L - Minimum Words

Quiz question: What's the minimum number of words it takes to change
a life? Sounds like a riddle from my old comic books. Batman and Robin
locked in a vault, Riddler prancing about, 'riddle me this', blah,
blah. Well, riddle me this, Batman, how many words does it take to
change a life?

I'll start the bidding with three. Nice number three. Points on a
triangle, legs on a Derby looser. Backed enough of them in my time.
I'll bid three and say, 'I love you.' Say it with feeling. Say it like
you really want her, when all you want is to keep the kid. Look in her
eyes and repeat after me, 'I love you'. Make sure your voice doesn't
crack on the 'love'. Make sure you don't get distracted and glance at a
waitress' behind bending for a fork. I've done that, mostly got away
with it. 'Fake sincerity, you can fake anything. Spell sincerity and
write a book mate.' Dad always used to say that between swigs, but I
never understood what he meant.

Dad used two words a lot. 'Fuck off' at night and 'I'm sorry' in the
morning. The 'I'm' counts as one word before you start getting smart.
But did those words change my life? Not really. Didn't matter what he
said. I knew he'd be in the same state next day, and the day after
that. The two words that changed dad's life were 'liver failure'. He
sat there, yellow eyes and tubes coming out of his stomach, turned to
me, astonished, said, 'But fuck me Billy, I don't even drink.' Dad
drank all right, but didn't matter how many words I used, it never
stopped him. When he knew he had to stop it made it worse. 'If I'm
going, I'm not going sober' would have been his last words if he hadn't
messed it up halfway through. Made me think of Armstrong. Was that
stage fright? Did he slip on the ladder? Or had Buzz put him up to it
for a laugh? We'll never know.

I miss my dad. We used to have a laugh down the boozer. Now I can't
walk in any boozer without think of him. All those drunken, forgotten
words, they meant nothing. What do words solve? Actions solve.

So, we are family, a baby that can't speak any words, a girl that nods
a lot and a boy who's all mouth and short trousers. I wouldn't say we
were happy, but we're this side of sad. Content? What does that mean?
If it means, moderately ok, would do anything to make things better,
we're content. I try to get ahead, win some, and loose more. Talk to
the right people. Find myself at bad times in the wrong places.

Then there were words. Men who live on an ocean of words that nobody
else understands, who spend hours sweating under stupid wigs,
discussing the meaning of intent and will. How many of those words make
a difference to a life?

I'll tell you how many. One. Two syllables. Whole thing. 'Guilty.' The
maximum sentence.

I gave up on grown-ups long time ago. How can you touch their lives?
Too big, too stupid and stuck in their rutty ways. Couldn't reach my
dad, could I? I can't even reach her anymore. But my tiny little boy, I
can give him everything. Teach him everything. Talk to him. Watch him
taking notes on the other side of the Perspex screen. I know they're
watching, reading the mail. They listen to everything, but they hear
nothing. It's just words to them.

But words can make a difference. They can take little boys to secret
places, dig up deposit boxes and force them open. Words can have power.
Words can change a life. How many words? Points to my eye. Yes. 'I.'
Me, yours not so truly.