t the hardest to do without but is the most painful to miss and the easiest to be seduced by when it constantly calls. Money drives decisions, influences behaviors, and causes people to forgo things they love, including love. No one escapes its destruction, but some manage the desired dementia better than others. In the same obtuse ways, childhoods are hard on memories because they exist in a reference frame lacking context and replays become micro-bursts of six-word short stories on constant rewind.

Scientists say the brain doesn’t start retaining memories until a person’s three. For Isaac, the scattering of random flashes of discorded recollections lacking cohesive clarity cover most of his time before ten. He’s convinced he’s not suppressing trauma even though the earliest comprehensible memories are filled with drama. In his large inventory of stories cataloged as memories, the main caricatures are fixed. There’s his dad coming home in a suit or relaxing at an afternoon matinée at Wriggly with Uncle Darwin. His mom in the kitchen baking or at the park with Aunt Gwen talking on a bench while he explores his world. There are times at the dinner table, most with the melody of laughter but others with a tension he’s never been able to define and avoids devoting bandwidth to deciphering.

Isaac doesn’t recall time spent with Aunt Gwen in those early years even though she maintains a prominent role in the aftermath of his dad’s death. It’s the opposite for Uncle Darwin, he’s significant in early memories but disappears completely in post-tragedy chapters. As Isaac grows older, he’s necessarily influenced by his mom’s increasing bitterness cast as ever-deepening shadows of darkness that for reasons never making sense, but Isaac’s always accepted on faith, involve her passionate dislike for Uncle Darwin. That’s why, that night at Murphy’s when Lenny starts his shit about Darwin, Isaac’s anger rages at the mere suggestion Lenny’s version of the Darwin story could in any way be conflict with the version told by his mom and constantly confirmed by Aunt Gwen.

Since Lenny’s reveal, Isaac’s been replaying his past through evolving filters as he tentatively allows himself to explore the possibility that Lenny could be right. It’s why he’s awake now, at four in the morning, alone in his empty apartment examining his mind’s damaged disk-drives for clues and evidence of who to believe. His only conclusion so far is that he wouldn’t be having this conversation with himself, if on some subconscious level he hadn’t already decided his highly influenced version is suspect.

The challenge in sorting through early memories lacking context is they also lack a logical filing system based on time, location, or even importance. It’s like they’re swimming in a cesspool of confusion where access to any given memory is akin to bobbing for apples. The mind has its way of ensuring some memories are more accessible than others and the memory bobbing to the surface this morning, is one of the last memories Isaac has of his dad and Uncle Darwin together. A memory that’s been featured so prominently throughout the years Isaac’s dubbed it the “The Peso Paradox.”

It’s never been easy to reconcile his version of this memory with the known timeline of his life, best estimate is it’s from the summer when he turns ten, which means just a few weeks before his dad dies. Like most six-word short stories cast as memories, this one doesn’t have a beginning or an end, just the in between. Something that gets sandwiched between what’s already known and the lesson provided as obvious takeaways. While this may sound like buildup to some cinematic climax, this is not that kind of story. Rather, it’s more like the ‘Deus ex Machina’, from a Baroque opera. A moral cast as a divine message. Isaac sits in the red leather chair his mom gave his dad on his first Father’s Day with the Peso he always carries in his pocket weighing heavily in his hand.

This saga posing as a memory starts with ten-year-old Isaac and his dad coming out of their apartment building on a mildly crisp early autumn day with wind blowing leaves in the same swirling way fate stirs chaos. Uncle Darwin waits beside his vintage Harley in a well-worn biker jacket, equally scuffed black biker boots, and stained leather chaps. Vincent and Darwin talk for several minutes but Isaac can’t make out what they’re saying other than Vincent needing a few hours alone with Ilene, so Darwin should take his time.

