Steve Dublanica's Blog, page 10

Flying Stained Glass Window

A while back, Natalie and I were watching Ben & Holly, a cartoon about fairies and elves living in the forest, when she asked me if such fantastical creatures were real. 

“Most people would say no,” I said. “But who knows? Just because we haven’t seen them doesn’t mean they aren’t real.” 

“So, there could be fairies?” 

“Many people think that if they can’t see it, measure it, or do experiments on it, then it doesn’t exist. But there’s a lot about the universe we don’t understand. Much of it’s a mystery.”  

“You can’t see God,” Natalie said. 

“A lot of people think that too,” I said. “But maybe, whenever we see something beautiful – like a rainbow – we might be getting a peek at what he’s like. In the end, it’s all in how you look at things. And who knows? One day you might go into the garden and find Ben & Holly playing between the flowers.” 

Are there fairies, angels, demons, and trolls hiding under bridges? Probably not. But just as I started writing this post on my porch, a butterfly landed on the edge of my computer screen, slowly beating its wings as if taking a rest from his travels.  Marveling as the rays of the noonday sun colored through its wings like light falling through a flying stained glass window, I remembered that story of butterflies and fairies have been connected in humankind’s consciousness for millennia.  Ancient man, awestruck and unable to comprehend this delicate creature’s ephemeral beauty in lepidopterological terms, probably expressed their wonder towards these insects by imbuing then with mystical powers, creating the Tinkerbells we know and love to today. If that’s the case, then fairies have been hiding in plain sight for a long, long time. It’s all in how you look at. 

After a minute, the butterfly flew off my screen and fluttered to and fro until it started swirling between the lilies my wife planted in front of our house. Alas, my daughter wasn’t home, robbing me of the opportunity to show Natalie that fairies do indeed – in a sense – play amidst the flowers. But If I saw an elf, then I might need to book an appointment with a psychiatrist. No matter. I’m sure the legend of elves originated from nature too. 

Eventually the butterfly flew out of sight, and I thought, once again, how this simple insect might also be a signal of transcendence – a signpost dimly pointing towards a greater truth. In addition to fairies, butterflies have long been associated with resurrection. After spinning itself a cocoon, the caterpillar goes dormant within its chrysalis – almost to the point of death from our perspective – only to emerge as something completely transformed. Perhaps this familiar yet infinitely strange process is nature’s way of revealing the good news underpinning all of existence – that life will always be filled with tomorrows. Perhaps the life we live now is a cocoon of sorts, gestating us until we emerge from darkness and become what we were always meant to be, happily basking in the rays of the warm sun. Then again, it could just be a bug, living only for a couple of weeks and nothing more.  

I guess it all depends on how you look at it. 

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Ain’t Karma Is A Bitch?

As I drove to my parent’s nursing home after my workout, whatever invigoration I’d earned from my morning exercise seemed to be swiftly leaking out of my body. I needed coffee. 

Pulling into a 7-11, I gathered up the remains of my post workout meal – a protein shake and an apple – to place them in a garbage can. Since my brush with criminality, I’ve keen to keep my car clean until my daughter’s juvenile indifference to my sanity eventually gains the upper hand. But, to my annoyance, there were no garbage can in front of the convenience store. Peering at the other stores lining the mini-mall, I noticed they were bereft of trash receptacles too. Goddammit. 

When I was a kid, littering became the almost mortal sin of the 1970’s. Are you old enough to remember that commercial with the crying Indian? I am. Maybe I’m deluding myself, but I seem to remember there being garbage cans everywhere but, about ten years ago, I noticed them starting to disappear. I’m not a conspiracy theorist kind of guy, (’m sure Oswald killed Kennedy) but I figured public establishments stared getting rid of their garbage cans in an uncivil and parsimonious effort to save a buck. Since I work for a municipality, I’m aware what a racket the waste disposal business is, but this kind of soulless bean counting makes me angry. 

Holding my garbage, I saw myself reflected in the glass door, my head obscured by a “We Have No Public Restroom” sign. This was probably in response to the tendency of some homeless people to use public accommodations as a shower – and junkies using it as a shooting gallery. Man, and I needed to pee too. Aggravated, I pulled open the door, nodded to the clerk, and made my way to the coffee station. Was it just me, or did he look annoyed that I was bringing outside trash into his store? “Not my problem,” I thought to myself.  “Take it up with Vito.” 

After making placing my donation to organized crime into trash slot barely wide to accommodate a Twinkie wrapper, I poured myself a cup of coffee, put on a lid, and walked to the cash register, wincing as my bladder signaled my kidneys were done filtering the two bottles of water I guzzled at the gym. But, of course, there was a patron ahead of me – and he was buying lotto tickets. 

“And I’ll take twenty Megas,” the man said. “Twenty Powerballs, and lemme have some a bunch of those ten dollar scratch offs.” Of course, the man didn’t want the machine to pick his numbers and handed the clerk a slip with the custom digits he hoped would propel him to millionaire status. As the cashier busily punched in the numbers, I wondered if pinching off my Johnson in public would lead to a public indecency charge. Why not? After stealing vacuum time at a car wash, progressing to sex offender seemed like a natural step. 

It took monumental effort, but I somehow managed to resist shaking my head as I watched the customer fork over wads of cash to feed his vice and, judging from his appearance, he didn’t look like he could afford it.  Now, I’ll buy a lotto ticket when the prize gets obscenely high, but I usually get only one. I seem to recall a mathematician proclaiming that, whether you purchase one ticket or a thousand, your odds of winning stay basically the same. But then again what do I know? I’ve spent money on stupid shit too. I guess people must narcotize their pain somehow. What did Sinatra say? “Basically, I’m for anything that gets you through the night – be it prayer, tranquilizers or a bottle of Jack Daniels.” Maybe I should stop being so judgmental but, as I watched the man avariciously clutch his tickets and scratch offs, he seemed to be caught up in a kind of divine reverie – perhaps imagining all the fancy cars and bikini clad vixens his windfall might provide. Ah yes, hot fur und Ferraris. But I could almost hear Klaus from Family Guy yelling, “NOT FOR YOU!” 

Taking advantage of his dissociative moment, I moved towards the counter, only to be rebuffed. “You know what?” the man said. “Gimme a mess of those twenty dollar scratch offs too.” Enough was enough.

“Excuse me,” I said. “But I just want to get a cup of coffee. May I cut in?” The man looked at me like I’d suggested having carnal knowledge with his mother and shooting his dog to boot. This wasn’t the clerk’s first rodeo, however, and, knowing lotto people tend to hog cashiers, rang up my purchase with a smile. 

“Thank you,” I said, bolting for the door. By now I was nearly incontinent and wondering if I’d have to dump my coffee and piss into my cup. I guess adding public urination to my rap sheet would be no biggie. As I drove to the nursing home, I also figured speeding would only help burnish my street cred with the guys in the prison yard. Aryan Nation? What a bunch of pussies. Maybe I could the hang with the waste disposal boys and convince them to extort stores into putting put out more garbage cans – or else. 

