Steve Dublanica's Blog, page 8

A Guy Thing

A nurse with a very nice figure walked past me and being a male of the species, I cast an appreciative glance. 

“You saw that too?” my friend said from his gurney. 

“Hard not to notice.” 

“My wife said half of it’s not real.” 

“Who cares?”  

“True.”  

My friend was in the ER of a large urban hospital with a cardiac complaint he’s been dealing with for years. When I walked into the waiting room to check in, I was almost overwhelmed by the throngs of people in varying states of misery. Inside the ER was not much better. All the bays were full, gurneys lined the hallways, and EMTs, cops, nurses, and techs were scurrying about putting out fires medical, legal, and psychological. Even the doctors reminded me of Doogie Howser. 

“One thing’s for sure,” I said. “Working in an ER is a young person’s game. I couldn’t do it anymore.” 

“I think you’re right,” my friend said. 

“Okay Mr. Santori,” a juvenile looking tech said, coming into the bay. “You’ve been admitted. We’re going to take you upstairs.” 

“Good,” my friend said. “This gurney’s killing my back.” Then the tech wheeled my friend into the hallway and another patient, an older man who looked like he’d be shuffling his mortal coil any minute, took his place. 

“Wow,” I said. “You got replaced in two seconds.” 

“Busy place.” 

As the nurses worked on the new guy, I began to suspect we’d be waiting in the hallway for a while. “How long have you been here?” I asked. “Since ten this morning,” my friend replied. I looked at my watch. It was 7:00 PM. 

“Your wife take you?” 

“Yeah.”

“Well,” I said. ‘You might be waiting here another nine hours.” 

“Probably.” 

Fortunately, another tech came to wheel my friend up to his room within half an hour. With his daughter and I in tow, we followed his gurney through the labyrinthine hallways of the hospital, onto an elevator, and up to the sixth floor. The room, to my surprise, was well appointed and private. ‘This sure as hell beats the ER.” I said. 

Another nurse came into the room, introduced herself, and then set about reattaching the leads on my friend’s chest to the machine that goes beep. She wasn’t quick enough however and the machine’s alarm began to wail. “That sound usually means someone’s getting an insurance payout,” I quipped. 

“Turn that off,” my friend said. “It’s so loud.” 

“Sorry, sir,” the nurse said. 

As I sat with my friend’s daughter, I listened as the nurse asked the usual repetitive questions. “Do you drink?” “Do you smoke?” “Any history of cardiac problems?” “Did you get your COVID and flu vaccines – yada, yada, yada?”  Then she said, “When was your last bowel movement?” 

“I don’t know. Six this morning?” my friend said. “Steve, when did you have your last bowel movement?” 

“I don’t remember’ I said. “But I’m sure I had one this week. Maybe.” 

While the nurse performed her ministrations, I talked to my friend’s daughter. As we spoke, she got a text from her mother, asking how her husband was doing. “Tell her she’s finally free,” I said. I thought my friend would pass out from laughing. 

“Okay, sir,” the nurse, said. “Is it okay if I check you from head to toe?” 

“Geez,” I said, “You lucky bastard. I can’t remember the last time a woman asked to check me out from head to toe.” I think the nurse suppressed a smile. 

Excusing ourselves to give my friend privacy, I stood by a hallway window with my friend’s daughter and looked at the Manhattan skyline looming in the distance. When I was in the ER with a heart ailment years ago, my friend was the first person I called. Shit scared, I listened as he patiently explained that no organ in the human body had been studied more than the heart and that I’d be fine. Personally, considering the medical ringer he’d been through, I suspected he thought I was being a bit of a pussy. But, when I had cancer, he was there for me then too – usually with a quip or a joke. So, even though my obviously sexist and inappropriate remarks might seem off base to you, my friend would have it no other way. Guys are like that sometimes, using humor to acknowledge profound emotions without mentioning them by name. 

When visiting hours ended, I told my friend I’d make sure his daughter made it safely to her car. “Come on, kiddo,” I said, grabbing my keys. “Time to get you home.” 

“Thanks for coming,” my friend said. 

“You bet. Call or text me if you need anything.” Then we left. 

When I got home it was nine o’clock and I was hungry. As I ate some warmed up leftovers, I thought of all the hospitals I’d been in over the years. When my dad had heart valve replacement surgery in 2012, the only thing he remembered afterwards was that I was there with him in the recovery room. Coming out of anesthesia after my cancer surgery, despite being wacko and not understanding a word being said, I knew my wife was there. As the old cliché says, “Half of life is showing up.” I’m glad I was able to be there for my friend. His wife, however, probably didn’t appreciate my sense of humor. 

But it’s a guy thing. 

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Petitioning the Lord with Prayer

Today was the National Day of Prayer and the township I work for sponsored an ecumenical service to mark the occasion. I know people get all hot and bothered about separation of church and state issues but, last I checked, all the Constitution stated was “Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion.” By not favoring one creed over another or establishing an official American faith, this allowed people to practice whatever religion they subscribed to in private and public. Personally, I think the Founders made a good call, but that doesn’t stop the annual hysterics over displaying a Nativity Scene in front of town hall. Since local faith communities give boatloads of stuff to my food pantry, however, I thought it would be apropos to attend the event. Luckily, I didn’t have to speak. 

The service was set to begin at noon and, if the promise of touching the transcendent wasn’t enough, the organizers were serving free lunch. Even agnostics will show up for that. Looking at my watch, I got up from my desk to go downstairs when my office doorbell rang. It was a client looking for food. I idly thought of saying, “Sorry you’re out of luck. I have to go to a prayer meeting,” but something told me that’d piss off The Man Upstairs. Of course, the client took forever, making me worry that all eats would be gobbled up by the faithful before I set a foot out the door. 

