Steve Dublanica's Blog, page 7

A Particular Set of Skills

Old people like to complain and my mother is no exception so, I’ve learned to take what she tells me with a grain of salt. But when the details of mom’s aggravation concerning food quality at her nursing home started tickling my waiter sixth sense, I did the most sensible thing I could – I joined her for dinner. 

Sitting down at 5:10 pm. I immediately saw the dining room staff was either new or untrained and there certainly wasn’t enough of them. I’m a fairly patient guy and understand staffing in nursing homes have suffered greatly since the pandemic but, as the minutes ticked by, I could feel my blood pressure start to spike.

My dinner came almost immediately but the “chicken tenders” were lukewarm and looked like they came frozen out of the box while the “beet salad” advertised on the menu was a bean salad that probably came out of a can, served in a plastic dixie cup. “Where’s the chef’s breadbasket that was on the menu?” I asked. 

“We don’t have it,” the server said. 

My dinner finished; my mother’s meal had still not arrived. “Excuse me,” I said to a server at 5:57 pm, “My mother hasn’t gotten her dinner yet.” 

“Oh?” she said. “I’m sorry.” 

“Please bring it.” 

“Yes, sir.” Then I watched the server confer with one of her colleagues. “I brought her dinner,” he said. 

“No, you did not,” I said, loud enough to be heard.

“They think I’m a liar now,” my mom said, nervously.

“It’ll be all right, Mom,” I said, patting her hand. Then, when my mom’s dinner came, I took a picture of it and texted it to the nursing home’s administrator. Let me tell you, there are prison kitchens that turn out a better product – but the inmates aren’t shelling out over nine grand a month for the pleasure of being there. Oh, and the ice cream served for dessert was more like a custard – melted and unappetizing. 

The administrator responded promptly to my text, apologizing for the shortfall and, when I was driving home, I also got a call from the head of food services. “I have a background in restaurants,” I said. “And you know that food is a big morale booster. I want to be able to take my mom’s granddaughter for dinner at your place and for both of them to be happy.” 

“Yes, sir,” the man said. Then, after admitting they were understaffed, he said he’d talk to the chef and seek to make improvements. Fair enough and I’ll give them time, but I’m going to watch them like hawks. Like Jake and Elwood from The Blues Brothers dining at Chez Paul, my brother and I might come there “for breakfast, lunch and dinner every day of the week.” HOW MUCH FOR THE LITTLE GIRL? SELL ME YOUR CHILDREN! That’ll probably ruffle a few feathers. I think I can throw a shrimp cocktail into my brother’s mouth. 

All kidding aside, this is not the first time my mom’s nursing home has dropped the ball, and my patience is growing very, very, thin. But seeing my mom served tired looking crap by the very people I’ve entrusted her care to have sent my anger into overdrive. Driving home steaming, I thought of Liam Neeson’s phone call to his daughter’s kidnappers in the film, Taken. “What I do have are a very particular set of skills, skills I have acquired over a very long career. Skills that make me a nightmare for people like you.” And boy, I’ve had a long career lambasting entitled customers, crazy restaurant owners, tip skimming managers, coke snorting cooks and bat shit foodies. My media rolodex is still wide and varied and, since I’m now in a very advanced state of ill humor, I’m beginning to think Nursing Home Rant might be my next literary adventure. 

DRAKKAR NOIR!

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I Could Not Stop for Death

“I’ll be back in about an hour,” I said. “I’m going for a run.” 

“Okay Daddy.” 

“Call me if you have a problem.” 

‘Uh huh,” Natalie, said, fiddling with the remote. 

“Mommy will be home before I get back. Then we’ll go have dinner.” 

Leaving my daughter to her snack and television, I locked the door, slipped my phone into its armband, queued up my jogging playlist and then started running at an easy pace down my street. After navigating a busy intersection, I entered a residential area by a lake and, as my knee began issuing its usual protestations, I took a deep breath and pushed through it, knowing that after a mile it’d get with the program. Half a mile in, I passed a woman jogging with a toddler in a stroller and waved merrily. The child smiled and waved back but the mom studiously ignored me. Oh well. Warmed up, I picked up the pace and knew from my body’s feedback that my legs were good for at least three miles. When I first started running, a mile was pure torture. Now it was a piece of cake. “You’re in the best shape of your life,” my cardiologist told me the previous day. “Better late than never.” 

“So, what are my odds of dropping dead from a heart attack?” I asked. 

“Minuscule. Just keep doing what you’re doing.” You’d think I’d be happy with such a glowing report, but I wasn’t – because miniscule doesn’t mean impossible. Ever since my cancer ordeal, I’ve become more conscious of my mortality than is probably healthy. Watching my father die didn’t help matters either. I guess once you catch a glimpse behind life’s fragile curtain nothing is ever the same. Pacing alongside the lake, I thought about how many years I had left. Ten? Twenty? Thirty? “At least stick around until your daughter’s out of college,” I thought to myself.

Hitting the three mile mark, I felt good and decided to go another mile but, as I passed other runners and bikers, a line from a poem popped into my head, “Because I could not stop for death – he kindly stopped for me.”  Grunting, I knew part of the reason I started running was to cope with my fear of the inevitable but, no matter how many miles I ran, I knew I’d never outrun death. It would always be there waiting for me. Shaking my head to dispel my morose thoughts, I knew I’d better keep my eyes open lest some idiot driver took me out there and then. 