Decades ago, when I first started waiting tables, I erroneously gave a middle-aged man a much lower price for a very expensive special. He ordered it and, when I realized my mistake, went back to tell him the correct price. He didn’t care. “Give me my meal at the price you quoted!” he yelled, glaring at me with a hostility that took my breath away. So, I did – and my prick of a manger made me make up the difference. I never forgot that customer and, I must admit, I hated his memory for a long time. But now, grousing paranoically over the paucity of mundane objects like garbage cans, I realized that I’m now the same age as that customer was. I saw him through the lens of relative youth back then but, after twenty years suffering from the slings and arrows of mendacious profit driven nonsense, I now understand where he was coming from. I’m just sick of people’s bullshit and, in some respects, I’ve become became just like that guy- a middle aged grouch. Ain’t karma a bitch? But as I raced toward my parent’s nursing home and urinary liberation, I figured 7-11’s restroom apartheid was the result of corporate bean counters wanting to save a couple of bucks on toilet paper. 

Those soulless motherfuckers. 

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Middle-Aged Prickliness

I like the gym I go to. They keep it clean; the equipment is well maintained, the staff friendly and they have a nice juice bar if your body needs a post-workout caramel flavored protein macchiato shake. I also like the variety of people who go there – old, young and, like me, somewhere in between. But occasionally, I wish the staff would force the patrons to attend a primer on gym etiquette. Yesterday was a case in point. 

I was doing a compound set for my chest – pushups and the butterfly pec machine – when an old guy hopped onto to the apparatus as I was pistoning myself up and down on the floor. No biggie, you’re supposed to let people work in. When I got off the floor, however, the old guy was just starting off into space while resting after his set. Smiling, I said, “You mind if I work in? I have two sets left.” The man’s response was to glare angrily at me, get off the machine, and walk away muttering under his breath. 

“I have no problem sharing,” I said. 

“Whatever pal,” he said. 

“Okay then,” I replied. My first reaction was to wonder if I’d done something wrong. Did I violate gym etiquette? Nope. The signs plastered all over the place clearly spelt out the rules. Maybe I just caught the oldster on a bad day. Shrugging, I continued my workout and then when I was finished moving the irons, hopped onto one of the three empty stair climbers in the cardio section.

About five minutes in, however, a young guy hopped on the machine right next to mine, which was a small and, admittedly, unwritten, faux pas. Using the cardio equipment in a gym is like using the urinals in the men’s room. If there are three and a guy’s hosing down the one on the right, you use the one on the left, not the one in the middle – unless you have no choice.  Oh well. Not fatal. But then then my olfactory senses were suddenly assaulted by the scent of the kid’s cologne. “Jesus,” I thought to myself, “Is that Drakkar Noir?” Obviously, this guy had never heard of a “little dab will do ya” and, pushing through woody undertones of his scent, I also thought I could also detect the odor of salami.  Who eats salami for breakfast? Then the guy started blabbing loudly into his hand’s free device. 

“Yo man. What up?” he cried. “Did you even make it home last night? I got so fuckin’ destroyed.” Then he launched into a high volume recounting of the previous night’s alcohol fueled debauchery in excruciating detail. Isn’t there a rule about using cell phones while using equipment? There is but, today, that’s a custom is more honored in the breach than the observance. I leave my cell phone in the car when I go to the gym and find listening to music a distraction, so my mind and ears were unprotected from the young man’s verbal assault. Grimacing, I cranked the climber to seventy steps a minute in the hope the sound of my heartbeat would drown it out. It didn’t. 

Finished and covered in sweat, I slowly got off the machine, wiped it down with an antiseptic towelette, and then walked over to the calisthenics areas to cool down and perform some stretches. But even halfway across the gym, I still could hear Drakkar Boy shouting into his Bluetooth receiver, oblivious to his decibelage. Chiding myself over my aggravation, I tried remembering that I was once young and used the very same cologne. Sometimes I’m oversensitive – but then I watched the young man get off his machine and just walk away, leaving it dripping unsanitized in Nineties cologne and luncheon meat tinged sweat. How rude. 

Since I was going to visit my parents right after my workout, I headed into the locker room to shower and change. Entering, a found another young man sitting in the middle of the bench by the lockers with a sandwich in one hand and texting on his phone with the other. Talk about multitasking. I guess the kid was hungry, but man, that’s a weird place to eat. Would you like Herpes Simplex 2 with your tuna salad? Ugh. 

After keying open my locker, I took out my gym bag and placed it on the scant space available on the bench. Normally when this happens, the person sitting in the middle of the bench should slide over to give you a little more room – but not this kid. So, after stripping down and taking my shower sandals, towel, and soap out of my bag, I noticed the kid glancing at me like I was something he found under his shoe – which was kind of funny since his mouth was full of tuna salad.  Now, making eye contact with a guy you don’t know in a locker room is a no-no for all sorts of reasons, but I got the sense this guy was upset over me being naked as he tried enjoying his meal. No, scratch that, he was annoyed that I was naked at all. Hey, I’m certainly no Adonis, but I’m not hideous either. 

Ignoring his body shaming energy, I went into the shower and, after luxuriating under the hot spray for several minutes, emerged feeling clean and energized. After toweling off I returned to my locker but of course Tuna Boy was still there, still giving me sideways looks. Feeling a spurt of annoyance, I felt like telling him, “Kid, this is a locker room, what do you expect?” but decided against it. When I was a kid, seeing naked men in a locker room was normal. Now? I don’t know. Maybe I was violating some twenty-something rule I’d never heard off. For a moment, I thought about drying my balls under the hand dryer but relented. That would probably have sent him over the edge. 

So, I got dressed while the kid texted and ate, smiling as I watched him fidget in obvious discomfort. Nudity is all about connect. If I was walking around naked in the mall, the kid’s reaction would be appropriate, but in a locker room? Gimme a break. Since I was not privy to the workings of his mind, I had no idea what was going on, but I figured the kid had some sort of issue – but then again, sometimes the fear is the wish. As for me, I just figured my annoyances over gym etiquette were fueled by the encroaching prickliness I’ve noticed creeping up on me as I solider upwards through middle age. Maybe that’s why that old man go so angry at me. Let’s see how I do in twenty years. 

Well-scrubbed, invigorated and feeling invincible for at least a few moments, I walked out of the locker room and headed for the exit. “Have a nice day, sir,” the young man manning the juice counter called out. Detouring, I went up to him, leaned in close, and whispered, “You know what? You guys should make every member take a refresher course in gym etiquette at least once a year.” 

The staff remember rolled his eyes heavenward and said, “Brother, you ain’t kidding.”

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Two Time Loser

Since my sister-in-law was joining us for our weekend sojourn to Pennsylvania, I was ashamedly forced to ascertain the cleanliness of my car. Like most parents of a tender tyke, the interior of my fine Japanese ride was littered with the detritus of childhood; empty chocolate milk and juice boxes, errant crayons, artwork, a paper plate, toys, hair combs, play make up, Happy Meal toys, scrunchies and enough crumbs to sustain a colony of ants through a long winter. But what really got to me was the spilt chocolate milk which had hardened into a carapace of brown shellac within the crevices of my backseat’s armrest. Disgusting.  

A real estate agent once told me that landlords will often try and peek into a prospective tenant’s car to gauge how they cared for their own stuff. If the car looked like a garage dump, the odds were good that the wannabe renter would probably treat the landlord’s property with the same craven indifference.  I myself have always seen a car’s cleanliness as a barometer of a person’s mental health. Applying my own standard to myself, however, my car seemed to scream that being perched on a clocktower with a high powered rifle was in my immediate future. Besides, I didn’t want my in-law thinking I was a slob. 

