Thursday, May 14, 2009
The Game of Life
His family used to go to Colorado every year to see relatives. When he was in his early teens he met Jimmy, the kid who lived across the alley, behind his grandparents.
A couple of years younger, the kid across the alley worshiped the young man. The young man was smart, good looking, had an infectious laugh and enjoyed being alive. And those around him, including Jimmy, unconsciously fed off his zest for life. Jimmy's parents were first generation immigrants from Greece. Both parents spoke broken English and over the course of several summer visits also came to like the young man immensely.
After a couple of years they (actually it was the mother) suggested that the young man should meet their daughter, something that the young man was disinclined to do. (He was scared to death of girls!)
But then, in the normal course of events, he finally got a good look at her. And what a stunner! She was gorgeous. And isn't that what gets the engine running? So, tentatively, the young man got to know her, just a little. And he discovered that she was not only pretty, but she also had a great personality, although she could be just a bit arrogant. Talking with her he found that she had her life mapped out and was surely going places. Suddenly the grandparents place became a whole lot more palatable.
After another year or two the young lady's mother suggested that the young man should ask her daughter out (which he wanted to do anyway) and a year later, after thinking about it for about 360 days in the intervening time) he got up the gumption to do so. They were sitting in the family's living room and the young man had a sneaking suspicion that somewhere, other ears were listening.
Anyway, he asked her out.
Her reply stunned him. "I've been reading a book. It talks about a syndrome among men. It's called the 'Peter Pan' syndrome, and Randy, you've got it. No offense, but I'm going places with my life. You, on the other hand, think life is just a big game. You think your charm and good looks will be enough to get you places and it won't. You've got nothing to offer me, Randy. You're never going anywhere." She said it with gay, light laughter that struck the young man to the core of his being.
He walked out of her back door and across the alley in a haze. He had never had anyone attack him so blatantly on a psychological level and it was an entirely new experience. He walked around for over an hour, thinking about what she had said, and in the years to come it was something he never forgot.
She was right about most of it. She was going places. She became a surgeon and by the time she died she was worth over $4 million. Her husband was also a doctor and he accumulated nearly $6 million. They lived in a big house, impressed the neighbors, belonged to all the right clubs, had lots of stuff, and had 4 children who also did well and visited once a year. She got everything that she wanted. Good for her!
He, on the other hand, lived up to her Pete Pan assessment, approaching life as a game. His software gaming company, a name you would recognize, made him more than rich before he was 30. (One of his early, most profitable and popular games, a joint venture with Disney, was all about Peter Pan, the Lost Boys and pirates.) He also loved his not so glamorous wife fiercely, a trait he would have bestowed on any woman he had married. He and his wife, the most beautiful woman he'd ever met (he grew up and realized, as most of us do, that beauty comes from the inside) lived a full, happy life with kids and animals and grandkids everywhere. The family grew up close and none of the kids would have ever envisioned moving more than an hour or two away from mom and dad. They were always visiting the old homestead and rare was the day when at least one kid, grandkid, and eventually great grandkid didn't drop by. There was always something popping around the place.
Randy never lost his zest for life, never stopped laughing and never worried about "things." Life, after all, was just a game. And when he thought back to that day in the parlor, which he actually rarely did, he would have told you that the bright, beautiful, young Greek girl was definitely right about him and definitely not the girl for him. (A fact most people would have agreed with, given her proclivity to be "proper" and "focused," as opposed to his approach towards "real" and "fun.")
His employees loved him, his wife loved him, the kids and grandkids and all the animals loved him, and he was happier than at least 98% of the world's population.
When he died he was worth over $100 million, an estate that could have been much larger if he hadn't given away 4 times that amount over the years to family, friends, employees, community groups and any number of non-profits and other worthwhile causes. But as he looked at the faces of his family, gathered around him as he lay on his deathbed, he knew that it was the people in his life that had made him rich.
Over 3500 of those people showed up to pay their last respects.
