Warm Whiskey in a Cold Ditch: Installment #14

I wasn't sure if I had expected to write something in the Rhodia after my sister left the observation car, but I believed I planned to. This, though, wasn't atypical. Before we were even married, Peggy told me that the gap between my expectations and my plans was as wide as she had ever seen in anyone. I told her I thought that was a compliment.

So, rather than put pen to paper, I leafed through the notebook's pages yet again and found another of Ophelia's short entries. This one, titled "St. Peter's Gate," was illustrated with small clouds.

St. Peter's Gate

First, I have to say that I do not believe in angels. At least not the winged type that float beneath halos. If there angels, they are among us and embodied in living beings: the man who reaches out to stop you from stepping into San Francisco's traffic, the woman who hugs you after your first visit to the oncologist. At the train station in Chicago, though, I believe I did see an angel--a small, compact man who seemed to move through the crowds both unnoticed and accommodated at the same time as people changed their paths ever so slightly. He walked with such grace from the ticket counter toward the trains that I could not help but watch. And he watched me, too. He watched as I searched for my ringing cell phone and then let it ring unfound when I knew there was no reason to answer. Then, when he was gone, everything seemed fine. The anxiety of leaving Chicago and being without direction was gone. The commotion in the train station seemed suddenly comforting. I wanted to follow him.

I wondered about Ophelia's angel. On my trip to Edinburgh, Scotland, not long after Peggy and I had separated, I wandered out of Waverly Station and hoped the climate would soothe my literal and figurative hangovers. My brother Steven had recommended an inexpensive bed and breakfast, the directions to which I had written on a small piece of paper that was barely readable. "Head toward Holyroodhouse," Steven said. "It's a palace. The Queen sleeps there when she's in town." So, I carried my worn knapsack out of the station and turned where Steven's instructions said I should turn. When I found the palace, I stopped to look and thought of the idea of royalty. "Excuse me," a woman said as I began walking again. I turned around to see a tall, thin woman who smiled like no woman I have ever seen. Everything about her seemed perfect--her clothing, the tilt of her head, how she held herself against what had become a cold breeze.

"Hello," I said.

She held out her camera. "Will you take a picture?"

I could not place her accent, but I guessed French. "I will," I told her. She stood so the palace was behind her, and I took her picture. "You should look at it," I said as I returned the camera. "See if the photograph is okay."

She looked at the digital image now inside the camera. "It is good," she said. "The palace smiled nicely." The palace smiled nicely. Such a perfect phrase. "Thank you," she said as she put the camera into the pocket of her denim jacket. I watched her walk away, her hands clasped behind her back as she headed away from the palace and toward what appeared to be a castle at the top of a hill.

Later, as I lay in an uncomfortable bed that barely fit in a small room, I thought about her, how I could have loved her forever. Angelic, is what I thought.

Not Even in the Dark

The first girl I should've kissed but didn't was named Alice. This was a long time ago, probably the last day of seventh grade when we walked from our rural school to a more rural working farm Val's family owned, Val being the girl who accompanied me one summer (maybe that same summer) to the McHenry County fair that occurred each August. I remember being on one of the fair's rides, I think it was the Scrambler, and doing all I could to keep from sliding across the seat and pushing up against Val. It was symptomatic of the shyness and social awkwardness that I've never truly overcome. I should have let inertia drive me into her shoulders! I knew a lot of farmers then, or at least I knew their kids who lived in the bucolic regions outside my small Midwestern town and always had to get home after school to do their chores.

Alice and I had a little history in seventh grade, a brush with the evils of youthful criminality. Well, not just the two of us; there were several of us. For one reason or another, we thought it would be fun to light small smoke bombs while out at recess (or whatever recess is called in junior high). Being young and fairly stupid probably contributed to our not thinking things through: It's not easy, or even possible, to light smoke bombs without someone noticing. Soon enough, Alice and I and our fellow delinquents were sequestered near the scene of the crime, a teacher or two watching over us. What made me more nervous than anything was that I had worn no socks to school that day, a clear and deliberate violation of District 200's rules of behavior. I sat in the grass and covered my bare ankles with my hands and hoped no teachers would notice. Soon enough, we were in the principal's office being lectured and admonished by Mr. Pace, a stern and stern-faced man who, like most adults I'd encountered as a boy, had little patience with what I thought were harmful indiscretions. Years earlier, my friend Tony and I found amusement in covering a green Post Office drop-off box in mud freshly formed by heavy rain. One or another authority figure, someone who was associated with the Postal Service, I believe, was less amused, and that same evening whoever that person was joined my parents and me in our living room. My parents, I'm sure, were humiliated. I lost a shoe in the mud that same night, something I thought was a more serious problem.

