Steve Dublanica's Blog, page 15

The Body Electric

“Excuse me,” I said to the lithe twenty-something after she uncoiled out of her improbable yoga pose. 

“Yes?” the girl said, her creep detection radar blasting enough wattage to boil my blood away. 

“Are you using this box for your workout?” 

“Oh,” she said, “No I’m not. Sorry.” After removing her keys, phone, earbuds, towel, water bottle, and workout gloves she said, “It’s all yours.” 

“Thanks,” I said, picking it up. “Take care.” 

Marching to the other end of the gym I set the box, which was about three feet high, on the floor and launched into my routine; prison squats, walking lunges and then I jumped onto the box ten times. One minute breather. Repeat. After four sets I was sweating bullets. 

After a long hiatus from physical fitness I’ve returned to the gym. When I started two months ago I could barely go twenty minutes on the elliptical machine. Now I’m doing some plyometrics, HIIT training and throwing the iron around. My wife tells me my clothes are fitting better and my blood pressure’s dropped – but I’ve got a long way to go. 

Walking to the squat rack, I put 130 pounds on the 45 pound bar, slipped under it, set up my feet and did twelve reps. Racking the bar, I stepped back and shook my head. When I was forty I could do so much more 

“Ah, question.” I heard a voice say behind me.

Turning around, I saw the voice belonged to a well-muscled twentyish male with 3% body fat. He had headphones in his ears and was busy texting furiously. 

Letting my oxygen levels return to normal, I just looked at the guy. When he realized he wasn’t getting a response, he looked up. 

“Yes?” I said, 

“How long are you going to be?” he said, looking kind of offended. 

“Ah,” I said, “Five sets at least.” 

Returning to his gizmo, he said, “I’ll wait.” 

Watching as Nature Boy made a big show of dropping his gym bag and gallon jug of Gatorade next to the rack, I could read the expression on his face. Hurry up old man. 

Oh well. When I was his age I probably thought the same thing about the geezers at my old gym. Sliding back under the bar, I banged out ten reps. Then I walked over to water fountain by the reception desk to refill my water bottle. When I returned the guy shot me a look. Ignoring him, I figured my rest period had elapsed and banged out ten more reps. This time it was much harder. After a few more sets I was finished. Time for deadlifts. Joy. 

“You want me to strip the bar?” I asked Nature Boy.   

“No thanks,” he said, waving me away. Let someone in real shape workout. 

Moving over to the deadlift area, I put the same amount I squatted onto the bar and got going. Next to me, a chiseled girl barely out of her teenage years was performing the same exercise with more weight. “Jesus Christ,” I thought to myself. Somehow, I managed to keep my ego in check and resisted the urge to put more weight on. Focus on form. Work the muscle. Don’t get hurt. 

After my second set I looked over at Nature Boy. He had turned the squat rack into a personal circus and was performing some kind of super set – pullups, squats, shoulder presses, hanging knee raises and pushups while barely breaking a sweat. That kind of shit would kill me. After finishing my sad deadlifts I walked over to the leg press machine and loaded three plates on each side. 270 pounds. When I was younger I’d load the sled to capacity. Done with my leg torture, I went over the Air Dyne bike and did twenty minutes of interval training – going all out for thirty seconds and then chilling for one minute. When I was done I was sucking wind. They don’t call it Satan’s Tricycle for nothing. 

Guzzling water, I looked at the hardbodies around me singing the body electric. There was a time in my life when I thought “physical culture” people were superficial and narcissistic. When I told a friend this, he pointed to my gut and said, “You could do with a little narcissism yourself.” 

After Buster died I packed on weight. Eating has always been a way to soothe myself. But once the scale registered an all-time high, I realized the damage I was inflicting on my body. My blood pressure was creeping up, my back hurt, my knees ached, I was having foot problems and my energy level was in the toilet. And, when you hit fifty, you become very aware of people in their seventies. You start comparing the healthy ones to the rickety heaps in wheelchairs. I understand some people have no control over the afflictions they get in old age but, as my doctor said during my annual physical, how you fare in seventies depends in large part on what you do in your forties and fifties. “Sustainable lifestyle changes,” the doctor said, “Turn it around while you still have time.”  I don’t want to be a broken down old man. 

Now, when I see people like Nature Boy or the deadlifting teenager, I don’t get aggravated. I understand part of their physical prowess and attractiveness is due in large part to their youth. But there are people my age and older who come to this gym and look amazing. They’re working with what they’ve got. And when you factor in work, school and child care schedules, finding time for a workout needs commitment. Now, no matter what their age, when I see someone with a nice body I admire the hard work they’ve put into it. It took me a while to realize this, but my antipathy towards the fitness class was because I was angry at myself. As Whitman wrote, “Was it doubted that those who corrupt their own bodies conceal themselves?” And, as a younger but much wiser kid once told me, “Looking good is just a by-product of taking care of yourself.” 

But let’s face it, eye candy is part and parcel of the gym experience. It can be a motivator. Sometimes being “surrounded by beautiful, curious, breathing, laughing flesh is enough.” Besides, it’s much easier to go an extra fifteen minutes on the treadmill when the girl jogging in front of you has a world class derriere. Oink? Perhaps. But, with all due respect to the wise kid, I’m not just sweating and grunting in this gym for my health. I also want the girl on the treadmill behind me to be admiring my ass. Not bad for an old guy. Time for some healthy narcissism. Move over George Clooney.

I’m no longer concealing myself.

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Just A Little Bit More

When I woke up Sunday morning, I decided to be a good daddy and take my daughter to the movies. 

“We’ll see that live action Dora the Explorer movie,” I told my wife. “She’s been asking me to take her.” 

“Great,” my wife, said. “Keep her out of here for a while. I’ve got so much to do around the house.” 

So, at two o’clock, Natalie and I were sitting in a darkened theater with a small popcorn, sans butter and salt, and a bottle of water. As the endless parade of commercials and previews flickered across the screen, my daughter grew restless. “When’s Dora going to be on?” 

“Soon, dear,” I said, trying not to eat too much popcorn. I’ve been dieting and exercising lately. Down nine pounds. Quite a few more to go. 

The movie began and we watched as Dora and her friends tried to find a lost city of gold. It was cute movie and it kept my interest – especially since they threw in a few gags for the adults. I especially liked when the characters all got dosed with hallucinogenic pollen and turned into their original cartoon versions. I have to ask my friends who’ve visited the psychedelic candy store if morphing into animated avatars ever happened to them. Probably a good trip. 

Movie over, Natalie said, “Can I get another snack?” 