You could say of Randy that he had missed out on the Greek girl. But Tinkerbell would have been proud.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Golden
I first noticed her one evening as I walked into O’Tooles. I probably visited O’Tooles’ three or four times a week, so I was a regular and therefore knew she wasn’t. She was sitting on the bus bench out front, next to the curb. I just glanced at her and didn't even realize she'd made an impression on me until I was sitting inside, massaging my first brew for the evening. Then I caught myself remembering that blond hair. "Golden wheat" would be how I’d describe it. I was wondering how that golden wheat would feel if I ran my fingers through it. Beautiful hair.
For some reason, thinking about her sitting out there all alone made me feel guilty. I was unaccountably worried about her for no reason. Go figure. So before I even finished with that first brew, I found myself on my feet, headed for the door.
She was still there. I gulped a couple of times, suddenly realizing that she might interpret the approach of a stranger as antagonistic. Don't most of them react that way? But I swallowed hard, buttressed my ego, and made the approach.
She looked up at me as I came around the bench, smiled, and her eyes said it all. It was like we had known each other forever. We seemed to speak volumes to each other without even opening our mouths. I sat down next to her, and somehow knew we had a future. We spent a while on the bench getting to know each other and it became clear she was everything you'd expect in a "free spirit." And that hair. So golden. I just kept wanting to reach out and touch it.
I sat there thinking someone would come along and claim her or order me away from her, or she’d get up and board the next bus, but for about an hour, all the buses in the world could have passed by and we wouldn’t have noticed. We existed on our own little island.
I don’t know if that sort of thing has ever happened to you. It’s not a ‘maybe’ or a ‘sort of.’ It’s a once-in-a-lifetime experience and you’ve either had it or you haven’t. And if you have, man, it’s a knock down show stopper.
I finally decided to take the plunge and asked her to come home with me. What joy I experienced when she agreed.
I can't really explain to you what it was like to run my fingers through her hair. It put me in a place of peace, of calm. My troubles all seemed to disappear. And she loved it whenever I touched her. We were destined to meet, to love and we made each other complete. I have to truthfully state that I have never loved anyone or anything as much as I loved her and have never felt as loved, either. There was no denying that it was total commitment on both our parts.
We’d know what each other was thinking. We’d go for the couch at the same time, for the kitchen, even for the bed. We’d go out for long walks together and spent time traveling. We laughed at funny movies and grew quiet at tear-jerkers. We sought each other’s comfort and gave of ourselves to each other freely.
We spent 14 years together, sharing the good times and the bad. We laughed together and cried together. When I hurt, she hurt and when she hurt, I hurt. We were almost constant companions and friends of the closet kind.
I buried her yesterday. I’ve known grief before and I know this terrible ache will go away with time, to resolve itself into a smaller but gentler pain. But this tears still come for now. God, I will miss her. I know I'll never see or touch or run my fingers through the same beautiful golden wheat ever again. I will miss her bark and her head in my lap and the way she would reach out with her paw to let me know it was time to go out or time to go to bed or time for me to feed her. She was beautiful, and I will miss her.
For some reason, thinking about her sitting out there all alone made me feel guilty. I was unaccountably worried about her for no reason. Go figure. So before I even finished with that first brew, I found myself on my feet, headed for the door.
She was still there. I gulped a couple of times, suddenly realizing that she might interpret the approach of a stranger as antagonistic. Don't most of them react that way? But I swallowed hard, buttressed my ego, and made the approach.
She looked up at me as I came around the bench, smiled, and her eyes said it all. It was like we had known each other forever. We seemed to speak volumes to each other without even opening our mouths. I sat down next to her, and somehow knew we had a future. We spent a while on the bench getting to know each other and it became clear she was everything you'd expect in a "free spirit." And that hair. So golden. I just kept wanting to reach out and touch it.
I sat there thinking someone would come along and claim her or order me away from her, or she’d get up and board the next bus, but for about an hour, all the buses in the world could have passed by and we wouldn’t have noticed. We existed on our own little island.
I don’t know if that sort of thing has ever happened to you. It’s not a ‘maybe’ or a ‘sort of.’ It’s a once-in-a-lifetime experience and you’ve either had it or you haven’t. And if you have, man, it’s a knock down show stopper.
I finally decided to take the plunge and asked her to come home with me. What joy I experienced when she agreed.
