Steve Dublanica's Blog, page 5

Ode to My Father’s Urn

Amid lettered plinths, names call out,

Numbers, expiration dates. 

Once here, there, and about,

Now in boxes sold at high rates. 

Benches upon which to sit,

Staring at images enamel blazed

And plastic flowers never to wilt

Resolute against memory’s haze. 

A man drinking from a foam cup

Draws pictures in a book,

Praying his son went not down but up

Snagged by the Christ’s fleshy hook.

Did he take the bait?

No time for a wife or child

To render passions mild 

And appetites sate.

Victims of Eros’s bow 

Lie head to head, side by side,

Shelved here after one last ride

Their children laid low

Knowing the clock ticks, 

While Lucifer plays tricks. 

Dad’s vase sits under glass 

His beloved Yanks lost the series 

In sports there’s no free pass.

Far from the house Ruth built 

No answers to my queries. 

Born, school, fuck

A gold watch and then you’re out of luck.

Dying with a view of the parking lot,

Burned before you had a chance to rot.

Screw top capped for only eighty eight, ninety five,

Deposited with preacher jive. 

Tip toeing angels, 

Ignoring demons’ thirsts

Flit above what cannot be slaked, 

Chiseled whispers, love with no place to go. 

The ravenous God’s hallelujahs always come first. 

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Everybody Counts, Or Nobody Counts

Every year my town holds a contest to see which house has the best Halloween decorations and, let me tell you, some homeowners go absolutely nuts erecting complicated displays ranging from cutesy to downright terrifying. The contest also almost got somebody killed. Last year, the husband of one of my food pantry volunteers fell off the roof of his house when taking down his ghosts and goblins and landed on his head. Miraculously, he survived without serious injury. 

“Cops think you pushed him,” I told my volunteer.

“I wasn’t even home!” she cried. 

“What a lame alibi. All that tells them is you had it done. Probably checked your banking records first thing.”  

“I’d never hurt my husband.”  

“When you say ‘I do’” I said. “You not only become a spouse, you also become Suspect Number One.” 

“You’re horrible,” she said, kind of laughing. 

“Cherchez la femme.” Yeah, my sense of humor can be pretty dark. 

The volunteer eventually left (On good terms) so, when I ran into her a couple of days ago, I asked if her hubby risked putting up another display up this year. “Oh yeah,” she said, “But nothing on the roof!” So, last evening, I decided to drive past her house to see what All Hallow’s Night offerings they came up with this year. To my surprise, it had a religious bent. On the lawn were all sorts of monsters and demons but, higher up on the house, were gleaming angels in white – sort of like a mishmash of Hieronymus Bosch and William Blake. 

Looking at the decorations, I remembered something a guy named Gregory of Nyssa wrote long ago; that God will eventually save Satan himself. Now, I know this idea will cause the heads of some Bible thumpers to blow clear off their necks, but nowhere in scripture does it explicitly state that Lucifer is forever condemned to an eternity of fire. And, if God is perfectly good as Gregory believed, then The Most High would have to save his greatest enemy or He would not be perfectly good and therefore, not God. Pointing this out just pisses a lot of Christians off because, if Satan can be redeemed then all of us will be, and that just messes with their childish Fast Pass notions of Heaven being some kind of exclusive club. The soteriological logic of paroling the Devil is, however, inescapable. 

But wait a minute, isn’t Satan some kind of super powerful evil dude who’s a quadrillion times worse than any human? How can he be saved? When you think about it, anything created – and angels are created beings – are equally inferior to God. To us, Satan is fearsomely huge but, compared to the vastness of The Creator, he might as well be an amoeba. Lucifer might scare us but to God he’s not even a minor annoyance. Infinity not only contains the finite but blows it completely away. Satan, when you think of it, knows he has no chance and that’s probably why he’s so cranky. You know how you hate when your spouse is right? That’s how Satan feels on steroids. Even though it may take an impossibly long time, eventually, he knows he’s going to cave in – but he’ll still carouse out late with the boys until he finally comes to his senses and crawls home. And something tells me God has a lot of patience. 

When another Hieronymus Bosch. the fictional hero of Micheal Connelly’s detective novels, is asked why he’s so dedicated to pursuing killers whether the victim was a movie star or a prostitute he always replies, “Everybody counts, or nobody counts.” For me that’s always been the draw of the series’ tarnished and battered homicide cop. Even though Bosch is an agnostic the simple belief that drives him, at least to my ears, is an echo of the Gospel’s promise, that everybody counts. That, in the end, justice will prevail and no soul shall ever be lost. Of course, people cling to the belief that many reprobates – usually people they don’t like – will languish in an eternal hell but, as I’ve written before, that idea is both logically and theologically bankrupt but, calling on Scripture, you have to ask yourself why St. Paul – the greatest authority in the New Testament other than the Gospel itself – never mentioned the alternative to believing in Christ was an eternity of torture. Must’ve slipped his mind. What Paul did say, however, was, “When all things shall be subdued unto Him, then shall the Son Himself also be subject unto Him who put all things under Him, that God may be all in all.” Not some things. All things – including Satan himself. 

I’m not saying we or Old Nick are going to have and easy time of it. Justice will be done. Personally, I’m not looking forward to having all my shortcomings spelled out for me but, I imagine it’s kind of like therapy. If you’ve ever been on the couch, you know digging through your past can be painful, but the payoff is worth it. If we are to face a fire of sorts, and if God is truly all good, then it’ll be purgative, not an eternal punishment. Then again, it’s probably a smart idea to live a good life so as to keep your roasting time to a minimum but God, like the father in the parable of the Prodigal son, only wants us to come home. Driving away from the Halloween display, I was reminded that we are all indeed doomed – to be happy.

No wonder Satan’s pissed. 

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Egg City

My daughter had a playdate at a friend’s house, so my wife and I took advantage of our free afternoon and tumbled into bed. 

To take a nap. 

When we awoke refreshed after our forty-five minute slumber, I said, “Let’s go get a cup of coffee.” Getting into our car, we drove over to an arty little town near mine that’s filled with cafés offering diverse cuisines, coffeehouses with live music and poetry readings, art galleries, antique stores, a playhouse, hipster barbershops offering hot towel shaves, ice cream parlors, bookstores, and bars both honkytonk and bespoke. Looking at the trees on the hills below the town as their fiery leaves danced in the cool autumn breeze we sighed contentedly, enjoying our little break from parental cares. Then, after ducking into a Columbian bakery for some empanadas and tres leches cake, we made our way over to a coffeeshop for some caffeinated treats.

“I’ll get us a table by the window,” Annie, said as we walked in. “Get me a café au lait.”

“Coming right up,” I said. 

A few minutes later, perched on stools by a large picture window, we sipped our coffees and talked about how nice it was to be alone for once when I noticed two birds pecking each other on the second story ledge of the building across the street.

“Look at that,” I said, pointing. “What are those birds up to?” 

“I don’t know,” my wife replied. Then one of the birds laid down, the other bird mounted it from behind and, with a flapping of wings, they got it on. 