“We can get something on the way home.” 

“Skittles?” 

“Sure.” But when we got to the car, Natalie detonated into an explosion of tears. 

“I want Skittles!” she cried.

“Okay.” I said, bewildered. “We can get some at the 7-11.” 

“I want Skittles in there!” she said, pointing to the movie theatre. 

“No,” I said, matter-of-factly. “They’re very expensive in there.” 

“Get them for me NOW!” 

Kids are strange. You can take them to do fun things like an amusement park or movie and they’ll freak out if you don’t get them some little do-dad. When we went to Disneyland, Natalie threw an epic fit because I wouldn’t buy her a sixty-dollar Elsa outfit at the Frozen Store. (Then again, I’m convinced the Disney Corp beams acquisitive impulses via microwaves into the brain of every kid in the park. Cue the tin foil hats.) I often wonder if children do this to assure themselves that you still love them just a little bit more.

Lately, Natalie’s been having a hard time when fun things come to an end. When her day camp ended last week I had to pry her from her counselor’s arms. Whether leaving the county fair, the swimming pool, playdates or from visiting my mom and dad, she’s pitched varying levels of fits. My wife always tells her to remember the good times and that there will be more to come. But today, Natalie’s upset got me upset. Normally I’m quite patient with this stuff, but now all I wanted to do was soothe her and give her whatever she wanted. Acquiescing to a five-year old’s temper tantrums, however, will set you up for problems later. So I gritted my teeth, buckled Natalie into her car seat and drove off. 

“I want Skittles from the movies!” Natalie wailed. 

“We’ll get some later,” I said. “Try and relax.” 

“You’re the worst daddy in the world!” Natalie seethed. “The worst ever.” 

And, like that, I lost the title belt. Keeping the hurt of my face, I drove on in silence. There’s no reasoning with a person having a meltdown – adult or juvenile. 

Figuring Natalie was probably suffering from low blood sugar, I went to Burger King and got her a kiddie meal and a plain grilled chicken sandwich for myself. Only 370 calories without the mayo. I eyed her fries with something akin to malice. After she gobbled her nuggets the rage faded. Fast food isn’t the healthiest thing in the world for a child but you can’t give them Valium. At least not regularly. 

When she was calm, I bought a packet of Skittles at a gas station and handed them to her. “Daddy keeps his promises,” I said. “I told you I’d get them later and I did.” 

“Okay,” she said, meekly. 

“Want to go to the playground?” 

“Yes, please.” 

“Let’s go.” Of course, I had an ulterior  motive. I wanted to tire my daughter out. Maybe get some quality time with my wife later that night. You know what I’m talking about. 

No sooner than Natalie had ascended the jungle gym, the ice cream truck drove jingling into the parking lot. Natalie asked if I’d buy her an ice pop. Part of me was like, “No way in hell.” but I was tired of fighting. “Okay then,” I said. “But you can’t have Skittles later.” 

“Too much sugar,” Natalie, said. 

“You got it.” 

As Natalie cavorted with her friends, I sat back and thought about her recent meltdowns. My daughter is starting kindergarten in a few weeks.  Her new school is huge and, even though she attended a multi-day orientation program and made new friends, she’s both excited and nervous at the prospect. It’ll be good change but, like any change, it comes with an element of loss. I think Natalie senses a page of her childhood is turning, that she’s entering a larger world.  And, after a few weeks at camp playing with older kids, she’s come home with new expressions and attitudes. When she said, “Don’t freak out Dad,” I did a double take. “Where’s my daughter,” I said. “And what have you done with her?” 

To be honest, however, keeping Natalie busy today was therapy for me. For the past week I’ve been keyed up and on edge; a low grade nervousness inhabiting every moment of every day. Part of that was because I was dreading today – the six month anniversary of Buster’s death. But I was also processing a shock I got on Tuesday. An old girlfriend of mine died. After hearing the news, I looked up her Facebook page and was stunned at the picture staring back at me. Numb, I sent the picture to a friend and asked him to guess the her age.  “I’d say this woman was in her mid-sixties, easy.” When I told him she died at fifty he said, “Could have been illness,” he said. “But I’d say she had a very hard life.” 

I remembered this woman when she was young – a sexy blonde with killer legs and an infectious devil may care smile. I remembered how we had walked arm in arm in the rain, making out in her doorway as water dripped off our clothes, how the moonlight danced off her naked skin.  I also remembered how it ended – her calling me and saying she was too messed up to be seeing anyone. My refusing to accept her answer and banging on a door that would never open. The intersection of our lives was brief, hot, and painful – sweaty but not sweet. I’ve always wished it had ended better. Now she’s dead. From the look of things, life did not go well for her. That saddened me. I guess the pages are turning for me too. 

After an hour and a half of monkey bars and see-saws, I told Natalie we had to depart the playground.

“Can we stay just a little bit more?” she said.

“No.” Cue the waterworks again.  

After carrying Natalie off the field and into the car, I wiped the tears off her face. “I know you’re upset Natalie,” I said. “But all good things come to an end. There’ll be more fun tomorrow.” 

“Promise?” 

“Yes.” 

But part of me felt like I was lying. That’s because I knew the fun always ends, that we will all run out of tomorrows. Buster. My old lover. Me. Everyone. 

When we got home, Natalie nagged me to take me for a ride on her new bike – a purple affair with a wicker basket on the handlebars, tassels and bell. After five hours of wrangling a headstrong kid I managed not to say, “Yes, the freeway is right over there!” and got her mother to do it. Wiped out, I collapsed into bed and slept for two hours. 

When I woke up I was thirsty and asked my wife to get me some water. As I lay in bed, waiting, I heard the patter of little feet. Then I felt a cool bottle pressing against my head. 

“Here’s your water, Daddy.” 

“Thank you, dear.” 

“And thank you for taking me to the movies, Burger King, and the playground. You’re the best daddy.” 

I knew my wife put Natalie up to it – but I didn’t care. I picked up my daughter and gave her a big kiss. 

“Daddy loves you, Natalie.” 

“I love you too.” 

Hugging Natalie tightly, I knew all we have is today. Tomorrow isn’t guaranteed.  I knew I had spoiled my daughter this afternoon but, from time to time, we all need to know someone loves us just a little bit more. Maybe Natalie will remember today for the rest of her life. Or not. It’s tough to know with kids.

Shuffling downstairs, I ate the healthy meal my wife made for me. As I munched my salad, I looked at Buster’s ashes on the mantle and wondered if I had loved him enough – or my wife, my child, my old girlfriends, my friends, parents, brother, in-laws, nephew, co-workers or the clients who walk though my door every day. They all want just a little bit more. And they deserve it. But I knew I had failed them all, somehow. 