So, being lazy, I drove to the local car wash but, when I got on line, I did a double take when I saw the prices plastered on the billboard. “Holy shit,” I said, “No way am I gonna pay that!” But I couldn’t escape that usurious den of suds because I was trapped in the queue. Muttering angrily, I inched forward with maddening slowness while listening to a customer ahead of me trying to haggle his way into a $100 detail job for the price of the cheapest wash. Not that I blamed him. I know prices have gone up, but this was ridiculous. Finally, when the path was clear, I drove around the back and made good my escape. 

I found a cheaper place down the road but was chagrined to find all the vacuum stations occupied by people who looked to be in for the long haul, so I settled for just getting a seventeen dollar wash and wax. After my car emerged sparking from its bath, I tipped the towel men, and drove back to the first place to use their vacuums. All the quarters rattling in my cup holder would’ve covered it. But, to my surprise, when I slid into an open bay, a sign proudly proclaimed that all the vacuums were free. Wait a minute,” I thought to myself.  Nothing is ever free. Then it dawned on me – the vacuums must be free for customers. But, when I thought about it, there wasn’t any signage stating that I had to be a customer so, failing this diagnostic test of my character, I decided to furtively hoover out my car. When I was finally finished, I got back onto the wash line, which had been evilly arranged to be the only exit out of the place, and once again inched my way to misdemeanor freedom. Then I realized I was both criminal and stupid. 

Looking again at the menu of automotive ablutions on offer, I realized this car wash’s prices were no more expensive than the one I used down the road. I had misread the signs. What I thought was a wash for thirty bucks was, in fact, the price of a monthly pass. Hey, not my fault the regular prices were printed so small. Now feeling like somewhat of a heel, I once again bypassed the attendant waiting to suds up my car and hightailed it out the back. But this time, the manager was waiting for me with a “What the fuck expression?” on his face. He knew I was a two time loser, but my reply was to shrug and make a dash for the highway. I had been prepared to pay for the vacuums, but I rationalized my very petty theft by reassuring myself that I’d made a simple mistake and that I’d use the establishment I’d fleeced by availing myself of their services when I washed my car next. That works for you, right? 

On my way home, I stopped into an automotive parts store and bought a bottle of stuff that promised to restore my dashboard and pleather seats to their original showroom luster and then, after soaking the aforementioned chocolate shellac in possibly carcinogenic solution, I set to work with some old towels and tried to erase all evidence of having sired offspring from my car.  It took some doing, but after half an hour, the interior looked like I’d been talked off that clock tower. 

When my wife came home, I solemnly pointed to my car. “Take a look,” I said. 

“Look at what?” she said. “Did you have an accident?” 

“No.” 

“Then what am I supposed to be looking at?” 

“Look inside.” 

“Oh,” Annie said. “It looks so clean.” Then I confessed my wrongdoings.

“Oh boy,” my wife said. “You’re a criminal mastermind.” 

“Natalie will never eat in this car again.’ 

“Good luck with that.”  

“Let her starve!” I said. “And may her cries of hunger forever fail to move me.” 

Of course, by the time the time we were near the Delaware, my daughter asked, “Do we have any snacks? It’s not a trip without snacks.” 

“Oh,” my sister-in-law said, “I brought some snacks.” 

As I drove, I listened to the sound of my daughter masticating chips and cookies while imagining all the crumbs now mockingly marring the pristine car interior that’d I had risked my spotless criminal record to provide. If I had arrested for stealing suction, what would I tell the guys in the prison yard? Something tells me I wouldn’t last a day. 

“Can we stop and get a drink?” Natalie said, a few scant miles later. 

“Yeah,” my wife said. “I’m parched.” 

Grudgingly, I stopped at a picturesque general store on the side of the road and to buy everyone a drink. Then, when my daughter saw their display of artisanal lollipops, she begged me to get her one. Just great. She got watermelon. I got banana spilt – and a root beer. As you can tell, my anathematic proclamations regarding car cleanliness do not apply to me.  I guess I’m an automotive Pharisee. 

When we arrived at our destination, everyone ran into the house and left me to bring in the bags. But when I saw the lollipop wrappers, bottles, and empty bags of chips, I shook my head and sighed. I risked my freedom and almost sullied my good name for this?  Does my daughter only want to see me on visiting days? Then I smiled to myself. When I’m an old man, my daughter will probably have to cart my Depends wearing ass to doctors’ appointments while I stink up her car. It might take a while but, eventually, sweet karma will finally exact my terrible vengeance. But you know what? When I think about it, I’ll miss that sweet messy child when she’s gone. All things considered; a dirty car is a small price to pay for happiness. 

Now I just hope the cops don’t read this blog. 

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Diagnostic Moment

We were driving home from Pennsylvania when the low gas indicator on my dashboard began flashing. 

“We need gas,” I told my wife. 

“How many miles are left in the tank?” she asked. Using a switch on the steering wheel, I called up the diagnostics on my car’s computer screen. 

“Twenty,” I said. 

“Think we can make it to Costco? They have the cheapest gas.” So, I asked my phone how far away the superstore was. “Seventeen miles,” it chimed.  

“That’s cutting it awfully close,” I said. 

“We can make it,” my wife replied. “When my car says ‘empty’ you can still go another ten or fifteen.” 

My fingers tightened on the steering wheel. I hate running out of gas. The last time it happened it was twenty-five years ago.  I was running out the door to take very attractive French girl a buddy had set me up with to a fancy restaurant but, because my car wouldn’t start, I had to walk to the nearest station to get a gallon of fuel. So, I called my date to tell her I was going to be late. Her reply? “Forget about the whole thing.” Boy, was I aggravated. 

“You dodged a bullet,” the aforementioned buddy told me after I related the incident to him. “Think of it as a diagnostic moment. If she couldn’t deal with a small bump in the road, then she isn’t the kind of person you want to spend time with. That or she wasn’t really interested in you.  Either way, you didn’t waste your money on her.”  His words stung because the French girl had a body to die for but, despite my frustration, I knew he was right – but that didn’t stop me from kicking myself. 

Now, as we passed gas station after gas station running on fumes towards Costco, I saw storm clouds billowing overhead and feared being stuck on the side of the road during a rainstorm with my dog, daughter, and sister-in-law in the back seat. With each passing mile, I felt nervous tension building in my trapezius muscles, threatening the good mood I was in – which would’ve been a shame. We’d all gone down to my parent’s old home to pack up some of their belongings and bring them to the nursing home where they now reside, and ended up having a very nice time – dinner at a lovely restaurant, playing board games at night on the enclosed porch, tooling around nearby towns the next morning, ducking into thrift shops, and having a nice brunch at an outdoor café.  As I listened to my daughter and her aunt laughing as they sang songs in the back seat, I took a deep breath, held it for a count, and then exhaled slowly, knowing that the only thing that could ruin my contented buzz was me. 

“Isn’t Costco closed now?” I said. 

“Their gas station is still open an hour after the store closes,” my sister-in-law said, “We have plenty of time.” And we did. But it was a close run thing – and the line for gas was long.

“I’ve got to use the bathroom,” I said, after popping the gas tank cover. “Take over, Annie.” 

“But the store’s closed,” she said. 

“People are still walking out with carts. They’ll let me in.”

As I walked across the lot to the store, however, I saw a man pull into the gas line with a cup of what I thought was iced coffee rattling precariously on the roof of his car. A simple goof we’ve all done from time to time.  So, being a nice person, I shouted, “Hey buddy!” and pointed to at his drink. He ignored me. 

“Hey buddy,” I shouted again, getting closer. “Your drink!” The man rolled down his window. 

“Why the fuck are you yelling at me?” he said, his face contorted into a rictus of anger. “WHAT THE FUCK IS YOUR PROBLEM?” 

