THE PESO PARADOX

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

Chapter 7: The Peso Paradox

Issac’s always quasi understood but underappreciated the many ways money’s the most addictive substance known to man. It isn’t the hardest to do without, but it is the most painful to miss and the easiest to slither back to 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.

Scientists say the brain doesn’t start retaining memories until a person’s three, but for Issac, the scattering of random flashes of discorded recollections don’t have any cohesive clarity much before ten yet he’s convinced he’s not suppressing trauma even though the earliest of 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.

Issac 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 was significant in early memories but disappears completely in post-tragedy chapters. As Issac 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 Issac always accepted on faith, involve her passionate dislike for Uncle Darwin. That’s why, that night at Murphy’s when Lenny starts in with his shit about Uncle Darwin, Issac’s anger rages at the mere suggestion Lenny’s version of the Darwin story could in any way be different from the version told by his mom and constantly confirmed by Aunt Gwen as he’s growing up.

Since that night Issac’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, 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 now if on some subconscious level he hadn’t already suspected Lenny could be right.

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. That being said, the mind has a 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 Issac has of his dad and Uncle Darwin together, a memory that’s been featured so prominently throughout the years Issac’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 he turns ten, which means just a few months 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, sandwiched between what’s already known and the lesson provided as an obvious take-away, which sounds like buildup to some cinematic climax, but 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. Issac sits in the red leather chair his mom gave his dad on his first Father’s Day with the Peso Paradox on constant replay. It starts with ten-year-old Issac and his dad coming out of their apartment building on a mildly crisp early autumn day. Uncle Darwin waits beside his vintage Harley in a well-worn biker jacket and equally scuffed black biker boots. Vincent and Darwin talk for several minutes but Issac 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 which 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 is he taking a ten-year-old, and why is his dad not coming? The Harley makes no sense at all 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 Chicago, Issac 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 has the key. Deciphering the dream doesn’t get any easier from there; while Issac proudly puts on his helmet and the black biker jacket Uncle Darwin bought special for the ride, Ilene storms onto the sidewalk angry and emotional about something. Issac 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 any sense. As the sidewalk drama escalates, Darwin seems lost about what to do and at one point hands Issac an old Mexican peso while explaining to Issac how he brought it from New Mexico special to give him.

In those days, Darwin was more than just an uncle, he was a giant, a deity who Issac 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 Issac’s excitement about his impending first ever ride on a Harley motorcycle. Issac’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 Issac from whatever Vincent and Ilene are arguing about.

Freud would attribute his dream’s metaphors to the unorthodox nature of memories and the way they drift from real to metaphysical with dream-like deliberation throwing both into abstraction and at four in the morning when trying to process all of Lenny’s shit, Issac has a whole set of new questions challenging things he long ago definitively answered, which is also 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, something that on multiple occasions caused his mom to cry and led to his dad telling Darwin to go while he stays behind to calm things down.

Issac vividly remembers their moment of departure; his mom and dad completely 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, sudden braking, and the many places on the bike and his jacket where Issac can hold on. Once Darwin gets him squared way on the bike, Issac 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 Issac’s never been able to unravel what they were, in part because Harley helmets are meant to block out noise and in part because his dad and Darwin talk in hushed whispers.

To this day Issac not only hears, but feels, how it was when Darwin fires up the 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 Issac and his uncle accelerate into their adventure, Issac 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 image drifts into the distance, Issac’s overcome by the excitement of his adventure; the feel of the open air as they ride along Lake Shore Drive, the intensity of cars coming alongside 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 Issac 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. Uncle Darwin lets him drink from the aluminum canteen he pulls from the Harley’s saddle bag; it’s the same kind John Wayne wears on his hip in war movies, which is yet another thing that makes his day with Uncle Darwin fantastic. Issac remembers the way the aluminum tainted water tastes on his tongue, a sensation lost to a world of plastic bottles and stainless-steel jugs.

For what seems like hours but is really just a few minutes, Issac and his uncle watch planes approach overhead just before touch-down. Issac imagines passengers looking down, busy people with places to go and adventures to live, yet wishing they could be him, while he wishes this day never ends. Having massive planes passing a hundred feet above you never gets old, but Uncle Darwin tells him adventurers always have better places to explore, so with a second safety briefing that’s followed by further protocol instructions, Darwin helps Issac with his helmet and black biker jacket and off they go for a ride in the country. Issac can’t say how far they travel but since his memory may be a dream, time doesn’t really matter. What matters is how important his uncle makes him feel as they ride through small towns having stop signs instead of stop lights that seamlessly transition into endless country sides 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 mowed alfalfa is as easy for Issac to conjure now as the sound of bugs smacking his helmet and bouncing off his 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 memory posing as a dream.