“Are they having sex?” Annie said. 

“Yep.” 

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen birds doing it before.” Then, just as soon as it started, the act was complete. 

“Wham, bam, thank you ma’am,” I said. “I guess he’s not much into foreplay.” 

“I feel dirty,” Annie said.

“Dirty, dirty birds.” 

Watching as the exhibitionist avians flew away, we though the show was over but then, after watching then play peek-a-boo for a bit, they flew back to their perch and began the whole love dance again. 

“Guys got stamina,” I said. 

“They’re going to do it again?” 

“Maybe.” 

“Another bird’s watching them,” Annie said. 

“I think voyeurism is programmed into every male’s brain no matter the species.” 

Fishing her cell phone out of her pocket, Annie began to film the birds. “Great,” I said. “I’m married to a poultry pornographer.” 

“Just call me Owl Goldstein,” Annie said. 

Sure enough, the birds did it for the second time in a row and, when they were finished, I gave then the thumbs up. “I’m jealous,” I said. “When we first started dating, we’d go all night.” 

“That was a while ago.” 

“Not that long ago.” 

Sipping her coffee, Annie smiled. “Now we know where that restaurant gets all its eggs.” 

“Free love and free range,” I said. The name of the restaurant below the bird’s ledge of love?  “Egg City.”  You can’t make this stuff up. 

“Okay Owl Goldstein,” I said, “Let’s get home before playtime is over.” 

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Dark Highway

I was travelling down a dark highway late last night when, just as I reached the exit for the interstate, I saw a body lying in the middle of the road. “Jesus,” I muttered, pulling off to the shoulder. 

Steeling myself, I got out of my car and walked over to where the body lay. Another motorist who’d pulled over was standing over him. “Is he breathing?” I asked. 

“Yeah,” he said. “But he’s unconscious.” 

Watching cars barreling towards us at full speed, I waved them away, prepared to jump aside if they didn’t see us. At that hour of the night, I knew a lot of drunk drivers were out and about.

“We’re gonna have to move him,” I said. 

“I don’t want to,” the motorist said. “We might hurt him more.” 

I felt like saying it would all be academic if the victim was run over at 60 MPH but bit my tongue. So, I jogged back to my car and retrieved the powerful flashlight I keep in my car. On my way back, a woman who’d stopped on a local road adjacent to the exit called out to me. “My brother’s a cop in this town,” she said. “I called him.” 

“Did you see what happened?” I asked. 

“No,” she said, “But I’ve been drinking, and I don’t want to be around when the police get here.” Like I said, lots of drunks were out and about.

Now standing over the victim, I noted he’d been knocked out of his shoes, his left leg bent at a funny angle, bleeding from his head, and holding a phone in his hand, its screen spider webbed with cracks. After waving my flashlight to warn other cars away, I cast its beam on the other motorist’s car, seeing if there was any damage. There was none. 

“Did you see what happened?” I asked him. 

“No,” he said. “It was a hit and run.” 

Kneeling down, I placed my fingers on the victim’s wrist to feel for a pulse. It was strong and steady. “He’s breathing and his heart’s beating,” I said. “That’s good.” Then the victim stirred and grasped my hand tightly. “Help is on the way,” I said. 

By now, several homeless people who’d been sheltering underneath the overpass had joined us. “Yo,” one of them said, “Somebody in a silver car just hit him and then took off. Sent him flying.” 

“It sounded like a bomb going off,” another said. Then the victim began to groan in pain. He was waking up. 

“Don’t move bro,” another homeless guy, said. “Don’t move.” Judging from the unwashed smell coming from the victim and the state of his clothes, I figured he was homeless too. Having done all I could do, I resumed station watching the oncoming traffic. Some people slowed to a crawl, gingerly scooting around us, while others blasted by at full speed. “They won’t even slow down,” the other motorist, said.

“Hey!” a passing driver yelled out his passenger window. “What’s going on?” Even from a distance I could smell the alcohol on his breath. 

“Move along,” I said sternly, waving my flashlight. “Move along.” 

Ten minutes later the state police arrived. Noting I was playing traffic cop, one of them asked if I was a police officer. “No,” I said. “Just stopped to help.” Then an ambulance and several other police cars arrived and sealed off the road. No longer needed, I put my flashlight in my pocket.

“Someone lose a cell phone?” an EMT asked, holding up a black phone much like mine. Patting my back pocket, I noticed mine wasn’t there. “Lemme see,” I said. But it wasn’t mine and, after asking around, it didn’t belong to anyone else. Giving it to a trooper I said, “This was found in the road.” 

“Who found it?” she asked. 

“That EMT,” I said, pointing. “Maybe the person who hit the guy got out of their car and dropped it before they took off.” 

“Thank you, sir.” 

By now the victim has been loaded onto a gurney. Luckily for him a Level II trauma center was only a few blocks away. Looking down at pavement, I saw there was a lot of blood and checked my hands to see if any had gotten on me. None I could see. 

“Do you need me for anything else?” I asked a trooper.

“Is that your silver car over there?” he asked. 

“Yes,” I said. “I just stopped to help. I didn’t see what happened.”

“You can go. Thank you for your assistance.” I was mildly surprised he didn’t inspect my car or ask for my ID.  I could’ve been the guy who plowed into the man. Walking back to our cars, the other motorist said. “I can’t believe no one else stopped to help us.” 

“If it was me lying in the road,” I said. “I hope someone would stop to help me.” 

“Well, thanks for pulling over.”

“No problem.” Then we shook hands and drove away. 

A few miles later, I felt my left leg quivering, which always happens after I experience an adrenaline dump. I’d been cool as a cucumber at the scene but now, as I put time and distance between it, my mind began to second guess my actions. “You could’ve been killed standing in the middle of that highway. You have a wife and daughter to think about.” Cursing under my breath, I knew I should’ve gone with my gut and pulled the man to the side of the road. 

When I got home, I made a beeline for the liquor cabinet, poured myself two fingers of Scotch, and downed it in one swallow. After rinsing the glass in the sink and washing my hands, I went upstairs to find my daughter sleeping next to my wife. Diverting to the guest room, I stripped off my clothes, dropped them on the floor, and lay down, pulling a warm blanket over me. It was cold. Staring at the ceiling, I wondered if sleep would come but, between the Scotch and post-adrenaline crash, I was soon very sleepy. Then, just as I was slipping through the twilight between waking and dreams, I felt that bloodied man’s hand grasping mine.

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Buried or Burned

I was having breakfast at my local luncheonette when one of the waitresses, a young college student, showed me an example of a tattoo on her phone. 

“Which color should I get it in?” she asked, “Black or white?” 

I personally don’t care for tattoos and my first impulse was to tell her not to get one. Of course, that would have been a stupid thing to say. “What’s the advantage of one color over another?” I said, instead. Pursing her lips, she said nothing. 

“The white one would be more discrete,” I said. “Not immediately noticeable against your skin. The black one would be more of a statement. Depends on what you’re going for.” 