Later, as my wife and I got into bed, I said, “Do you think we spoil Natalie?” 

“No,” she said. “No more than any other parent.” 

“It’s like she wants constant reassurance that we love her. I wonder why that is. Are we doing something wrong?” 

“No,” my wife said. “We discipline her. We don’t cave into her often. We tell her when she’s wrong. I think we’re doing as good a job as we can.”

“I guess.”  

“Don’t worry so much,” my wife said, turning off the light. 

After a minute, I heard my wife’s voice in the darkness. “But I do know someone else who needs spoiling.” 

Just a little bit more. Yowsa! 

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Worth Knowing

A few weeks ago our dishwasher, an old Kenmore that came with the house, gave up the ghost. After decades of barebones apartment living washing dishes by hand, the thought of not having a machine to do that chore was anathema to my middle class soul.  So my wife and I immediately purchased a new one – a high end whisper quiet Bosch 800.

After our plumber installed the new machine, I showed it to my daughter. “We got a new dishwasher,” I said, showing her all the fancy lights and buttons. “Isn’t it great?” 

“Where’s the old one?” 

“On the porch.” 

“Where’s it going?’  

“The garbage dump,” 

“Don’t throw it away!” Natalie wailed. “Put it back! I like the old one better.” 

“But this new one is super quiet. And it’s very cool looking.”   

“I like the old one. It made noise. This one is not cool.”

I should have seen this reaction coming. A few weeks after Buster died my wife got rid of the old oriental rug on our living room. He’d peed on it during his final year and it was beyond saving. When Natalie came home from pre-school and saw the bare wood floor she cried her eyes out. Replacing the rug with a much nicer one didn’t allay her fury in the slightest. “I want the old one back!” she yelled. “She’s not upset about the rug,” I told my wife, later. “She’s upset about the dog.” Buster was Natalie’s first experience with death. Never having known life without him, she initially fantasized about him coming back but, as the months past, the reality of his loss took hold. So, when the Kenmore died, this was just another change over which she had no control. In her mind it was another loss. Not cool.

“Natalie,” I said, gently. “The old dishwasher didn’t work anymore.” 

“You can fix it!” she said. “I want it back.” 

“Nothing lasts forever, dear,” I said. “Things get old and worn out.” 

 Turning on her heel, Natalie pierced me the thousand yard stare she got from her old man. “Are you old enough to die?”

I once heard a comedian joke that if you die in your forties people say, “He went to soon!” But if you die in your fifties they’re like, “Yeah, I can see how that might happen.” Since I’m over the half century mark I guess I’m old enough to die. But then again, anyone of us can die at any time. But you can’t tell a five year old about Death’s random sense of timing. That’d just freak them out.  

“No Natalie,” I lied. “Daddy is not old enough to die. I’ll be here for a long time. Don’t worry.” 

“Buster was old and he died.” 

“Yes, Buster was very old.” 

“How old are you Daddy?” 

“Fifty one.” 

“Are you older than Buster?” Goddamn. My daughter’s smarter than I give her credit for.

“Dogs are not like people,” I said. “They don’t live as long.” 

“But are you going to die?” 

“Yes.” 

“When?” 

“Not for a long time.” 

“Am I going to die?” 

“Yes dear. But not for a long time.” 

“Where do you go after you die?” 

“You go to heaven with God, Natalie,” I said. “And everyone you’ve ever loved will be there safe and happy.

“Will Buster be there?” 

“Yes. And Felix, Mommy, Daddy, your grandparents and all your friends. Remember how we went to Disneyland and you were so happy? Heaven is like that all the time.” 

I could hear my old theology professors rolling over in their graves. Disneyland? Quite a few adults would argue that The Happiest Place on Earth is actually Satan’s summer home. But cut me some slack – how do you explain the afterlife to a five year old? Something told me discussing eschatology with a child wasn’t going to cut it. Besides, there are adults who think heaven’s going to be a divine amusement park where they’ll finally get to meet Elvis. 

But Natalie wasn’t done. “Daddy,” Natalie asked. “What’s God?” 

Leaning on the dishwasher, I took a deep breath. I knew my daughter was going start asking “the big questions” eventually. But how to answer a question that countless prophets, philosophers, theologians and scientists have asked for ages? I studied philosophy, scripture and theology in college. Over the years I’ve read the Koran, the Upanishads; works by Aquinas, Kant, Kierkegaard, Heidegger, Rahner, Bonhoeffer, Schillebeeckx, Tillich, Berger, Barth, De Chardin, Bentley Hart, Von Balthasar, Ratzinger, Nouwen, John of the Cross, Ignatius of Loyola, the Desert Fathers, Maimonides, Avicenna and a bunch I’ve forgotten. At this point in my life I should have a good answer – but I don’t. 

I’m not entirely convinced God is real.  Despite all those fancy books I’ve read I sometimes think all that theological razzmatazz is just plain bullshit. When I hear about mass shootings, babies dying in hot cars, genocides, starvation and the wretched poverty billions live in, God seems like a foolish notion –  a crutch for the weak minded and delusional. Why innocents suffer and die horribly is the best argument atheists have in their arsenal. It’s the one that resonates most with me. But the ex-seminarian in me knows that argument isn’t really about whether God exists – just if He’s worth knowing. 

But billions of people throughout history have believed in God in one form or another. Not all of them were feeble minded idiots. If you read some of the theological texts of antiquity you discover very sophisticated, systematic and probing examinations of metaphysics and humanity. Just because those people didn’t have electricity, anti-biotics and iPhones doesn’t mean they were stupid. Even with all our modern knowledge, many of their ideas have held up to millennia of scrutiny. We’ve never been able to totally dismiss them. Believing in God, despite what many wags on television will tell you, doesn’t make you dumb or antediluvian,  But I still wrestle with the whole concept. 

That’s because, in my experience, people who are 100% sure of what their religion teaches have mentally checked out. Often using faith as a narcotic to avoid thinking about the unpleasantness of the world or themselves, they start valuing creeds over people and become joyless, pedantic and judgmental killjoys. And when you point out the inconsistences in their belief system they act like you’re trying to take their crack pipe away. Faith, if we’re honest with ourselves, is a one step forward, two steps backward affair. Besides, holding two inconsistent positions within oneself is a mark of emotional maturity – allowing you to see other points of view. To not be terrified of differences. A wise theologian once wrote. “Doubt isn’t the opposite of faith. It is essential to faith.” Doubt keeps you humble.