The challenge with memories lacking context is the random elements that can appear that are so illogical you question whether they’re part of the memory or some abstraction that’s been edited in to explain something deeper. It leaves you questioning what, if anything, can be relied on as factual. Case in point, in the memory of that morning outside his apartment with his dad and uncle, why does Uncle Darwin have a Harley? Where’s he taking a ten-year-old? Why is his dad not coming? The Harley makes no sense because Uncle Darwin lives in New Mexico and no one’s foolish enough to ride a Harley from there all the way to Chicago when airplanes are not only faster and more convenient but more reliable. Until Lenny started his shit about how he loans Darwin a bike from his shop whenever Darwin visits, Isaac’s always assumed Darwin rented the bike but even that makes no sense.

While that abstraction appears to be resolved thanks to Lenny, why his dad needs to be alone with his mom remains a mystery even though it seems Lenny might also have that key. Deciphering the dream doesn’t get any easier from there. While Isaac proudly puts on his helmet and the black biker jacket Uncle Darwin bought special for their ride, Ilene storms onto the sidewalk angry and emotional about something. Isaac doesn’t know why his mom’s yelling at his dad who’s doing his best to defuse the tension as Darwin shields him with a distraction that becomes another one of those abstractions not making sense. As the sidewalk drama escalates, Darwin seems lost about what to do and at one point hands Isaac an old Mexican peso while explaining to him how he brought it from New Mexico.

In those days, Darwin was more than just an uncle, he was a giant. A deity who Isaac admired with unwavering awe. Darwin was someone who everyone has in their life who’s interesting, exciting, entertaining, and who you would go anywhere with and do anything for, just to spend time together. It’s why the drama on the sidewalk, as Darwin explains the peso, is somewhat secondary to Isaac’s excitement about his impending first ever ride on a Harley motorcycle. Isaac’s never been sure if his new helmet and black biker jacket have metaphysical significance, but suspects, if Freud were to analyze his dream masquerading as a memory, he’d say they represent Darwin’s efforts to protect Isaac from whatever Vincent and Ilene are arguing about.

Freud would likely attribute these metaphors to the unorthodox nature of memories and the way they drift from real to metaphysical with dream-like deliberation throwing both into abstraction. At four in the morning when trying to process all of Lenny’s shit, Isaac has a whole set of new questions challenging things he long ago definitively answered. This is why Uncle Darwin’s peso is such a paradox. In his growing array of recall uncertainty, some things remain concrete, like Uncle Darwin always having something exciting going on. Things that on multiple occasions cause his mom to cry and lead his dad to tell Darwin to go while he stays behind to calm things down.

Isaac vividly remembers their moment of departure. His mom and dad immersed in their sidewalk conflict, Uncle Darwin running through his pre-ride safety briefing with detailed instructions on riding protocols. Things like the proper way to mount and dismount a Harley, how to lean into curves, what to expect during accelerations and sudden braking, and the many places on the bike and his jacket where Isaac can hold on. Once Darwin gets him squared way, Isaac remembers his dad leaving his mom on the sidewalk with her drama while he calmly walks over to reassure him of the fun he’ll have while reminding Darwin not to come back early. A few more things get said between his dad and Darwin, but Isaac’s never been able to unravel what they were. In part because Harley helmets are meant to block out noise and because his dad and Darwin talk in hushed whispers.

To this day Isaac not only hears, but feels, how it was when Darwin fires up his Harley. The roar of the massive engine beneath him coming to life. How each flick of his uncle’s wrist causes the rattle of the tail pipes to vibrate so hard with a sound so shattering it seems they’re on a rocket ship about to blast off. The presence of a Harley firing up is so commanding even sidewalk drama is compelled to pause. As Isaac and his uncle accelerate into their adventure, Isaac looks back to the scene on the sidewalk. His mom crying. His dad doing his best to console her while keeping her from running after him. As their shrinking images drift into the distance, Isaac’s overcome by the excitement of his adventure. The feel of the open air as they ride along Lake Shore Drive combines with the intensity of cars coming along both sides as they fly down the Dan Ryan and over to the Kennedy Expressway on their way to O’Hare. For a first-time Harley rider, these are things Isaac has never before experienced in such a tactile way. He remembers Uncle Darwin finding a spot by the end of the runway at O’Hare to watch planes land. They drink water from the aluminum canteen Uncle Darwin pulls from the Harley’s saddle bag. It’s the same kind of canteen John Wayne wears on his hip in war movies, which is yet another thing that makes his day with Uncle Darwin fantastic. Isaac can still taste the tainted aluminum water on his tongue; a sensation lost to a world of plastic bottles and stainless-steel jugs.