Luckily, one of my volunteers showed up and I made it to the tail end of the service as rabbi was saying prayers in Hebrew. Noticing an empty seat by an Iman, I sat down and listened as the rabbi completed his spiel. When he finished, he walked over, looked at me, and then sat down on the other side of the Muslim cleric.  Sitting in the warm sunshine, I listened attentively as the Inman, a minister, and a nun said their prayers, thinking it was nice to see religious pluralism in action for once. Then we sang “America the Beautiful” and broke for lunch. I was among the first in line. 

“You swiped the rabbi’s seat,” my boss said with a smile. 

“Oh,” I said. “That’s why he looked at me funny.” 

When I got to the head of the line, the woman serving asked me what kind of sandwich I wanted. “Turkey on rye please,” I said. Then she proceeded to carefully plate half a sandwich in a manner that stated, “And that’s all you’re getting.” I thought about making a quip about the miracle of the loaves and fishes but relented. She just wanted to make sure there was enough to go around. But still. 

Walking around the lunchroom, I said hello to some ministers and made nice with a couple of long time donors and then took my sandwich upstairs to my office. “Where’d you get that?” one of my volunteers said. ‘Believe in God and you get fed. Atheists get nothing!” I cried. Luckily, my volunteer is used to my sense of humor.

After polishing off my sandwich, I still felt hungry and ventured downstairs for seconds. The love of free food was baked into me during my clerical days because, if you didn’t feed us seminarians when we came to do a vocation talk or help with a prayer service, we’d get downright ornery. Munching on my second gratis sandwich, I remembered raiding the kitchen of a monastery late on Good Friday when we were all cloistered for our Holy Week retreat. Though we’d constructed monster sandwiches and liberated copious amount of beer, we just sat and looked at our feast because it was still a day of fasting and we couldn’t touch it. Then one of my classmates jumped on a table, moved the hands of the kitchen clock to midnight and cried, “Let’s eat!”  Needless to say, we were never invited back to that monastery again. 

Chuckling at the memory of our thievery, I chucked my paper plate into the garbage and went to the bathroom to wash my hands, looking forward to the oatmeal cookie I’d scored for dessert. In the washroom mirror, however, I was shocked at the older man staring back at me and remembered that felonious feast was almost forty years ago. My goodness how much has changed since then. When I was a kid, I believed you could ask God for stuff and he’d sometimes deliver but, as I got older, I realized that was pure and utter nonsense or, as Jim Morrison famously put it, “You cannot petition the Lord with Prayer.” 

First off, when you treat God like Santa Claus or a slot machine, contradictions will inevitably arise. Take for instance, two mothers praying for the safe return of an abducted child. If one comes home safe and sound while the other’s found dead in a ditch, you’ve got to wonder if God plays favorites. “Oh,” some religious will say, “It’s all part of His will. It’s a mystery we don’t understand.” Sorry, don’t help me find my kid while helping someone else find theirs and I will write you off forever. Then you’ve got people who say, “God doesn’t always give you what you want, but he always gives you what you need.” If that was true, my food pantry would be out of business, but people still starve to death every day. And let’s face it, people find it easier to pass the buck upstairs by sending “thoughts and prayers” instead of actually doing something. 

God, being omniscient and all, knows everything we ask him, but the only ones who answer prayers are, you guessed it, us. When I had cancer, I certainly asked God for help, but the one who actually saved my bacon was the Indian immigrant kid who paid attention in science class and grew up to become a surgeon. The only reason one of my coworkers is alive today is because some people took chemistry seriously and helped develop drugs to cure her cancer.  And, in a small way, I know the only reason some people are still standing is because I helped them at the moment they needed it most. People answer prayers and if you count on Deus Ex Machina, you’re probably gonna be out of luck. 

Catholics and Protestants, to oversimplify greatly, differ somewhat when it comes to doctrines regarding faith and good works – “Faith without works is dead” versus you “You are saved by faith alone,” They’re both right of course, but not in the way most people think. If you have all the faith in the world and never lift a finger to help your fellow man, then you’re nothing but a pious fraud. But what about people who do good works but are not Christians or don’t believe in God at all? Are they going to burn in Hell just because they don’t have faith or fail subscribe to a particular brand of it? But, as it was explained to me by a very wise man, “You are indeed saved by faith alone, for the only reason anyone does good works at all is because they already have faith within themselves.” So, whether you are a Christian, Muslim, Jew, Zoroastrian, atheist secular humanist or believe Xenu is going to take you on a spaceship the Promised Land, those who seek to alleviate suffering and want are moved by faith, even if they wouldn’t describe it as such. 

Prayer is simply getting to that place in our hearts where we can experience what is Truly Real. Does that mean spending long hours kneeling in church, fasting on Ramadan, observing High Holy Days, or chanting “Ohm” while doing yoga? It’s those things, sure – but the Real is also found in nature, art, music, and literature. It can be heard in the cry of a newborn or holding the hand of a loved one or stranger as they pass away. It is found listening to someone in pain, dancing at a wedding, tucking your kid in at night, or doing what’s right with no hope of reward for yourself. But no matter what it is, you will only find the Truly Real in reality. 

Sorry, God is not interested in helping you become rich, thin, and successful no matter how much you ask him. He doesn’t favor one football team or country over the other, He just Is. Now, that may sound like God’s some kind of remote figure who doesn’t give a shit, but that’s not it at all. As St. Augustine once wrote “God became Man so Man could become God,” and the only way that could happen is if God is human too, although on an infinitely greater level.  Admittedly, this is a Christian perspective, but it tells me that in order to get in touch with The Real, you have to strive to become more human, not less. And what better way to do that than to help people? Humanity answers prayers, not devout gibberish, or casual promises of “positive energy and good thoughts.” Prayer, whatever form it’s in or whether it’s recognized as such, is how we get in touch with our faith in each other which, if we let it, moves our hearts into action.