After years working psych, my brain quickly processed all the information my senses presented me with. The man was about my age, thin, with buzz cut hair and wearing a t-shirt that had seen better days. His car was also old, its green painted abraded by years of sun and rusted in spots. But it was the man’s energy that put me on guard, like I’d encountered a man working on his very last nerve. 

My very first thought, upon being the recipient of such rage, was to pull the guy out of his car window by his scrawny neck and deliver a judicious beating in front of all the motorists waiting to fill their tanks. Luckily, I’m well acquainted with my reptilian brain’s less than savory impulses and let the murderous thought pass in and out of my mind’s eye – but now I was pissed. 

What I should have probably done was walk on by and let the man’s coffee spill all over his dirty windshield but, as I stared at the man in shock, I noticed that he’d shrunk lower into his seat. “My goodness,” I thought to myself. “This man is scared of me.” Moi? I’m just trying to help him. Then I had a vision of this guy blowing me away. You see, my state recently started to let people carry concealed firearms and, let’s face it, people have shot each each other over simple misunderstandings in parking lots before. What a way to go – over a cup of coffee. 

Now wary myself, I pointed to his forgotten cup.  “You left your coffee on top of your car,” I said evenly. 

“My mango drink!” the man shrieked, hopping out of his car. Of course, no thank you was forthcoming but even if it had been, his words would’ve been lost since I was rapidly egressing the area. “Relax, pal,” I tossed over my shoulder. 

When I got to Costco, I asked the person manning the door if I could use their bathroom. “Sure,” the lady said but, as I walked towards the restroom, I heard people shouting.

“He just wants to use the bathroom.” I heard the greeter yell. “He’s not staying.” When Costco closes, they close; but I didn’t blame the workers – exhausted after a busy day dealing with customers stuffing their carts with mega sized packs of toilet paper – from thinking I was just another entitled patron trying to slip in last minute. But, seconds after coming off my parking lot showdown, their aggravation further deepened my now fully established bad mood. Relieving myself at the urinal, I muttered “Last time I try and help anybody. That dumb motherfucker.” Then, after zipping up, I walked out of the store, thanked the greeter, and made my way to the gas line. Sure enough, Mango Man’s heap was right behind my car. 

Taking a deep breath, I realized Mango Man, in that unguarded instant, had probably given me a glimpse into his soul. It was, as my buddy once called it, a diagnostic moment. If this dude got so worked up something this small – catastrophizing a situation without full possession the facts – he probably did that with other people too. Why? I have no idea. Judging from his beaten up car, maybe he was poor and burning with resentment over the card’s life dealt him. Or, perhaps, he was a shell shocked veteran or former cop who’d been traumatized into looking for danger at every turn. Maybe he was paranoid. I’ll never know, but I did know one thing – the only one in charge of my behavior was me.  

Sliding past the man’s window, he looked at me and I looked at him. Withering under my baleful gaze, he seemed to collapse on himself in shame. “Thanks again, buddy,” he said. 

“You’re welcome,” I breezily replied.  Then I got into my car. 

“What’s the matter?” my wife said, seeing the expression on my face. I told her what happened, including my momentary desire to turn Mango Man him into a slushie. 

“Daddy!” my daughter said. “You wouldn’t do such a bad thing.” 

“No honey” I said. “But sometimes, when you try and help people, they act like jerks. It’s okay to get angry, but the trick is not to become a jerk yourself.” 

“Whaddya need” the gas station attendant said, appearing at my window. 

“Fill her up, please.” 

“Card, sir?” 

“Oh, let me get it,” I said, fumbling for my wallet. Then my sister-in-law handed the attendant her credit card. “It’s on me,” she said. 

“That’s okay. I’ve got it.” 

“No, you and Annie paid for dinner and breakfast. It’s my treat.” 

Feeling a bit humbled, I realized I was seeing my sister-in-law’s character in a diagnostic moment too – which made me glad that, in those unguarded seconds, I had taken the high road with Mango Man. Driving away with a full tank of gas and all my car’s indicators in the green, I began to feel some of my bliss from earlier returning and offered a silent thanksgiving to the angels of my better nature. Most of the time, they’ve managed to rescue me from that reptilian demon always peering out from within my soul. Hopefully I’ll pass the next diagnostic test life throws at me. 

But then again, I’m not perfect either. 

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007

My daughter and I were watching a James Bond flick when she said, “Why do all the girls want to kiss this guy?” 

“Why do you think?” I said. 

“Cause he’s handsome?” 

“Maybe.” 

“But then he goes and murders people.” 

Shaking my head at Natalie’s accurate observation, I said, “That about sums it up.” 

“And the police don’t arrest him! How can he murder all those people and not get into trouble?” 

“He’s got a license to kill.” 

“Is that a real thing?” 

“No, honey. It’s only pretend.” 

After watching Britain’s most famous psychopathic sex-addicted alcoholic dispatch a few more baddies with a humorous quip, my daughter gave up. “I’m going to go play Roblox,” she said. “Later.”  So much for her becoming a Bond girl. My fault really. I should have started her on Connery, not Pierce Brosnan. 

Now, you’re probably wondering why I’m letting my child watch such films. Probably because my dad let me watch 007 when I was a kid, and I didn’t turn out to be a psychopathic sex-addicted alcoholic killer, so what’s the harm? The first Bond film I remember watching was The Man with The Golden Gun. I can’t recall if I saw it in the movies or not, but I remember being immediately entranced with Roger Moore’s ability to effortlessly off villains with a raised eyebrow while never getting his suit wrinkled once. And though I was too young to understand why at the time, I liked Britt Ekland in that bikini – a lot. But what I remember most was my dad laughing as we watched a hapless Sheriff J.W Pepper flopping helplessly inside a car as Bond performed a corkscrew jump over a busted bridge while chasing Scaramanga and Nick-Nack. Then the bad guy’s car turned into a plane! Cool as shit. 

I guess I enjoyed watching what my father enjoyed so, my little brain made a happy association with Mr. Bond and now, years later, I hoped it was something my daughter and I could share too. Nope. Natalie saw right through 007’s misogynistic bullshit right away. Then again, the late Mr. Connery was well known for saying some women needed a little slap now and then. Maybe it’s fun watching 007 save the world, but you sure wouldn’t want your daughter dating him. But if wasn’t for Ian Fleming’s creation, Natalie might not be here. 

My wife and I met online but, because I was in the final frantic stretch of writing my second book, I put off meeting her until I’d sent the manuscript off to the publisher – which she told me, years later, almost made her give up in frustration and click on other profiles. But, as we exchanged missives through the ether, we discovered we were both aficionados of Britain’s superspy and, as we argued over the merits of Connery versus Moore and which films were our favorite, that commonality held us digitally together until we finally met in a coffee shop a month later. The rest, as they say, is history. 

I am, of course, well aware that James Bond is an asshole. What did M call him once? A sexist misogynistic dinosaur? That’s probably because his creator was an asshole too. Have you ever read Fleming’s books? Holy un-politically correct shit! Just a casual perusal of Live and Let Die reveals the author’s Anglo-Saxon colonial sensibilities and his utter disregard for women, non-whites, gays, and anybody who annoyed him. (Fleming famously used the names of real people for his villains. Yes, there was an actual Goldfinger and Blofeld.) Yet, despite being a product of his times, Fleming was a great writer, celebrated by the master of detective prose, Raymond Chandler, no less. Fleming had a keen eye for detail and could set a scene like no other – but his Bond was very different from the spy we saw on the silver screen. 

