Capehart, Turner

English

University of Montana

The Oval Volume 4 Issue 1 Article 18 2011 Finally, Serge Patch Turner Capehart Follow this and additional works at: https://scholarworks.umt.edu/oval  Part of the Creative Writing Commons Let us know how access to this document benefits you. Recommended Citation Capehart, Turner (2011) "Finally, Serge Patch," The Oval: Vol. 4 : Iss. 1 , Article 18. Available at: https://scholarworks.umt.edu/oval/vol4/iss1/18 This Poetry is brought to you for free and open access by ScholarWorks at University of Montana. It has been accepted for inclusion in The Oval by an authorized editor of ScholarWorks at University of Montana. For more information, please contact scholarworks@mso.umt.edu. Turner CapehartI Finally, Serge Patch iUpon waking I find him in the corner,trying on my clothes and marking up thewalls with his diagrams.That is one of his photos next to thewindow, it’s from his blue period. Someplaza in Europe where he found himself alone one day taking the pigeon’s portraitsbeneath centuries of architecture.Serge Patch protects me from beingshocked in the night. My Grandfatherwould have liked that when he stayedup reading, and studying pictures of the places he could never visit like Machu Picchu, or the second floor ofhis house. My Grandfather would have liked Mr.Patch for so many reasons. They bothliked to smoke, they both had had Polio.They would have gone to matinees together, or down to Greenlake toadmire the lilies.The trouble is my Grandfather neverliked to go on walks, except with hiswoman. Never liked to do anything butread, and eat, and coo softly early inthe morning.He lived in California most of his life,42Capehartwhere neither I nor Serge have ever been.And he sent my father away to boarding school so he could have the sun all to himself,and he raised his kids by the length of the broom handle he kept between them.I found Serge on a ship in the Caribbean,(or maybe it was in the Sea of Japan I can’t remember). Sometimes I forget thatthere was a time when he wasn’t there,always blinking, and trying on my clothes. He has a little red light attached to his brain that he uses from time to time to throw techno raves while I’m asleep, andI wake up and have to tell all his friends to go home.In the Encyclopedia Britannica entry forSerge Patch, he is shown standing in a blue captain’s shirt, smoking a pipe in some port on the Atlantic, and next to himis an indistinguishable man in a trench-coat,and hat, and between them a sailor witha mustache, but you can’t see him, Gorkyhad that one removed.In the pages of Serge’s journals I havefound that he had once been a submarine captain, though on his birthcertificate it says he was born a seaotter, which would explain his affinityfor sea urchin roe. I have taken Serge to the museums down-town to show him the many skulls of his ancestors, and all the beautiful variations of guitars. And afterwards to eat Chinese food in the park, and to 43Capehartask Serge if he would draw me in that scene. Serge got out a pieceof paper and drew me looking justlike my Grandfather used to when hedid crossword puzzles out on the veranda in the summer, when I wouldcome out to talk to him, and he wouldtell me how he used to sail ships ofall kinds and sizes, and I asked him what he would have done had he capsized, and he would just shrug andsay that he had never worried aboutIt, and simply thought he would dealwith it when the time came.Serge used to save people who felloff of ships, and put them on his backand bring them to shore, and give thema cigarette and some pocket change,and say see-you-later.On weekends I sometimes stay up all night and read Serge’s books, and diaries, and sometimes my Grandfather’s too. It used to be, on those nights, I wouldplay table tennis with my Grandfatherwho would sit on a bar stool, and reach his long arms out, dominatingthe table. It was the only time I sawhim take off his suit jacket. I neverplay table tennis with Serge.Once in the fall, I was out biking andcrashed and split my hand open, itwas Thanksgiving, and the next daymy Grandfather died in his sleep, andI didn’t want to go to the funeral because I knew it would be black.44CapehartInstead, I went to the beach with myhand wrapped in gauze, and foundSerge whistling to himself, turning over the rocks to find sea urchins. And we talked about food, and weTalked about poetry, and we talkedAbout windows, but we never talked about Grandfathers.45Capehart

Finally, Serge Patch

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