For what seems like hours but couldn’t be more than minutes, Isaac and his uncle watch planes approach overhead moments before touch-down. Isaac imagines passengers looking down, busy people with places to go and adventures to live yet wishing they could be him as much as he wishes this day never ends. Massive planes passing a hundred feet above with engines as loud and powerful as a Harley is something that never gets old, but Uncle Darwin tells him adventurers always have the next new place to explore. With a second safety briefing that’s followed by further protocol instructions, Darwin helps Isaac with his helmet and black biker jacket and off they go for their ride in the country.

Isaac can’t say where they go or how far they travel but since his memory may be a dream, time isn’t linear. What matters is Uncle Darwin makes him feel important. They ride through small towns with stop signs that meter carefully curated rows of houses, each an oasis of well-maintained lawns along tree-lined streets that transition to endless countryside alive with roaming livestock and neatly laid fields of corn so tall if you step inside, you’ll be swallowed up and never come out. The fragrant smell of freshly cut alfalfa is as easy for Isaac to conjure now as the sound of bugs smacking his helmet and bouncing off his black biker jacket. He’s never forgotten the difference between riding in a car and living on a motorcycle, and wonders at four in the morning with Lenny-laced words refusing to rest, if Uncle Darwin’s Harley is yet another metaphor in his dream posing as a memory.

There’s a busy truck stop at the undisputed edge of carefully mowed grass yielding to well-managed alfalfa where Uncle Darwin pulls in. It’s the kind of place with a gravel parking lot large enough to allow big rig trucks to park side-by-side like a carnival caravan waiting to rediscover destiny. It’s an old school place constructed from painted cinder block where you lift the handle of the self-serve pumps to start gas flow before paying inside. A place with mechanic stalls bustling with men in gray pinstripe overalls on one side and a no-nonsense diner on the other where waitresses wear gold linen dresses with white aprons and heavy-soled shoes. They wait to greet you with ‘hon’, saying you can sit anywhere even though they already know you’ll take the counter.

In a promise never broken, Isaac doesn’t tell anyone that Uncle Darwin lets him order chocolate milk and a trucker teaches him how to poke holes in pancakes with his fork so syrup and butter can better soak in. He especially doesn’t tell his mom because he doesn’t want her to cry. It seems adventures that involve things as wild as sitting at the counter of a truck stop being taught necessary life skills by caravan drivers always end in tears.

He never mentions the men on motorcycles who quietly come into the diner wiping road dust off their leathers as they take every available seat at the counter. The biggest biker sits next to Isaac. He’s much bigger than Uncle Darwin, so a giant among giants. His hair is rough, his beard unkempt, and Isaac isn’t sure he shouldn’t be afraid. When the giant catches Isaac looking at one of his forearm tattoos, he stares down at the little kid in his black biker jacket. His lips tighten around monster scary tobacco-stained teeth capable of tearing flesh apart with the ease of eating syrup-soaked pancakes. When the intensity of this giant who could kill saber-tooth tigers with his bare hands is about to pounce, his glare softens to a smile. He rolls up the sleeve on his other monster arm and points to a striking image of a Berber woman in a red hijab. Her hidden face reveals seductively shaped almond eyes of limestone green highlighted by mysterious indigo shadows made more pronounced by long black lashes and reflectively sad tears puddling in the corners.

“This one’s my favorite,” the giant confesses in a lonesome way unknown to the Isaac but unmistakable to every man at the counter. “It’s to remind me of the woman who broke my heart.” He lowers his head to share an essential secret Isaac still struggles to fully understand but has never forgotten. “The thing is,” the giant woefully shares, “if you love someone strong enough for long enough, they’ll break your heart.” The giant of a man in dusty worn leather pauses, he stares down at Isaac in a deeply piercing way that penetrates his young soul and continues, “just because they don’t love you though, don’t mean you don’t love them. . .and maybe if you’re lucky, you’re able to convince yourself they once did. . .and maybe still do.”