When you strip away the doctrinal differences, the world’s religions, at their core, describe God pretty much the same way – that He is Existence itself. The utterly unknowable, transcendent, immanent and timeless Reality in which in “we live and move and have our being.” Being Itself. Try wrapping your head around that one. Created and finite beings have issues trying to describe something infinite and not contingent on anything else. It’s like trying to remember what you were like before you were born. Therefore, there’s a lot of room for second guessing – for doubt.  But I have to answer my daughter. 

“God is why anything is here at all, Natalie,” I said. “You, me – every animal, plant, rock, tree and star.” 

“Black holes too? ” Natalie, said. She just got back from a trip to the planetarium. 

“Everything, my dear,” I said. “He keeps everything going because he loves us. And because he loves us then we have to try and love other people. Don’t worry about heaven too much. Just worry about being nice to people.” 

“You told me to be nice to the man at the gas station.” 

“Yes,” I said. “And waiters in restaurants, the lady who cleans our house or people who don’t have lots of money or nice houses. And people who have money and live in nice houses. We have to try and love them all. And that’s not  easy – even for grownups.  

“Okay Daddy.’ 

“Want to watch Charlie and Lola? Cookies and milk?” 

“Yes, please.”  

Popping open a beer, I joined Natalie as she munched on Oreos and watched British cartoons. As I listened to her laughing I thought about the first time I held her in my arms. In those earliest moments of life Natalie was already her. And though she can now walk, talk, draw and almost ride a bike, she is still the same her. My wife and I had something to do with Natalie getting here but who she is, her aliveness, her being, is something we can’t take credit for. That came from somewhere else. Children, as any parent will tell you, are a mystery. 

God may be Being Itself but ontological arguments about his existence often seem unreal. People however, are very real. And, as I get older, I think God is found in the relationships we make – no matter how great or small. How we treat one another makes all the difference. That might be a tough gig, but I hope that’s the lesson I’ll always teach my daughter. Because, despite all the inconsistences, if you have faith in God you also have to have faith in His creation.

Leaning forward, I kissed my daughter on her head and smelled the shampoo her mother used to wash her air. As the dishwaher labored silently in the background, I realized Natalie will always be Being’s gift to me, a wonder to behold.

Whether He exists or not, today at least, God seemed worth knowing.

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Things Refuse to Be Mismanaged Long

On a stormy day a while back an old woman came into my office and gave me a donation.

“You do good work here,” she said, slipping me twenty, “I wanted to contribute a little bit.”

I knew the woman had lost her husband a few months ago and, judging from her clothes and what little I knew about her, I figured she could use the food pantry herself – but I took the money anyway. Refusing it would’ve been insulting. After she left I clipped her Andrew Jackson to a deposit slip and walked it down to the finance department. By tomorrow it would join the rest of the funds generously donated by my town’s citizens.

Back in my office, I sat back in my chair and watched the frayed American flag outside my window flapping furiously in the wind. I have an friend who’s an amateur vexillologist and places flags on veteran’s graves every Memorial Day. If he saw that flag he’d probably insist it be replaced. There are rules about that stuff I guess. But I quickly forgot about the condition of Old Glory and began thinking about another widow – one who lived two thousand years ago.

You all know the story of the Widow’s Mite. Jesus was in the Temple watching rich people putting offerings in the treasury when a poor widow came by and placed two mites, a fairly insignificant sum, into the kitty. If you know anything about history, during biblical times a destitute woman without a man to care for her was incredibly vulnerable. Seeing the woman’s act of generosity Jesus said, “Truly I tell you, this poor widow has put in more than all the others. For they all contributed out of their surplus, but she out of her poverty has put in all she had to live on.”

Preachers often trot this story out when they’re looking for donations, saying the widow was an example of the glory of sacrificial giving. “Give until it hurts” and all that jazz. Religion sucking money out of the poor is a well-established dynamic. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve listened to clergyman haranguing their congregations for money when many of their parishioners could barely care of their own families. And don’t get me started on those prosperity gospel hucksters who con their financially disadvantaged flock out of money in order to buy private jets. And the refrain these sacerdotal con men give is always the same, “You will be rewarded a hundred-fold. Build up treasure for yourself in heaven.”

Verily I say unto you – that’s bullshit.

Do we honestly think Jesus wanted that widow to give up the last of her cash?  To go hungry?  Notice, Jesus doesn’t say, “What a wonderful woman! Her reward in Heaven will be great! Everyone should be like her!” No. Jesus just contrasted the proportionality of her gift against those of her well-heeled neighbors. That’s because Jesus wasn’t talking about the widow. He was talking about the wealthy hypocrites around her. Don’t believe me? Read the lines immediately preceding the widow’s story.

“Watch out for the teachers of the law,” Jesus said. “They like to walk around in flowing robes and be greeted with respect in the marketplaces, and have the most important seats in the synagogues and the places of honor at banquets. They devour widows’ houses and for a show make lengthy prayers. These men will be punished most severely.” Jesus wasn’t happy the widow gave up the last of her money. He was angry at the people who kept her poor and defenseless – ignoring exhortation of the Prophet Isaiah, “Defend widows and orphans and help the oppressed.” That widow wasn’t a hero. She was a victim.

There’s a line in the movie Hell or High Water that illustrates this point. In the movie two bank robbing brothers in Texas discover that their recently deceased mother was conned into a reverse mortgage for a bit of cash to live on – but the bank didn’t tell her there was oil under her ranch. If the debt wasn’t paid by a certain date the bank swoop in and profit from the black gold untapped beneath her property. “You have the bank loan just enough to keep your mama poor,” a sympathetic person told the brothers. “But they could swipe her land.” So the brothers knock off every branch of that bank and pay off their mom’s debt. It’s a great movie.

That fictional bank was literally in the business of devouring widows’ houses but that line about giving people “just enough to keep them poor” has burned in my ears ever since. That’s because I see this happening every time I turn on the news. There are legions of under employed people this country – you know, only getting part-time work so their employers don’t have to pay health benefits, Uber drivers getting paid next to nothing while their corporate overlords make billions in the stock market and millennials putting off marriage, children and homeownership because of crushing student debt. And then there’s the greatest scam of all – the “gig economy.” Millions of people hustling from one piecemeal job to another at the expense of family time with no guarantee of income, sick leave, vacation, health care or pensions while their companies rake in gargantuan profits. Just enough to keep folks poor or barely above water – while the top 1 percent of American households might own as much wealth than the bottom 90 percent combined. That’s messed up.