After climbing up a steep hill, I ran high above the lake and watched as the setting sun’s rays played upon the still waters. As the evening breeze carried the sweat away from my body, I thought about those five stages of grief I’m supposed to be going through. As far as I can tell, I skipped over denial and bargaining completely and went straight to anger. Too say I’ve been testy lately would be a vast understatement, but I also know I’ve been logging miles to try and exorcise the raging restlessness that seems to have taken possession of my soul. Harnessing my fury, I ran faster, trying to sweat out the badness and slipped into an almost trancelike state. I don’t know how long I went like that but, when my legs and lungs finally cried “no mas” I finally stopped. Heaving deep breaths, I looked at the exercise monitor on my wrist. Five miles. A new record. 

Feeling my heart starting to downshift, I began walking home, soaked in sweat. Wincing as my gimpy knee ached, I silently cursed myself for trying to do too much too soon. Then again, grief is a long journey also and I’ve only just begun to walk it. No sense rushing what cannot be rushed, but I also knew death would kindly stop for many others before my turn came.  As an old saint once said, “One day you will lose everyone you’ve ever loved, or they will lose you.” 

As I neared my house, a fortyish woman jogging towards me also came to a stop and, when I waved in exhausted solidarity, her face broke into a beautiful smile. “It doesn’t get any easier,” she said, breathing heavily “Does it?” 

“No,” I said. “It never does.” 

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Missing

A friend of mine’s daughter has gone missing. If you have any information regarding the two girls pictured below, please contact the New York State Police Thank you.

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Smell the Flowers

“What the hell is that?” I said, pointing to the computer monitor.

“Oh,” the cop said. “That’s Karl up with his drone. We’re doing a sting on a rub and tug place.” Looking at the aerial view of a sandwich shop I sometimes frequent I said, “They operate out of there?” 

“Yeah. They rent a spot upstairs.” 

“If you see me going in there later, I’m just getting a sandwich.” 

“Sure,” the cop said, grinning. “Just don’t say anything about this.” 

“My lips are sealed.” 

“You ready Steve?” another cop, said. 

“Yeah,” I said. “Let’s go.” Walking into the parking lot, I climbed into the police cruiser, but found the front passenger seat blocked by the officer’s patrol bag. 

“Sorry,” he said. “Let me get that out of the way.” 

“I hope you keep a pack of smokes in there.” 

“Actually, no.” 

Smiling, I thought about how many times I used cigarettes to calm or bribe patients into compliance when I worked psych. Then the powers that be banned smoking in all hospitals and nicotine withdrawal made patients get even more violent. If those corporate types worked the floors when shit went down, they’d be passing out Camels like candy but, when the ball went up, they were nowhere to be found. Wimps. 

“You know what’s going on?” the cop said, as he pulled out of the parking lot.

“Got a call from a neighbor. Said the guy hasn’t eaten in weeks.”

“Jesus.” 

“Let’s just go and see what we see.” Half turning, I looked at the shotgun and assault rifle locked in the rack behind me. When I was a kid, cops carried six shooters and had extra bullets in cartridge loops on their belts. Now, in addition to the long guns, they carried semi-auto pistols holding seventeen rounds with two extra mags. Something tells me if you need fifty-one rounds to solve a problem, you’d be better off with a flamethrower. I almost became a cop when I was twenty-one but, looking back on it, I’m grateful that never happened. Sure, I’d be retired with a pension by now, but I’d probably be bleeding alimony to three ex-wives. 

“How long you’d been on the job?” I asked. 

“Two years here,” the cop, a young guy, said. “Three with the sheriff before that.” 

“Work the jails?” 

“Oh yeah. That sucked.” 

As we made our way down our destination’s street, the cop said. “I’ve never been down here before.” Smiling, I said, “You’ll know the house when you see it.” 

The cop chuckled. “There it is. You’re right.” 

Pulling up to the dilapidated house, we got out of the car and walked up to the front door. “I have to turn my body camera on now,” the cop said. Remembering to be on my best professional behavior, I nodded. I didn’t see flies on the windows or smell the sweet sour smell of a decomposing body so, so far so good. Then we knocked on the door.  The subject of the welfare check was pretty much the usual – poor, medically compromised and suffering from mental illness. After I asked him a few questions, however, the man got squirrelly and then politely asked us to leave. Rebuffed, the cop and I got back into his car.

“He said he was hungry but refused food,” he said. 

“He’s oriented times three but there’s some kind of dementia going on. He can’t take care of himself anymore.” 

“But he doesn’t want help.” 

“He keeps going the way he’s going,” I said. “He’ll be dead in a week.” 

Back in my office, I called adult protective services, laid out what I knew, and they agreed to come over with a psych screener in a couple of hours. That surprised me. Must’ve been a slow day. “Could you have an officer escort us?” they asked. 

“Sure.” 

Later, as I headed back to the police station, I spied several state and county police cars lined up outside town hall. The rub and tug people were about to have very bad day. Walking by the computer monitor in the squad room, I saw the drone was no longer flying. 

“Showtime,” I said. 

“Yeah,” a cop said. 

“I’ll go there for a massage tonight,” I said. “They’ll probably be running a half off sale after this.” 

“I won’t say nothing.”  

Back at the welfare check’s home, I stood outside while the psych screener tried to work his magic. “Think he’ll go to the hospital voluntarily?” the same cop who accompanied me earlier, said. 

“Only way it can go,” I said. “Right now, there isn’t enough to make him.” 