If that’s not The Divine, I don’t know what is. 

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Satisfaction

I like the privacy of running in a park because, shielded from casual onlookers by trees, less people can see my embarrassingly slow pace and sweaty middle-aged mug. I’m also an oblivious sort of fellow and that’s not a good thing when you need to be aware of oncoming cars, pedestrians, and other runners. Today, however, I didn’t feel like driving to the park and started running on the street where I live. One of my neighbors did a double take, but screw what people think of me. 

Slathered in SPF 50, I carefully navigated two highway on ramps and made my way into town, striding past the stores, bars, and restaurants lining Main Street. The smells of baking pizza almost made me want to chuck it and start carbo loading but I pressed on; running past my bank, through residential neighborhoods, and then onto a long, slightly hilly avenue that most of the local joggers seem to favor. Feeling good and jazzed from the tunes on my playlist, I jogged past the library, flipping a small salute to a young woman who zipped past me. Noticing she was wearing sporty sunglasses; I made a mental note to pick up a pair for myself. Normally I wear eyeglasses to see but, after my expensive specs slid of my sweaty face a couple of times, I switched to contacts when running – but the sun’s glare was annoying. 

When I reached the park I usually run in, I glanced at my heart rate monitor and saw twenty minutes had elapsed and that my ticker was still below the red zone. Reversing direction, I began the trek back and ended up running past the funeral home where we held services for my father. His ashes are still there, waiting until we finally find a place to inter them. “Hey, Dad,” I said, trotting past the entrance. When the mortuary was behind me, however, my mind started chattering about all the paperwork I still had to do to settle my dad’s estate. As thoughts of pension plans, insurance claims, real estate, and long term financial planning for my mom flooded my brain, I felt myself tensing up and my form faltering. Shaking my head, I let the sensation of the warm sun on my face banish my anxious thoughts and concentrated on my breathing, feeding oxygen into my body to power the muscles in my legs. 

By the time I hit Main Street again I felt a tad winded and looked at my wrist monitor to gauge my progress. My heart rate was inching close to my personal max but, to my surprise, three miles was only a short effort way. Grunting, I dug in and picked up the pace, and, by the time I passed the smell of pizza again, I hit the magic number. “Just a little bit more,” I said, feeling suntan lotion beginning to sting my eyes. “5K is only a tenth of a mile away.” Then, after some discomfort, I was done, accomplishing something I’d never done in my younger years – time elapsed, 34 minutes. Settling into a walk, I felt my body readjust as my breathing and heartbeat slowed, made my way past the treacherous highway entrances again, and soon found myself home. 

Guzzling a bottle of water I left on my porch, I stretched and then checked the mailbox. Sure enough, a dozen letters concerning dad’s affairs were waiting for me. Opening my front door, I sat down in the dining room, slit open the envelopes, and began sorting the letters in order of importance. One of them was a fundraising appeal from President Biden. “Jesus,” I said, remembering my father was born only a couple of months after the Commander-in- Chief, “My dad’s dead and this guy’s running the country.” Then again, Mick Jagger is eighty and still rocking it in concert with The Stones, prancing on stage like age had no meaning. Somehow, I found that strangely reassuring. Dad might be gone, but that a group he’d listened to as a young man was still belting it out to enthusiastic crowds meant, in an odd way, that part of him was still alive too. Don’t ask me to explain it. 

Feeling proud and the pleasantly tired from my athletic endeavor, I hit the shower to wash of my hard earned sweat. Then, as the hot water began to loosen up my muscles, I had the mysterious sense that everything – everything – would eventually turn out okay. Maybe it was the endorphins talking but, as water sluiced soap away, I started joyously singing “I Can’t Get No Satisfaction.” Move over Mick. 

There’s still life in this old dog yet. 

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Civil Preparedness

Last week, the computer systems at my daughter’s school were frozen by a ransomware hack. Sadly, local municipalities are frequently targets of these Bitcoin seeking desperados, forcing government workers like me to endure hours of inservice training to avoid being held digitally hostage. Luckily, because the police use our servers, my office’s systems are better protected. 

“We still don’t have computers,” my daughter whined a couple of days later. 

“Oh my god,” I said. “They’ve got you using blackboards now?” 

“Dad, that’s, like, so old timey.” 

“Yeah, but no one’s stealing them.” 

Eric Sevareid once said, “No man was ever more than about nine meals away from crime or suicide.” When the Chinese finally launch their digital Pearl Harbor, I predict people will be throwing themselves out of windows before the day ends.  While I’m well aware that such a cyberattack would cause real mayhem and destruction, I also know most people will be freaking because won’t be able to stream porn. The U.S. military, however, knows full well all their fancy technology will shit the bed twenty minutes into any peer conflict. That’s why sailors are still taught how to navigate using sextants, soldiers to use low tech compasses and maps and, until recently, airmen targeted ICBMs using five inch floppy disks. (Methinks the Space Force is screwed, however.) So, in the interest of national preparedness, I’ve come up with a list of “old timey” technologies and habits all American citizens should master. So, without further ado, I present:

Civil Defense Directive Number One

No more emails or texting so learn how to write a letter. Sorry, no emojis unless you draw them. Good penmanship and spelling are a plus.Learn how to use a paper map that doesn’t tell you all the trendy places to eat. Extra points if you can refold them correctly.Learn how to tape record free music off the radio. Now, where’s my old boombox?Dig up that old VHS player. Too bad newspapers don’t print those VCR+ codes anymore. Find an old tape answering machine that lets you call in to get your messages. Use old fashioned cash and keep it under your mattress. Order takeout over the phone. It’s not that hard. Discover the joys of waiting an hour for a taxi.Buy your airline tickets at the airport. (That is if the planes are still flying.) I see travel agents making a big comeback. Learn how to spam people via fax. Teach kids to use mimeograph machines. They’ll love the high.Learn how to ask a woman out in person. Figure out where your local library is. Get a HAM radio operators license. Hell, make your own radio. I did that as a kid. Under eighteen? Learn how to scam convenience store clerks into letting you buy that porno mag. (If you’re really hard up, there’s always the lingerie section in the Sears Catalog. Oh wait, they’re out of business.) Buy stamps. Lots of stamps. And envelopes! Bring back Walkmans! Learn how to read a newspaper without messing it up for the next person. (I drove my dad nuts with that one.)Learn how to use a typewriter. You’re going to love carbon paper and white out. (Now you’ll know what “C.C.” really means!) Pay attention to where you’re going. That way you won’t need a map next time. Wear a wristwatch. Just remember what the big and little hands are for and you’ll be fine. Keep lots of loose change in your car. No one likes the jerk who asks the toll taker to break a twenty. Don’t be that guy. Having quarters is also good for using payphones – that is if you can find one. (Buy stock in companies who make them!) Teach kids that their imaginations are better than any video game. Buy real books and records instead of leasing them digitally.  Take up scrapbooking. When the internet goes belly up, all those snaps you took of your precious types will go “poof.” Take pictures of your food with an Instamatic camera and have slides made. Then load them into a Carousel and bore the shit out of your friends at your next fondue party. They’ll all be peaking at their watches going Tik Tok.  Bring back Fotomats!  That way, when you have your dick pics developed, your Only Fans will be the people who work there. Go to an old fashioned movie theater to watch movies. You’ll love the 3000 calorie $15 popcorn. (I personally sneak in candy.) Befriend someone named Siri or Alexa. That way you won’t feel so lonely. Turn on the news to get the weather. Miss Reddit? Call Dial a Joke. Merchant mariners need to use sextants, clocks, compasses, and paper maps, to plot their courses. A merchant mariner told me the Russians and Chinese routinely spoof GPS signals because no one prints old fashioned paper charts anymore. When watching television, time your bathroom breaks during the commercials. Remember, a self-driving car is when you have one finger on the wheel with a cigarette hanging out of your mouth while fiddling with the radio. (Extra points if your kids are in the backseat with the windows are rolled up.) 

Personally, I think those of us who remember the 70’s and 80’s will fare best after the digital apocalypse or, at the very least, the last to succumb. If you have anything to add to this list, leave it in the comments section. Duck and cover motherfuckers! 

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Free Samples Are Never Free

“We’re out of dishwasher tabs,” my wife said. 

“And what else?” I said over the car phone. 

“Olive oil. We need the kind for frying and the kind for salad.” 

“Anything else?” 

“I dunno. Snacks for Natalie’s lunches whatever else you can think of.” When shopping at Costco, I can think of a lot. 

“Oh,” my wife said, “See if they have any Nespresso pods.” 

“They won’t” 

“Look anyway.” 

My wife won a Nespresso machine at a Tricky Tray last week. While it brews a fine cup of coffee, it’s a newer model that doesn’t allow the use of third party pods like its older siblings. “It’s a loss leader,” I said. “Like buying a cartridge razor, they make money on the blades.” And at $1 a pop, two Nespresso’s a day out comes to $700 a year. A racket to be sure, but still cheaper than Starbucks. 

Pulling into the bedlam of Costco’s parking lot, I groaned at the scrum of carriages and cars battling for supremacy as I searched for a spot. Luckily, I found one right by the entrance and, after making sure I had my membership card, made my way to the entrance tightly holding my daughter’s hand. 

“I can walk by myself,” Natalie said. 

“These people will run you right over,” I said, parental paranoia overriding my child’s need for independence.

Once inside, I took a deep breath to calm my low level agrophobia and pressed on, quickly loading my cart with the items on my list: dishwasher pods, olive oils, apples, bananas, kiddie snacks, prepackaged salads, AAA batteries, and nope, no Nespresso pods. Told ya, honey. “We’re done, Natalie,” I said. “Let’s get outta here.” 

“But they’re giving away truffle chocolates,” she said. “Right over there.” Turning, I saw a store clerk placing the confections on a tray but, the moment she put it down, a horde of people, hands flailing, scooped them all up.  One adult snapped a candy away just before a child’s hand could reach it. I mean, really. 

“Okay, honey,” I said. “It’ll take her a few minutes to set up the next tray. Just wait with the cart in the next aisle and I’ll bring you one.” 

“Why can’t I stay with you?” Natalie, said. 

“Because I can’t block traffic with my cart. You’ll be fine.” Then, with my daughter out of sight, I took up station in front of the free sample lady’s kiosk. If you’re wondering how I could let a ten year old girl unattended in a busy store well, I know a few things about my daughter you don’t – she can scream louder than a jet engine and she bites. 

“Crazy day?” I said to the clerk as she took candies out of a bag, unwrapped them, and place the confections in little paper cups. “It’s like a zoo.” she replied. 

“No rush,” I said. “My kid wanted to try one of these.” 

Behind me, I felt the pressure of several people waiting to get free candy. One, an old man, pressed up so close, I thought my virtue was being threatened. “You gonna buy me dinner when we’re through?” I asked him. The old man furtively walked away. It takes all kinds. 

“That’s what I’m talking about,” the clerk said. “You’d think I’m giving away gold.” 

“People love free stuff,” I said. Then a man walking past stuck out his arm and scooped up a handful of candy. 

“Sir,” the clerk said, “You have to wait til I’m done.” 

“Sorry,” he sneered.

“But not sorry enough to put them back,” I shot back.

“You snooze you lose, pal,” he said over this shoulder.