We are, of course, complicit in all this. American’s have always lionized wealthy people to the point of idolatry. Worse, we won’t even countenance putting a limit on how much money any one person or family can have. Should any one person be worth a hundred bullion dollars? Could we cap it at ten billion? Whenever I talk about this stuff with my friends they tell me I’m a communist. Personally, I think capitalism is the best system out of all the “isims” but not untrammeled greed. But as a wise man once said, America is a land of “temporarily embarrassed millionaires.” We don’t want to limit how much a person can make because we might become rich one day.

Last time I checked there are 11 million millionaires in this country and 450 billionaires. Sound like a lot but out of a U.S. population of 327.2 million that group only makes up 3.36% of the people. The odds of joining that rarefied group are quite slim. But what’s even worse is that we’re made to feel bad we’re not rich. In a kind of secular Calvinism on steroids, wealthy people are held up as “winners” while everyone else are “losers.” Social media and its keeping up with the Joneses dynamic just serves to amplify this – egging us on to consume products that we don’t really need or can afford.  Women have always rightfully complained about the impossible images of physical perfection the media bombards them with every day. But now that’s happening to everyone. Only it’s not toned arms, tight abs and killer measurements we’re made to feel bad about not having – it’s wealth. Lifestyle porn is big business. But not everyone can be rich.

So what are the effects of this massive wealth inequality? That feeling like you don’t measure up? It’s hopelessness, people tuning life out with their gadgets, political polarization, opioid and alcohol abuse, a skyrocketing suicide rate, high rates of anxiety and depression in children and teens, social isolation and God knows what else. Now, I know many wealthy people and they’re not monsters. Many of them, like Warren Buffet, are concerned about what’s happening to our country and a lot of them donate massive amounts of money to good causes. But let’s face it, if the college admissions scandal is any guide, quite a few don’t give a shit. These are the hypocrites Jesus was talking about. Sure, they’ll fund hospitals, schools, give TED talks, hobnob in Davos, get feted in banquets and make all the appropriate socially conscious noises but when push comes to shove they’ll devour that widow’s house in a heartbeat. They only seek to commoditize human beings into a vehicle for profit. Nothing will ever be enough for them. Some people are out to devour everything.

If history is any guide, people are eventually going to wake up and realize they’re being taken for a ride. And trust me, some of those über wealthy people fear that day. Maybe that’s why they’re buying land in foreign countries, building bunkers and surrounding themselves with multi-million dollar security. Maybe they’re afraid people will start acting like those brothers in Hell or High Water and start taking things back by force. I earnestly pray that won’t happen. So how will this change we desperately need come about? My hope is that we’ll emerge from our digitally induced narcotic haze, cast aside our divisions and harness the political process to make lasting changes that will benefit everyone. But that will only happen when we realize our national treasure isn’t money – it’s America’s people. It’s high time we stopped loving money and started loving each other. And love always walks hand in hand with justice.

Staring at the frayed flag outside my office, I knew changing things will be a messy process. It will take years and I may not live to see it but I’m confident it will happen. That’s because our country has dealt with similar challenges and we’ve always come out on top. Despite our cynicism and brokenness, Americans have always had a thirst for justice. We went from a slave owning society to a nation where a black man became president. Disenfranchised women gained the right to vote, children were set free from factories, whites only bathrooms were abolished and gays and lesbians won the right to get married. It all happened in fits and starts and things got ugly at times, but the power of justice eventually got us there. And when I’m discouraged, when everything feels hopelessly overwhelming, I turn to something Theodore Parker, an abolitionist preacher, wrote in 1852:

 Look at the facts of the world. You see a continual and progressive triumph of the right. I do not pretend to understand the moral universe, the arc is a long one, my eye reaches but little ways. I cannot calculate the curve and complete the figure by the experience of sight; I can divine it by conscience. But from what I see I am sure it bends towards justice. Things refuse to be mismanaged long.

Parker knew that justice and love flow from the same source; that it fights inequity and evil and liberates the orphans, widows and oppressed. He knew that love always wins. We need to believe that too. Hang in there America.

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Lurking on the Periphery.

I was sitting in the dentist’s chair waiting to get my tooth filled when one of the dental techs hurried into the room.

“There was a stabbing at the deli!” she said.

“What?” the dentist said. “When?”

“A few minutes ago. A woman was stabbed eleven times. Three times in the head. “

“Is she alive?” I said.

“I don’t know,” the tech said. “There was an alert on my phone. There are cops everywhere.”

“Where’s this deli?” I said.

“Right down the block,” the tech said. “I go there all the time.”

After we digested this piece of random savagery, the dentist processed to fill my tooth. It was an easy job and I was out of the chair in half an hour.

“Any more news?” I asked the receptionist as I handed her my credit card.

“No,” she said. “But it’s so terrible.”

“He stabbed her eleven times,” the dental tech, who was sitting next to her, repeated. “Three times in the head.”

“They catch the guy?” I said.

“I don’t know,” the tech said. “But the guys in the deli heard her screams and called an ambulance. If they didn’t hear her she might’ve died on the spot.”

“Sounds like rage,” I said. “Probably a boyfriend/girlfriend thing.”

After I paid up I walked to my car. The deli in question was roughly 300 yards from the parking lot and surrounded by flashing police lights. As I drove by the crime scene I saw a bundle of bloody rags on the sidewalk – probably from when the paramedics worked on the victim. Crawling past, I saw detectives taking pictures and a state trooper interviewing a witness.

As I put the violent scene in my rearview mirror, I realized the stabbing probably took place moments after I walked into my dentist’s office. If I had been a minute or two late I might have heard the woman’s screams – or maybe not. My hearing isn’t what it used to be. But what if I had? At three hundred yards it would have been difficult to see what was going on. Would I have run over to help? I’ve been known to do crazy shit like that. And then what? Stop a man with a knife? I collect knives and have a passing knowledge of what they can do. If you hit the right place – say the jugular, femoral, or axillary artery – the target can bleed out and die very quickly.

Shaking my head, I said a silent prayer for the victim and one of thanksgiving – for myself. I was grateful I didn’t see anything.. Probably because I would’ve thought of my little girl and stayed put. That would’ve been the prudent course of action but I would’ve hated myself for it. And even if the attacker was gone when I got there, I would have seen something horrible. Trust me, the bloody rags were enough.