Dark, brooding, and obviously a candidate for psychiatric care, (And he was locked up in an institution for a while.) Fleming’s Bond was a self-medicating pretentious adrenaline junkie with scant regard for his own life – a burned out killer in love with death, drowning his guilt in booze and seeking forgiveness in the arms of all the women he screwed and tossed aside. I read all of Fleming’s books as a teenager and, even though I enjoyed them, I knew Bond’s life should never be emulated. Besides, the guys in the movies were much more fun. (Except Timothy Dalton who, to my mind, was the closest to Fleming’s literary version.) 

Despite all that, 007 is still my guilty pleasure. I have all the books, several of the movies and, from time to time, have been known to tipple a shaken vodka martini or two. But, other than my wedding, I’ve never worn a tux. Nor have I walked into a casino to face down a megalomaniac over baccarat, (Though there was that drunk asshole in Vegas.) driven an Aston Martin, fought several bad guys singlehandedly or driven into the sunset with any one named Pussy.  For me, Bond is just a little bit of cartoonish fantasy that reminds me of my childhood. And if Natalie doesn’t become a fan like her parents? That’s fine. There’s a lot about Bond not to like.

Later that night, I stole into my daughter’s room and watched her as she slept. Sitting on the edge of her bed, I stroked her hair and sang, “Good night, Goodnight, Sleep well my dear. No need to fear…” Smiling, I thought about how a fictional spy serendipitously brought my wife and I together, and how it led to this little girl breathing softly in innocent sleep.  Yes, Fleming’s secret agent is problematic and, obviously, completely unrealistic. No one person could ever possibly save the entire world but, as I sighed deeply, I realized Mr. Bond had saved mine.

Thank you, 007. 

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Writing In Invisible Ink

“Hi,” the man said, extending his hand. “My name is Robert. But you can call me Bob.” 

“Hi Bob,” I said, taking the man’s hand. “My name’s Stephen.”

“You’re the new couple’s son.” 

“That’s right.” 

“How are they fitting in?” 

“So far, so good.” 

“I got here two months ago myself,” Bob said. 

“How do you like it?” 

“The food’s good, the staff are nice. No complaints.” 

Last month my parents moved into an assisted living facility twenty minutes from my house, and I’ve settled into a routine of visiting them twice a week. As with any child with a parent in a nursing facility, the purpose of my visits is two-fold; to see my folks and let the staff know I’m watching them. So far, everyone is doing what they’re supposed to do, and my parents seem content. 

“Seems like a well-run place,’ I said. Bob nodded.

I figured Bob to me in his late eighties and, as we sat in the lounge, an old movie was playing at high volume on the large screen television – Sabrina. 

“Good movie,” I said. “Bogart. Hepburn.” 

“A classic. They don’t make movies like these anymore.” 

I figured Bob was a teenager when the movie came out in 1954 and that was the reason it was playing; reminding him and the other’s watching of when they were young. In fact, the facility is filled with nostalgic kitsch; like the artwork lining the hallways featuring the cast of television shows from the 60’s, 70’s and 80’s – The Jeffersons, Gilligan’s Island, Maude, and, of course, The Golden Girls. Historical personages make appearances too. Next to my parent’s room is a picture of Queen Elizabeth when she was in her twenties. If I end up in a place like this, what pictures will I be looking at in twenty-five years? Probably posters from Star Wars, Raiders of the Lost Ark, album covers from U2 and Madonna and a pic of Ronald Reagan.

“My wife died in April,” Bob said. “We’d been married sixty years.” 

“I’m very sorry.” 

Bob shrugged. “You married?” 

“Ten years,” I said. “One child. She’s nine.” 

“Oh yeah,” Bob said. “The little girl. I saw her once. She’s yours?” 

“Yes.” 

“Very cute.” 

“Thank you. Do you have children?’ 

“Three sons,” Bob said. “They visit me all the time.”

I stole a glance at my watch. My mom was in physical therapy and was due to emerge soon. Then Bob dropped a bomb. 

“Yep,” he said. “Now I’m just waiting to die.” 

I didn’t react because I’d heard that sentiment expressed before. When I visited sick people as a young seminarian, I heard it all the time.  Being young with my whole life ahead of me, I found that upsetting at first but, after a while, learned to listen without judgment. Everyone’s life takes its own course and there’s no way to truly know what any one person has endured. Since there was nothing to say, I sat with Bob and watched the movie as I waited from my mom to complete her therapy. Then Bob said, “You some kind of minister or something?” 

“No,” I said, smiling. “Why do you think that?”

“I dunno. You look like one.” 

“I guess I have that kind of face.” 

About ten years after I graduated, I ran into a former classmate who’d been kicked out of the seminary because, in addition to lackluster academic performance, was a bit odd. “I still want to be a priest,” he told me, and then recounted how he’d spent the intervening decade going from diocese to diocese and religious order to religious order trying to get accepted as a candidate. No one would take him. “I’m going to apply to a diocese in Portugal next,” he told me. “Maybe they’ll take me.” After we parted, I felt sorry for him, wondering why he was desperately chasing a vocation that would be forever out of his reach. But I knew why. 

According to Catholic theology, when a man is ordained to the priesthood, God places an indelible mark on his soul and, as the theology goes, everyone in the afterlife will know he is a priest. That might work in your favor if you go to Heaven but, if you end up in hell, it’s probably a target on your back. (Sort of like a cop going prison – and your cellmate Beelzebubba is gonna be very interested in you.) This all sounds ridiculous I know, and I used to think this mystical seal of approval business was all self-serving hocus pocus mumbo jumbo cooked up by the clerical class to make them feel better about themselves – that they were special. “Many are called,” I’ve heard a few self-satisfied ordinands say, “But few are chosen.” If that’s true, some very bad choices have been made. So, I cast God writing on men’s souls in invisible ink into the dustbin with a host of other other Catholic oddities after I left the church. Then I became a father. 

We have all heard parents say, “Unless you have children, you’ll never understand.”  When I was childless, I thought that was also nonsense. There are tons of people out there who don’t have children that are wonderful with kids and know what makes them tick. Lewis Carroll, for instance, never sired offspring and yet wrote one of the most magical pieces of children’s literature ever. But, after I had my daughter, I realized that axiom was very true. When I watched my daughter being born, I realized I was forever changed – because becoming a parent places an indelible mark on your soul too. It doesn’t make you special or better than those who don’t have kids, but on a deep emotional level, you now know something they just don’t. Even if you abandon your child and try to forget all about them – or God forbid, lose them – you can never escape the fact you are a mom or dad. The mark is eternal.  

But birth isn’t the moment you become a parent. It’s a process that happens slowly and in stages; the shock of finding out a baby is on its way, hearing its heartbeat for the first time, posting ultrasound pictures of its fishlike body on Instagram, the rigors of pregnancy, the gender reveal, picking out cribs, clothes, painting the nursery, having that bag packed, discussing names and, in those moments of anxiety, wondering what you’ll do if something goes wrong. So, for most people, when that child emerges from the womb, the baby is the visible sign you’re a parent; but you’ve already been wearing the mantle of mom or dad for a while. Of course, it’s also a process that never ends.

