When It’s Time for Leavin’ Pt. 2

The Story I Told Him

There are thousands of people outside. Some people you know, like Kay, Mamaw, Scottie, Taylor, Brandy, all the grandkids, Jim, Big Ron.

I was fighting back tears, but I pushed forward and let the story unfold.

The Grand Poobah sent the Gator to the hospital. It’s downstairs.

The Gator is a large, three-section Mardi Gras float from the Knights of Ecor Rouge (KOER), the organization Dad rode with for almost four decades. Paul Jones, one of Dad’s close friends and a former president of KOER, was often called the Grand Poobah.

Over those four decades, Dad rode alongside some of his best friends, his son-in-law, his two sons, and his adopted son, Harpo.

We get downstairs, but we’re no longer in New Orleans. The hospital we walked out of is now an old wood restaurant with a sign that reads, Nannies. A woman in an apron comes out of Nannies and hands you what looks like the world's greatest hamburger along with a Diet Dr. Pepper. 

You take an enormous bite, and sigh in disbelief because how good it is. Just like you remembered from all the Sunday dinners, kid's birthday parties, and hankerings you'd get for one. 

You’re wearing a full windbreaker suit

The jacket is an abstract design made up of grey, black, red, and blue geometric shapes, while the pants are solid black. On your head is a maroon Houston Astros hat, and on your feet are grey New Balance 999s.

You look up at the branches forming a canopy above your head. It is dusk, and with the small amount of light, you follow the aged, tangled wood as it weaves and bends, extending the length of a football field, maybe a little bit more. There is a paved road underneath all of this ancient nature.

It is the Avenue of the Oaks at Spring Hill College, where you attended school in the 60s on a baseball scholarship. A place that showed up in a lot of your stories. Sometimes exactly as it happened. Sometimes not quite.

This part of campus is named after the mighty oak trees that are hundreds of years old. They have grown alongside the road, completely shading it with their thick foliage and massive branches.

About 20 feet away, a large crowd begins. People are standing on the left and right side of the road, making a path. They are cheering and waiting. Beyond the oaks, off to the side of the Avenue, we can see the fluorescent lights of a baseball field in the distance.

The generator for the Gator kicks on, and the gigantic papier-mâché float is illuminated by lights. A green glow surrounds it.

Jeffery pops out of the middle section and tells you, “Ok Geebs. I got you a custom seat. Get your ass up here. You've got people to see!”

You put your knee on the step leading off the back of the Gator’s midsection and reach your hand upward. Jeffery grabs it and pulls you up effortlessly. You take a seat on the passenger side of the float.

All five of your kids, along with my mom and now tons of family members and close friends, wave from below the Gator. You point to Justin and I and scream over the loud generator, “You two goofy fuckers better get up here! Not riding without my two sons!”

Bub and I climb on board and the Gator takes off. Everyone we were standing with fades as the float starts snaking its way down the Avenue of the Oaks toward Stan Galle Field, the baseball diamond where you played catcher against teams like Auburn University and Tulane.

People are waving as the float moves. Some faces are recognizable to me, but all are recognizable to you.

You throw moon pies and cups. There are no beads, because you always said they were a pain in the ass to throw. You wave when you're not tossing stuff.

The temperature is a perfect 75 degrees, and there is a light wind moving through the mighty oak trees. You are smiling from ear to ear as Bub and I just hand you more moon pies.

As the Gator turns out of the Avenue of the Oaks, Stan Galle Field comes fully into view. The field is sunken, surrounded by campus buildings and the edge of a golf course. An old brick wall runs alongside the first-base line all the way to the end of the field. People are seated on the brick wall, legs dangling as a game is being played.

At the back, overlooking right field, is a wooden concession stand painted purple. People wait in line, while others are gathered on the side of the stand frying fish and boiling peanuts. Steam rises from the fryers.

The sound of wooden bats cracking against speeding baseballs cuts through the cool, cool air. That crack is occasionally replaced by a loud THUMP, the sound of a ball making forceful contact with a catcher’s mitt.

Your smile gets bigger.

“STOP!” you yell. You spot all of our family in the crowd. The same ones that had faded at the start of the ride.

You signal for them to come on the float, and they all come aboard.

The Gator starts moving, and the people that lined the avenue begin making their way to the field. When we pull up, before anyone else can get off the float, you hop off like a cat, landing on your feet.

You start walking toward the concession stand. One of the men operating the fryers pulls off his apron when he sees you and starts walking in your direction.

The light from the ballpark reveals the man’s face: it is Greenberry Bush Taylor Sr.

Your dad.

My grandfather who passed away in 1995.

You two embrace, and then you follow him back to the fryers. The rest of us on the float eventually hop off, taking our time since we aren’t as limber as you, and make our way over to where all the cooking is happening.

Among those frying are people who haven’t been on this earth in some time.

Doc, my other grandfather is manning the peanuts and drinking a Miller Lite with John Ambrose, your best friend. They are both wearing white, G.B.’s Hawg Wild Seafood aprons. They see you at the fryers and come over and each give you a big hug.

A young man is bagging the boiled peanuts. You can see it is Little John, John Ambrose’s son. He puts one of the bags one grey table where there are heating lamps and fish. He grabs his beer, and walks over to stand with his dad and Doc. 

Five dogs trot out from the shadows to greet you.

It’s Doc, Coltrane, Denver, Lou, and Gus.