Looking at the clerk, I could see the man’s sugary avarice didn’t just piss her off but hurt her deeply. Judging from her age, she was probably a retiree looking to make a few bucks to supplement her Social Security check. “I never did this,” I said. “But I worked in restaurants and ran into people like him all the time.” 

The woman flashed a tired smile. “Here’s your daughter’s chocolate, sir. Take one for yourself.” 

“Thank you.” 

I found Natalie unabducted and gave her the sea salt chocolate truffle people which caused adults to regress into emotionally unfiltered toddlers. “Yummy,” she said. Then, as we made our way to the checkout line, I said. “Thank that lady for the chocolate.” 

“Thank you for the chocolate, miss,” my daughter said, giving her a full wattage smile. 

“You’re very welcome,” the clerk said, smiling a real smile herself – and she deserved that small moment of grace because, let’s face it, free samples are never truly free. Patting my daughter’s head, I got online for the checkout, feeling happy that, for a moment, Natalie and I had helped make the world a cleaner and brighter place. 

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Happy Anniversary

Waiter Rant is twenty years old today. What a wonderful and strange journey it has been! Many thanks to all my readers for walking with me through 826 blog posts over the years. You’re the best! If you’re so inclined, let me know what happened to you during the past two decades!

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Bit By Bit

I’d just passed the two mile mark and, since my heart rate monitor told me I was still within acceptable limits, decided to run another lap or two around the park. “The minute something aches,” I told myself, “I’ll stop.” From what I’ve read, the key to running is to start slow and not go too hard to early. I couldn’t agree more. “Progress not perfection” is my mantra. 

As I jogged at my admittedly slow pace, however, I wondered when I’d feel that “runners high” I’ve heard so much about. “I’ve never felt a runner’s high,” a runner once told me. “Not once. And I’ve been doing this for years.” But another high mileage woman I consulted claimed she often found herself transported to beatific realms of endorphin bliss. I guess everybody’s different. 

Making my way down the path, I focused on breathing deep from my abdomen through my nose and exhaling out my mouth, careful to make sure I alternated inhales between left and right foot strikes. Helps with balance or something like that. Noticing I was starting to slouch, I pulled my shoulders back and lilted my head, focusing twenty feet in front of me. Now climbing up a hill, I saw a young woman jogging towards me and, being conscious that we were the only ones in the park, gave her a wide berth. No need to give her the willies. 

“Thanks,” she said, breezing past me like a gazelle while I heroically resisted the urge to cast a glance backward. “Custody of the eyes,” I muttered, repeating another mantra I was taught in seminary. “Custody of the eyes.” But, if you’ve read this blog over the years, you know that’s a custom I honor more in the breach than in the observance. Then, after completing two more circuits, I slowed to a gentle walk. Two and a half miles straight, a new personal best. When I get to three, I’ll have accomplished my first goal – to run just as far as my cardiologist can. Of course, he’s seventy while I’m only fifty-six, but hey, you have to start somewhere. 

A few weeks ago, my daughter, overwhelmed with an extracurricular school project she’d taken on, came to me crying and saying she wanting to quit. “I get it,” I told her. “Doing new things can be very scary.”  

“But if I don’t do it, my friend will be upset,” Natalie tearfully, said. 

“Listen,” I said. “The best way to deal with a new project that’s overwhelming is to break it down into little pieces.” 

“Uh huh.”  

“Back when I was writing my books, I was also scared, wondering if I could do it or not. And I was afraid of disappointing people too. (That and having to give the advance back) So, I set a goal for myself every day. I’d write three or four pages and then stop – no matter if it took me an hour or eight. Then, after a while, those three or four pages turned into two or three hundred and, voila, I was done.” 

“We’re you happy?” 

“Baby,” I said. ‘There’s no greater thrill than holding a book you’ve written in your hand for the first time.” 

“So, you were happy when it was over?” 

“You better believe it. When you finally finish your project, you’ll feel happy too, because hard work really does really pay off. “ 

When I started running in November, I could barely do a quarter mile. I was also nervous that my fifty-six year old heart would crap out on me, something I’ve unfortunately seen happen to middle aged guys before. “I’ve only been running on the treadmill at the gym,” I told a friend early on. “I like that it’s air-conditioned, a bathroom’s nearby, staff around, and a defibrillator.” 

“Yeah,” my friend said. “But do the staff know how to use it?” One can only hope. 

Taking it bit by bit, I got my indoor mileage up and then began venturing outside, finding not having a whirring belt propelling me made my runs much harder. While I knew my body had to adapt, something about mitochondrial proteins creating chemicals to better utilize oxygen, I was very disappointed I couldn’t even complete a mile. But I kept it up, alternating between running and walking every other day until a mile was easy, then two, and now three is within sight. My next goal is to take it up to five, then picking up the pace until I can do a 5K under 30 minutes. Wait a minute, I’m getting ahead of myself. 

After a recovery walk, I started jogging again, trying to get that last half mile under my belt. But as I fell into a tired mediative rhythm, a truth I’d been hiding from suddenly broached the surface. You’re running from something. My dad’s passing hit me hard, and, like most middle aged adults, his death has made me think of how much time I have left. What if my cancer comes back? Will my heart gives out one day? Would I suffer a stroke, get diabetes, Parkinson’s, or Alzheimer’s? Am I pushing myself so hard to prove there’s life in this old dog yet? One thing’s for sure, I’m gonna be pissed if my HDL levels don’t go up. 

Finishing up my three miles, I consulted the monitor on my wrist and was gratified to see my heart rate wasn’t stratospheric. A couple of months ago it would’ve been higher. Maybe those mitochondria are doing their job. After cooling down, I did some stretches and felt my warmed muscles respond with gratitude. Feeling quite good, I wondered if the best part of running was when it was over. Then, suffused with endorphin and oxygen, another thought hit me. You might be running towards something too. Life can also be overwhelming and perhaps my father, from whatever beatific realm he inhabits, is giving me a gentle push, bit by bit. One can only hope. 

