Tom DeBlass - How You Bear It: Triumph and Resilience in Life

I pull up to the sidewalk. I wont be here that long. I never honk, not wanting to wake up the neighborhood this early, plus it would just seem rude to my rider. Instead, I send him a text message.

Here.

The screen door opens up; a dog barks somewhere down the street. The real working class have already left for their jobs in the city, but moms in Jersey are still running their kids around to get them fed and ready for the buses.

I like this time of the morning, just after dawn. You can get a lot done this time of day, when the world is still bleary-eyed. Im no exception. I got a full four hours of sleep. Its a good average for me. Ive struggled with insomnia all my life. I dont know why I like mornings; theyre actually hell for me. One of the many ways I make my life harder than it needs to be.

My car door opens with a dull latching sound, and a little bell rings somewhere to alert me that someone is getting in. The old man takes short, precise steps so as not to lose his footing. Hes dressed as casually as me, gray sweatpants and a hoodie. I briefly feel the cold draft from outside pushing into the heated comfort of my truck. You have to work to be physically uncomfortable in this thing. Heated seats, dual AC, everything adjustable. Plenty of room, plenty of buttons to dial everything in. Its a bit much, but I think Ive earned it after driving shit cars for so many years. Plus, I spend a lot of time driving, and Im frequently in pain from one thing or another. A comfortable car makes all the difference.

The old man slips on the step up and winces in pain. My eyes shoot down to his feet. He has really bad feet. I regret admiring my truck for a second. But he recovers quickly.

I think it rained last night, he says, to shift the blame for his slippage.

I just grunt an affirmative and sip my coffee. I wait for him to get settled in, then we roar off in my tank of a truck. Its a twenty-minute drive to our destination. Most days we talkmostly small talk, but sometimes meaningful stuff. Its all meaningful, really. Its not always the conversation but the time that matters. Who knows how much time we have left?

The kids wanted to come over this weekend, I say.

Sure. Deb was going to try her casserole again.

We both laugh. Its an inside joke that her casserole is terrible.

Naw, Ill talk her into pizza, says the old man. Were at a point where I dont even ask about the kids coming over; I just say theyre coming and they do. They love the old man, and he loves them. Its important to me, enough that its not worth telling them anything more than they need to know about him. Does anything else really matter? Hes a good grandpa, thats all they need to know.

My dad goes quiet and browses around the interior. He blinks a few times at the onboard display, trying to make sense of it all. He looks at the ugly metal dog tags hanging off my rear-view mirror. Finally his eyes drift on and land at a small stack of papers in the middle seat. Even from a distance, they look official, with small fonts and dense paragraphs. My dad is smart and a little nosey at times, and he plucks the papers up and flips through them.

Whats this?

Its, ahh, a contract. Theres this thing called ONE FC

What kind of contract? he says in his thick Jersey accent while reading.

Theres this thing called ONE FC

For a fight?

Yeah, these guys from

Ahh! he says while pointing at the paper. ONE FC. Ive heard of them, he says as his eyes keep skimming through the contract.

What are they, like the Chinese UFC?

No, Dad, theyre based in... in... theyre not Chinese, Dad.

He waves his hand dismissively, which is good because I dont win many geography arguments. I thought you werent ever fighting again.

I changed my mind, I say truthfully, but maybe a little defensive as well.

Changed your mind, he repeats with a nod. He lowers the papers and looks at me. So youre going to fight in China? When?

Hong Kong, in October.

Where?

Hong Kong.

I thought you said it was China?

No, you said it was China. Im saying Hong Kong.

Arent they the same thing? Dad says with an annoying tone.

I dunno, I think theyre different, technically.

Our voices are raising slightly.

But youre fightin Chinese people?

Maybe, I dont know. They have fighters from everywhere. Could be a guy from the U.S.