The same thing happens when you get married. Marriage is society’s recognition of a deep spiritual and psychological process that occurs between two people so, by the time you’re standing at that altar, you should already be man and wife – or husband and husband, etc. When Annie was still just a girlfriend and moved her stuff into my place, I told my mother, “If we can survive this, we’ll probably get married.” And, in the intervening year and a half until we exchanged vows, life was a series of negotiations, arguments, reconciliations, and intimacies that prepared us to make a lifetime commitment. We were already joined at the hip when we said “I do” and, even if we got divorced, widowed or I went out for a pack of smokes and never returned, the fact that we had been married would also be an indelible and eternal mark. I mean, how many women keep their married name after they start collecting alimony? 

When a man is ordained to the priesthood, the imposition of the bishop’s hands isn’t some magical ritual that suddenly imbues the ordinand with sacerdotal superpowers. Like marriage and parenthood, getting ordained is also the culmination of a long process of study, discernment, internal arguments, and negotiations. I once heard a bishop say, “If a man isn’t already a priest by the time he’s ordained, he’ll probably never become one.” The ceremony, while canonically necessary and important, is just the visible sign to society of your promise to God, though like marriage and parenthood, keeping that promise is a lifetime process too. All this brings me to the point I’m ineleganlty trying to make – while I was never ordained, I engaged in that process of discernment as well, so it’s not far fetched to think that some of that divine invisible ink also spilled onto me.   

So, I wasn’t surprised that my sad old classmate couldn’t let go of his vocation. Another of my classmates left to get married and become a cop yet, when I run into people who knew him during his thirty years in law enforcement, they always say, “Yeah. Tommy studied to be a priest once.” Even after almost forty years, his former vocation is one of the most defining aspects about him. Like me, Tommy was burned with that indelible sign too. Now, I have absolutely no desire to become a priest and those days of wondering, “What if?” are long gone. (Though when my wife and I argue, I often ask her if the monastery is still hiring.) But I’m no long surprised when people mistake me for a minister. I have that kind of face because, whether I like it or not, God has written seminary into the story of my soul. 

That might also explain while some priests are uncomfortable around me when they learn I’m a former seminarian. Since I bowed out early, I can’t imagine what a lifetime in ministry is like but, because I share some of the same experiences – bear some of the same mark –  they sometimes become wary, knowing that I’ve taken a long hard stare at what’s behind the ecclesiastical curtain. On the occasions when I’ve contentiously debated them about where the Church is headed, some of them glibly wrote me off as a “bitter ex-seminarian.” “I stayed,” one told me. “You left. What do you know?” That’s true of course, but when I encounter such defensiveness, I can’t help but figure that man’s wondering what his life would have been like if he had made the same choice I made. But all of us bear marks. 

No one becomes a person by themselves. We are as other people make us. And all those encounters, whether good or bad, indelibly mark our souls too. Sometimes we understand how friends, family, enemies, lovers, and strangers have affected us, but often they leave no obvious trace – like their tale was written in that damn invisible ink. The reason we can never truly know what any one person has endured is because much of their story is unreadable. Heck, we’re often mysteries to ourselves. But I like think that when we die and are exposed to blazing light of God’s merciful love, all that invisible script will suddenly be revealed. We will know everyone’s story and they will know ours and, in this revelation, true justice and forgiveness will finally be possible. Hopefully, all the indelible marks I bear – seminarian, writer, husband, son, brother, father, and friend – will hold me in good stead when I meet St. Peter. But even if they don’t, I have faith God’s still got a good ending written for me. Or at least like to think so. 

I’d hate to find Beezlebubba waiting to stick a shiv in me. 

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Flair

A while back, the 50’s themed restaurant in my town sponsored a contest – be the best dressed child in Eisenhower era fashions and win a free ice cream sundae for a month. My wife was all over it. “We’re gonna win,” she said. “Just watch.”  

I’m sure you will, dear,” I said. Over the years, I’ve learned to never underestimate my wife’s determination to save a buck. 

When the pandemic first started to rage, we, like many couples, found ourselves with a lot of time on our hands to make home improvements. And thing we both agreed needed to be fixed first was the retaining wall in front of our house. Made of wooden railroad ties, termites had turned it into an all you can eat buffet and the whole thing was ready to give way and send an avalanche of dirt into the street. So, I called a contractor in for a quote. 

“$10,000?” my wife, said after the man left. “No fucking way.”

“I don’t see that we have any alternative.” 

“And he was just going to make some boring thing out of bricks like our neighbors have? I don’t want to be like everybody else.” 

“Do you want me to shop around? Call another guy?” 

“No,” Annie said, “I will build it myself.”  

At first, I thought my wife was off her rocker. Bereft of an engineering degree, I figured her efforts would result into a disaster that would cost more than ten grand to fix. But Annie was undeterred. “I’ll just build it out of rocks,” she said. “And plant a garden in it.” So, Annie and I spent a good part of that pestilent spring finding large rocks suitable for her wall. Turns out, a guy on the other side of town was excavating a new basement and had boulders to spare. The division of labor was about what you’d expect – Annie sorted through the rocks like they were gemstones and I lugged them into our minivan and then hauled them out and arranged them by size on our front lawn. It was a workout. 

“What’s your wife doing?” my neighbor asked me, looking at the ersatz Stonehenge on our lawn. 

“She’s going to build a retaining wall,” I said.  

“Can she do that? Doesn’t she need a permit?”  

“The town says no.” 

Worried about his own property, he looked pensive. “What if doesn’t work?” he said. 

“Then it won’t.”  

People filled their quarantine time with all sorts of projects: losing weight, baking, whipping up gourmet meals, drinking wine, gaining weight, building additions to their house, creating You Tube videos, writing a book, learning a language, starting an online business, keeping their kids from distracted from the stress, drinking more wine – all to not go stir crazy in our “bubbles.” I rode an exercise bike every day until I almost passed out. My wife? She built a wall. It took a long time and, as I watched Annie place each rock with extreme care, I prayed that the whole boondoggle would work out. If it didn’t, I was afraid I’d need buckets of Prozac to keep my wife from those nice young men in white coats. But, after a couple of months, the wall was erected, the garden seeded, and we had a retaining wall unlike anyone else in the neighborhood. Rustic chic, I guess. 

“Yeah,” my neighbor said, inspecting the completed edifice. “But will it hold when it rains?” 

I kicked a rock with my foot. It didn’t move. “Look solid to me,” I said. “But only time will tell.” But when the rains came, the wall didn’t move an inch. Now, three years later, it’s a charming addition to our property that reflects my wife’s sense of style – her flair. At least when the garden’s weeded that is. Honey, I never doubted you. 

The day of the contest arrived and, after a few hours or primping and preening, my wife and daughter emerged from the bathroom looking like a little bobbysoxer and a demented Joan Crawford. “No more wire hangers in this house!” my wife crowed, admiring herself in the mirror. Truth be told, I found my wife’s costume oddly sexy. 

“Why aren’t you dressed up, Daddy?” Natalie asked. 

“You want to win, right?” I said.  

Dozens of vintage cars were parked in front of the restaurant with Do-Wop beats blasting out of their radios. Smiling, I remembered my parents were teenagers in the 50’s and ribbing my dad’s slicked back hair and mom’s bouffant when they dressed up to go to reunions. I went to high school in the 80’s and could only imagine Natalie’s reaction to my re-wearing the fashions of that era and listening to Devo.

“Are we going to win, Daddy?” my daughter asked as we walked inside. 

Looking around, I saw only one other person dressed in ‘50’s garb and, to be charitable, my wife’s getup blew hers away. “Of that,” I told Natalie, “You can be certain.” 