While we waited. I listened to the police radio. There was a car accident on the highway and a baby was involved. As code words and sit reps calmly tumbled out of the mike clipped to the young cop’s epulet, I wondered how the officers on scene could sound so nonchalant. I’d be freaking out. 

“No entrapment,” the cop said, perhaps having noticed me tense up. “That’s a good sign.” 

Inside the house, I heard the man wail, ‘It’s never been so bad,” before his voice dipped below the range of my hearing. Looking at the ground, I stayed focused on the radio. They were taking the mom and baby to the hospital with what sounded like minor injuries. 

“He’ll go,” the adult protective services officer said, emerging from the house. Wow, a small miracle. 

“Need a rig?” the cop asked. 

“If you can transport him,” she said. “That’d be great.” 

As I waited for the man to come out, I watched as a young boy rode his bike down the street, agog at the police presence in his neighborhood. Catching his eye, I nodded, and he waved back. A couple of years ago a similar thing happened and the child, one of my daughter’s school chums, told everyone in her class that I was a cop. It took a while to convince Natalie I wasn’t – which I think disappointed her – but then again, she still doesn’t really understand what I do. 

The man came out wrapped in a blanket and was hustled as gently and quickly as possible into the cruiser. If we dallied, he might change his mind. “Good job,” I said to the screener. “You earned your money today.” 

“This kind of shit always happens on a Friday,” he said. “I’ve got something exactly like this next.”

Looking at my watch, it was way past quitting time, and I had to pick up my daughter at her Girl Scout project. Her troop was helping volunteers on the beautification committee grow flowers in a hothouse that would eventually be placed around town. When I arrived, my daughter was painting daisies and roses on a planter while she and her friends listened to Taylor Swift on the radio. 

“Your daughter a Swiftie?” I asked one of the waiting moms. 

“Every little girl is a Swiftie these days,” she said, rolling her eyes. 

“When you were your daughter’s age, I’m sure you had a favorite band.” 

“Oh yeah,” she said. “I was big into New Kids on the Block.”

“I liked Tiffany,” another mom said. Jesus, I was in college when these moms were in the fourth grade. Feeling somewhat aged, I leaned on a table and watched the scouts as they laughed, painted, potted, and sang. 

“Hey Steve,” one of the beautification volunteers said. 

“Looking good, Dan,” I said. “The flowers are lovely.” 

“The girls did a good job.” 

My town is bordered by three major highways. Instead of seeing garbage and weeds littering what could be dead space by the on and off ramps, the beautification folks fill them with lovely flowers. It’s a small but wonderful thing that always makes me smile. 

“Hi daddy,” Natalie said, greeting me splashed with paint. 

‘Ready to go?” 

“I’m hungry.” 

“We’re going to see Grandma, but I’ll take you to get something to eat first.” Since the sandwich shop was most definitely out, I defaulted to a taco place. A few minutes later, as I munched on my spicy cauliflower and chickpea taco, I looked through the eatery’s plate glass window at the aforementioned whorehouse smack dab in the middle of town. In the plaza diagonally across from it, I saw the flowers the beautification volunteers planted gently shaking in the breeze as a thunderstorm began to make its presence known.  

“How was your day, daddy?”  Natalie, asked. 

“Fine, honey,” I said – but I knew several people who’d had a very, very bad day: hurt babies, johns caught with their pants down, sex-trafficked hookers, the insane and the poor. Some were helped, others not so much. But I couldn’t tell my daughter any of that. “Look at those flowers,” I said, pointing. “Aren’t they beautiful? You’re helping do that!” 

“Yes,” she said, proudly. “I painted the planters.” 

“That’s very nice, dear.” 

No matter how big or how small, stories of darkness and light are always babbling simultaneously in every town. It’s occasionally overwhelming, even for me, but when that happens, I try to stop and smell the flowers. Sometimes beauty is the only way to absolve being of all its violences. 

Or it’d be pretty to think so.

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Fear Is the Wish

When I ran up to the corner, a car was waiting to make a right and I slowed down, wary of the young woman driving because she was texting on her cell phone. Lost in her electronic reverie she didn’t move so, I jogged past, giving her a wide berth. Good thing I did. 

Looking to her left, she gunned the engine and, if I hadn’t given myself margin of safety, she’d have run me right over. As her brakes screeched, I looked at her through my mirror shades and shook my head. Upset, she shook her fist at me, which pissed me off. 

“You are an idiot,” I yelled. Because I popped her faux sense of personal automotive space – or more likely she was now confronted by a howling man whose eyes she could not see – she burst in to tears of fright. Good. Sometimes, lessons have to be learned the hard way.  Maybe she’ll look next time. Resuming my run, I wondered if I’d saved some unknown runner in the not too distant future. 

A few miles later, I came to a busy intersection and, no fool I, stopped at the crosswalk and waited for traffic to respect the rules of the road. When the cars stopped, I started to jog across when a red sedan blew right through the crosswalk, prompting the other drivers to honk their horns in solidarity with my fury. “Motherfucker,’ I said to myself. Feeling my form falter as anger erupted in my chest, I slowed to a walk to catch my breath. I needed the break anyway. Then again, my vehicular close calls were partly my fault. Not in a legal sense mind you. If any of those morons had hit me, I’d’ve sued them for enough money to put my daughter through Harvard five times over and have a science wing named after me. No, my mistake was being lazy that morning and starting my run after 7:30 AM. If I’d started at 6:30 like I’d planned to, I’d have avoided most of the morning rush and enjoyed relatively clear roads, but I’d decided to sleep in a little but longer. My bad. 