I can't really explain to you what it was like to run my fingers through her hair. It put me in a place of peace, of calm. My troubles all seemed to disappear. And she loved it whenever I touched her. We were destined to meet, to love and we made each other complete. I have to truthfully state that I have never loved anyone or anything as much as I loved her and have never felt as loved, either. There was no denying that it was total commitment on both our parts.
We’d know what each other was thinking. We’d go for the couch at the same time, for the kitchen, even for the bed. We’d go out for long walks together and spent time traveling. We laughed at funny movies and grew quiet at tear-jerkers. We sought each other’s comfort and gave of ourselves to each other freely.
We spent 14 years together, sharing the good times and the bad. We laughed together and cried together. When I hurt, she hurt and when she hurt, I hurt. We were almost constant companions and friends of the closet kind.
I buried her yesterday. I’ve known grief before and I know this terrible ache will go away with time, to resolve itself into a smaller but gentler pain. But this tears still come for now. God, I will miss her. I know I'll never see or touch or run my fingers through the same beautiful golden wheat ever again. I will miss her bark and her head in my lap and the way she would reach out with her paw to let me know it was time to go out or time to go to bed or time for me to feed her. She was beautiful, and I will miss her.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Dog Days
Manny and Drazil had been married for 42 years. They had had five children (that they rarely saw), 3 grandchildren (so far), 2 Fords, 4 Buicks, 2 Chevy’s, a Plymouth, and cats. Lots of cats. Drazil wouldn’t own a car built by “one of them countries…” and “by-gooly-gawd Manfried, I … ” wouldn’t have a dog. Manny hated cats but loved dogs and his heart had an empty space that only a dog would fill. But Drazil declared, “No dogs!” So no dogs.
They never fought because Manny refused to. They never talked although Drazil never stopped talking. In fact, after 42 years almost the only time Manny ever even got a word in edgewise around the house was when he went into the bathroom and shut the door. Even then, Drazil would just crank it up a notch or two and go right on blathering about what she had given up and how unfair life was and how she should have married Tommy Thompson who made good money selling insurance and how she should have listened to her mother. (Manny also wished she had listened to her mother.)
Somewhere in the middle years Manny had declared independence, if even for just a short time, and took an evening walk. Every night after dinner he would help Drazil clean up the table and do the dishes (he really did love the girl; or at least, used to) and then he would announce, “I guess I’ll go for my walk.” He would then turn for the door and struggle through all the verbal reasons why he was a no-good, lazy, rambling, shiftless… until he made it out the door. “Why, oh mamma? Why?”
At first, Drazil had tried to go with him, telling him she just knew he was planning on cavorting with that Jezebel, the widow Mary Turner down the block. But Manny hit the sidewalk smoking (figuratively, not literally) pretty good for an older lame guy with a cane, and big fat Drazil just couldn’t keep up with him. (He’d almost had a heart attack the week he’d had to speed pace the old lady to get her to stop interfering with his “alone” time. And his bum lag had hurt for a month. But it was worth it. Oh yeah. Worth every ice pack he’d strapped on that killer.) Then she tried to follow him. But he was wise to her and managed to find a couple of good spots to hide. Fact one of them gave him a clear shot into that Jezebels’ Mary Turner’s bedroom and since she never put the curtains down and since she did, in fact, have some mighty interesting habits... oh well, not part of this story. Anyway, night after night after night Drazil would beat him up with words until he got out the door.
Over the years he’d settled on a fairly regular path, walking over across the town’s narrow commercial corridor and down to the end of the nearer of the two jetties. He’d been in the Navy in his free years and loved the sea and some nights he would just stand on the end of the jetty and stare off over the water for long periods. He liked to walk up and down the docks, admiring whatever small ships were tied up in the town’s small harbor. He would usually walk to the end of the farther jetty before turning for home and would thus walk back into the life that he’d never planned and surely didn’t want.
So for more than 20 years Manny had declared his independence and had gone out for his nightly.
As I said, they’d been married for 42 years when it happened. Or didn’t, depending on your point of view.
Thursday night, in May, year of the married, 42, Manny cleaned off the table, helped with the dishes, and announced that he was going out for his nightly. And out he went.