As I drove down the highway I noticed the noonday sun brighlty warming the new leaves gracing the trees. It was another beautful spring day – but for that poor woman it was the most horrible day of her life. Perhaps her last. Gripping the steering wheel I thought about another beautiful day where, despite the sunshine, death and destruction exploded out of the blue sky and changed all our lives. Most of life is humdrum, safe and ordinary. But every once in a while we’re reminded that evil is always there – lurking on the periphery.

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Limits of the Heart

I was waiting in an exam room in my cardiologist’s office, watching the clock. My appointment was for 5:40. It was now 6:45.

“He’ll be just a minute,” an assistant said, poking her head into the room. “Hang in there.”

“If I’m the lowest priority in the cardiologist’s office,” I said, “That’s a good thing.”

“You’re absolutely right.”

I hadn’t seen my cardio guy in a while so I was a bit nervous. Last September I passed my nuclear stress test with flying colors but the bloodwork showed my good cholesterol had taken a bit of a nose dive. I had also gained a few pounds in the interim so, I hoped my new stain drug was doing its job.

A few minutes later I heard the doctor talking outside my door. “No,” he said to someone. “Tell him he cannot have ice cream every night! What is he thinking?” Then the door flung open and he buzzed into the room.

“The Oprah guy,” he said, shaking my hand. “How’s it going?”

“No repeats of the problem,” I said. “So  the meds are working. But I gained some weight.”

“How much?”

“Five pounds,”

“Are you exercising?”

“I slacked off for a while,” I said. “Then I got back to it. Five days a week.” Then I described my fitness routine.

“Interval training is good,” he said. “Very good for your heart.”

“I feel better.”

“Why did you slack off?”

“The whole family got the flu in December. Then I got gastroenteritis. Then my dog took a turn for the worse and I was stressed out about him. He died in February.”

The doctor shook his head. “That’s the worst. I remember when my dog died.”

“When he was being put to sleep I was worried I’d have a heart attack.”

“I know how that feels.”

The doctor listened to my heart and asked the usual questions. Then he reviewed my EKG and bloodwork. Everything was fine. My cholesterol levels were very good.

“Lose the weight,” he said. “Keep going to the gym. It’ll help you in all sorts of ways. Then he told me he was tweaking one of my meds and handed me a new script.

“Get another dog,” he said. “Your child is still little. “

“I know. I said I’d wait a year until replacing him.”

“I still have my dogs ashes,” the doctor said. “I never buried them.”

“Me too,” I said. “I have no idea what to do with them. “

“I have his on a shelf.”

“I might do that too,” I said. “What kind of dog did you have?”

“A golden retriever.”

“When did he die?”

“Ten years ago.”

“Never wanted to get another one?”

The doctor just shrugged. “My kids are all grown up….”

I first met my cardiologist when I was lying in a hospital bed at three in the morning, thinking I was going to die. Scared shitless, I listened to him tell me I wasn’t departing this vale of tears anytime soon. “Little procedure,” he said. “Shock your heart back into rhythm. No worries.” When I walked out of the hospital the next afternoon I thought my doctor was a god.

Now, sitting on his exam table almost four years later, I knew my doctor wasn’t a god –  just another guy who missed his dog. I wondered if he didn’t get another one because the loss of his retriever had been too painful. I don’t blame him one bit. Love always exacts its price in sorrow and how we manage those costs is a very personal thing. If we listen, our hearts will tell us how much love we can handle until it breaks. As I’ve gotten older I’ve learned that those limits are different for everyone. My cardiologist has to protect his heart too.

Driving back home, I called my wife and told her to forget collecting on my life insurance policy. Then I turned on the radio and listened to Chet Baker and Bill Evans playing, “Almost Like Being in Love.” As Chet trumpeted triumphantly I thought about Buster and, for the first time since he died, I smiled at his memory. Thanks to my doctor, my wife, my daughter, friends and family, my ticker’s still very strong. I’ll get another dog.

My heart hasn’t reached its limit.

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Fear of Flying

My nephew was deathly afraid of flying. Every time his parents suggested they go on a trip involving airline travel he’d freak out – convinced he’d perish in a 30,000 foot uncontrolled descent.

I figured he grow out of this phobia – but then my parents offered to take my brother’s family and mine to Disneyworld. My nephew was so nervous about going on a plane that my brother seriously considered driving down. But since his family was supposed to fly with my elderly parents, who were paying for the whole shin-dig, this was a non-starter. No way Mom and Dad were going to sit in a car for 1175 miles. Too many bathroom breaks. Time for some psychology.

A few days later I visited my brother’s house and asked my nephew why he was so afraid of flying.

“Planes crash and everybody dies,” my nephew said.

‘Yeah,” I said. “When it happens it’s bad – but it only happens occasionally. There hasn’t been a big airplane crash in this country for years.”

“I don’t want to go on a plane.”

“It’s actually safer to fly than driving to Florida,”  I said. “ And mechanics check those planes thoroughly and the pilots are well trained and have flown for years. A lot of them used to fly military planes so they know what they’re doing.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Do you know what’s the most dangerous thing you do all day ?” I said.

“No.”

“When you take a bath or drive in a car.”

“No way.”

“Yes way. Most accidents in the home happen in the bathroom. People slip in the tub and get hurt all the time. And you are much more likely to be hurt in a car crash than on a plane. So what are you going to do? Never go in a car? Never take a bath?”

“No.”

“Of course not. You’d stink and never go to Chuck. E. Cheese.” That elicited a giggle.

“Listen, kid. I can’t make you go on a plane – but you’d miss going to Disneyworld. That would suck.”

“I see planes crash on the news.”

“When a person slips in the tub or gets into a car accident it’s not on the news because it happens all the time. Planes don’t crash often but, when it happens, it’s a big story.”

“But that’s scary.”

“Again, you’re more likely to have an accident in a car or the bathtub. It’s also risker to go up and down the stairs, ride your bike, play on the playground or chew gum. Besides, you’re probably going to wreck your thumbs with all those video games you play. But you do all that stuff every day. Don’t you?”

‘Yeah.”

“Flying is much safer, trust me. See you in Disneyworld.”

A few days later my sister-in-law called me. “I don’t know what you told my son, but he said he’d fly down to Florida.”

“That’ll be four hundred dollars,” I said. “I prefer cash.”

“Seriously, what did you tell him?”

After I told her my sister-in-law she said. “Well, it worked.”

“Good. Because I was going to do exposure therapy next. Make him watch Airplane  ten imes.”

“You’re horrible.”

“Maybe Snakes on a Plane. That was so bad it was good.”

A few weeks later my wife and I flew down to Jacksonville ahead of my parents and nephew. After tooling around St. Augustine we started the drive down to Orlando.