I like to think I’m good driver and, while I’ve made my share of mistakes over the years, I take the safety of pedestrians seriously. So, I get quite aggravated when other drivers don’t give me the same consideration. But then again, people are assholes – and the pandemic made many drivers into even bigger ones. Is it just me or are people no longer signaling turns, running red lights more and treating stop signs and crosswalks as friendly suggestions? A few months ago, I watched aghast as a produce truck blew through a red light while a mother and her tykes were crossing the street. Furious, I followed the truck to a restaurant, took down the license plate number and reported it to the police when I arrived at work. 

“We can issue him a ticket,” the desk sergeant said. “But did you see the driver? Could you identify him out of a lineup?” 

“No,” I said. “I didn’t feel like confronting him in the parking lot.” 

Shaking his head, the cop said, “These companies hire anybody they can find and, when they get dragged into court, their lawyer will bring in several guys who all look alike and ask, ‘Well who was it?’ If you’re not certain who the driver was the case gets thrown out one hundred percent of the time.” 

“That’s bullshit,” I said. 

“Way it is,” the sergeant said, “I don’t make the laws, I only enforce them.” 

Resuming my run, I started down a residential street without sidewalks near my job, jogging in the direction of oncoming traffic, which is usually sparse on that road. Keeping my eyes focused twenty feet ahead, I spied a pickup truck barreling down the street, hugging the curb. The driver, you guessed it, was on his cell phone – with a cigarette dangling from his mouth. Jumping left onto someone’s lawn, I felt the truck’s slipstream wash over me as it blasted past. To add insult to injury, the pickup driver angrily blasted his horn, trumpeting his asphaltic covetousness. Turning, I gave him the finger, my lizard brain hoping he’d stop and get out of his truck, but he kept violating the speed limit right past a school. Which is just as well. Something tells me the mayor wouldn’t appreciate my getting arrested for assault. 

After three vehicular close calls in twenty minutes, my concentration was shot, and I decided to walk home. Nothing puts my heart into overdrive like anger. “This is why we can’ have anything nice,” I muttered to myself. When I got to my house, I jumped in the shower, aggravated that my routine had been derailed by thoughtless jerks but, as warm water cascaded over me, I realized I was being a bit of a hypocrite.  When I worked the Bistro, I couldn’t stand the legions of cyclists who came into the restaurant to refuel midway during their jaunts to and from Manhattan. Fifty year old men in spandex look ridiculous and goodness, those stupid shoes click clacking and scratching up our wooden floors! Then, after several glasses of wine, the weekend warriors would depart, cycling home in various states of inebriation. I couldn’t stand them – and they were lousy tippers to boot. 

To this day, I still have residual animus towards those guys, so much so that, when I pass a gaggle of them on the road I say to my wife, “Hey! Want to be famous?” Of course, I’ve never indulged my homicidal fantasies, but it’s illustrative of the sickness American car culture engenders. When we’re behind the wheel, we like to think we own the road and fuck everyone else. Despite my protectiveness of pedestrians, my tender feelings don’t seem to extend to cyclists. Sure, it probably results from waiter PTSD but, in the final analysis, that’s my problem. Feeling somewhat chastened, I got dressed, went to work, and discussed my close calls with a co-worker. 

“That’s why I gave up running,” she said. “That and my knees.” 

“It’s crazy out there,” I said.  

“You should run on trails. No cars there.” 

“Twisted ankle city. No way.” 

“There’s another thing,” my coworker said. 

“What’s that?” 

“Some people hate seeing other people exercising.  It reminds them of how much they’ve let their health go.” 

“You know,” I said. “I never thought of it that way.” 

Back behind my desk, I thought of what my co-worker said. Throughout my life I’ve run into people who would smoke, drink, and eat double cheeseburgers every day and then lambast fitness buffs as “pussies.” Most of them ended up toe tagged in the morgue before they hit sixty. Was their disregard for exercise a way for them to hide from the anxiety of what they were doing to their bodies? Did seeing someone cycle or jog make them angry because they were unwilling or unable to do so themselves? There’s an old adage, “Fear is the wish” and when people get scared, they get angry. Perhaps that’s why we can’t have anything nice. One thing’s for sure, running has given me a new appreciation for sharing the road with the carless. Self-serving? Too little too late? Perhaps, but late is better than never.  And let’s face it, I’m running because I’m also scared of ending up toe-tagged in the morgue. 

The next day I went running with a new attitude towards drivers- they’re all 100% out to kill me. 

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Cousin It Saves the Day

When I was around twenty-five, I noticed my hearing wasn’t what it used to be and visited and audiologist. 

“Were you in the service?” he asked me after conducting a hearing test. 

“No,” I said. “Why?” 

“You have the kind of hearing loss people get when they’re exposed to loud noises like gunfire and explosions.”

“I’ve fired a gun like, twice in my life.” 

“Well, you’re going to need hearing aids by the time you’re fifty.” Since that ancient number was a quarter century away, I just laughed the audiologist off and went on with my life but, by the time I was forty, I had trouble hearing people in crowded places. At first, I blamed years working in noisy restaurants, but I knew who the real culprit was – years of concerts, nightclubs and using headphones to listen to loud music. I like feeling the beat in my cranium.