There’s a busy truck stop at the far end of a quiet little town where Uncle Darwin pulls in. It’s a 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 its destiny. It’s an old school place where you lift the handle of the self-serve pumps to start gas flow and pay inside once done. The kind of place where the waitress wears a gold linen dress with a white apron, and heavy-soled shoes and waits to greet you with ‘hon’, saying you can sit anywhere even though she already knows you’ll take the counter.

In a promise never broken, Issac doesn’t tell anyone that Uncle Darwin lets him order chocolate milk and a trucker teaches him how to poke holes in his pancakes with a fork so syrup and butter can better soak in. He especially doesn’t tell his mom because he doesn’t want her to cry and it seems adventures that involve anything 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 restaurant wiping road dust off their leathers as they take every available seat at the counter. The biggest biker who sits next to Issac is much bigger than Uncle Darwin, so he’s a giant. His hair is rough, his beard unkempt, and Issac isn’t sure he shouldn’t be afraid. When the giant catches Issac staring at one of his forearm tattoos, he looks down at Issac as his lips tighten around monster scary tobacco-stained teeth capable of tearing flesh apart with the ease of eating syrup-soaked pancakes. The giant’s glare softens to a smile as he rolls up the sleeve on his other arm and points to a striking image of a Berber woman in a red hijab whose 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 Issac 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 Issac still struggles to fully understand but has never forgotten. “The thing is,” the giant willing shares, “if you love someone strong enough for long enough, they’ll break your heart.” The giant of a man in dusty worn leathers pauses, he stares down at Issac 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,” Issac confesses to himself in an awkwardly awakening four in the morning epiphany that emanates from his memory of sitting at the counter of a Wisconsin cafe with truckers and road-weary bikers sharing philosophies and essential life skills. A memory that could be a dream acting as a metaphor for the dysfunctional relationship he has with his Uncle Darwin. 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, Issac 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 Issac is twice bigger than a quarter, it only has half the value and somewhere in that lays a moral Issac doesn’t remember but recognizes must be essential. He remembers Uncle Darwin furthering his moral with a story Issac also doesn’t really remember, other than it having something to do with a cowboy from Colorado who rides a great mustang stallion while carrying a book of Arabian adventures that’s somehow 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 and sometimes due to events outside their control. The problem with such morals, as poignant as they might be, is that they’re wasted on ten-year-olds. The best Issac 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.

Issac still sometimes finds himself heading out of town toward Wisconsin on the next untried road hoping to again find that block-painted truck stop, in the false hope the bikers with tattoos are 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, only partially paying attention because she’s distracted by a 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 as ‘Forward’.”

Issac concurs, “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,” Issac jokes

Sara laughs. “Cause every Okee’s from Muskogee?”

“You got it sister.” Issac grins. “Not sure Packer fans 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 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.”

“Aren’t Texans required to drive trucks with gun racks on the back?” Issac teases.

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

“And you?”

“Under the seat as we speak.”

“Whoa!” Issac 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.”

Issac looks at his girlfriend in a quickly changing shade 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 but 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 shaking his head in regretful surrender, ‘It’s my fault,’ he says, ‘I’m the one who raised you to be independent and so of course you are. Since I can’t talk you out of going to that shitshow of a town, I’m at least sending you able to protect yourself.”

Issac 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 things further. “My kids will grow up riding; bikes, horses, ATVs, tractors, boats, if it has a motor, 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 Issac as she drives. “How’s your trailer-backing skills?”

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

“Nice dodge.” Sara laughs.”

“Winter’s only a few short weeks away,” Issac continues to press his pitch.

“It’s September.”

“You ain’t in Texas anymore 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 mom 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.”

“You’re the one who came to Chicago.”

“I was sent.” Sara justifies. “I interview for Four Seasons Tahiti thinking that’s why someone like me goes to culinary school; then they say okay, only they send me here. Said I need to study under Chef Mercer so I can bring Chicago flare to the islands.”

“Is Chef Mercer some kind of hotdog savant?”

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

“If you want to master Chicago flare, you need to cook with Patrick, he’s the real deal Chicago chef, a pirate who knows things. But as far as staying warm in winter, you need someone with an entirely different skill set.”

“Like you I suppose?” Sara teases.

Issac grins, “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,” Issac says with a sweet 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.”

“With a gun rack, you don’t want to forget the 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 winter.”