He was usually gone about an hour but occasionally things heated up at the Turner house and he’d be out about an hour and a half. And on very rare occasions, like the night he’d made friends with Rufus, a neighborhood dog, he’d be out for close to two hours. But the May night was different.
Every night as soon as Manny left, Drazil would either call Beatrice Mitchell or Roxanne Bonafuco, both long time friends and fellow … talkers. They’d spend Drazil’s empty air time going on and on about whatever it was their brains had glommed onto for that particular night which was usually nothing.
But that May night, Drazil called both of her buds and used up the air time for each account. After three hours she finally hit a dead spot and actually shut up for the grand sum of 2 whole minutes. Then she realized that Manny had been gone for over 3 hours and she started to get mad. “I’ll sure give him a piece of my mind when he gets home,” she thought, never realizing that she’d already given about 300 times her whole mind over the years. It was just amazing how she could disgorge it.
When 4 hours passed she started to get worried. And when the clock hit the 6 hour mark she got scared and called the “… no account shiftless, overpaid…”cops.
The cops figured Manny was probably laid out somewhere on a neighborhood sidewalk from a heart attack or stroke and they began to canvas the neighborhood. After about an hour of that even the cops began to get concerned and they sent in some detectives. By that time a full fledged search was about to start.
They looked for Manny for two whole days but finally and eventually they found his cane at the end of one of the far jetty. After spending almost four days on the case and having to interact with Drazil for what seemed a couple of years during that 4 day period, the detectives threw up their hands and did the math. Since nobody had located a cadaver in the common areas of the hood, and since Manny didn’t have any funning dealings or strange behavior in his history, they called off the search and officially listed Manny as a Missing Person, probably drowned.
Drazil ended up with a hole in her life that she had to fill so she got a parakeet. She talked to that parakeet for hours and hours but it wasn’t like having a real man to organize. She just really needed to express herself. (After about a week, the parakeet, who didn’t mind the cats but dear god woman SHUT UP! also wanted to express himself. He began earnestly praying to the Parakeet God, “Please, please, PLEASE somebody slip a gun into my cage so I can blow my brains out!”)
So time went on. And after 7 years Drazil was allowed to finally list Manny as officially dead. In due course she filled out all the official paperwork and filed for surviving spouse social security benefits.
Lo and behold, the SSA came back and said, “… recipient currently receiving benefits…” What the…???
Several letters were exchanged and the gist of it was that Manny or somebody who claimed to be Manny, was still receiving benefits. And, “Further, we are sorry to inform you that privacy laws preclude us from informing you of the recipients’ address of record…”
Why that dog! ‘If he … if I find, when I find…”
But she never did find him. And Manny, or whoever, kept his social security benefits and now also had his freedom.
Oh yeah and by the way. Drazil never put it together. Spent too much time depressing that suicidal parakeet. That Jezebel, the widow Mary Turner? Left town about two days after Manny disappeared.
That double dog!
They never fought because Manny refused to. They never talked although Drazil never stopped talking. In fact, after 42 years almost the only time Manny ever even got a word in edgewise around the house was when he went into the bathroom and shut the door. Even then, Drazil would just crank it up a notch or two and go right on blathering about what she had given up and how unfair life was and how she should have married Tommy Thompson who made good money selling insurance and how she should have listened to her mother. (Manny also wished she had listened to her mother.)
Somewhere in the middle years Manny had declared independence, if even for just a short time, and took an evening walk. Every night after dinner he would help Drazil clean up the table and do the dishes (he really did love the girl; or at least, used to) and then he would announce, “I guess I’ll go for my walk.” He would then turn for the door and struggle through all the verbal reasons why he was a no-good, lazy, rambling, shiftless… until he made it out the door. “Why, oh mamma? Why?”