“Well they’re in the air now,” my wife said, looking at her watch. ‘How do you think your nephew’s doing?”

“I just hope the pilots didn’t eat the fish.”

“What?”

“Have you ever seen a grown man naked?” I said, “Do you like movies about gladiators? Have you ever been in a Turkish prison?”

“What are you taking about?” My wife sometimes doesn’t get my cinematic references.

“They bought their tickets,” I cried. “They knew what they were getting into. I say let ‘em crash!”

“You’re a twisted individual.”

“Golly.”

A few hours later my cell phone rang. My brother’s family and my parents landed in Orlando without incident. Ethan enjoyed the flight. Now we were all going to have a fun filled week in the Happiest Place on Earth.

Gripping the steering wheel of my rental car, I sighed. Looks like I picked the wrong week to quit sniffing glue.

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Ghost of a Percentage

A couple of days ago I was watching a science program about the end of the universe. It was kind of depressing.

1,0000000000,0000000000,0000000000,0000000000,0000000000,0000000000, 0000000000,0000000000, 0000000000,0000000000,0000000000,0000000000 0000000000,0000000000,0000000000,0000000000,0000000000,0000000000, 0000000000, 0000000000 years from now the last black hole will evaporate and the universe will die. So, at a mere 13.8 billion years, the universe we’re living in now is still an embryo. For the majority of its adult life the universe is going to be a cold and inhospitable place. Bummer.

But one statistic resonated with me. A physicist named Brian Cox said that, “As a fraction of the lifespan of the universe as measured from the beginning to the evaporation of the last black hole, life as we know it is only possible for one-thousandth of a billion billion billionth, billion billion billionth, billion billion billionth, of a percent. (10^-87)” That’s an awfully short amount of time comparatively speaking.

To put that in terms we can understand, a mere billionth of the average 75 year human lifespan is a scant 2.36676945 seconds. 10^-87 of that number is so small as to be non-existent. If you could compress the universe’s projected 10100 year lifespan into a seventy-five year movie, even if you never went to the bathroom, grabbed a sandwich or blinked, the era of life would come and go so fast you’d never see it. It would be like it never happened.

And we’re not just talking about just the age of life on earth, which has only been around a measly four billion years, we’re talking about all life that has and ever will exist. Think ET, Chewbacca, and super advanced civilizations living in rings spun around their stars. All life. From the universe’s perspective It will flicker for the most infinitesimal  of moments and then be gone. Your life is absolutely nothing compared to these gargantuan time scales. If you didn’t feel insignificant before you read this well, I’m glad I could help you out.

Yet that 10^-87 percentage really tickled my brain. You see, I have seen several people die. Whether their end came from accidents, disease or old age it always was shock to realize that one second they were here and the next they were gone. Snap. Much has been written about what happens to your body when you die – tunnels of light, seeing grandma, your long lost puppy -whatever. This is probably your oxygen starved brain hallucinating as you hurtle into the great beyond. What happens when you reach the end of that tunnel? I have no idea.

But what will happen in that last 10^-87 percent of your life?

In terms of the universe, all that will ever be known and loved, celebrated and mourned, will occur within that tiny, fleeting 10^-87 percent, But, unlike our imaginary movie, we did see life happen. Cradled in that extraordinary moment, that ghost of a percentage, we move and live and have our being. In that last scintilla of time before we die what will we see? Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.

Shakespeare once wrote, “O God, I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself a king of infinite space…” In that “nutshell” of a percentage maybe we’ll experience all there is to experience and understand all there is to know. If the universe could cram all of life into such a brief glimmer, why not us? Maybe our last moment will be our longest.

Personally, I think God, death and what comes next is all bound up in the concept of time. It’s entirely possible that time does not exist. Hell, even Einstein thought it was all an illusion. Perhaps, like Billy Pilgrim in Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse-Five, we’ll end up “unstuck’ from time and slalom though all the different parts of our lives. Or maybe we’ll find ourselves skipping though a multiverse, living every probabilistic permutation that our lives, or the lives of others, could have taken. That’s a Judgement Day of sorts when you think about it. A revelation. It might also mean you’ll have a physical body to experience all of these things. Resurrection might all be a question of time.

But I can’t blame people for thinking the game’s over when you die. We really don’t know what’ll happen after you draw your last breath. If you’re a thinking person you have to consider that, just like a black hole at the end of time, you’ll just evaporate into nothingness. Yet, if we see all we need to see in that last 10^-87 percent of our life, we might be content to pull the covers of time snug around us and go to sleep – happy to fade into the cosmos. That wouldn’t be bad either.

Eternity might only take a 100100th  of a second.

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I Don’t Want to Sink

A while back I realized I needed to sort some things out and started seeing a therapist about once a month. Last week I was early for my appointment so I sat in my car and enjoyed a blueberry scone with a cup of coffee. As I was listening to the radio a loud scraping sound suddenly overwhelmed the news announcer and my jar rocked with a sickening jolt. My scone flew out of my hand and hot coffee spilled on my pants

“GODDAMMIT!” I yelled.

Leaping out of my car, I saw a beat up old Honda driving away at about six miles per hour. “Sonavabitch!” I muttered. My vehicular assailant wasn’t even going to stop.

It must have been funny to watch, but I jogged after the car and caught up with it at the traffic circle. Peering through the scratched  and dirty windows I saw an elderly couple sitting inside. About what I figured. I rapped on the passenger side window and it rolled down.

“You hit my car back there, sir,” I said to the driver.

“Oh?” the man said.

“Did you know you hit me?”

“I knew I hit something,” he replied weakly.

“Sir,” I said, feeling the anger inside me ebbing, “You’re supposed to stop when you hit someone’s car.”

“We’re sorry!” the man’s wife yelped. “We’re sorry!”

Judging from the car, I knew this couple didn’t have any money. I figured this car was their only lifeline to the outside world – doctors’ appointments, food shopping – that sort of thing. I have elderly parents and I understand how important it is that my father can still drive.

“We’re sorry,” the woman said again. Then couple looked at me plaintively. They wanted me to forget about it.. They knew the jig was up. They wanted me to let them go.

Nope.

“Do you have insurance sir?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Then let’s go back to my car and let the police sort this out.”

The man seemed very confused and started to drive away. Figuring he was going to rabbit, I took a picture of his license plate with my phone. Then I called the police. After a few minutes the old man pulled up in his heap. “There’s no damage,” he said. “It’s not bad.” Sure, there was a nasty scrape on my bumper and a small crack, but not enough to get mad about. No one was hurt. But that wasn’t what I was worried about.

