NICK’S MUSING
A MAN ALONE
PRELUDE
A strange title for a man surrounded by people. And yet, loneliness isn’t about people, It’s about a state of mind. It’s about memories filling your consciousness like a stalking horse concealing your reality. Loneliness is not a place, it’s a mood that we control. In a crowd we can feel isolated, ignored, pitied, or selfless; all depending upon our state of mind.
I’m now an octogenarian, how I hate that word and resisting the passage of time with thoughts of ambition and new beginnings. The resistance I feel moving from my seventies to my eighties is palpable, like an immovable object against an unstoppable force.
I begin this essay with trepidation, fearful and alone. I’m not sure what will happen as my thoughts become words, tumbling out in a cacophony of emotions, struggling to express feelings about my life of eighty years. A life that has been a riddle, an enigma, mysterious, and difficult like every other person on God’s earth.
My being intimate with the public is a gamble, will it be accepted as inspiration or rejected as the incoherent ramblings of a man alone with too much time on his hands.
This story is creative non-fiction, if told in third person narrative it would read like an adventure novel.
Why now, why in the twilight of my life would I be thinking of this? Writing a story that may disappoint those I love and titillate faux friends who scavenge after gossip like crows attracted to shiny objects.
I haven’t been infected with COVID-19 but the preventive medicine being prescribed is self-quarantined away from people, no friends or family, isolating yourself in a bubble without human contact. Sounds easy and manageable, right? Close the door, pull a book from the shelf, and let the world go by.
I’ve done that, I’m on my sixth novel and countless essays and short stories not to mention narrating a daily podcast on social media and two new audiobooks.
After four and a half months of isolation, I had a primal scream. It was one o’clock in the morning after grinding through another chapter of a book that was boring me to tears.
It was then I decided to write my own book, one that would tell a story proving the old meme, “life is stranger than fiction”. Writing can be more entertaining than reading, engaging your mind and emotions in the writing process is accelerating, more so than reading.
The night was hot and sultry, I was on the patio, the sound was not human, it was more like a wounded animal caught in a trap.
,
Why every light in the neighborhood didn’t go on and a squad car wasn’t in my driveway with full hood lights blinking I’ll never know.
The scream was a mental cleanse allowing me to regain equilibrium after five months of isolation.
My wife of 59 years stood in the sliding glass doorway with a terrified look on her face. All she could say through the tears is: “do you want me to call 911?”. I wave her off with a smile and a gentle suggestion that she go back to bed, “I’m fine my love, just having a low budget therapy session”.
After that scream, I decided to let the chips fall where they may and write this essay. A work of non-fiction, a first-person narrative by a man alone.
Chapter 1
The Search
It’s 1957, I’m a freshman at the University of Notre Dame and feeling sorry for myself. My father, a Norte Dame Alumni, along with uncles and brothers in law are devoted Irish fans. Applying to Georgetown was turned down by my Father, as far as he was concerned ND was the only school in America worth considering. His attitude was simple, go to ND I pay, go to Georgetown you pay. Georgetown is the oldest Jesuit school in the country and the natural extension to St. Ignatius Prep, where the Jesuits focus on your moral compass and thinking for yourself while you minor in math, history, and science the classic liberal education. The Holy Cross brothers of Notre Dame are fine educators but not on the same intellectual level as the Jesuits.
Matriculating at Notre Dame was a disappointment. My motivation was lacking. I was convinced that ignoring the Jesuits for college was dumbing down. St. Ignatius Prep brained washed me, not a bad thing when the washers are Jesuits.
I thought I was the smartest dude in the freshman class knowing more than anyone, including my professors. Attendance at class was optional for me, while attendance at the local beer hall was mandatory
My older brother is two years ahead of me, he’s a successful student, an athlete, and a BMOC as a popular radio host on the campus station.
We have a bus service from downtown South Bend to the ND campus. I was riding that bus after a few beers one night when I heard two guys bad-mouthing my brother, I let go of the strap on the crowded bus and confronted the asshole with the big mouth, he gets in my face and throws a sucker punch to my left eye, I swing back with one good eye and miss by a mile. This guy was big, probably a starter on the JV football team with biceps the size of water hydrants. I collapse like a wrinkled suit into the arms of my roommate who drags me out of the fray to the rear of the bus.
This incident is just the beginning of my story, it will be an epic, stay tuned.