At first, Drazil had tried to go with him, telling him she just knew he was planning on cavorting with that Jezebel, the widow Mary Turner down the block. But Manny hit the sidewalk smoking (figuratively, not literally) pretty good for an older lame guy with a cane, and big fat Drazil just couldn’t keep up with him. (He’d almost had a heart attack the week he’d had to speed pace the old lady to get her to stop interfering with his “alone” time. And his bum lag had hurt for a month. But it was worth it. Oh yeah. Worth every ice pack he’d strapped on that killer.) Then she tried to follow him. But he was wise to her and managed to find a couple of good spots to hide. Fact one of them gave him a clear shot into that Jezebels’ Mary Turner’s bedroom and since she never put the curtains down and since she did, in fact, have some mighty interesting habits... oh well, not part of this story. Anyway, night after night after night Drazil would beat him up with words until he got out the door.
Over the years he’d settled on a fairly regular path, walking over across the town’s narrow commercial corridor and down to the end of the nearer of the two jetties. He’d been in the Navy in his free years and loved the sea and some nights he would just stand on the end of the jetty and stare off over the water for long periods. He liked to walk up and down the docks, admiring whatever small ships were tied up in the town’s small harbor. He would usually walk to the end of the farther jetty before turning for home and would thus walk back into the life that he’d never planned and surely didn’t want.
So for more than 20 years Manny had declared his independence and had gone out for his nightly.
As I said, they’d been married for 42 years when it happened. Or didn’t, depending on your point of view.
Thursday night, in May, year of the married, 42, Manny cleaned off the table, helped with the dishes, and announced that he was going out for his nightly. And out he went.
He was usually gone about an hour but occasionally things heated up at the Turner house and he’d be out about an hour and a half. And on very rare occasions, like the night he’d made friends with Rufus, a neighborhood dog, he’d be out for close to two hours. But the May night was different.
Every night as soon as Manny left, Drazil would either call Beatrice Mitchell or Roxanne Bonafuco, both long time friends and fellow … talkers. They’d spend Drazil’s empty air time going on and on about whatever it was their brains had glommed onto for that particular night which was usually nothing.
But that May night, Drazil called both of her buds and used up the air time for each account. After three hours she finally hit a dead spot and actually shut up for the grand sum of 2 whole minutes. Then she realized that Manny had been gone for over 3 hours and she started to get mad. “I’ll sure give him a piece of my mind when he gets home,” she thought, never realizing that she’d already given about 300 times her whole mind over the years. It was just amazing how she could disgorge it.
When 4 hours passed she started to get worried. And when the clock hit the 6 hour mark she got scared and called the “… no account shiftless, overpaid…”cops.
The cops figured Manny was probably laid out somewhere on a neighborhood sidewalk from a heart attack or stroke and they began to canvas the neighborhood. After about an hour of that even the cops began to get concerned and they sent in some detectives. By that time a full fledged search was about to start.
They looked for Manny for two whole days but finally and eventually they found his cane at the end of one of the far jetty. After spending almost four days on the case and having to interact with Drazil for what seemed a couple of years during that 4 day period, the detectives threw up their hands and did the math. Since nobody had located a cadaver in the common areas of the hood, and since Manny didn’t have any funning dealings or strange behavior in his history, they called off the search and officially listed Manny as a Missing Person, probably drowned.
Drazil ended up with a hole in her life that she had to fill so she got a parakeet. She talked to that parakeet for hours and hours but it wasn’t like having a real man to organize. She just really needed to express herself. (After about a week, the parakeet, who didn’t mind the cats but dear god woman SHUT UP! also wanted to express himself. He began earnestly praying to the Parakeet God, “Please, please, PLEASE somebody slip a gun into my cage so I can blow my brains out!”)
So time went on. And after 7 years Drazil was allowed to finally list Manny as officially dead. In due course she filled out all the official paperwork and filed for surviving spouse social security benefits.
Lo and behold, the SSA came back and said, “… recipient currently receiving benefits…” What the…???
Several letters were exchanged and the gist of it was that Manny or somebody who claimed to be Manny, was still receiving benefits. And, “Further, we are sorry to inform you that privacy laws preclude us from informing you of the recipients’ address of record…”
Why that dog! ‘If he … if I find, when I find…”
But she never did find him. And Manny, or whoever, kept his social security benefits and now also had his freedom.
Oh yeah and by the way. Drazil never put it together. Spent too much time depressing that suicidal parakeet. That Jezebel, the widow Mary Turner? Left town about two days after Manny disappeared.
That double dog!
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