“It’s a small tattoo,” she said. 

“What is it of?”

“It’s from Harry Potter.” 

Years ago, when I was on a book tour in Portland, Oregon, I met up with a tattoo artist named Jeff Johnson who’d written a very funny and insightful book called Tattoo Machine. A true artist who had a waiting list of people wanting to get inked by him, he was witty, literate and a lot of fun to be around, dispelling many of the judgmental preconceptions I had about people who decorate their bodies. After downing several whiskeys while discussing Hemingway, Hunter S. Thompson, and Chuck Palahniuk, he told me he’d love to give me a tattoo, but I respectfully declined. Taking my refusal with good grace he said, “They’re not for everybody.” 

“Well,” I told the waitress. “I’d start small. See if you like it.” 

“What do you mean?” Gwen, the senior waitress said. 

“Come again?” 

“You told her to start small. You don’t like tattoos?” 

“Gwen’s tattooed all over,” the younger waitress, said. 

Gwen’s an attractive woman who runs ultra marathons and I’ve known her for nine years, so her inked status was not unknown to me. But, as she stared at me, I knew I’d stepped on a live wire, as if my not liking tattoos would somehow be a rejection of her. 

“Years ago,” I said, “I had a girlfriend with a tattoo of a galloping horse on her back.” 

“Really?” 

“I knew her before she got it and after. It didn’t bother me.” Then I told her about meeting Jeff in Oregon. “He told me something I never forgot; ‘My canvas is skin and every work of art I’ve created will eventually be buried or burned.’’” 

“That’s true,” Gwen, said. 

Returning to my egg sandwich, I hoped I hadn’t upset Gwen. I’d hate her to think I was passing judgment on her. Then again, if you’re going to get tattoos, you have to accept that that some people are not going to like your choice. In 1986, when I told my great aunt I was going to study for the priesthood, she looked at me sourly and said, “What the hell do you want to do that for?” That pissed me off though, in her defense, she was eventually proven 100% correct – but the experience of seminary tattooed my soul, nonetheless. And, when people learn about my former religious status, when they see my hidden ink, they can be very judgmental too. “Are you gay?” some people have said. “Don’t like women? Couldn’t hack it in the real world?” Sometimes they just walked away, repelled by reasons known only to them. 

I’ve also painted myself with ink, but with words on paper.  After twenty years of blogging and two books, much of my life – though not all of it – is an open book. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve met or gotten emails from strangers who feel like they’ve known me most of their lives. Of course, you only see what I want you to see, but what you see is a lot and that has its drawbacks too. Once I publish my thoughts they are forever. There are things I regret writing but, like a tattoo, they’re very hard to remove and the internet has a long memory. One thing’s for sure, if called upon to run for vice-president like another best-selling author, the opposition will have a motherlode of stuff to throw at me. 

Tattooed persons are also often labeled as “attention whores” who demand to be seen, even if you find what they’re showing you offensive. I’ve gotten the same criticism from people regarding my writing as well. While I do mine my personal life for stories and occasionally go off the rails, I can’t think of another writer who hasn’t. And let’s face it, you have to have somewhat of an ego to think people will plunk down money to read your words. But there are people out there who think sharing yourself with the world is just an exercise in narcissism. “Who cares what you think?” I have long resigned myself to the fact I’m not everybody’s cup of tea. 

Settling my bill and leaving an heavy tip as an apology, I got up from my stool and looked at the young waitress as she doodled with a marker in a coloring book. “Some adults find coloring books very therapeutic.” I said. 

“Yeah,” she said. “I have TMJ and grind my teeth at night. I colored for two hours before going to bed last night instead of doom scrolling on my phone.”

Walking out of the luncheonette, I knew every person on earth has been tattooed by life; but the decision to show the world their ink before they were buried or burned was entirely up to them. 

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Boulevard of Dreams

I’d hurt my ankle so, after a week on the disabled list, I decided to go for a gentle three mile run on Saturday to test things out. To my relief, there was no swelling afterwards. Besides, I needed to start running a calorie deficit in order to gorge myself at my wife’s reunion later that evening. But, when I was carrying a plate of wagyu sliders and a beer back to my wife’s class table, my left knee buckled. 

“Ow,” I cried, almost falling down. 

“You alright?” my wife asked. 

“I must’ve hurt my knee running today,” I said. “I think I need new sneakers.” 

“Why don’t you buy some Hokas? I wear then all the time.” Since Annie struggles with back pain, she swears by those clunky well-padded kicks. 

“I’m more of a Brooks kind of guy,” I said. “They’re good for my flat feet.” 

“Try something different.” 

Despite two beers and a shot of Jameson’s, I was still in pain by the time we left. When I got home, I popped a couple of Advil, elevated and iced my knee and then slapped a compression wrap on it before hitting the sack. The next morning things had improved somewhat, but I still had to grip the railing going down the stairs. “Jesus,” I said. “I’m getting old.” Aggravated, I figured I’d be on the DL yet another week – and I’ve noticed I get cranky when I don’t get my miles in.  So, on Tueday morning, I decided to give it the old college try. 

The uber rich burg next to mine has a lovely walking path which used to be a trolley track that delivered bankers and stockbrokers to trains bound for Manhattan over a hundred years ago. Torn up during the Great Depression, it was now a pleasant two mile car free asphalt trail ribboning past the huge mansions lining the main boulevard. Parking my car by a Catholic church at the head of the trail, I did some stretches, activated my fitness gizmo, and started my run. Almost immediately my knee sparked in protest. “Goddammit,” I muttered. 

Walking back to my car, I was annoyed with my frailty. My body craved exercise but, truth be told, the slothful part of my mind was rejoicing at my joint’s distress and the promise of spending a day on the couch. “Injury is part of the game,” a seasoned runner once told me but, ever since I’d started running ten months ago, I’d never had to lay off for more than a few days. Groaning back at my car, I popped the trunk, fished a knee brace out of my gym bag, pulled it on, and set out again. What a difference a little support makes. After a couple of hundred yards my knee settled down and I committed myself to prudent 5K.

They say the first and last miles are always the worst but, as the coolness of the autumn air wicked my sweat away, I felt loose and began to enjoy my run. Not having to worry about cars was also a plus. During the humid heat of summer, I’d been forced to run during the early morning or evenings – the most dangerous time to be on the road – and had a few close calls. Now free from vehicular danger, I could zone out to the running playlist on my phone and focus on my breathing and form. And, as I passed mansion after mansion, my mind began to free associate. 

“Doesn’t my cardiologist live around here?” I thought to myself. “Yeah, he does.” I guess that’s what he gets for not taking his address off those out of date magazines he supplies for his waiting room. Knowing he was a runner too, I fantasized about the look on his face if he saw me passing him on the trial. Then again, if I had a heart attack, having him around could come in handy. As a vision of myself collapsing while gripping my chest filled my mind, I felt a sudden spurt of anxiety. Middle aged guys die like this all the time. “Good thing the hospital’s a mile away” I thought to myself. 

