Month: July 2018

For years he dated young tattooed women who were drawn to him—who wouldn’t be;  he’s got the biggest heart in the world—and then wanted to change him.  He gave up after a while; most of them just wanted to be friends, anyway; ask him for advice and then never take it.  He knew everyone but had two close friends:  Sheila, who served as his cat; and John, who was his dog.  Sheila had a contrary opinion for every on of Jack’s and enjoyed sparring; she probably would have slept on his laptop and wandered on his keyboard if that was available for a human. John lived one apartment over from Jack and would come by every night that Jack was available.  He had a key to the apartment but always, always knocked and said “It’s John; can I come in?”  He’d answer Jack’s phone.  “Jack O’Connell’s apartment; this is John; how can I help you?”  Come to think of it, he was more of a butler than a dog.  He’d sit in the big reclining chair, quietly cleaning his guns.  We lived in Nebraska, guys.  This is not an unusual activity.

Mom finally stopped loading up grocery bags with creamed corn and toilet paper when Jack was 26; and he stopped doing laundry at their house when he was 27.  Small milestones on the path to adulthood.  It wasn’t that he was taking advantage; it was just that it was an opportunity to see Mom and Dad. It seemed to be important to her to still take care of Jack and hey, look; free food!

His best friend from high school, Mike, fell in love—or in something—with Sarah.  Jack met her and thought well, she’s the one for me, and I’ll never be able to tell her.  He was best man at their wedding.  Because Mike was a Viking re-enactor, the best man was in chain mail but we all have our quirks.  And then after two years Mike decided he’d go Viking full-time, and Sarah decided no, not so much, and they divorced.  Mike is still angry and won’t have anything to do with her; it’s been fifteen years.  Way to hold a grudge.

And then time went by, and Sarah married again and had two boys, and then that marriage went south and Sarah thought I’m doing something wrong.  I don’t know what it is, but if I keep going south instead of north I’m going to go crazy.  Who is the nicest man I know?  What family do I want to be a part of?

Ah.  Facebook.  Jack.

So she reached out; and he reached back out; and they dated for six months; and then she introduced him to her sons (because she is a good person and didn’t want them to have to deal with men she wasn’t going to be with long-term).  They came to our wedding; him proud; she radiant.  She charmed everyone she met.  And then they married, and we all burst our buttons over the rightness of this, the absolute perfection of the two of them.

Jack said “You know what?  I always wanted a family.  I have one.  I’ll never let it go.”  He called them His Boys from the first day.  When he was gone on a business trip Sarah took his clothing and stuffed it and put it on the couch so Oscar and Hank could still have a Jack to cuddle up to.

Family.  One finds it; and then one makes it.

He’s a very self-contained person.  Mom asked him, after he walked around the lake near Jack’s house, “Who did you meet?  What did you talk about?”  And he replied “Why would I want to talk to anyone?  I’ll never see them again.”

We’re not even sure he’s from the same family as the rest of us; the inveterate talkers, the invariable handers-out-of-business-cards-because-you-never-know-who-will-be-your-new-best friend.  I have friends I made from interviewing; when their skills didn’t match the job requirements I said “You’re not a good match for this position, but do you want to be friends?”  I shudder to think of the HR penalties for that now.  Nate and I have friends we met at garage sales, friends we met dog walking, friends we found at a bookstore because we liked the same book.

“I’m sure they think I’m the cleanest homeless person they’ve ever seen,” Sam says about being in the library.  He doesn’t spend a lot of time at home, so he has routines:  the coffee shop, the library, the brewery, the other brewery.  Everyone knows him but no one talks to him.  We met him at the other brewery and the bartenders exchanged looks with each other:  see, he does associate with others.  I win the bet.

Mom says she thinks he’s like Noni, our great-grandfather.  “Give him an opera to listen to and a book to read and he doesn’t need anything else.”  The Italian strain comes out strongly in me; all hands waiving and voice inflections and the need to tell everyone what I’m thinking all the time.  I’m not sure how the Italian comes out in Sam.  Noni was happy tending his market garden; he liked people but didn’t always see the point of them.  That’s pretty much Sam.

Dogs are different.  Sam loves dogs.  He photographed humane society dogs for posting on their website.  If he could adopt every abused pit bull he saw, he would.  When our Shiba Sakura went missing, and then was found and returned, Sam was housesitting.  Apparently Sakura was remorseful about her week away from home, and allowed Sam to pet her and even stayed on the bed while he watched Ash Vs. Evil on his iPad.  “I made sure to cover her eyes when it got gory,” he said.

And yet:

At a brewery, wearing Grandpa Gub’s Amoco work shirt, reading.  The guy one stool over says “Hey!  I like your shirt!”  Sam, shockingly, explains that it was his Grandpa’s and they engaged in conversation and then Sam—continuing to shock—sent the guy a follow-up email.