Sure enough, my wife and daughter were crowned the winners and Natalie was awarded one free sundae a month. The first time we went to collect her prize however, I was gobsmacked by the size of it. “Jesus,” I said looking at the glass goblet filled with vanilla ice cream, nuts, butterscotch, hot fudge, and whipped cream topped by a cherry, “It’s the chalice of diabetes.” 

“Oh dear,” my wife said, “She won’t be able to eat the whole thing.” But Natalie was game. Waving the restaurant’s owner over I said, “She’s staying at your house tonight.” 

“Man,” he said, “You’re gonna have to peel her off the ceiling.”

“Thanks a lot, brother.” 

To my surprise, Natalie self-regulated and, after only eating fifteen percent of her caloric disaster, pushed the sundae away. “Too much sugar,” she said. 

“Wow,” I said. “When I was your age, I would’ve eaten the whole thing.” 

“Now it’s going to be in our house,” my wife groaned. 

“I won’t eat it,” I said. “I’m on a diet. I only had two spoonsful.”

The sundae lived in our freezer for about a week before it was finally consumed. “Next time we go,” Annie said, tossing the empty takeout container into the trash. “We have to invite some her friends to help her eat it.” 

“Good idea,” I said, “She’ll be very popular.” 

We’re only four months into our sugary journey and, so far, Natalie’s invited two sets of playmates to help eat her free treat. Last night her aunt was the guest of honor and we took some funny pictures.

After her aunt drove Natalie back home from the restaurant in her little sports car, we chatted outside and watched our dogs root around the front yard. Looking at the retaining wall my wife built, I realized I’d have never built it, nor would I have ever thought of dressing up Natalie to win a sundae. That’s all thanks to my wife’s flair. It drives me nuts sometimes, but Natalie’s world would be much poorer without it. She’s very lucky to have the mom she has. When I think of it, I’m lucky too. 

Later, with Natalie asleep in bed, I looked at my wife as she lay under the covers with a leer and said, “Any chance you can dress up like Joan Crawford again?” 

“In your dreams,” she yawned, “I’m going to bed.” 

Oh well. I guess my wife’s flair only goes so far. 

Addendum: By popular request:

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The Rescue of Life

“Why did grandma and grandpa have to move here?” my daughter asked as we drove out of the parking lot of my parents’ new assisted living facility. 

“Mom and dad can no longer live by themselves,” I said.

“Why not?” 

“They’re old and need lots of help. They’ll be much happier here.”  

“But Ume and Pa live by themselves,” Natalie said, referring to my in-laws.  

 “The President’s my dad’s age, and he runs the country,” I said, guiding my car onto the highway. “But other people the same age have trouble remembering things, walking around, stuff like that. Everyone gets old differently.”  

“Why do people get old?” 

“Entropy.”

“What?” 

“When people get older,” I said. “Things start wearing out. Just the way it is.” 

“But why?” 

I knew my daughter was a bit overwhelmed visiting my parents. My in-laws, who she sees all the time, are comparatively fit as fiddles. My father-in-law still puts in a full day running his business and, when he was hospitalized a couple of months ago, it was the first time in all his eighty years. My parent’s, however, are much frailer, beset with medical issues and, because they used to live two hours away, Natalie didn’t see them as often.  Therefore, my in-laws’ good health is normative for her, which made seeing the disabled residents at my parents’ new home a bit bewildering. 

“Grandma and Grandpa are very happy they’ll get to see you more now,” I said, dodging her question. “And the lady from the kitchen gave you ice cream? Wasn’t that nice? And all your grandparents’ new friends were thrilled to meet you, telling you that you were so cute.” 

“Yes. That was very nice.”  Then Natalie started taking about the sleepover she’s been planning with her friend for next week. Thank God she can be easily distracted – for now. 

The past two years have been very difficult for me. Just before my cancer diagnosis in early 2021 my parents’ ability to live independently took a nosedive. But, despite having to install a chair lift, hire a housekeeper, and two attempts to get a nursing aide into their home, my parents were reluctant to see the handwriting on the wall.  I don’t blame them. I’d be upset at not being able to drive, seeing my world shrink and facing the prospect of leaving my home and moving into a new place with strangers, but their stubbornness drove me crazy. Like any member of the “sandwich generation” however, I felt guilty about my feelings. Here I was, a husband and older dad with a young child who just wanted things to run smoothly after months and months of stress and terror, only to have more stress piled on top of me. Touring nursing homes with my brother and having tough conversations with my family was not my idea of getting on with “life as normal.” But, if I’m honest with myself, I’m angry that my parents got old – perhaps because I’m glimpsing at what could be in store for me. Twenty-five years ago, I was as hale and hearty thirty (And that seems like last week!) but, in just twenty-five more years, if I’m lucky mind you, I’ll be eighty. Will I end up in a home? Will I be as financially prepared as my parents were? Will Natalie be angry at her cantankerous father too? Who knows? Entropy is a cruel and capricious bitch. 

When we got home, I let my dog Felix our to relieve himself in the backyard and winced as I watched him struggle down the stairs. Deaf, arthritic and suffering from heart problems, he’s nearing the end, a daily reminder of decay’s dominion. Upon his return, I gave him a treat and stroked his fur.  When I met him, his coat was sleek and healthy but now it’s all grey, patchy and rough. “Hard getting old,” I told him. “But you’re a very good boy.” Standing up, I realized a tear was running down my cheek. Wiping it away, I set about browning ground turkey for a taco dinner which, despite his infirmities, Felix was very much interested in. Nothing wrong with his sense of smell. Popping open a beer, I took a long cold pull and thought about all my anger. Why am I getting so worked up about all this? Getting old is part of life, isn’t it? But then why couldn’t answer my daughter as to why? Why must we get old? Why must we become unable to do the things we once did easily? As I’ve gotten older, I’ve begun to see the first harbingers of what’s in store for me. Now, when it rains, the arthritis in my wrist sends me running for the Advil, I need a good reason to get off the couch, I’m wiped out by nine at night, and I’ve already gone through a serious health crisis. What will become of me in ten years? Oh, I try laughing it off most of the time but, If I’m honest, all this stuff frightens me – and when I get scared, I get angry. Then, standing in my kitchen, it hit me. Maybe my anger is trying to tell me something. 

Years ago, I read about what a theologian called “signals of transcendence;” that there’s an  “otherness which lurks behind the fragile structures of everyday life” that point like dim signposts towards ultimate truths.  “A mother’s reassuring a frightened child that all is well,” he wrote “suggests a confidence in a trustworthy universe,” and “a mortal’s insistence on hope in the face of approaching death implies a conviction that death may not be final.” Perhaps my anger is such a signal too; that I’m furious not because aging, sickness and death are so cruel and unfair because they’re a part of life at all.  Maybe I’m upset because, on some elemental level, I grasp that things are not supposed to be this way. That I somehow know I’m an exile from a paradise were none of those awful things exist. 

Then what went wrong? Why is life so filled with pain and suffering? Many religions believe that, at some point, there was some kind of primordial disaster which enslaved humankind to evil and death.  What happened to bring this sorry state of affairs about? Your guess is as good as mine. Was it Lucifer telling God to take a hike? Eve biting into that apple? One Russian philosopher went so far was to opine that creation fell at the moment of the Big Bang. (That’s depressing to think about.) But the older I get, I wonder if St. Paul was right when he wrote, “we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places.”  Now, when I see my parents suffering, people in war torn countries sobbing over their dead or a terminally ill child wasting away, I get the sense that I’m seeing those powers and principalities at work. Maybe I’m angry because I see The Enemy who stole us away from Eden. 