Shaking my head to exorcise those morose thoughts, I did what my therapist told me to do whenever my hamster wheel of doom starts spinning – “Replace bad thoughts with good ones.” Easy in theory, but difficult in practice. “You’ve been cancer free over three years,” I chanted internally as my lungs powered meditatively in and out.  “You passed your cardiac stress test with flying colors, run fifteen miles a week your mid-fifties, have a beautiful wife and daughter who love you, and a job where you do a lot of good. You are a very lucky man. Chill the fuck out.” Then, as my hamster wheel slowed to a crawl, I let my mind wander once again. 

Passing by an elegant stone Episcopalian church, I looked at its stained glass windows and remembered the priest stationed there was an ex-Catholic cleric around my age who defected to the to what we uncharitably called the “The Church of What’s Happening Now” in seminary. Knowing the vicar was married with small children like mine, I wondered I would’ve jumped ship like him. Then again, it must be tough to preach the Gospel in a town filled such wealthy people. I wondered if he skipped the whole building up treasure in heaven thing preaching from the pulpit. 

As bespoke manse after bespoke manse slipped past. I found myself thinking about money. While I’m not hurting, my house is small and, as my daughter gets bigger, my wife and I have thought about decamping to bigger digs or expanding our home. But after housing prices skyrocketed during the pandemic, coupled with insane building costs and the fact we don’t want to ditch our 3% mortgage, it’s out of reach for now. Then again, after a long history dealing with batshit monied folk, I’ve never been impressed with wealth or felt the need to chase the almighty dollar. Pacing past a home with expensive automobiles parked on its expansive circular driveway, I noted the makes and models and felt a niggle of envy. No one needs a Ferrari, but hey, it’d be nice. Thinking about my fiscally responsible four year old Japanese ride, I wondered when I’d ever be able to motor around in European livery. My dad bought his antique Porsche 911 when he was younger than I am now. Maybe when I’m seventy. 

Or how about a nice watch?  Annie grew up in a house near this boulevard of dreams and during her reunion I saw classmates sporting Rolexes and discretely expensive Patek Phillipes. Having been raised in a blue collar burg, I suspected these talismanic displays of success would be on full display and, instead of wearing the nice watch I inherited from my dad, opted for an antique Bulova with a tropical dial instead. Maybe a I’ll treat myself to a Rolex Explorer when I turn sixty. No, I have to put a kid through college. I guess I’ll have to pin my horological hopes on winning the lottery – which means never. 

Feeling unsettled once again, I wondered where this uncharacteristic bout of envy was coming from. Was I a good provider? Then again, what does that mean? I know too many guys who missed their kids’ childhoods because they were chained to demanding, albeit lucrative, desks. I got to be with my daughter through her innocent years, that had to count for something didn’t it? But she wants bigger house I cannot provide. Maybe I should have sold cars instead of doling out food to the poor. I might be building up treasure in heaven but that doesn’t pay the bills. Not for the first time, I remembered my indifference to mammon was both a weakness as well as a strength. 

Then my mind shifted to the fiction book I’ve been working on for a couple of years. Not a detective novel or about the restaurant industry, it’s unlike anything I’ve ever written. Dealing with matters both sacred and very profane, I told a friend, “It’s kind of like if Morris L. West and Phillip Roth had a baby” and my wife chuckles whenever I let her take a peek at the pages. Culled from experiences I’ve had over a lifetime, I’m fifty thousand words in with both the beginning and ending in the can. Now I just have to write the middle and puzzle all the pieces together. I’ve done it twice before; I can do it again. Then maybe I can get that house. Or maybe not – but I can dream, can’t I? 

I have a cop friend who works in a town that made wealthy enclave I was running through look like the daughters of the poor. None of the houses he protects are visible from the street and, because the residents are so famous, his officers are forced to communicate via cellphone in case some reporter from TMZ is listening in on the police band. When I kidded him about the mean streets he patrols, he told me, “All I deal with are OD’s and domestics. These guys love beating the shit out of their wives.” Starting in on my last mile, I wondered what nightmares were hidden on this boulevard of dreams. 

But was a psychological dodge to make myself feel superior and I knew it. I know several rich guys who are wonderful people with nice families and free of raging psychopathology. And how about that lovely couple that donates tens of thousands of dollars to my food pantry every Christmas? No, nightmares can be found on every street in every neighborhood rich or poor. I know because I’ve watched them up close and personal amongst every member of every class. “The only real danger that exists is man himself,” Carl Jung once said. “He is the great danger, and we are pitifully unaware of it. We know nothing of men. Far too little.” Pacing beneath the boulevard’s elegant tree canopy I remembered the human heart is rent by sin and the path to hell is wide. Finally reaching my car, I remembered I knew nothing about man too. 

Leaning against my unremarkable ride amidst Mercedes and BMWs, I stretched my quadriceps and watched as the faithful shuffled their way into the church for morning mass, noting most of them were old. It’s always irked me how people become spiritual when death draws close after having ignored the transcendent most of their lives – like they were hedging their bets playing Pascal’s odds. Doesn’t God see right through that kind of shit? Then again, he probably doesn’t care. Perhaps, after a long life of unfulfilled desires, these oldsters have realized they only dream worth having is one which moths and rust cannot destroy, and no thief can steal. That’s a good dream when you think about it – but is it my dream? Some days it is, some days it isn’t. 

Showered, changed, caffeinated, and fed, I opened the door to the food panty I run and prepared for another day of listening to dreams gone awry. “I never thought I’d ever have to come to a place like this,” is refrain I often hear from first timers. Those encounters are always delicate and, whenever I feel myself getting judgmental – because people never, ever, tell me the whole story – I remember what a good friend of mine told me years ago. “If you can help people without wanting anything from them,” he said, “One day they might remember they met at least one person who was kind to them just because of who they are – and you never know what dividends that might reap.” That may be very true, but almost never knowing what those dividends might be is what keeps me awake at night in my small house, wondering if I’ve just been a fool tilting at windmills.

Then again, dreams always require faith. Somedays I have it, somedays I don’t but, like running, it’s all about lacing up, getting your butt out the door, and putting in the work – especially when you don’t want to. I’ve stumbled many times, gotten hurt, succumbed to the siren call of my bed, and have miserably plodded through cold, heat, rain and dark only to wonder if the effort was even worth it, knowing one day I will stop running forever. Leaning back in my office chair as a new client told me their story, I knew what kept drawing me down that boulevard of dreams was something I could not see or even hope to understand. “Do you not know that in a race all the runners run?” St. Paul said, “But only one receives the prize? So run that you may obtain it.” Translation? It’s not whether you win or lose, but how you play the game. Some days are just tougher than others. 

Maybe I do need to try different shoes. 