I would’ve benefitted from hearing aids back then, but I couldn’t bring myself to admitting I had an old person’s handicap, so I suffered, ironically enough, in silence. Then, two weeks after I got married, I developed tinnitus which sucks big time. When I told my new wife that it was the gods punishing me for giving up the bachelor life, she was not amused. Then, when I was fifty, I accompanied Annie to her twenty-fifth high school reunion which was catered at a private mansion complete with three bars, roasting alligators, pigs and two bands. The din was indescribable, and I couldn’t hear a word anyone was saying and unable to engage in conversation. I think all my wife’s high-school pals thought I was autistic. That was the last straw, and I booked an appointment with a hearing aid specialist the next day. 

“You’ve lost your ability to hear high frequency sounds,” she told me. “That’s why you have tinnitus.” 

“I have a lot of trouble with women’s voices,” I said. “Sometimes they freak out when I lean in close to listen to them.” 

“That’s very common.” Then she told me they had hearing aids that cost $3000, $4000, and $5000. Of course, I needed the priciest model. “Fuck that,” I told my wife. “And it’s not covered by insurance.”  But six months later, when I was commiserating with my dentist over my deafness he said, “Don’t be a dope. Go to Coscto.” So, I did and walked out with a pair of hearing aids for $1300. Bluetooth enabled, I could use them to talk on my phone, which led to some strange looks from people, but I could now follow conversations in noisy restaurants. I was also very careful to take care of my new discounted, but still expensive prosthetics. Then the pandemic hit.  

Just when we all started wearing masks, the elastic loops must’ve caught the device in my right ear and sent it flying into oblivion. Despite my wife and I tearing apart my office, home and retracing my steps we never found it. Luckily, Costco gave you one free replacement, but my wife was really, really pissed. “You have to take better care of your hearing aids!” she said. “They cost a lot of money!” When you’re married with a kid and a mortgage, money is kind of important so, I was very conscious when taking my mask off after that. But I’m also quite an absent minded fellow and misplaced them again several times – usually forgetting I left them on a desk, cabinet or in the cupholder of my car – which led to more frantic searches and Annie’s blood pressure spiking. She’s scary when she gets angry. Tired of being on the receiving end of Annie’s remonstrations, I forced myself to be more careful and, as a result, enjoyed a number of years free from my wife’s withering fury. Then disaster struck. 

Annie had to stay late for work and my daughter and I had fallen asleep in my bed with a menagerie of stuffed animals to keep us company. Waking up when Annie came home, I fed her warmed up leftovers and listened as she told me about her long day. Exhausted, I trudged back upstairs, carried Natalie to her bed, then went to the bathroom to brush my teeth. Out of force of habit, I went to remove my hearing aids only to find they were no longer plugged into my ears. Not worried, I checked the dehumidifier I keep them in at night, but they weren’t there. Not panicking, I checked all the usual places I put them, but they weren’t there either. Oh shit. 

“I can’t find my hearing aids,” I told Annie.

“What! You lost them again?”

“Hey,” I said sheepishly, “It’s been ages since I’ve lost them.” 

“I don’t care! We have to find them!” 

So, instead of going to bed, Annie and I spent an hour searching our house – looking under furniture and emptying dresser drawers before moving on to my car, the driveway, and front and back lawns using flashlights. “Check the garbage,” Annie said. “The trash is getting picked up tomorrow.” Nasty but, overcoming my distaste, I went through several days of pickled garbage and coffee grounds, but no joy.

“Maybe I left them at work,” I said. 

“Go look,” Annie hissed. 

At midnight, I keyed my way into the municipal building where I work, conscious that all my movements were being surveilled by video camera. If the cops were wondering what I was doing there, they gave no sign. Coming up empty yet again, I went home, scared of the reception I’d face. “I’m afraid they’re gone,’ I said. 

“Great,” Annie said. “Another couple of thousand bucks out the window.” 

“They’ve got to be somewhere,” I said. “Let’s just sleep on it so we can look with new eyes tomorrow.” Of course, now I was getting the silent treatment, which is worse than when my wife yells at me. 

Hitting the shower to wash the fetid smell of garbage off my body, I felt guilty as I rinsed the stink away. While we’re far from poor, my wife and I have to watch our pennies like everyone else and new hearing aids would be a painful hit – especially since we’re now shelling it out for my daughter’s roller skating lessons. Feeling like an irresponsible shit, I got out of the shower, toweled off and went back to my bedroom, fully expecting to be banished to the couch. Instead, my wife greeted me at the door, holding my hearing aids in her hands. 

“Where’d you find them?” I exclaimed. 

“In your daughter’s hair.” 

“What?” 

“When I went into her room,” Annie said, “I noticed she was almost falling out of bed and, when I moved her, I thought I saw a beetle in hair, but it was one of your hearing aids. So, I went through her hair and, sure enough, found the other.” 

“They must’ve fallen out when I was in bed with her.” 

“You have to be more careful.” 

My daughter has very long hair which she takes great pride in, always careful to brush it every night with Marsha Brady levels of OCD. I don’t think the kid’s had a haircut since she was five and, when she’s mad and hides behind her mane, she looks like Cousin It. 

“Thank god,” I said. “If she’d gone to school with them in her hair, they’d have been lost forever.” 

The next morning, I came downstairs to find my daughter brushing her hair before going to school. “Mommy said she found your hearing aids in my hair!’ she said, giggling. 

“You’re getting a haircut today!” I mock shouted. 

“No! You can’t cut my hair!’ 

“What? Are you like Sampson? If we cut your hair, you’ll lose all your strength?” 