“Hey, Zach.  A few days ago at 300 Suns you noticed my Amoco shirt and we got to talking about Iowa and that small town we both come from, Fort Dodge.  I called my Mom today and asked if she had any recollections; she did remember that there was an Eleanor Troubridge in my Dad’s class.  When Eleanor’s boyfriend went off to the army he asked my Dad to take her to the prom because my Dad was trustworthy and wouldn’t try anything.  So they went and danced and Dad was all those things; a perfect gentleman.

“She also remembers the Lebanese community in Fort Dodge.  That town was a bastion of communities:  Italian, where she grew up; Scots, who lived down on the flats; Lebanese; Czech; and black folks who had come north for opportunity and peace and found it, mostly, working in the brickyard with my Noni.  She has a vague memory of a Lebanese restaurant downtown named Anwar’s with an organist who played during meals.

“None of that I remember.  The family moved when I was about three, and my biggest memory is the enormous blue water tower near our house.  That, and grandpa Gub’s Amoco gas station that he ran for 53 years on South 22nd Street.  He worked six and a half days a week for all those years.  He got a plaque from the company after 52 years and proudly displayed it in their living room.  He knew everyone in town and when he died, Mom was deluged with cards telling her of the many small kindnesses Gubba performed on a daily basis.  She cried for days.

‘Anyway, let me know if this rings any bells for you or your family.  I look forward to hearing back; it was nice chatting with you.”

So maybe there’s a friend out there for Sam.  I like to think so.

I like to watch Nate sleep.  Here he is, hand curled around the bars of the headboard; it looks like he’s about to make a prison break in his sleep. I think about raking a metal cup across the bars; then decide against it.

He’s stretched out on the couch, empty cider cup and folded glasses on the glass coffee table. “Do you want to go to bed, or do want me to leave you alone,” I ask. “Leave me alone,” he mumbles, and shifts an arm over his eyes.

He is as horizontal as horizontal can be, lying on the decaying reclined Eames chair. Tablet on lap, water glass on adjacent chair. He’s closed his eyes behind his librarian glasses and is at peace.

We are in bed. He mock-throws three pillows at me, one after another. “There. Enough pillows for you?  Pillow monger.” he says.

When we courted and he was in one city, I, another, we would call every night at 10pm and write notes several times a week. He has one from that time tucked in the corner of our dresser mirror:  a stick figure of me in the middle and a pillow fort on all three sides. Only my feet can escape. “This is me without you” I wrote underneath.

I still build pillow forts but now the open side is the one he’s on. I have trouble doing that emotionally. I’m all tap dance and skitter around my friends; “I’ll entertain you!  Here are my stories!”  I’m in, and then I’m out; no more than three minutes of their time.  That doesn’t, and shouldn’t, work for Nate. I’m trying to move around the pillow fort in my heart. My feet don’t need to be free. I don’t need to escape.

I said “It’s like a puzzle.  When you first look at it, there’s no way to start.  All the pieces are confusing and colorful, or drab and identical.  There’s no way in hell there’ll ever be a picture to come of this.

“Then you put down a piece and wait. Then you see a piece that you can press into the one you’ve got. Then you see two edge pieces that go together. And slowly, so slowly that you don’t even know it, a picture starts to form. And it’s exciting. And you want to keep on until you can see the whole picture.

“Like the time I wrote about the lady who had Wonder Woman grips on her .45 and she founded a group called Second Amendment Sisters and taught a lot of women to Take Back The Night With a Gun and when that guy tried to hurt her, she took him out with a double-tap and made the news. That was your mom. Although I made a lot of it up.”

“So you lie, then,” he said.

“Sometimes.  I have a very bad memory.  Barely recall anything that happened to me before the age of 24.  So if I want to say anything about that time, I have to think of things that make sense to me as I am now and take away all the experience and wear and skills and find some longing, some reason for me to have done something that your dad told me I did or your uncle has a picture of me doing.  I need to start somewhere with something to get anywhere worth going to.”

“Why do you sometimes use a computer and sometimes a pen or a pencil and sometimes your iPhone and sometimes just cut and paste Facebook entries?” he asked.

“I use what suits. And I have to write 50 words a day no matter what. I have to write something even if I’ve broken both hands. Sometimes I’m just going to grab an I-think-it’s-witty comment from a message and build something around that.

“Last night I talked about lying on the couch reading a true crime book while there was beauty all around me on the island, and someone joked about us being in a prime defensible spot for when the zombie outbreak arrives, and then it came to how Nate and I had to supply our own arsenal because his sisters think that’s just crazy talk, and there, I’d gotten to 5,000 words and a saleable piece of writing.”

“Saleable?  How much?” he asked.

“$0.99 for every download.”

“And how many downloads?” he asked.

“3,000.”

He thought for a few minutes. “So you made  $3,000 for putting together a puzzle?  For lying?”

“Well, not quite; but yes.”

And that’s how Oscar became a writer, just like his aunt Annie; though it took me to the age of fifty and him to the age of fifteen, the little imp. I’d better get 5,000 words out of this encounter.