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Above This Sceptred Sway

I might write about religious topics from time to time, but please be under no illusions about my level of personal sanctity. I’m very well acquainted with the reptilian part of my brain that seethes with sibilant whispers from the Seven Deadly Sins. Though I’ve never murdered anyone at time of writing, I sometimes spout genocidal utterances when behind the wheel of a car and my sense of humor is very dark. I also like to get even. 

There’s an intersection near my house where people blow through red lights all the time. Just a couple of days ago, as I was teaching my daughter to navigate this treacherous stretch of road, a white sports car blasted through the red and almost caused an accident. If my little girl had been in the crosswalk, she would have gotten creamed. But, instead of reflecting on my own vehicular stupidity over the years, the incident left me bubbling with rage. So, I decided to do something about it. 

Yesterday, as I was cooling down after a run, I walked up to that problematic intersection and decided to watch the cars go by instead of going home. Sure enough, several ran the red as I stood on the corner and watched. Now incandescent with fury, I took out my cell phone and turned on the camera, capturing a company van as it blasted through the red light like it was a mere suggestion. Now with the van’s license plate, company ID and phone number in hand, I called their main office to complain. 

“You know seniors and children cross that street every day,” I said politely, knowing I was on a recorded line. “If one of your driver’s hurts or kills someone, your company is going to get sued for millions.” 

“I’m so sorry,” the operator, who sounded like she was in a call center a world away. “We take driver safety very seriously.” 

“Please patch me through to a supervisor.” 

“Yes, sir,” she said. “But before I do, are there any environmental needs we can take care of for you today?” 

“Are you kidding?” 

“Sorry, sir. Please hold.” After listening to some canned music for a couple of minutes, a supervisor came on the line. “Do you know which van it was?” he asked, sounding bored. 

“I can do better than that,” I said. “I have photographic proof that’ll nail your driver dead to rights. Give me an email address.” I swear I head the supervisor catch his breath. Then, after sending the email, I hung up. Of course, the first niggles of guilt began tugging on my soul almost immediately.  Would that driver get disciplined? His pay docked or get fired? Did he have a wife and kids who could ill afford to lose the salary his job provided? Part of me knew the company would probably do nothing, dismiss me as a crank, and sweep it under the rug, but what if they really did take it seriously? Oh dear. 

“He’s an asshole who deserves what he gets,” the wrathful part of my brain whispered. “He was so hell bent on not getting delayed a minute that he didn’t care what damage he could’ve caused. Fuck him.” Satisfied with my rationalization, I convinced myself I’d done a good deed. 

“The police chief told me that state doesn’t allow traffic cameras,” I told my wife later. “But I swear to God, I’m going to camp out on that corner in a lawn chair, take pictures of very shithead who runs the red, shame them on Facebook, and then turn the proof over to the police. How many points do you get on your license for running a red light?” 

“I think two,” my wife said. 

“Not enough. It should be at least four to make their auto insurance go up. That’s how you stop these people, hit them in the pocketbook.” 

“It would make them think twice.” 

“And I’ll put up a sign next to the lawn chair that says. ‘Smile! You’re on Candid Camera.’” If my wife had any reservations about me turning into the town weirdo, she didn’t let on. 

Of course, I’ve been an asshole driver in the past. When I was twenty-six and late for work, I got pulled over for speeding through a school zone. Just the day before, a child had been struck and killed in that very same spot and, after the cop yelled at me for my reckless stupidity, he gave me a ticket that was so massive that I had to do community service to prevent me from becoming uninsurable. One thing’s for sure, I never did that again – but I still did other stupid shit. It was only when I mellowed with age and had a kid that I started driving like a little old lady. 

Looking back on it, that cop not showing me any mercy was a good thing. But then again, it was his job to enforce traffic laws and not mine. Was I right to call that driver’s company? Did I possibly save some unfortunate family from some kind of disaster in the future? One thing’s for sure, however – my daughter probably wouldn’t appreciate me turning into the town nutcase. “Candid Camera?” What was I thinking? But I was still unsettled. “The quality of mercy is not strained,” I thought, recalling the Bard’s words. “It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath. It is twice blest; It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.” But when is mercy counterproductive and puts others at risk? I don’t know. 

Later that night, I escorted my wife to her (Number redacted) high school reunion. Held at a mansion and catered by a topflight outfit, I’d gone to an earlier reunion there five years before and was looking forward to some good food and drink. As we sat under the tent for her class year, two female servers came by our table with tasty hors d’oeuvres and, being a male of the species, I noted that they were both particularly lovely. Then, as we chatted with them, we learned they were a mother/daughter team trying to make extra money. “My son is here too,” the mom, said. “It’s family affair.” When the son came by our table, I noted he was a gorgeous specimen too. “Wow,” I said to my wife. “Some really good genes in that family.”  

“Yes,” Annie, said, kind of flustered by the young man’s beauty.

Sitting next to Annie, I watched as she interacted with her classmates and reminisced about the old days. Then, during a lull, I asked her if she wanted to go to the main food tent to get an entrée. As luck would have it, we were the chef’s first customers. 

“Hey there!” the cook said. “You want some fucking food?” 

“What do you have?” I said, slightly taken aback.

“I’ve got fucking lamb, pulled pork, and steak.” It was then I noticed the chef’s eyes were glassy from either drink, drugs, or some combination of the two. The night had just begun and he was in the bag. 

“I’ll have some lamb,” my wife said, laughing at the man’s “exuberance.”

“Coming right up,” he said. “Let me get you a new motherfucking pan.” 

Now, I’ve been known to emit profanities from time to time – well, a lot actually – but this man made me nervous. Unfiltered despite children being around, he put me on guard. Having worked in a drug and alcohol treatment centers, I knew such people could be unpredictable and explosive. Then cute waitress mom came by to get something. 

“Jesus,” the chef said to me, pointing at her.  “Can you believe how hot this woman is? She’s even hotter than her daughter, if such a thing were possible.” Then I watched as server mom stiffened, turned on her heel, and walked away. Yep, this man’s lizard brain was on display for all to see. Knowing that this guy was probably a nasty drunk, I kept silent. Like most of the beautiful waitresses I’ve worked with over the years, I was sure server mom was more than capable of handling herself. I might’ve found this woman was alluring too, but this man’s drunken and offensive comments really pissed me off. Then I almost punched him. 

“Here you are,” the chef said, handing my wife her plate. 

“Thank you,” I said. 

“My name’s (Redacted) he said, putting out his hand. I took it but, because I didn’t want him to see the anger in my eyes, I didn’t look at him.

“Look at a man when you shake his motherfucking hand!” the man bellowed, increasing his grip. 

My left hand balling into a fist, I thought about delivering a strike just below the man’s right ear where the jawbone meets. Lots of nerves join up there but, in addition to having to get a lawyer, that’d be a good way not to get invited back to the next reunion. But I also knew if this man needed to get that pickled so fast and acted this way in public, then he was in a lot of pain. “Thank you for correcting me,” I said, trying to look meek. “Have a good night.” 

A little later, after I discussed my fleeting violent impulse, I told my wife, “That’s not the first time I’ve let myself look weak to avoid a fight.” 