You take over at the fryer and tell all of us, including people I don’t recognize, to grab a plate from the grey, plastic table where little John had placed the bag of boiled peanuts. While we are doing this, you lift one of the fry baskets from the grease and dump the crispy, warm fish into a large aluminum tray lined with paper towels under a heating lamp.

Everyone lines up at the table. There three rows of heating lamps with aluminum trays filled with warm fish underneath. At the end of that table are several plastic bags of boiled peanuts.

You yell out, "Grab and Growl," and we all dig in on the delicious food that you all have prepared for us.

It’s the best fried fish you’ve ever made, and we’re so happy to have Papaw’s boiled peanuts back because nobody else could quite get the recipe right. You stand back and smile as you watch us all eat, and Papaw puts his hand on your the shoulder.

At this point, my voice was almost inaudible from the crying. But I managed to get the last part out.

“But that’s it. That’s how you die. Surrounded by everyone and everything you love most.”

September 28th, 2022 | Around 1 a.m. CDT

After we had all had our time with dad, the hospital admin brought us into a conference room. There was a large, wooden circular conference table in the middle of the room, surrounded by office chairs that were metal and covered in blue fabric.

It was ice cold in the room, and fluorescent lights polluted the atmosphere inside.

It was around 1 a.m. when a chaplain who was on duty (I guess?) entered. I don’t remember if they were making the rounds, if someone requested them, or what.

I vividly remember this.

I respect prayer. I respect religion.

But right then, I wanted this person to respect my fucking space.

But they didn’t.

They talked and asked questions. They prayed and asked us to join.

Now, it goes without saying that no one in the room told a holy person to fuck off, but I found no comfort in the words offered. I didn’t listen to whatever prayer they said, or peace they asked for.

This will always stick with me. A stranger interjecting themselves into what is arguably one of the most intimate moments a person will ever experience.

Preparing to be without someone. 

Knowing that it is coming.

All while sitting in a fucking hospital conference room.

Around 1:30 a.m.-ish, a doctor told us they had removed dad from life support and that it could be minutes, hours, or even a day until his death.

I remember walking back into the room, the same place I had told him that story.

It felt completely different now.

The monitor he was hooked to was beeping in rhythm with his heart. The rhythm was weak, but steady.

BEEP…BEEP…BEEP…BEEP

I watched his heart rhythm on the monitor. Each time a wave peaked, I’d hold my breath, thinking another wouldn’t come.

But they continued.

Wave after wave.

Shallow, but there.

BEEP…BEEP…BEEP…BEEP

I lay down on the floor of the hospital room next to the pleather couch my brother was on. I situated myself just to the right of the footboard so I could see dad…and the monitor.

My mom and other siblings were either in random chairs or standing.

I put in a single earbud and handed the other to my brother. I put on “Cat’s in the Cradle” by Harry Chapin.

When the chorus hit, my brother removed the earbud and handed it back to me.

“Too heavy, baby bro,” he said.

I couldn’t argue that.

Why I put on the song that Bub and I had been laughing about less than eight hours earlier, I couldn’t tell you.

I put the earbud my brother had handed back to me in my ear, now having full surround sound.

I put on “Father and Son” by Cat Stevens.

I listened to this song when I had to say goodbye to Coltrane. I told my dad about it.

“Will you play that song for me?” I remember him asking.

“Of course, Pops.”

There’s a line in the song that says:

Now there's a way and I know that I have to go away/ I know I have to go

I got nauseous when I heard it and started to cry. I went to stand up, but my brain wouldn’t let me.

I wanted to just step outside into the hallway and escape the inevitable reality that was unfolding in dad’s room.

But I didn’t.

I kept watching the waves peak on the monitor through my tears. They had gotten weaker and were not as frequent. The beeps were more spread out.

BEEP………BEEP………BEEP………………….

There was suddenly no BEEP that followed. My eyes darted back to the monitor. The waves that had been pulsing were gone.

And then came the horrifying sound. A continuous, haunting, and jarring noise.

BEEEEEEEEEEEEEP.

Everyone in the room lost it.

That prolonged beep set off uncontrollable crying. We were mentally and physically exhausted from waiting for this moment for what felt like an eternity.

Everyone was reaching for one another.

Hugging.

I remember burying my face in my sister Mal’s shoulder. My shirt was soaked from sweat, and my hands were clammy. My mom pulled us both into her.

And then, the beeping started back.

BEEP…BEEP…BEEP.

The waves on the monitor returned. They were weak, just like before, but back.

Everyone looked at each other in shock.

“What in the absolute fuck?”

Was dad playing a joke? A cruel joke?

No way.

That ain’t his type of humor. That’s not his bag.

Death comes for us all, but I couldn’t imagine anything in this world being harder for dad than leaving his family.

No matter how tired or shitty he felt, or worn out his body was, he was always there for us.

I knew what we had been told about his brain. But when those beeps came back, it felt like he didn’t want to leave. Like his soul was fighting to stay in that room with us.

Just for a minute longer, or whatever time he could bargain with the Universe for.

The beeping and waves continued.

Spread out and weak, but they continued for another hour.

Until they didn’t.

We said goodbye and then made that long walk from his room to the parking garage, passing the wall of photos of doctors, including Ken Jeong.

When I got in the car, I sent a text to two people.

Text, Tripp to Big Ron and Amanda, 4:02 a.m. CDT:

GB has transitioned to another plane. I love you

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