“I like my hair long.” 

“Okay Cousin It.” 

“Whose Cousin It?” Fishing my smartphone out of my robe pocket, I showed Natalie a Googled picture. 

“I don’t look like that!” she cried. 

“Indeed, you do,” I said. “And if you don’t get a haircut, I’ll do it myself.” Then I made a pair of scissors out my fingers and proceeded to attack my daughter’s beautiful hair with natural highlights most women would kill for. 

“Cut it out, Daddy,” Natalie cried, laughing. 

“Yes! Yes! I will take all your hair and sell it for big money!” 

“Noooooo!” 

Patting my daughter on the head, I fetched her breakfast. Then, just before the school bus arrived, Natalie pulled me down and whispered into my ear. “I’m glad you found your hearing aids, Daddy. Mommy would be so mad.” 

“Honey, you ain’t kidding.” 

Lucky for me however, my little Cousin It saved the day. 

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Something New

When I got home from work, I was really tired. My first instinct was to crash on my comfy bed to take a nap but grudgingly changed into my running gear instead. After putting on sunscreen and my new running shades, I did some stretches and then started chugging down my street.  “I’ll run to the library and back,” I told myself as my body started groaning in protest. “Two miles. That’s it.” Let’s just say my heart wasn’t in it. 

Dodging traffic, I ventured into a residential neighborhood with hills you never notice when driving but do running. After a mile, I looked at my exercise monitor and saw my heartbeat was 120 but, even though I was pleased my ticker was going strong, I felt like the rest of my body was falling apart. Remembering that the first and last miles are always the hardest, however, I pressed on. If I’ve learned one thing since beginning this endeavor, it’s that you have to be comfortable with being uncomfortable. 

I’m the kind of guy that craves the comfortable and familiar, cherishing the predictability of routine. I can’t stand it when plans go awry or when my wife sticks unplanned additions into our itinerary. Basically, I hate change, which is a problem because, as the last months have shown me, change is inevitable. This week, I will celebrate my first birthday without my father. Since my birth, my father had always been there; whether it was hosting kiddie parties, giving me presents, birthday cards, telephonic well wishes or, when I was in my hardscrabble twenties, that very welcome check. Now there will be nothing – and that is a most unwelcome change. 

Bored with my route, I took a detour and started jogging up another road I’d driven over a thousand times but, to my hamstrings’ chagrin, I realized it’d be an uphill slog for almost a mile. “Fuck” I grunted but, instead of turning around, I plodded on, feeling my heart thudding in my chest as it ramped up to handle the increased workload. At the halfway mark, I felt very uncomfortable and noticed my breathing getting ragged. “I don’t remember this road being that long,” I thought to myself. Feeling starved for air, I forced myself to calmly breathe deep from my belly and the panicky feeling soon dissipated.  Then, before I knew it, I hit the crest of the hill and was rewarded with a gravity assist as I made my way downwards. By the time I reached the library taking the long way. I was feeling pretty good and decided to take advantage of their water fountain for a hydration break but, when I got to it, I saw it was only good for filling water bottles. “If you need a cup,” a sign over the fountain read. “Please ask the front desk.” 

“May I have a cup?” I panted to the librarian. Looking at like I’d just returned a book twenty years overdue, she fished one out of a cabinet and handed to with what seemed like an air or resentment. Since I work for the town, I’m known to all the library staff and wondered why I was getting suddenly getting the hands off treatment. Then a light bulb went off in my head. Covered in sweat and wearing shorts, a long sleeve t-shirt, and my new Terminator sunglasses, she didn’t recognize me. I can imagine the staff here get annoyed when runners use their library for water breaks and urinary pitstops – kinda of like using a restaurant as a public restroom and not ordering anything. Maybe I’ll check out a book next time. 

Thirst quenched, I headed outside and checked my exercise monitor which told me my detour had already taken me over the three mile mark. Feeling rejuvenated from my short break, I turned the timer back on and started jogging for home and, by the time I was a few blocks from my house, my legs felt like they were running on automatic. When I finally reached my porch, I looked at my monitor again and saw I’d done four miles. While my pace wasn’t going to break any records, it was my new personal best. Feeling loose and full of oxygen, I stretched my legs and then hit the shower.  As the hot water relaxed my muscles I realized if I’d taken that afterwork nap I’d probably still be asleep, and my circadian rhythm shot to hell. Now dressed and standing in my kitchen with my child home from school, I drank a bottle of beer to replenish my electrolytes and started preparing supper while Natalie practiced on her flute in the living room. The turkey chili prepped that morning was almost done in the slow cooker, so I whipped up some up some baking powder biscuits, prepared a salad, and set the table. 

Waiting for my wife to come home from work, I passed on a second beer and guzzled some mineral water while listening to Natalie inexpertly play her instrument. Feeling pleasantly exhausted, I looked at some books on jogging my wife had found for me at a used bookstore. Written in the 80’s, the books had a bit of a New Age bent, opining that running could be an avenue to spiritual growth; claiming that, if you could overcome the mental and physical challenges running entails, that would help you meet whatever challenges life threw at you. Chuckling, I put the books down. No matter the endeavor – whether it be fly fishing, baseball, knitting, or pumping iron – there’s always some wag out there who’ll claim it’s the path to enlightenment. But there’s no sense in over thinking things because that usually just takes the fun out of it. Running is just putting one foot in front of the other.