“He’s a jerk,” she said. 

“That guy’s around my age,” I said. “And still getting blasted like he’s in college?” Then I told him what he said about server mom. “Ew,” Annie said, shivering. “Gross.” 

I haven’t hauled off and hit a guy since high school and that’s a record I hope to maintain. Besides, there’s no honor in mixing it up with a drunk guy whose coordination is shot to shit. But if I laid him out flat, would he have learned a lesson? Probably not, but one thing’s for sure, eventually he’ll run into someone far less merciful than me. Shaking the incident off, I went back to enjoying the party. Since I’m hard of hearing, however, that was easier said than done. 

Unable to follow conversations in loud places, I found myself feeing very isolated and, as the raucous noise from the live rock band pounded my cranium, I excused myself to find some peace and quiet. Walking into the mansion, I made my way to the front porch on the other side of the house, far from the madding crowd. And there, sitting on the patio, was server mom taking a break. “Mind if I join you?” I said, pointing to any empty chair. 

“Please,” she said, smiling. Then we began to talk. 

As we chatted, I learned sever mom was a special education teacher with a master’s degree by day and worked for the catering company by night to support herself after an economically disastrous divorce. Because her kids all had day jobs while struggling with insane school loans and housing costs, they worked with her too. “My daughter’s thirty-one and still lives with me,” she said. “Same with one of my sons.” 

“Your daughter’s only thirty-one?” I said, astonished. “She looks like she’s twenty.” 

“Hard to believe but true,” the mom said. She must’ve had her kids very young.

“My daughter’s almost eleven,” I said. “Way things are going now, she’ll never move out.”

“It’s hard out there.” 

“You like working for this caterer?” 

“Oh,” Server Mom, said. “Marjorie’s a dream to work for. She’s fair, pays well, and her food’s very good.” 

“Good,” I said. “I was in the restaurant business for a while and worked for some jerks.” 

“Then,” she said with a sad smile, “You know how hard this job can be.” Was she referring to how that drunk chef treated her and her daughter like a Letter to Penthouse? I decided not to press. 

“Indeed, I do.” I said instead. 

Chatting under the moonlight, I found myself basking in this woman’s beauty. Don’t get me wrong, I love my wife but, when you are fortunate to encounter such people, it’s a reminder that God created the world for us to be happy.  During this brief exchange, this small moment of connection, I also got a glimpse of server mom’s inner beauty as well. Working with emotionally disturbed kids during the day, she was more than just a server with a pretty face, 

“I’ve got to get back to my wife,” I said, getting up. “It was a pleasure to meet you.” 

‘You too.” 

“Where did you go?” my wife said, when I found her.  

“Just needed to clear my head.” 

“Ready to go home? I’m done with this place.” 

“Show the way.”

Between getting cancer and my dad dying, my tolerance level with assholes is at an all-time low. Later, as I brushed my teeth before bed, I thought about how I handled the day’s anger over two different jerks in two different ways. What kept me from slugging that chef was the knowledge he was a tortured soul – but I had no idea what the driver of that van was going through. Perhaps mercy is all about connection, knowing a little bit about people like server mom before putting yourself in a place to pass judgment. Did I get things right today or wrong? I don’t know but, as I looked at myself in the mirror, I remembered I was just a sinner like everyone else. 

“But mercy is above this sceptred sway;” I thought to myself. “It is enthronèd in the hearts of kings, It is an attribute to God himself; And earthly power doth then show likest God’s, When mercy seasons justice.” 

Putting my scepter away for the night, I went to bed. 

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Certainty

 A couple of days ago while on a trip to Asia, Pope Francis stated that all religions are “…like different languages in order to arrive at God, but God is God for all. And if God is God for all, then we are all sons and daughters of God.”

Of course, bell, book, and candle Traditionalist Catholics immediately pounced and proclaimed this as “heresy;” which is rich because the “Deposit of Faith” they’re so eager to defend proclaims that pontiffs are incapable of such a thing. It also means they never read the Vatican II document Nostra Aetae proclaimed by Saint Paul VI in 1965. “The Catholic Church rejects nothing,” it read, “That is true and holy in these religions. She regards with sincere reverence those ways of conduct and of life, those precepts and teachings which, though differing in many aspects from the ones she holds and sets forth, nonetheless often reflect a ray of that Truth which enlightens all men.” If it was up to them, I suspect they’d reverse Paul’s canonization. 

Having been once studied to be a priest, however, I wasn’t surprised by the anger Francis’ words engendered. There’s always been those who’ve espoused extra Ecclesiam nulla salus – there is no salvation outside the church. While that was certainly a prevalent sentiment years ago it is now, at least for the spiritually mature, an anachronistic attitude reminiscent of your drunk uncle drunkenly spouting off about politics during Thanksgiving dinner. And, like that uncle, people like this are rather rigid when it comes to the complexities of life and the human condition. 

When I sat with my nephew at my dying father’s bedside, I told him not to be afraid of what he was witnessing because, “Life is messy. When you’re born its messy and also when you die.” Life in of itself is also messy; almost never conforming to our needs, wants or desires which means, for many people, life is disappointing. So, when you consider the messy multiplicity of cultures, languages, histories and philosophies of the Earth’s very diverse peoples, it should come as no surprise that religion is messy too. Through my own experience of God and everything I’ve studied over the years; I’ve concluded that no one creed could possibly contain His infinite vastness. Like light refracted through a prism, He manifests himself in countless ways throughout creation and, although it’s possible one religion might contain more fullness of truth than others, to say all the others are bankrupt – or the path to damnation – is pure folly. 

Of course, zealots who believe it’s their faith’s way or the highway can be found in every religion. Unbending, dogmatic, joyless and overly intense, they’re so focused on rules, regulations and spouting rote scriptural mantras. that they’re complexly unable to relate to real people living messy real lives which keeps them isolated from society at large and regarded as sort of odd. Since no one likes to feel like they’re on the outside looking in, these people often end up being very angry people who, in an effort to spiritually rationalize their rage, conclude they’re being persecuted. Retreating into like-minded communities, they rail against “secular culture,” blame gays, transgendered persons, and drag queens  for all of society’s ills, and yearn for the day God will establish his kingdom on earth with, of course, them ending up in charge. All of this is just a manifestation of what Nietzsche called “the will to power” and a massive ego trip. These people are also dangerous. 

Rigid people cling to absolutes. When the Twin Towers were leveled in 2001, a Catholic priest named Lorenzo Albacete said that he knew right away religion was the cause. “I recognized this thirst,” he said. “This demand for the absolute. Because if you don’t hang on to the unchanging, to the absolute, to that which cannot disappear, you might disappear.” Although religious passion has enabled saints to accomplish great things, it has also allowed people to do terrible things “in the name of God.” Of course, not every religious fundamentalist is hell bent on killing people, but the effects of their narrow minded jihadist crusader attitudes can be just as destructive. These are the people who give religion a bad name, causing the faithful to ditch their religion in droves. They steal God from people. 

