Rake 168

       Playing with my spoon, I asked Fern about her life. She touched on her ex-husband. "A boy, really. Only a boy would leave a woman for a girl that young." She touched on her profession. "It can be really stressful; pediatrics." She touched on things a man really didn't want a girl touching on. "It was in my uterus, largely, where the stress manifested--interfering with my ability to carry a child to term."
       I dropped my spoon in the strong coffee I was too much of a boy to drink.
       Fern looked around, lowered her voice, "Ezra doesn't know this, but I'm trying to get pregnant. I have a leave of absence approaching and before I use a sperm bank, I want to look around, see what qualified donors there are in the field."
       Fern's eyes came round, landed on mine.
       My turn to look around--look around like a stallion about to get lucky. Cry me a creed! This baby doctor wants me to father her child.
       Though the old-soul-in-me wanted nothing to do with fathering, the young-stallion-in-me wasn't about to disclose that just yet. I retrieved my spoon. "Tell me Fern, what qualities exactly are you looking for in this donor in the field?"
       Fern gazed into her creamed coffee as if reading tea leaves. "An intelligent man with a healthy body, excellent genes and . . . and creative ability. I've always been enamored with he who has creative ability."
       "Why creative ability?"
       "Because I haven't any."
       It wasn't my intent to turn this baby doctor into one of the Bronte sisters, but we creative types--out of pity, I suppose--did what we could to shed light where creativity was concerned. "But you do, Fern. You do have creative ability. You just don't know how to tap it."
       A common misconception was that creativity was sourced in the right brain. In truth, creativity had more to do with blasting clear of gray matter altogether.
       "See, Fern," I said, taking spoonfuls of air here and there, "creativity isn't about you. Creativity isn't what one generates. Creativity is what's being generated all the time, all around you."
       Fern didn't say anything.
       "It's simple, Fern. If you want to get creative, simply let go, give it up, let that which is erupting all around you do it for you."
       "Anton, I practice medicine. The science of medicine. The last thing my patients need is for me to get creative."
       I got off my creative high horse, got back to making babies. "Now, Fern, this donor in the field you're looking for. Is he in the field for keeps, or, just there to knock you up?"
       "Impregnate me with no strings attached."
       "What does that mean exactly?"
       "The donor must be OK with having no contact, no say in the child's upbringing."
       "Got any guys in the running?"
       "You're the first I've talked to, really."
       "How am I doing so far?"
       "I'm interested. But I need more information; tests need to be done."
       "I see. Say you choose me. How would we go about it? Real sex, or would I have to . . . or, the unreal way?"
       Though Fern's expression remained in the clinic, she said, "I'd prefer the natural way; put as much love as possible into the mechanics of getting pregnant. But I'd settle for artificial insemination if the donor preferred."
       "Oh, no, mechanical sex; that's my specialty." I laughed.

       Fern didn't.
       "Make no mistake, Anton, getting pregnant is a lot of work--requires a strict regimen. When the time's right, the male must perform." Fern pulled out a pad and pen. "What is your sperm count?"
       "I've never had it checked."
       "Have you ever gotten anyone pregnant?"
       "No. My partners and I took every precaution. And I thought that was a lot of work."
       I took a few more questions, but a guy can only take so much fatherhood before he bales. "Really, Fern, I'm flattered that you are considering me to father your child. And I think we'd have great fun going at. But, see, that part about me being out of the picture after the child is born, well, that just wouldn't work for me. See, that soul we'd create, would be part me. How could I not have a say in the shaping of that soul who is a part me?"
       "I understand," Fern said, putting away her pad and pen. "Not to be rude," she stood up, "but I'm meeting up with other men today, so I really must be going. Thanks for the coffee."
       Walking Fern down to the parking lot below Metals, I took a shot at comforting her. "Don't fret, Fern--finding someone to knock you up; a piece of cake. No, if there's one thing the fields are alive with, it's boys looking for sex with no strings attached."

       "That reminds me," she said, "don't tell Ezra about my baby plans. I don't want my ex knowing anything about it."
       After closing Fern inside her up-end ride, I headed back to my low-end labors. Coming up the backside of Metals, I took in the negative space the trunk of my madrone tree cut out of the landscaping. Boy, that ripe curve in that old tree trunk sure was easy on these old eyes. 
       "Steer clear of the curves," I heard my dad say.
       I looked up next, cocked an ear to ear what the gods on high had for me in the way of color commentary. "Question, Mr Kiosk," they said, "why does the mortal male get married to his work?"
       "Because," I answered, "work is cut and dry and women are . . . aren't."
       I pulled up to my work site, dropped my eyes to the cut and dry place where I'd dropped my rake--dropped it to take up the chase. 
       "Till death do us part," I said, going for my rake.

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