Jordan Rosenbloom

Published: November 1st, 2015

Jordan Rosenbloom is a senior at Milken Community Schools in Los Angeles, California. He resides in West Los Angeles with both parents, three younger siblings, two dogs, and two cats. He plays on the water polo, basketball, and swim teams for Milken and plans on pursuing a career in business in the future.

The Pocket Watch

I blankly started at it resting in the palm of my hand. The pocket watch I had given him for his 10th birthday, the one my father gave me for mine. Until now I thought he had pawned it for drugs or some other useless substance, but I guess I was wrong. All I could do was cry.
I’ve been working as a bartender in LA for a number of years now. I don’t make that much money, but I enjoy serving people drinks that lead them to make fools of themselves—I find it hilarious. The money that I do make is enough to pay rent for my crappy apartment in Downtown and to support my grown twenty seven year old son, Robert.
Raising Robert was just about the hardest thing I have ever had to do. My wife Beth died during childbirth, transferring the responsibility of taking care of Robert solely to me since we both had no family. We met in rehab, so I guess you can understand why both of our parents decided to disown us the minute we decided to start using. During this time I held two jobs—bartending and working for a rental car company, which still didn’t bring in enough money for Robert and I to live comfortably.
When school started, I had to keep Robert in after school daycare for hours. I would take my lunch break two hours late, giving me enough time to pick him up and bring him over to the neighbors apartment. By the end of the day I would get home around midnight, depending on how late the event I was bartending went, and basically never got time to see Robert.
As Robert got older, I noticed that he was getting into the wrong crowd at school. He got detention almost every week, yelled at me for everything, and reeked of marijuana every time I saw him. One day he overdosed and I had to rush him to the hospital. After treating him, the doctor informed me that Robert had clinical depression. It almost seemed as though the harder his life got, the more Robert reminded me of myself when I was his age. When he turned eighteen, he decided to move out. He dropped out of high school and moved in with this girl who he was convinced he was in love with. Even though he was out of the house, I still loved him the same. I guess that explains why I felt the need to send him money every month.
And so I was on my own for years. Still working the same jobs, living in the same old crappy apartment, and feeling like an absolute loser. Loser was an understatement actually—I was a failure. A mistake of the human race who contributed nothing to society. Sometimes I would cry walking home from the bus stop because I thought my life had no meaning. I thought I had failed as a father, a person, and a human. My luck changed, however, when I met Lucy—the woman who turned my life around and saved me from the brink of suicide. We met on the bus one day and hit it off. After a few dates, one thing led to the other and I ended up moving into her apartment. Lucy changed just about everything about me—where I lived, how I looked, and most importantly what I cared about in life.
When I moved in with Lucy I had thought my life had officially turned around. I thought that the happiness I felt with her was unbreakable. That mentality changed, however, when I received the worst phone call of my life. It was from the ER, informing me that Robert had just overdosed and was doubtful to make it. I rushed to the hospital as fast as I could so that I could say my last words to Robert. When I got there, I was informed I was too late. My mind went blank and my life suddenly came to a halt. After the doctors and nurses finished giving me their condolences, I started to trudge out of the waiting room. All of a sudden, one of the nurses stopped me.
“Sir, you forgot your son’s belongings,” she said.
She handed me a zip lock bag with Roberts wallet, phone, and sweatshirt. Then I noticed something that looked familiar at the bottom of the bag. It was my old pocket watch. I opened the watch and noticed there was a small circle shaped picture tapped to the inside of the door. As I peered closer, I realized it was a picture of Robert and I when Robert was 10. I was speechless. All these years I thought I was despised by my one and only son when in reality, he still cared. He cared enough to keep the pocket watch. He cared enough to keep a photo of me. He even cared enough to keep my phone number taped to the back of his phone. If only he cared enough to let me help him.