A cop came and I told them him what happened as I handed him my paperwork.  “He hit you while you were parked there?” the officer said, shaking his head.

“I don’t care about the car,” I said. “The guy didn’t realize he hit me until I ran after him.”

While the cop was doing his thing I called my therapist. “Look out your window,” I said.

I watched the curtains pull back and the therapist’s face appear in the window. “What happened?” he said.

“Some old guy hit me while I was parked. I’ll be late.”

“Take your time. Don’t worry about it.” Considering what my therapist charges, I wondered if he’d prorate my session.

Whenever there’s flashing lights and sirens people gather. I noticed one bystander glaring at me. Maybe he saw me chase the car and thought I acted like an asshole. Who knows? Maybe he had an old father too.  Then the old man got out of his car. He could barely stand. I felt like a shit.

“I hate doing this,” the cop said, handing me back my paperwork, “But that guy can’t drive anymore.”

“What’ll happen?” I asked.

“I’ll send in a report and the state will make him take the driver’s test again. If he fails they’ll take his license away.”

Accident report number in hand, I walked up to my therapist’s office and sat down in my customary chair. Grey haired and slim with a healthy Florida vacation tan, the shrink was around my father’s age. I picked him partly because of that. Talking about my problems with someone younger than me would feel weird. When I went to the podiatrist for a tendonitis flare up last week I was chagrined that the doctor looked like she had just got out of high school. Reverse ageism I guess.

“Steve” the shrink said. “I saw that guy from up here. He was a mess. He shouldn’t be driving.”

“I know,’ I said. “I just hate to be the reason he loses his license.”

“Next time it could be a person. A kid.”

“He wanted me to let him skate,” I said. “But I couldn’t for just that reason.”

Staring out the office window, I knew that old man’s life was going to be diminished. But if he ended up seriously hurting or killing someone then a whole lot of peoples’ lives would be diminished too. It was really a no brainer – but that didn’t make me feel any better.

Sitting in my chair, I began to talk about what’s bothering me. People say age brings wisdom but that’s often a load of horseshit.  Some people, smug in their grey hairs, use old age as an excuse to not change. They’re in for a rude shock. Growing old means you’re going to encounter things you’ve never experienced before. If you’re not able to roll with those changes then growing old is going to be a shipwreck. I’m far from old but I’ve caught a glimpse the rocky shoals ahead. I don’t want to sink.

I don’t want to run over someone and not even notice.

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I Hurt Myself Today

When I got home from work yesterday the newest addition to my pocketknife collection was waiting in my mailbox. Like a kid on Christmas I slid the new knife out of its packaging and flicked it open. “Nice,” I said, feeling the razor sharp edge. “Very nice.” Then I pressed my thumb against the frame to unlock the blade and closed it on my knuckle. Not nice at all.

As I watched my daily baby aspirin thinned blood dripping on the pavement I knew what I had done wrong and why. The knife’s release mechanism was stiff so I applied extra force with my thumb while my other fingers applied pressure to blade’s spine. When the lock snapped open the knife jumped forward and, in knife nerd parlance, “I got bit.” I own similar knives that I can open and close one handed in my sleep, but this time my overconfidence outweighed my good sense. I should have stopped what I was doing the second I encountered resistance and closed the knife with two hands.

Sucking my thumb, I went into my house and washed my wound in the kitchen sink. After a few minutes watching it bleed I realized it wasn’t going to stop. After applying pressure with a paper towel I ended up with a bloody rag and my sink looked like the slop bucket in a abattoir. If I wasn’t so manly I would’ve passed out.

Trudging upstairs, I went to the bathroom and got my first aid kit. After washing the cut with peroxide I examined my thumb. Yep, it was going to need stiches. “Honey,” I called to my wife. “I need some help in here.”

My wife came into the bathroom and her eyes widened in horror. “What the hell happened?” she said.

“I closed my new knife on my thumb.”

“Again?” she screeched. “Another cut?”

I have an embarrassingly large collection of pocket knives. This isn’t the first time I sliced myself nor will it be the last – but I’d never needed stiches before. Grinning, I began singing an old Nine Inch Nails song.

I hurt myself today

To see if I still feel

I focus on the pain

The only thing that’s real….

“Great,” my wife said. “I’m married to a self-mutilator.”

“It’s just a flesh wound.”

“How many knives do you have now?”

I shrugged. This was an argument I wasn’t going to win.

After Annie applied antibiotic ointment and a dressing on my thumb she said, “I’m going to take your knives away for a month.”

“You’ll never find them all,” I countered – triumphantly.

First aid completed I drove to the urgent care center.  Luckily for me the place was empty and I got seen right away – two stiches, a splint, bulky bandages and a tetanus shot. The shot hurt more than anything else. “Don’t play with knives” the doctor said when he was finished.

“Okay doc,” I lied.

When I got home my daughter was waiting with her toy doctor kit, her eyes brimming with concern. “Mommy said you hurt yourself,” she said.

“Nothing to worry about, Natalie,” I said. “Just a scratch.” But I let my daughter fuss over me with plastic instruments and swallowed her candy pills like a good daddy.

“There,” Natalie declared. “You’re all better.”

“I hope you’re in my insurer’s network,” I said. “Are you a Tier One provider?”

“What?”

“Thank you, honey. Daddy feels better.”

After dinner, and over her usual protestations about supernatural creatures hiding in her closet, I put Natalie to bed. Then I grabbed my new knife and went down to my workbench in the basement. Using rubbing alcohol and a rag, I cleaned my blood off the knife, adjusted the blade’s pivot screw and applied oil where it was needed. Using my left hand I carefully opened and closed the knife until I was satisfied it was performing as it should. Then I went upstairs and stowed it with all the others.

At this point the lidocaine had worn off and my thumb started to throb. Opting for bourbon instead of Advil, I sat down on the couch and sipped it as the night’s silence overtook my house. After a few minutes my gaze was inexorably drawn to the box containing Buster’s ashes on the china closet. Ever since he died I went on a bit knife buying tear. As my thumb ached I realized I had using my hobby as a narcotic to avoid thinking about him.

“You are someone else,” I said to the box. “I am still right here.”

Drink finished, I went upstairs and went to bed. Staring at the ceiling I thought about Freud’s assertion that there’s no such thing as an accident. Maybe my old dog “bit” me one last time. Lying in the shadows, Trent Reznor’s broken thoughts tumbled around my head.

The needle tears a hole

The old familiar sting

Try to kill it all away

But I remember everything.

Love is like a knife and, if you get careless, it will cut you to the bone.

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