Heading back to my car, the young gazelle ran past me again, waving a comradely wave. I’d like to say I maintained custody of the eyes – but that would be a lie. 

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Reflections on Dune

“Did you see that Dune film yet?” I asked Carl, the kid who works in the office next to mine. 

“Just the first one,” he said. “Haven’t seen the second. You?”

“Same here. I’m waiting for a friend of mine to go see it.” 

“He into sci-fi?” 

“Yeah,” I said, “But he’s the only one who’ll go see it with me. My wife would never go. She hates sci-fi.” 

“Really?” 

“She’s never seen Star Wars and groans when I turn on Star Trek. But she likes Resident Alien.” 

“Does your daughter like watching sci-fi?” 

“Oh yeah,” I said. “I started exposing her to the original Star Trek when she was little, and she’s seen most of the Star Wars films – though not Revenge of the Sith – too violent. I’ve got her watching Lower Decks now. She loves it.” 

“Lower Decks?” 

“It’s an animated show,” I said. “About some junior officers who work on the lower decks of a second rate starship. It’s very funny, but sort of geared towards adults. Luckily, they bleep out most of the dirty words.” 

Carl laughed. “I bet your wife loves that.” 

“She lets Natalie watch SNL, so I doubt I’m doing anything worse.” 

My wife and I are usually careful with what our daughter watches. “It’s for grownups,” we tell her when watching shows obviously geared towards adults – but we don’t shield her from everything. When the occasional F-Bomb gets dropped we know she’s already heard it at school, though it’s probably never come out of her mouth. (Except that one time she started saying “fuck” in church when she was three.)  But my dad was the king of kiddie inappropriate cinema; taking me to see Jaws when I was seven, and sitting me down to watch Papillion, Laurence of Arabia, The French Connection I & II and my favorite, The Marathon Man. “Will it hurt?” No wonder I don’t like going to the dentist – or swimming in the ocean. But dad drew the line at sex so, whenever he heard a saxophone sensuously playing, he’d flip the channel. Like my wife, however, he never understood my love of sci-fi. 

“Ever read Dune?” I asked.  

“No,” Carl said. “It’s a big book, isn’t it?” 

“Huge. The author was into worldbuilding and just drops you cold into a universe that’s so complicated you need a flowchart to understand it all. It’s been said that making a movie out of Dune is an impossible task, but I think the one with Chalmet is about as accurate as a director can get.” 

“The first one was long.” 

“Well, a guy wanted to turn Herbert’s book into a flick back in the Seventies with Orson Wells and Salvador Dali – and he wanted it to be fifteen hours long.” 

“Wow.” 

“But you should read the books. That way you can understand why the author wrote them. It’s not about what most people think.” 

“Oh?” 

“Did you see the adaptation they made in the Eighties?” 

“When I was a kid,” 

“It’s not really faithful to the books,” I said. “Though it’s kind of achieved cult status these days. But in it they turn Paul Muad’Dib into a hero, which he is most certainly not.”

“He isn’t?” 

“If you read the second book,” I said. “You see his becoming a messiah is a disaster. When discussing the jihad launched in his name. he notes that the wars have killed fifty-four billion people and annihilated ninety planets.” 

“Wow,” Carl said. “I didn’t know that.” 

“What’s worse is Paul knew that would happen because he could see the future and, though that knowledge caused him distress, he allowed it all to happen to save his own skin.” Then I said, “Frank Herbert wrote, ‘No more terrible disaster could befall your people than for them to fall into the hands of a Hero.’ Herbert didn’t want people blindly placing their faith in leaders who created a cult of personality around them.  As history has shown time and time again, that never works out well. Hitler, Stalin, Pol Pot – fun guys like that.” 

“You’re right.” 

“So maybe there’s a lesson in Dune for us today,” I said. “People tend to want a strong, disruptive leader to shake things up when they think society’s gone amiss –  but be careful what you wish for. As messed up as Dune’s universe was before Muad’Dib, he made it a whole lot worse.” 

“Something to think about,” Carl said. 

“Especially now,” I said. “When they fall, self proclaimed heroes have a tendency to take everybody with them.”

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Crooked Ways Made Straight, Again

Grieving people sometimes find it therapeutic returning to work, finding solace in established routines and familiar faces while others need to avoid their job altogether. Everyone’s different, but I found myself comfortable with neither option. But since I work in social services and people’s needs don’t take a day off, I dragged myself into the office after the funeral. Sure enough, the moment my ass hit my chair, the doorbell rang and I found myself wishing I called out sick.  

As soon as my first client walked in I was hit with a vituperative, self-pitying tale of woe that’s I’d already heard a hundred times. I also knew any solutions I offered would be swatted down and that the person would make no substantiative attempt to get help.  “I already tried that,” they’d say or “That will never work” and launch into a hateful diatribe about why everyone else was the source of their problems.  Normally, this kind of stuff doesn’t bother me – but today it did. I wondered if running out the door screaming would be untherapeutic. Probably. 

I stayed put instead, keeping my gaze fixed on the bridge of the client’s nose instead– a trick I learned as a waiter – making made them think I engaged when I was actually anything but. Breathing from my abdomen, I struggled to keep my face impassive as I staggered under the tsunami of rage that surged across my desk. Then, after the minute hand on my office clock ticked fifteen times, the client tearfully concluded and thanked me for listening. 

“No problem,” I said.  “That’s why I’m here.” Then, when the client left, I put my head down on my desk.

 “God,” I groaned. “Don’t let me lose it today.”  

