Recorded Books Inc. - Dave Hill Doesnt Live Here Anymore

S ometimes you sit down on a couch and next thing you know seven years have gone by. At least thats what happened with me anyway. But first, lets back things up a little.

Hi. How are you? Im incredible. Thank you so much for asking. And thank you for reading my book. It is my second. I realize, howeverstatistically speaking, anywayodds are decent that you havent gotten around to reading my first book yet, so I should probably bring you up to speed, so neither of us gets completely lost, not unlike the time my friend Kevin made me go see Hellbound: Hellraiser II with him, even though I hadnt seen the first Hellraiser movie.

Why does that guy have nails for hair? I asked him.

Shut up, Kevin whispered. Im trying to watch the movie.

I was totally confused for over an hour and a half and there was nothing I could do about it because he drove.

Anyway, my name is Dave and I come from the mean streets of Cleveland, Specifically, Im from a town called University Heights, or the City of Beautiful Homes, as it is referred to on all the signs coming into town and I imagine on most official stationery, partly because its true, but probably also because all the other cool town slogans were already taken.

I come from a pretty regular family, I suppose. We never wore ascots to dinners served to us by uniformed maids struggling to balance fancy silver platters or anything. And when it came time for tennis lessons, I had to take group lessons instead of getting the one-on-one attention I so desperately needed, a situation that enraged me at the time but is now something I would like to think has helped make me the man I am today, a guy who understands that when it comes time to face off against the big ball machine of life, we should each get a turn to flail away with all our might.

I spent most of my life in Cleveland and never really planned to leave becausedespite Internet rumorsits actually a pretty magical place, especially when you squint or blur your eyes just right. But one day back in 2003 I decided to go visit some friends in New York City and never left. Youd be surprised what you can accomplish by just setting your bag down in someones apartment and refusing to leave.

Then my mother died, and it was back to Cleveland I went, at least for a little while anyway.

Its a strange thing when someone in your life dies. Theres the sadness and grief, of course. And also the mammoth disbelief that comes with any great loss. But all of that was multiplied times roughly a billion when my mother died. I couldnt make sense of it, no matter how hard I tried and no matter how much time I might have had to prepare for it. Its as if you are standing in the middle of a highway at midnight, and way off in the distance you see an eighteen-wheeler clearing the horizon, its headlights just starting to crack the darkness and bearing down on you. You stand there watching and waiting as the truck gets closer and closer, so close that you can almost make out the license plate. And then the truck runs right over you. Still, somehow, you just lie there thinking, HuhI never saw that one coming. In short, it was awful.

The funeral and all that were a blur. My sister Miriam and I gave speeches.

Keep it down to a minute or so each, the priest told us beforehand.

Screw you, pal, I wanted to say back to him before remembering how disappointed my mother would have been if I mouthed off to a priest like that, especially on his own turf. Still, it felt warranted. My mother was at that church pretty much whenever it was unlocked, as best I could tellthe least that priest could do was let my moms kids say whatever they wanted for as long as they wanted on her final visit. Regardless, my sister and I both ignored him altogether and spoke for as long as we felt like in honor of our mother and also to show that priest that the Hill kids are no pushovers.

The morning of the funeral, I thought back to when I was a kid, when my moms younger sister, my aunt Betty, was sick with cancer, and my parents and I went to visit her in the hospital after one of my Pee Wee hockey games. I was still young and clueless enough to think that no matter how old or sick someone was, a quick checkup, a glass or two of orange juice, and a couple nights rest at the hospital, and he or she would be back in action in no time. We stood in the room for about a half hour with me still in full uniform, the stink of my sweaty hockey pads giving any and all other strange hospital smells a run for their money, watching Aunt Betty struggle through dinner.

Do you want to watch TV?

No.

Are you thirsty?

Yes.

Your roommate sure is quiet, huh?

Not enough.

You knowthe usual hospital small talk.

Aunt Betty seems like shes doing a little better today, huh? I said to my mom as we walked back to the station wagon afterward.

Do you know where your blazer is? she replied, seemingly from out of nowhere.

Why? I asked, slightly annoyed. At the time I tended to associate wearing a blazer with doing stuff that I didnt want to do.

Because the funeral will probably be sometime next week, she said.

My mom could be all business sometimes. It was a coping mechanism, I guess.

Back then, the blazer in question was a kelly-green sport jacket that had been handed down to me from my older brother, Bob. It made me look and even kind of feel like Id just won the Masters, which was admittedly pretty cool in most settings, but not ideal for a funeral. Lookits Jack Nicklaus, some jackass would usually say whenever I wore it.

As I got dressed for my moms funeral all those years later, it occurred to me that the outfit Id chosena black suit with a green tie Id picked out mostly in a nod to my moms Irishness but perhaps also in an unconscious nod to that green jacketmarked the first time Id gone to a funeral dressed entirely in clothes that hadnt been borrowed. Even better, Id paid for them with my own money. And perhaps most impressive, I knew exactly where they were ahead of time. I smiled thinking how proud or at least not annoyed my mom would have been about all that.