“And there it is,” Isaac confesses to himself in an awkwardly awakening four in the morning epiphany that emanates from his father’s favorite red chair. His memory of sitting at the counter of a Wisconsin café with truckers and road-weary bikers mentoring a boy on the philosophies of life and essential survival skills regaining clarity. A memory that could be a dream acting as a metaphor for the dysfunctional relationship he has with his uncle. A dysfunction marked by an unmappable series of waypoints and mile markers highlighting how he came to arrive at this moment. Like a maestro choreographing the sympathy of his life, Isaac realizes Lenny wasn’t talking shit that night at Murphy’s when buttons got pushed and tempers ignited. Lenny’s version of why Uncle Darwin disappeared from his life really is how it really did, probably go down.

The paradox of the peso now makes sense because as they’re leaving the truck stop, Uncle Darwin explains how even though the peso he gave Isaac is twice as big as a quarter, it only has half the value. Somewhere in that lays a moral Isaac doesn’t remember but recognizes must be essential. He remembers Uncle Darwin extending his moral, with a story Isaac also doesn’t really remember. It has something to do with a cowboy from Colorado who rides a great mustang stallion while carrying a book of Arabian adventures. Somehow that’s tied to Uncle Darwin’s message about the many ways when money is valued for more than it’s worth it leads good people to make bad decisions. Sometimes directly his uncle warns, and other times due to events outside one’s control. The problem with such morals, as poignant as they might be, is they’re wasted on ten-year-olds. The best Isaac could do then, and still do now, is fail at understanding the meaning behind a cowboy with horses who loses everything he loves all at once. Not because of anything he’s done, but because no matter how still you are, the world rushes around you the same way wind presses past your face as you ride a rocket engine down a country road with bugs smashing against your helmet and bouncing off your black biker jacket.

Isaac still finds himself sometimes heading out of town toward Wisconsin on the next untried road hoping to again find that painted cinder block truck stop in the false hope the bikers with tattoos are still there, so they can tell him if he’s correctly deciphered the Peso Paradox. Try as he might though, he’s never found the truck stop, the bikers with the wild tattoos, or the meaning of the moral Uncle Darwin tried to teach. Today though, he at least draws comfort from the fact that as he explains his early morning epiphany, Sara gets it.

“Why do you think your mom was crying?” Sara asks. She’s only partially paying attention because she’s distracted by a large road sign that reads Welcome to Wisconsin. The Badger State. Forward. “Imagine,” she laughs as they fly by, “the conversations that must have gone on coming up with a slogan as stupid and meaningless as ‘Forward’.”

Issac is glad Sara follows the first question with a second. He chooses to answer the second to avoid addressing the first. “One comes to expect that level of stupidity from a state that brought us the Green Bay Packers.”

“Every state has their minions,” Sara laughs. “In Texas we got the Okies.”

“They at least know where they’re from.”

“Cause every Okee’s from Muskogee?”

“You got it sister. I’m not sure Packer fans even know their way home, but back to your question. No, I don’t know why mom was crying. The obvious thing would be she’s scared for my safety. A ten-year-old on a Harley in a city filled with crazy-ass drivers is enough to blow any mom’s mind. Imagine my uncle trying that shit today, child services would have is ass in jail before his tailpipes cooled.”

“Not in Texas,” Sara proudly states. “We grow our kids strong and tough. They’re riding dirt bikes and ATVs on their own by ten. Riding around on the back of a Harley isn’t odd either because a lot of guys own bikes instead of cars so it’s the only way to move their kids around.”

“Isn’t there some sort of law in Texas requiring everyone to drive trucks with gun racks on the back?”

“Not if they’re packing heat, which pretty much is everyone.”

“And you?”

“Under the seat as we speak.”

“Whoa!” Isaac says in shock. “A little context here!” He considers the implications. “I’m pretty certain that’s not legal in ‘The Land of Lincoln’.”