As anyone in the helping professions knows, it’s very hard to do your job when you’re an emotional wreck yourself. How can you give solace to people, much less really listen, when your own heart is broken? I only have so much energy and, sadly, after factoring the drawdowns being a husband, father and son demands, there wasn’t much left of me go around. But I somehow didn’t lose it that day, the next day, or the day after that. Then, before I knew it, a month had passed and I was, professionally at least, back to my old self. 

“Daddy,” my daughter said when I picked her up from school this Tuesday. “Can you take me to the playground?” 

“Sure, honey. It’s a beautiful day.” 

“If the ice cream truck comes, will you buy me an ice cream cone?” 

“No honey, it’ll spoil your dinner.” 

“Okay,” Natalie, said, disappointed. 

When we got to the mobbed playground, however, Natalie’s sugar chagrin dissipated as soon as she started cavorting with her friends on the monkey bars. Restless, I walked over to look at the memorial pavers people bought when they donated to the playground’s reconstruction several years ago. The brick my wife and I donated read, “Have Fun Natalie” and was signed, “Love Mom, Dad, Buster and Felix.”  Then, a little further down the path, I found the brick my parents donated signed, “Love Me-Maw and Pa.” But three of those names had gone to their great reward and, one day, I knew the rest of them would be gone too.  Would those bricks still be here when Natalie has her own children? Will she feel the same pang I was feeling?  Who knows? The playground might be in its fourth iteration by then – complete with AI powered merry-go-rounds. 

“Hello Mister Steve,” a voice said, interrupting my sadness but, when I turned toward the source, I didn’t see anyone – but that was because my radar wasn’t set low enough. Looking down, I saw It was the child of one of my clients. 

“Hi,” a little girl said, “Nice to see you again.”

Since I live in the town I work in, I have an ironclad policy when it comes to running into my clients in public – say nothing unless they acknowledge me first. Sometimes people don’t like being reminded they come to my food pantry. But did that apply to their children? It also didn’t help I couldn’t remember this child’s name. There are so many. 

“Nice to see you too!” I said, beaming, hoping the girl couldn’t sense the blank I was drawing. “When did I see you last?” 

“In March,” she said. “You gave me some coloring books.” Ah. Now I remembered. 

“How’s school, going Esmerelda?” 

“Good,” she said, beaming that I remembered her name.

“What are you in now? The second grade?”  

“Third.” When I first met her, she was a baby.

“Awesome. College will be here before you know it.” 

‘Well, I have to go. Nice seeing you Mister Steve.”  While I encourage clients to call me by my first name, many of them insist on calling me, “Mister Steve.” I don’t correct them because I know it’s a token of their respect.  

“Nice to see you too Esmerelda,” I said. 

“God bless you.”

“Thank you,” I said, surprised. Then the girl skipped away. 

Esmerelda’s been coming to my office with her mother and siblings for years and always walks out with a little something fun– candy, coloring books, stuffed animals, crayons, Count Chocula, and always appreciates it. For her, the food pantry is a happy place and I hope that glow will cling to her as she gets older; when she remembers there were people who were nice to her just because she was her and wanted nothing in return. Hopefully that memory will pay dividends later on. 

I don’t remember Esmerelda and her mom coming in March but, then again, my memory’s been shot to pieces lately. It must’ve been just after my father’s funeral, when I was barely sentient and off my game. Luckily, I somehow kept myself under wraps and gave her a coloring book, not allowing her to see my adult pain because, sadly, she sees enough of that already. I guess there’s something to be said for keeping your shit together. 

“Mister Steve,” another voice said. Turning, I saw it belonged to Esmerelda’s mom. 

“Hey,” I said, “How are you?” 

“Sorry about your dad,” 

“Thank you.” 

“Take care of yourself.” 

“I will,” I said, wondering if she told her daughter about my loss. Maybe that’s why she said. “God bless you.” 

I didn’t tell my clients my father died but it’s a small town and word gets around.  Some of them offered condolences like Esmerelda’s mom or sent sympathy cards while an elderly client came to my father’s wake at great physical expense to themselves.  That touched me deeply, making me remember what a seminary classmate told me after he had thirty years of priesthood under his belt. “My flock has ministered to me far more than I ever ministered to them.” Ain’t that the truth. Yet again, I was grateful for the privileged perch I occupy, albeit temporarily, in the parish I never got to have. “You started out thinking you’d be called ‘Father Steve,’ my wife once said. “But you ended up being called ‘Mister Steve.’”  

I took Natalie out for ice cream that night, grateful how crooked ways are sometimes made straight.

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I’ll Be Okay

In an effort to keep my good cholesterol up, I started jogging a few months ago. It’s slow going and sucks but, after getting up to three miles straight on my gym’s treadmills, I decided to put on my big boy shorts and start running outside. I wish someone had told me that pounding the pavement al fresco was much harder. “It’s always miserable,” an accomplished marathoner told me upon learning of my efforts. “But if you keep up with it, you’ll still be miserable, but find yourself going farther and faster.” He was right about the misery part at least. My pace is what could be charitably called a “car valet jog.” 

Before I went for my run Saturday morning, I was still trying to dispel the foul mood I woke up in. The night before, my mother phoned to tell me she’d fallen in her suite and was unable to reach the call button. Hanging up, I called the nursing home. “Yes,” I said, “My mother fell in room 265 and can’t summon help. Can you send someone up there?” 

“Uh,” the witless aide said. “That’s like on the second floor. I can’t go up there.” 

“I don’t care,” I shot back. “Get someone up there.” 

“I’ll transfer you to the second floor,” he said, sounding like I’d inconvenienced his iPhone time. Of course, no one answered. 