Later that night, I felt my brain powering down almost as soon as I slipped under the sheets. As I drifted off, I could almost hear my dad wishing me a happy birthday as my mind crossed into the nether regions of consciousness. Was that what his voice sounded like? Ah, for in this sleep of death what dreams might come.Goodnight dad, wherever you are. Then my eyes popped open, and it was a new day.  Slipping out of bed so as not to disturb my wife, I got dressed and headed out the door, running down familiar streets that, freed from an automotive perspective. I now saw with new eyes. But that’s life in a nutshell, isn’t it? The old passes away and, while that can be painful, you just have to keep plodding on to see the new. Maybe those 80’s running gurus were on to something. Pacing through the downtown, I passed by the owner of the luncheonette I frequent as he opened up for the day. Smiling from behind my mirror shades, I said hello – but he didn’t recognize me either. 

Maybe I was also becoming something new. 

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A Picture in Time

This photo was taken during my freshman year of seminary in 1986/87. Can you pick out the young aspiring cleric I used to be?  I was so skinny then – but my wife says my hairstyle never changed. I thought of writing a whole post about this snapshot, but realized it tells the story better than I ever could. Comments welcome. 

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Heartbreak Radio

Whenever my daughter gets into the car, she, like most of the women I’ve known in my life, assumes complete control of the radio or, in this case, Apple Music. “Dad,” my daughter said a soon has she buckled her seat belt. “Play Taylor Swift.” Notice the absence of the word “please.” 

“What song?” I asked. 

“’Karma’- but the clean version.” My daughter is very sensitive to profanity which is unfortunate since her dad curses like a sailor. When you have your kid at forty-five, it’s tough to get suddenly start censoring the colorful words that’ve been flowing out of your mouth since you were thirteen. Then again, that’s probably why Natalie can’t stand to hear it.

“Nope,’ I said, “It’ll only let me do the regular one.” But since Natalie had heard the explicit version a million times, I let it play anyway. I guess I’m a bad father. After the song was over, my daughter issued her next Swiftie request, but couldn’t remember the name of the song, just a snippet of the lyrics. 

“Natalie,” I said, mildly frustrated, “I can’t play DJ right now, I’m driving.” 

“But Dad…” 

“Siri,” I said, “Play ‘Heartbreak Radio’ by Roy Orbison.” 

“What’s that?” 

“Just listen,” I said, turning up the volume as Roy’s multi octave voice burst into song.  I have no problem with Ms. Swift but, after months and months of being forced to listen to her entire musical oeuvre, I wanted to expose Natalie to something different, and Roy was certainly that. Bopping my head to the rockabilly beat, I sang along. 

Hometown sweetheart. Hung around in the dark. 

Only make a move or two. I was just a young fool. 

Never been to night school, Didn’t know enough to be cool. 

So she found another lover, They went undercover. 

The way she stole my heart was a Crime 

In order to keep the peace Callin’ out the police 

Find her’fore i lose my mind.

The woman i love done gone and Left me alone

She’s got a bad big record on the Heartbreak radio.

A complete investigation, What’s her destination.

Did she leave a trace at all?

Book on her suspicion. Just look at my condition.

She left me here to take the fall.

Then, when the song was over, I said, “So, what did you think of that?” 

“It was okay.” I guess there’s no accounting for taste. 

“Just okay?” 

“What was it about?” 

“How women can drive men nuts.” 

“DADDY!” 

“Siri,” I said. “Play ‘’Crying’ by Roy Orbison.” 

“Not this old timey stuff!” Natalie wailed. Then when that song was over, she said. “And what was that about?”  

“How women drive men nuts.” 

“Enough! Please play Taylor Swift! Please Daddy!”  Now she says please. Amazing the results torture delivers. But it’s funny, my daughter eats up Ms. Swift singing about love gone bad but, when it’ a guy’s turn to complain, she wants none of it. Might I be detecting a burgeoning hypocrisy here? Chuckling, I acquiesced to Natalie’s musical request, thinking of what love songs my daughter will sing one day. 

When I picked up Natalie from summer camp when she was four, a counselor grimly took me aside and informed me that a boy had kissed my daughter. “How old was the boy?” I asked. 

“Her age,” the counselor said, fearfully.  

“Stuff like that happens,” I said. “No worries.” 

“I’m glad you understand,” she said, relieved I wasn’t one of “those parents.” 

“If he’d been fourteen, however, I’d kill him.” 

Because one of my co-workers’ sons worked at the camp, Natalie’s “kiss” become the stuff of legend around the office – but I already knew Natalie was going to be a handful by then. During the spring, we were visiting my wife’s friends in Brooklyn when a black low rider with rap music blaring at levels guaranteed to scramble your internal organs crept past us on the street. Natalie, grooving to the beat, started dancing like a fly girl and then, when she was finished, cocked her hip, looked over her sunglasses, extended her arm, and pointed at the car, as if to say, “Is that all you’ve got?”  Then, with a mix of fascination and dread, I watched as the low rider’s tinted windows rolled down and the driver, who looked like a really big dude, looked over his sunglasses and growled, “Brother, you are in serious trouble.” Don’t I know it. 

Natalie is a pretty, sassy girl and, as she gets older, I’m beginning to catch glimpses of the woman she will become. At that age where she thinks boys are “icky” I know she’s still secretly fascinated by them, often peppering me with questions how I asked girls out on dates before I met her mother. Of course, she gets the most sanitized version of events possible, but I can tell she’s trying to wrap her head around the whole man/woman thing and, to be honest, I’m in no rush to help her. But I can already tell she’s gonna drive a couple of poor guys crazy before she figures it out. I’m sure Natalie will cause a few boys to dial into that heartbreak radio, but eventually, she’ll find someone who’ll sing in tune with her.