“Then good thing we’re not in Illinois. Besides, I got conceal carry.”

Isaac looks at his girlfriend in quickly changing shades of light. “You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?”

“When I told dad I was moving to Chicago, he obviously tried talking me out of it. I explained to him that if I’m gonna have a career as a chef it will require frequent moves and Chicago does have a certain culinary flare a chef needs to learn. I remember him sitting in his courtyard chair with his end of day whiskey shaking his head in regretful surrender, ‘It’s my fault I suppose,’ he says, ‘I’m the one who raised you to be independent, so of course you are. Since I can’t talk you out of going to that shit show of a town, I’m at least sending you able to protect yourself.”

Isaac looks at his Four Seasons chef in disbelief. “Who are you?”

“Travel light and unafraid, that’s my motto.” Sara laughs. “Maybe Wisconsin can use that on the back of their welcome sign for citizens leaving the homeland to enter Illinois.” She considers her marketing message further. “My kids will grow up riding. Bikes, horses, ATVs, tractors, boats, if it’s got a motor or walks on four legs, they’ll master it by ten. And,” she confidently adds. “They’ll know how to drive a stick.”

“They don’t even make sticks anymore, do they?”

“Mama says don’t date men who can’t drive sticks – or back up a trailer.” Sara grins at Isaac as she drives. “How’s your trailer-backing skills?”

“Oh look!” Isaac excitedly shouts. “An outlet mall, you’re gonna wanna stop.”

“Nice dodge.”

“Winter’s just a few short weeks away.”

“It’s September.”

“You ain’t in Texas anymore sister and when winter winds start blowing off the lake you’re gonna experience a cold even hell couldn’t conjure. Not walk-in freezer cold. I’m talking the kind that slices through you like a knife cutting water, and it goes straight to the bone. You haven’t experienced cold until you get a taste of bone-chilling cold. What your momma should have taught you was to find a man smart enough to come in out of the cold.”

“Or better yet,” Sara quickly counters. “One smart enough to not live where it’s cold in the first place.”

“You’re the one who came to Chicago.”

“I was sent.” Sara contemplates how much of her well-practiced justification she needs to retread. “I interview for Four Seasons Tahiti because that’s why someone like me goes to culinary school. I get the job only they send me here. Said I need to study under Chef Mercer so I can bring Chicago flare to the tropics.”

“Is he some kind of mustard hot dog savant?”

“There’s way more to Windy City cuisine than mustard hot dogs.”

“Of course, there’s Italian beef sandwiches and Polish pierogies but if you want to master Chicago flare, you need to cook with Patrick, he’s the real deal Chicago chef. He’s a pirate, a pirate who knows things. Have you ever worked with a pirate chef? These guys cook for amazing private events. Big money from people with plenty to burn. He’s got a Sous Chef named Santi, not sure what their deal is, but they work at Murphy’s in exchange for getting to use his kitchen for their pirate gigs. Kind of a win-win way for chefs to operate.”

“I’ve never done pirate cooking but always thought it would be fascinating. Four Seasons operates off a more formal business model. They hate pirate chefs who work without a license. For them it’s proof that what they say about Chicago corruption is true. I personally think pirate chefs are my industry’s version of a struggling artist painting in a one room loft. That’s where real art and innovation get created. But, according to you, they still gotta figure out a way to keep warm in winter.”

“That’s why you need someone with an entirely different skill set than your West Texas boys.”

“Like you I suppose?”

“I’m just saying.”

“Alright mister survivor, what if you have to back up a trailer that’s connected to a truck with a stick before you can come in out of the cold?”

“Then baby,” Isaac says with a sweetly seductive smile. “You’ll have to get naked under my blanket so we can use body heat to survive.”

Sara laughs. “I think mama would approve of you, even if I do have to save your ass in a gun fight and drive the getaway truck.”

“Pulling a trailer with a gun rack. You don’t want to leave out the trailer and gun rack or your story lacks that necessary Texas twang.”

“That is true, but now I gotta stop at this stupid outlet mall on account of ya got me all worried about not having a coat for winter.”