fishrunner
On a cold, grey Saturday morning in Boston, James Phifer, Sr., parked in a quiet alley off of Bay State road, softly snoozed behind the wheel. Yet even in sleep, he managed to wake me. Not him directly, but one of the six missed calls from my mother – his youngest.
James, you must know, preferred to travel at night. He would say he moved swiftly and more efficiently on dark roads, that he enjoyed the solitude. This particular morning, he and I had a 7 a.m. rendezvous scheduled.
Michael, be sure you’re awake. You know he drives overnight and I don’t want him to be stuck outside your house. You hear me?
I know how he is mom, everything will be fine, I said reassuringly.
Even then, we both underestimated him.
Sometime before that grey Saturday, I had reached out to Grandpa James (as I called him) to get some help making my graduate student living quarters a bit more home-like.
Helloo.
Grandpa? This is Mike.
Haha..Miike. How’s it going guy? You alright?
Yea, Grandpa. Everything’s good by me. I’m living in Boston now, finishing some school here.
Yea, yea that’s riight. Mhmm.
I could use some help getting settled in up here actually, do you think you’d have anytime for a visit?
I ran through the living situation with him. He listened intently, getting clarification at a few points, nodding his understanding through the phone.
Ok now, so let me get this straight here. You’ve got a new room, you won’t be there for more than a few months, but you need to get a few things in to help it feel like home. You need some shelves and some organizational help et cetera.
Yea, Mike I’ll tell you what I’ll do, he said trailing off into a few ideas he had.
So, before his winter pilgrimage to Florida, James, Sr. arrived in Boston at 4:45 a.m., drove to my home, called my mother to let her know he arrived and went to sleep in his trusted Rav 4. We were scheduled for 07:00 a.m. of course, so he figured he’d let his eldest grandson grab a bit more sleep. That call to my mother, however, defeated my synchronized alarm schedule and at 06:45 a.m., armed with an executioner’s eye and a blue cooler, he found himself surveying each floor of a Boston brownstone, ex-fraternity house.
In the basement kitchen he ran a finger along the stainless steel prep tables. He nodded in silent approval as he looked from corner to corner of the shared living room, thumbed through an open book in the second floor library and finally, ascended to my quarters on the fourth and final floor.
Breath held, I opened the door and let him in. I backed away and let James have his space. My plan was to roll with anything he suggested and help if possible.
Mh-hm-hm-hmmmm, he hummed as he paced each square foot. Dropping to a knee he glanced up and inside the fireplace. Pausing for a moment, he stood in front of the bay window, hands on his hips and soaked in the Charles River. Droplets of water raced across the window, colliding with one another as a slight drizzle hit the glass. His gaze remained fixed, however, on the waters, running brown and fast from the rain.
Once he was done imagining himself pulling all manner of fresh water fish out of that great river, he turned back to me and presented his verdict.
Well Mike, let me tell you, he started.
I think you’ve got some great things here. I like this small kitchenette area you’ve got set up in this corner. Mhm. This bay window area can be a great place to sit, he said opening his hands wide so that each hand pointed to a window edge.
We put a table here, you come sit have a meal. Then you don’t have to go all the way downstairs to that kitchen.
James, Sr. even as my grandfather, at times, felt like a stranger to me. On this day though we felt like a team. James, playing the role of veteran quarterback, diagrammed play after play for us to run that day. I took on the small work: holding screws, carrying lumber, sweeping, vacuuming, hauling trash and folding clothes. Meanwhile, James carried us: screwing in crown moulding, re-leveling the elevated bay window area, installing curtain rods and hanging shelves.
At noon, he checked his watch. The game nearly won, we took a break.
James grabbed two cold eight ounce Budweiser’s and a pair of frozen chicken pot pies out of the blue cooler doubling as his attaché. Sitting on the edge of the bay window seat, we pulled up new TV trays, cracked open our cans and began slowly eating our microwaved pies.
Ahh, he said out loud, smacking his lips with the first sip of beer. Rotating the can in his hands, he read the label as if for the first time. Sipping from the miniature red and white cans we began to speak about his time as a father, boxer, cook, soldier and husband. We spoke about the mistakes that men make. We spoke about how to live the right way.
Then our pies were done and our cans were empty.
Ahhh..mhhm, he said while gently rising and grabbing our trash. Walking with a slight swing in his step he stopped at the closet and stared inside.
Almost done here, Mike. We should finish up around 1:30 I’d say, he said glancing at his watch. Then I can get on back down the road.
I nodded silently.
James eventually left me in Boston and made it to Florida that winter. I graduated the following June and spent my summer scrambling to prepare for a new life in Atlanta. I didn’t get a chance to catch up with James during that time, even when he hosted a fish fry for the family at his new home in Fortescue, NJ.
I missed that moment and one night, while out catching fresh fish for his dinner, James, Sr. was called home.
He was found alone, by his boat in the water, almost like he was sleeping. This time, however, when my mother called, she managed to reach me on her first attempt.