Angry, I called the nursing home administrator’s cell and got sent straight to voice jail. Now approaching supernova levels of rage, I called the home phone of the nursing supervisor who luckily answered and got a nurse to mom’s room.  Fortunately, mom was unharmed but, before I went back to bed, I fired off a text to the administrator, stating that the home’s response to this incident was unacceptable and wanted a plan of action so it would never happen again. I ended with, “I expect your call tomorrow.” Then I went to bed in a funk. 

That funk was there to greet me when I woke up early the next morning. I’d liked to have slept in, but I had to take my daughter to get fasting bloodwork and then take her to roller-skating lessons at 8:30. “Why can’t I eat?” Natalie whined when I woke her up. “Do I have to get a shot?” 

“It’s nothing,” I said.

“It’s gonna hurt.” 

“Natalie,” I said, thinking how a blood test saved my ass, “Sometimes you have to go through a little pain to avoid a lot more later. “

Arriving at the lab at 7:15, I was ticked to find the waiting room packed to the rafters. I hadn’t made an appointment, assured by the clerk that walk-ins were welcome and all I had to do was sign in at the kiosk. Judging from the multitudes, however, it seemed like everyone with kids was using this school free day do the same thing. Knowing we’d miss our roller skating appointment, I bailed, making Natalie was very happy. After a pitstop at McDonald’s for breakfast, we showed up at the roller rink and it all went downhill from there. 

“Daddy,” Natalie, said. “You brought my figure skates. Not my freestyle skates.” 

“You can’t do your lesson in your figures?” 

“No.” 

In an effort to foster a sense of responsibility, I’d asked Natalie to ensure she had the right skates before we left the house. Like any parent, I’m mystified by my child’s mastery of complex digital tasks but seeming inability to do a simple thing correctly. “That’s it,” I muttered angrily, stuffing her skates back into her bag. “Daddy,” Natalie said. “My freestyle skates were in the purple bag.”  

“They’re both purple!” 

Driving home, I knew my wife was going to give me the business over this fuckup. Sure enough, the moment I walked in the door, she laid into me. 

“I thought we had the right skates,” I said. 

“Did you tell the coach what happened?” 

“No,” I said. “We just left.” 

“What? You didn’t tell her? Who’s the adult here?” 

Upon hearing this, I lost my temper and kicked some books piled on the floor complete with a litany of obscenities which my daughter unfortunately overheard. “I’m just leaving you alone” my wife said, disgustedly. Let’s just say I didn’t do adulting very well that morning. 

Now deservedly feeling like an asshole, I changed into my workout clothes and headed to the park, hoping exercise would help me sweat out the badness. When I got there, another jogger around my age was making the loop, festooned in workout tights, a slick Day-Glo shirt and brightly colored sneakers. He looked ridiculous, but from the spring in his step, I could tell he was much better at running than I. Aggravated that I didn’t have to whole place to myself, I warmed up and then began plodding at my amateurish pace. Three circuits of the park made a mile but, by my fifth loop, I was winded and decided to walk for a lap. That’s when Day-Glo almost ran me over. 

“Sorry,” I said, hopping out of the way, but the sneer the guy threw over his shoulder fanned the flames of my temper again. “Asshole,” I thought to myself. 

As my heart rate began to settle down, I thought about why I was so angry and letting small things infuriate me. “I just lost my dad,” I told myself. “And I’ll be godammed if I’ll lose my mom because some shithead at the nursing home didn’t do his job.” Sounded reasonable, but I knew that wasn’t what was powering my animus.  Ever since my dad died, half my brain doesn’t seem to be working right. I’m so forgetful that I find myself constantly misplacing my keys, wallet, coat, and even my morning cup of coffee. Just last week, I ran my Bluetooth headphones through the wash, forgot to pay a credit card bill, and mystified why I couldn’t find my car outside the supermarket. If I wasn’t grieving, I’d have thought I was suffering from early onset dementia.  But truth be told, my mind’s been relieving Dad’s last moments over and over and I feel guilty that, if I had to do it over again, I wonder if the mercy of just getting a phone call at 3:00 AM would’ve been preferable.  But I was there when he died and, oddly, didn’t feel as upset as I thought I should’ve been. 

“You’re the glue,” my therapist said a few weeks after the funeral. “You got through this by being the guy you’ve always been, the one who keeps his cool when everyone loses theirs and gets things done. You set aside your grief so others could feel theirs, but now that it’s hitting you, you’re wondering who’s there for you.” Being fatherless has unmoored me and dealing with all the details of settling his estate is trying, and I do have help, but it’s exhausting. But I promised my father on his deathbed I’d take care of things because that’s what an adult does – and I’m sick of being an adult.  No wonder I resented being called on the carpet by my wife this morning.  I don’t want to be an “adult” because, after all the serious responsibilities I’ve been handling. I just want regress into childhood for one moment – yearning for the security I felt lying in the backseat of my Dad’s old Maverick as he drove me home from a long trip, listening to Phil Rizzuto do the Yankee play by play.  But those days are long gone. 

“Fuck me,” I said, stopping to lean on a fence. “Fifty-six and you’re still an asshole.” Then I saw the horse. 

Though I’d run past him several times, my mind had failed to register the chestnut roan placidly grazing in the green pasture next to the park. As I looked at him in shock, the horse raised his great head and looked at me unperturbed, switching his tail gently from side to side, as if saying, “I have always been here.” Filled with wonder, I felt like a kid again, delighted that the beautiful had once again made its appearance – no matter how I felt, what was happening, or whether I deserved it or not. Exactly what I said during my father’s eulogy. An impossible mercy.

“You okay, buddy?” Day Glo said, stopping next to me. 

“My dad died,” I said, unaware I’d been crying. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I know what that’s like.” 

“But I”ll be okay.” 

“Yeah,” Day Glo said. “You will.” 

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