No matter what they say or how they dress it up, these kinds of people are not about God. They’re all about power and their egos, which is contrary to just about what every religion teaches. But what fuels their zealotry is what Father Albacete so piercingly observed. If their absolute disappears then they’re afraid they will disappear – and they will do anything to prevent from happening.  This is fear not faith and, like a foundation built on sand, it will collapse when the messiness of life strikes. Make no mistake, life breaks us all and the only way to handle that is to be humble. Knowing you don’t have all the answers keeps you flexible and open to the wisdom you might find in the most unexpected of places – but those who cling to absolutes out of fear will never hear it because, in actuality, they have no faith at all. 

A couple of days ago, I was watching a trailer for the upcoming movie Conclave when I heard a line from a cardinal played by Ralph Fiennes that elucidated this issue better than I ever could. “There is one sin which I have come to fear above all others. Certainty. If there was only certainty, and no doubt, there would be no mystery and therefore, no need for faith.” 

Amen, brother. 

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Miles to Go

Late on a beautiful Sunday morning, I found my daughter vegging out in front of the television and decided to at least act like a good father.  “C’mon, I said. “Let’s go for a walk.” 

“How long of a walk?” Natalie asked with a trace of suspicion. 

“Two miles.” 

“Two miles?” 

“That’s nothing. Get your sneakers on.” As I expected, Natalie dragged her ass but, after lacing up and applying a thick layer of sunscreen, we finally set out on our constitutional. Of course, the whining started almost immediately.

“It’s too hot,” Natalie said, a mere four hundred yards in. 

“It’s only seventy degrees,” I said. 

“Ugh. The sun is so bright.” 

“Stop your whinging, You need to work on your stamina.” 

“What’s that?’ 

“Being able to push yourself.” 

I’d wanted to go running that morning but had twisted my ankle jogging a few days before. Since there was no pain, I continued with my five miler but awoke the next morning with a bruised and swollen ankle. As luck would have it, my annual physical was later that afternoon and my doctor told me I’d probably busted a little blood vessel and to take it easy for a while. So, a nice recovery walk seemed in order and why not drag my kid along for the ride? Then I remembered why.

After the first hilly mile, Natalie was ready to throw in the towel, so I employed the go to move in every parent’s arsenal – bribery. “When we get into town,” I said, “I’ll buy you a treat.” Worked like a charm, but I also decided to turn the walk into a test of not only stamina, but skill. 

“Natalie,” I said. “Next year you’ll be in middle school and have to walk home.” 

“Yeah, then I can go to Playa Bowl with all the other kids,”

“But first, you have to learn to how to cross the highway of death.’ 

I didn’t really call it that but, in order to walk downtown, you have to navigate a treacherous intersection near my house that features a busy street with an on ramp for the Interstate. Even though it’s properly laid out with traffic signals, people always run the red light to get on the highway. Car collisions are common, and I know of at least two pedestrians who got run over. Scary as shit, but it was a hazard Natalie would eventually have to face. 

“Okay,” I said, when we arrived at the location. “Hit the walk button.”

Now wait for the light to turn red and the walk signal to turn green.

Wait for all the cars to stop. Then look both ways but focus on the left. That’s where the danger will come from.

Okay, you can go.

Then, just as my daughter stepped into the road, a white sports car driven by a woman come tearing down the street. Pulling my daughter back, I watched open mouthed as she blew through the red and almost lose control after missing a car crossing the intersection by a whisker. For a moment, I thought about throwing my water bottle at her rear window. Crazy bitch. 

“You see,” Natalie?” I said, overheating with rage. “People don’t care. They will run you over because they can’t stand being delayed a minute.”

“Can we go home now?” Natalie said, quite frightened. 

“No. You have to learn how to do this. One day you’ll have to cross this street without me.” 

It took some doing, but I finally got Natalie to cross the street by herself and then we walked to a coffee shop in town. Then, after I had iced coffee and my daughter ate a pastry, we repeated the whole confidence building exercise again. 

“We’ll have to do this several more times before you can walk around town by yourself,” I said, as walked into our house.

“Can’t you just pick me up from middle school?”

I felt like telling Natalie when I was her age I regularly walked to the movie theatre in my hometown by myself – but realized she’d just roll her eyes if started any “back in my day” shit. “Then how will you go to Playa Bowl with your friends after school?” I said, instead. 

“I’m so tired,” Natalie said, flopping on the couch with an exaggerated sigh. “I just want to watch TV now.”  

‘Congratulations,” I said, after looking at the fitness gizmo on my wrist. “You walked two and a half miles.” Then, after firing off an email to the police chief complaining about the aforementioned intersection and offering ideas regarding enforcement (Wisely removing my suggestions to mete out extrajudicial killings), I took a shower, shaved and got dressed. We were going out to lunch with an old friend. 

“That was good,” my friend said, pushing his plate away a few hours later. “Want dessert?”

“Yeah!” Natalie said. “Dessert!”

“I bought you ice cream the other day,” I said. 

“But….” 

“We’ll see. Let’s digest lunch first.” 

Since it was still such a nice day, we drove into the historic district of a nearby town and took a self-guided tour through an arboretum on the grounds of a colonial mansion. My friend is a bit of a horticulturist and, as we walked amidst the flora and fauna, he described every plant we saw. Chagrined that I couldn’t tell one piece of greenery from the other, I decided to fact check him with Google Lens, but my friend was on the money every time. Showoff. 

“What about dessert?” Natalie asked as we walked back to the car.

“There’s a nice crêperie by our house,” my wife suggested. Ah, not my thing. 

“I was up here a few days ago,” I said. “There’s a jogging path nearby. Want to see it? More flowers for you guys to look at.” 

“Not more walking!” Natalie cried.  

“Sure,” my friend said. “Burn off some calories.” 

The path was the same memory laden route I’d run down while trying to exorcise an ill mood three days ago. A paved county trail ribboning alongside some train tracks, it runs a mostly flat two and a half miles and ends near a house George Washington slept in during the Revolution. History and peristalsis. My history teacher dad would’ve been proud, but I also had an ulterior motive.

“Stop.” Natalie said over a mile in. “I can’t walk anymore.”

“Toughen up little camper,” I said, ignoring her discomfort. 

“Where are we going?” my wife asked. “Wait,” I said. 

Suppressing a chill as I walked past my old flame’s window, we eventually found ourselves under a train trestle with a set of stairs to the street above. After ascending the steps, my ulterior motive was revealed. “A Friendly’s!” my daughter yelped. 

Smiling, I said to my wife, “I found this jogging here Thursday. After the old duffers are done walking along this path, they meet up here for coffee.”

“But you said Natalie had ice cream yesterday.” 

“What can I say?” I said, shrugging. “I’m a horrible father.”

Although I’d just found out my cholesterol numbers were excellent, I limited myself to a small dish of butter crunch while everyone else had calorically disastrous sundaes. Watching my daughter as she chased her sugar dragon with untrammeled glee, I knew I was being overindulgent, but I also knew I was expiating the guilt I felt for running Natalie through that nerve wracking vehicular gauntlet. Maybe I’d pushed her too hard to fast. Then, when we were done, we walked all the way back to our car. 