Mind you, I don’t go through life thinking demons are hiding around every corner waiting to screw things up but, as I feel powerless in the face of life’s travails -– and see how illness, poverty, bad luck, greed, and psychological issues ravage the people I work with every day – the idea we are enslaved to some kind of malevolent power has started to sound like an apt description. So, what’s the answer to this conundrum? How can we ever be free?  Of course, the proper Christian answer is that God sent his Son into the world to break the chains of death and bring us all into His Kingdom but, let’s face it, that two thousand year old story doesn’t cut it for a lot of people – sometimes even me. 

Then I remembered how all the infirm residents at my parent’s nursing home delighted in seeing Natalie.  Old people love seeing children. How have you ever noticed how so many of them smile at their youth and exuberance? How they want to hug them and pinch their cheeks? Little kids brighten their day. Why is that? Perhaps that’s a signal of transcendence too. Maybe, as their elderly bodies betray them and they see in the end in sight, children provide a sense that, despite all the pain and suffering they’re enduring, that good things will continue to happen – that life will always win. That’s not always the case, of course. When I was first diagnosed with cancer, being around my lovely daughter was sometimes painful because she reminded me how much I had to lose. That filled me with shame but, when the initial terrors began to recede, I began to see how my daughter’s joyous existence might be telling me that, if even if the worst happened, life would go on and, perhaps, so would mine. 

Religion contains great truth and it’s a shame that so many people give it short shrift – leaving a lot of wisdom on the table as it were. Being a human construct, it should come as no surprise its responsible for a lot of messed up things and I don’t blame people for their skepticism but, even if you don’t subscribe to any religion, we all must contend with the fact that the world, even with all its glory and wonder, can be a terrible place. So, what’s the answer? I don’t know, but I like to think the answer might lie in what I think is the greatest transcendent signal of all – Beauty. Despite all the terror, sickness, violence and death we experience, beauty just sails calmly past those principalities and powers which enslave us like they don’t even exist. And, even if we lose sight of those moments in our pain and rage, that’s okay, because they will always appear again, and again, and again. Whether we deserve it or not, Beauty just gives unceasingly and, perhaps, as we catch dim glimpses of it through the clouds of our uncertainty and doubt, it might be trying to remind us that Paradise isn’t lost at all. 

The day after visiting my parents, a young mother came to my office looking for help with her newborn girl in tow. The father of her child had abandoned her, and the woman was having trouble making ends meet. So, I helped the mom pay her rent and let her take the food which so many generous donors had donated to my pantry. While she shopped, I knelt and looked at her baby napping in its carriage. Smiling, I thought of my own daughter when she was that age and gently touched her hair. With a start she woke up and, after fidgeting a bit, looked at me wide-eyed. “Hello there  beautiful,” I said, hoping she wouldn’t cry but, to my delight, her face burst into a beatific smile. Behold, I make everything new.

“I’m almost done,” the mom said from the next room. 

“We’re okay out here,” I said. “No rush.” 

Beauty takes a myriad of forms and the reason my food pantry can help so many is because of so many people acting beautifully – donating their time and money to aid people they will probably never know. And, as the baby and I gazed at each other in silence, I knew Beauty was smiling upon me yet again; perhaps whispering that all those principality and powers which piss me off are doomed to lose. Why? Because only life can come to the rescue of life. 

And one day, Paradise might just rescue us all. 

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Bless Me Father, For I Have Sinned

A couple of days ago, my wife texted me an article about a restaurant in California that hired a fake “priest” to hear the confessions of their waitstaff in order to uncover suspected wrongdoings by their workers. They got busted and were fined $140,000 to punish them for this and other labor infractions. I laughed when the local Catholic diocese issued a statement saying this faux cleric wasn’t one of their priests. “We may be guilty of a lot of things,” they could have said. “But this isn’t one of them.” 

Since I’m both a former seminarian and waiter, this bit of news was right up my ecclesiastical alley. “I sense a business opportunity,” I texted back to my wife. “Have stole will travel.” Therefore, I’m announcing that I’m now available to hear the confessions of restaurant workers for a reasonable fee and free meal. So, I dusted off my copy of waiter canon law and came up with a few suitable penances for your review. So, without further ado, I present:

List of Penances to Be Administered to Restaurant Personnel

A) Penances For Waitstaff

Late for work? – One Hail Mary. Arguing with the bus people? – Two Hail Mary’s and one Our Father in Spanish. Don’t speak Spanish? Google it my child.  Dropping a tray full of food? – Mea culpa to the chef. Then tip out the bus extra for cleaning it up and say three Our Fathers. Stealing a co-worker’s pens or wine opener? – Sigh, four Our Fathers and replace the items when you inevitably lose them. Showing up work drunk or stoned? – I’m drunk so I can listen to this crap. Four Hail Mary’s and give me the name of your dealer.Stealing extra shirts and aprons out of a co-worker’s locker? – You’re a piece of shit, but God is infinitely merciful. Four Our Fathers and four Hail Mary’s. Impure thoughts about your coworkers? – Tell me more. Tell me everything. I want details. Thank goodness I’m wearing a cassock. Foisting a double tip on an unsuspecting patron? – Depends. Was the customer an entitled asshole? If not, donate the amount you stole to a worthy charity like me. Oversharing your personal problems? Romance dramas, psychological issues or that rash on your ass? –  Take a vow of silence for two shifts. Talking shit about the owner’s predilection for strippers? – Say two Glory Be’s while getting a lap dance in the Champagne Lounge. Who said confessing can’t be fun? Losing a customer’s reservation because they are an insufferable jerk? – Free pass. 

Prayer of Absolution for Waiters: May the Autograt in the Highest shower you with lucrative Saturday night shifts, may all your tips be over 20%, and I absolve you of all your sins in the name of downtrodden waiters everywhere. Go in peace and, if you’re hot, slip me your number.

B) Penances for Restaurant Owners 

Cutting waiters from the floor after they’ve shown up for work? – Pay them full minimum wage for the time they would have worked complete with an apology. Threatening to call La Migra on your undocumented cooks? – Work in a homeless shelter with immigrants for two months. Charging waiters for “shift meals” while giving them nothing to eat? – a diet of bread and water for six months. You’ll enjoy getting scurvy. Not paying your sales, liquor or payroll taxes? – The government will inflict a penance far worse than I can. Enjoy your new ‘roided out cellmate.Saying those desserts are homemade when you bought them at Costco? – Walk naked through the streets while being pelted with frozen chocolate lava cakes by the food critic from the New York Times. Refilling those top shelf bottles with swill? – Replace your top shelf cocaine with homecooked meth. I hope you have good dentist. Making fun of people because their gay, lesbian, or transgendered?  – You’ve got to come to work in drag and like it. Make sure your belt matches your six inch stilettos.  Sexually shaking down desperate single moms for shifts? Three kicks in the balls administered by said mother followed by writing six hundred Hail Mary’s on a blackboard – in Latin. Not paying waiters minimum wage for the hours of sidework you make them do before and after every shift? – . Nobody suspects The Spanish Inquisition!Skimming from the tip pool? – Forget what I said about infinite mercy. God hates those motherfuckers. Penance? Burning at the stake of course. 

Prayer of Absolution for Exploitative and Abusive Owners: There is none. Enjoy Hell. 

I’m sure some of my readers can come up with some additional restaurant sins with appropriate penances in the comments section. 

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