Hopefully before she gives me a heart attack. 

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A Clean Well-Lighted Place

When I hit the 5K mark, I consulted my heart monitor and saw my heartbeat was only 135 – an improvement from my last outing. Then again, I took a five minute break to work out a kink in my knee. Perhaps I should do that more often. Feeling energized, I felt I could go another mile, but my good sense intervened, and I settled into a walk. At fifty-six there’s no sense in pushing it.

Since I ended up downtown, I decided to pop into my favorite eatery for lunch. Gwen, my usual waitress, is one of those ultra-marathoners who logs a ridiculous amount of mileage every week.  “Just come from the gym?” she said, looking askance at my sweaty mug.

“No,” I said. “Running.” 

“Really?” she said, “How far did you go?” 

“5K – but I’m like a car valet jogging to fetch a car.’ 

“Excellent. How’s your knee?” she said, pointing to the brace I was wearing. 

“Good. Had to stop for a spell but then everything lubed up. No problem.” Then I ordered a chicken Caesar salad, dressing on the side, and downed two glasses of water. 

“So, how’s things?” I asked Gwen after I rehydrated. 

“Hubbies’ in the hospital.” 

“Oh no,” I said. “What for?” 

“Hip replacement. His third.” 

“Ouch. He got a card to get through metal detectors?” 

“Oh yeah.” 

“I hope he recovers quickly.” 

My salad arrived and I tucked into it with gusto. As I ate, I browsed the news headlines on my phone: Gaza, Ukraine, Biden vs. Trump, the former President’s legal saga, a nifty article about life aboard an attack submarine, and how college campuses are trying to hold graduation ceremonies under the threat of student protests. One of my volunteer’s grandchildren is graduating from college next week and she’s worried sick that they won’t be able to walk with Pomp and Circumstance if people act up. “She didn’t have a high-school graduation because of COVID,” my volunteer said. “I hope things go smoothly this time.” When I asked her what college her grandchild attended, she named a small school in the hinterlands of Pennsylvania. 

“Not every college had protests,” I said. “I’m sure things will be fine.” 

“I went through this during the Sixties,” my volunteer said. “It was bad then too.” Smiling I thought of my sweet seventy-something volunteer wearing a tied-dye shirt and love beads while protesting against “The Man.” 

Noticing my mother has called, I shut of the “Do Not Disturb” feature in case she called again and texted that’d I’d ring her after I was done with lunch. There was also a text from my hospitalized buddy. So far, so good. I made a mental note to send him the article about the submarine. My friend served on a “boomer” in the Navy and likes to joke that he now glows in the dark as a result. Putting down my phone, I listened to the clatter and chatter of a busy restaurant during the lunch rush. You couldn’t pay me enough money to strap on an apron again, but I sometimes wistfully remember weaving between tables, busboys, and the occasional rambunctious tyke while grooving to a rhythm only I could hear. Then I remember why I now have flat feet, a gimpy knee, an undying hatred of entitled assholes, and the feeling passes like a nostalgic fart. 

After paying the check and leaving Gwen twenty percent, I asked for another glass of water to top off my tank before walking home. As I sipped, I remembered that I came here a couple of hours after my father died, seeking comfort in a greasy patty melt with sauteed onions and French fries. When bad times hit, my diet is usually the first thing to go. But I know I didn’t just come in that day for comfort food. I came looking for the friendly and familiar energy a clean well-lighted place provides when the unfamiliar and sorrowful strikes. 

“See you next time, Steve,” Gwen said. “Keep running.” 

“Thanks, kiddo. Have a good weekend.” 

Walking home, I called my mom. She’s doing okay, but sometimes the unfamiliar and sorrowful gets to her too and she needs person to lean on. After fifty-seven years of marriage, that’s to be expected. Then again, I need people to lean on too. After ending the call with a promise to visit her tomorrow with granddaughter in tow, I arrived home, just in time to witness the cleaning ladies finishing getting my house ship shape.  A bit of an extravagance, perhaps – but it’s cheaper than marriage counseling. 

“Adios, Senor,” the cleaning ladies said as they got into their car. “Muchas gracias,” I replied. “I hope it wasn’t too bad this time.” Laughing, the ladies got into their car and drove away, heading to what I imagined was a bigger home and better paying gig. Opening the front door, I felt a twinge of sadness when I remembered a dog wouldn’t be there to greet me, tail wagging. Nor would I be able to call my dad and hear his voice for that matter. “Many great dears are taken away,” I muttered. “What will become of you and me?”

When I walked into my house, my blue mood suddenly took a backseat to contentment. The ladies had left all the blinds open, and the afternoon sun glinted with a warm glow off the newly polished floors. Inhaling deeply, I smelled the smells of a clean well-lighted place and enjoyed seeing the order the cleaning ladies had wrought out of my familial chaos. Looking at my watch, I realized the school bus was coming and decided it was a fine day to take my daughter to the playground to burn off her seemingly limitless energy.  To be honest, taking Natalie out to play is a good balm for my soul too. For, as the man said, “Play is the exultation of the possible.”  The past couple of months have been rough, but even in grief, clean and bright possibilities always seem to appear. 

I hope I take advantage of them. 

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