“My feet hurt,” Natalie said from the backseat. 

“You had a lot of glucose to burn off,” I said. “And by the way, you walked six miles today.” 

“Six miles?” 

“Way to go kid.” 

Afternoon gave way to evening and, by the time we got home, it was time for Natalie to get ready for bed. “No arguments. Hit the shower,” I said.  

“But I took a bath this morning!” 

“You walked six miles,” I said. “And you’re at the age where you start to stink.” 

Worn out, Natalie crashed into bed. Then, a few hours later, as I was performing my own nightly ablutions, I heard the ear shattering screech of a speeding car slamming on its brakes. Expecting to hear the impact of metal on metal, I tensed up, but there was no bang, just another idiot joyriding on the highway of death. Shaken, I put my toothbrush back in its holder and walked into Natalie’s room where, watching another moonlit girl sleep, I found myself fighting a burgeoning sense of dread. Too many hazards. Too much heartache and danger. Too many damaged people. How will my little girl manage them all? I can only teach her so much. 

Realizing my father probably thought the same things watching a younger me dream, I went to bed, knowing Natalie had miles to go and I had promises to keep. 

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Back Out Now

“Are you going to work today?” my wife asked. 

Groaning, I opened my eyes. “What time is it?” 

“Eight o’clock.” I was due in the office in half an hour. 

“Fuck it,” I said. “I can’t face the office today.” 

“You all right?”  

“No,” I said, pulling the covers back over my head. 

I’d gone to bed at eleven and slept nine hours but felt like sleeping even more. Realizing I couldn’t just not show up for to work, however, I got up, went downstairs for some coffee, and then called my job to tell then I was taking a personal day and text my volunteers to cover the pantry. Responsible adult duties finished, I plopped down on the couch and just stared at the four walls. As I sipped java in my bathrobe, I remembered how my father would sit on his couch at home and stare at the four walls too, immobilized by Parkinson’s and dementia. Shaking the sad memory away, I realized it’s also been taking me more time to start my day.  

“You okay, honey?” my wife said as she opened the door to leave for work. 

“Hanging in there,” I replied. 

After I heard her car pull away, I sat the couch in the privacy of my quiet home and let my feelings wash over me. I had a very discouraging day at work a few days ago, frustrated by the bullshit coming in from some of the very people I was trying to help. Normally I can overcome that kind of stuff, but today, I just couldn’t deal with it. But I also knew I was more irritable than usual, angry, and very sad. On Tuesday, after losing my temper over something very minor, I just broke down and cried, which is unusual for me. Was it grief over my father’s passing? Or had the events of the past three years finally caught up with me – my illness, surgery, recovery, dealing with my parents, putting them in a nursing home, my dog dying, watching my dad die, his funeral, and the myriad of tasks that followed? 

“When I turned fifty,” I told a friend just yesterday, “I was very optimistic, but boy, have the fifties sucked.” Being the same age as me she replied, “Tough being in that sandwich generation.”

“I wished I’d enjoyed my forties more.” 

Grunting my friend said, “If I knew then what I know now, I’d’ve divorced my husband ten years before I did.” Then we talked about her concerns with her energy levels. After rounds of medical tests, her doctors couldn’t seem to find anything wrong with her. 

“Could be depression,” I said. “That could explain all your symptoms.” 

“I know. My next visit is with a psychiatrist.” 

Back home sipping my coffee, I realized the advice I gave my friend was probably me diagnosing myself. Small wonder I didn’t want to deal with other people’s problems, putting up a sign that said closed to all but me. “Back out of this now too much for us.” I said aloud. Deciding to kick myself out of my funk, I changed into my workout clothes and, not wanting to be seen jogging around my town, drove to a running path in a park I’d never been to ten miles away. Running alongside some train tracks, it was advertised as a flat two and a half miles each way. Wincing as my gimpy knee sparked in protest, I let myself warm up for an easy mile before picking up the pace. Then, as I was running behind some apartment buildings, I realized I’d been here before. 

I’d dated a girl who lived in one of those apartments back in ’95 and late one evening, after a round of festivities, we were in her kitchen drinking wine when a train rolled past the window, it’s horn wailing in the cool night air. I still remember watching the faces of the scattered passengers as they rattled by, wondering if they were only then getting back from a long day in the city. I also still remembered the moonlight playing on the girl’s naked skin, the taste of the wine, how the tip of her cigarette glowed in the darkness, and the delicious feeling of being young and desirable. Pausing my run, I looked up at that window and shook my head. That girl died five years ago – but I was still here. 

“Almost thirty years,” I said to myself. If we’d conceived a child that night, he or she would now be a full grown adult, possibly with kids of their own. Would we have gotten married if that happened? Maybe, but I’d have ended up a widower. Then again, the girl drank too much and, when I awkwardly ran into her four years later, she looked like she’d aged immensely. I probably dodged a bullet, but in my mind’s eye, she will forever remain that vision in moonlight. Jesus, I hope my wife doesn’t read this. 

Resuming my run, I thought about all the bullets I’ve dodged – that I made it out of the womb alive, getting caught in quicksand as a boy, almost drowning, a very bad car accident, relationships gone wrong, pneumonia, an emergency appendectomy, cancer, and a host of other misfortunes. I survived them all and, as I paced along the asphalt, I found myself journeying down that great chain of causality that took me from the cradle to where I was now. Life hasn’t always gone my way, but it had indeed gone on. That moonlit girl wasn’t so lucky.

After five miles, I took a cool down walk back to my car and noted with satisfaction that, although my pace didn’t break any records, my heart rate dropped back to normal very quickly. “You’re in the best shape of your life,” my cardiologist told me a few months ago. “Keep it up.” Despite his reassuring words, however, I still felt fragile and vulnerable sitting on that wax papered table. What did that comedian say? “If you die in your forties, everyone goes. ‘That’s too soon!’ but, if you die in your fifties they say, “Yeah, I can see how that could happen.” The older you get, the more your illusions fall. 

Now feeling famished, I stopped at a little restaurant to eat breakfast. Since it was such a nice morning, I took a table outside and polished off a plate of huevos rancheros with some coffee, lots of water and some fresh fruit. The late summer and early fall are my favorite time of year and, as the cool morning wind caressed my salty skin and rustled the still green leaves in the trees, I closed my eyes and let the temperate rays of our local star caress my face. It was a beautiful day, and I was alive to see it. During my father’s eulogy, I said, “Of course, beauty is just another word for love and, if in your pain, you’ve missed lovely moments in life, you needn’t worry, because there will always be more to come.” Was I preaching to myself? Probably.   

Paying the bill, I went home and noticed I was feeling lighter and beyond confusion. Perhaps backing out and hanging up that closed sign was a good idea – or it was the endorphins talking. No matter. 

Whatever works. 

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