One by one, those of us in Mr. Pace's small office were interrogated. Alice, to her credit, owned up to being the one who had supplied the smoke bombs. She was close to the principal's desk as she was questioned, the rest of us a few paces to the rear. While she spoke, I stepped forward to stand beside her, and I said that Alice was not the only one to be blamed, that we had asked her to bring the smoke bombs. Mr. Pace, even less amused than before, told me I had enough to worry about and that I should save my energy to defend myself. I think I stopped trying to be brave for awhile after that admonishment. I do not recall the punishment that befell me. Alice, though, was banned from the school bus for a week or so, which I'm sure caused her parents no small amount of trouble.

The last day of school was always fun, for we did nothing. That year, we played softball and ate pre-made sandwiches all afternoon. Alice and I were both pretty good baseball players then. The baseball field, in fact, was the only place I felt comfortable for much of a my youth; it was a place where I didn't have to worry about conversation or trying to figure out the ever-changing dynamics of various social circles. All I needed on the baseball field were a decent bat and a reliable glove. At the end of the day, our entire seventh grade class walked--yep, walked--the several miles from the school to Val's farm. Most of us had been together since kindergarten, and we shared a high level of comfort together. We must have eaten something at Val's house, and we must have played hide-and-seek. Not too oddly, every now and then one or two people would disappear to where they could hide and not be found. Eventually, around dusk, Alice and I found ourselves together near one of the large silos. I'm sure we talked about many things, and I am positive I knew that I was supposed to kiss her. Alice was a very smart girl and now teaches law at a very nice university--so she must have remained smart.

She also probably knew when enough was enough, and she said something like this: "I think I see your mom's car." She didn't. I knew she didn't. It was simply code for "Kiss me now or won't get another chance." We never did kiss, of course; that would've been too easy. Even in the dark I could not be resolute. We just sort of drifted away from the silo and into the lights coming from the farmhouse, and eventually my mother did appear. If I had known that night that about six months later my family would move to California, I might have been more courageous.

Many years later, Alice and her husband would visit my wife, son, and me in California, and the visit was pleasant. Alice was a reporter then, an occupation I greatly admire. I doubt that Alice remembers that night at Val's farm, and there is no reason she should. I would bet, though, that she remembers the smoke bombs, the bright clouds of blue and red and green that rose into the trees, spread across the grass, and eventually found a way Mr. Pace's stern eyes.

The Man and the Duck

One good thing about growing (or being) old is that I've seen many things and met many of people. At an age now where I can make comparisons easily, I've got a knapsack-full of "she's just like what's her name," "he's a replica of someone named so-and-so," and "that's the other thing but in a different shape." The comparisons come so easily and readily now, I often wonder if I'll ever again meet anyone who is truly unique. Oddly, or perhaps not, this phenomenon means that I am seldom disappointed in or surprised by people, though there have been notable exceptions. These exceptions are more gossipy than not, however, so we'll just agree to let that topic drop. A couple of good friends have disappeared over the last few years, which I find more disappointing than surprising since those disappearances were neither announced nor anticipated. Paths converge and then separate, don't they?

My recent lament that I've been stuck between 2 mountain ranges for a long time still rings true, but this is nobody's fault but mine. So, seeing any new places has been on hold for awhile. A couple of half-hearted attempts to get out of Dodge have failed because of a variety of reasons, but with just over a month left of summer, I think that same heart is growing a bit stronger. My friend Tom recently sent me a photograph from a mountain peak, an image that arrived by email about 2 days after I'd spent time thinking I'd like to go climb a mountain (and I now have one in mind). Shawn has been writing and fishing; Kominski's on his way to the Midwest for a week of enjoyment. Good for the 3 of them--the bastards.

But, to end things here, let me tell you about the man and the duck.

A few weeks ago while my car and I were stuck in traffic, I watched a man standing on the sidewalk, his cardboard sign saying he was homeless, had a family, and needed money. The sign also said "god bless you," which I appreciated. As he paced, he was soon accompanied by a duck, a shapely brown duck. The duck was cute. The bird walked toward the man, stared up, wiggled its tail feathers, and seemed to be waiting for something. The man looked down, walked a few steps and turned the sign toward the string of cars. The duck looked down, waddled a few steps, then looked up at the man again. The man said something, and the duck wiggled its feathers. I could not tell if the duck and the man were connected somehow; I had seen one man or another there before, but I had never seen the duck. When the light ahead turned green, I wished that it would quickly change to red again so I could sit in my car and watch. There is a drainage canal near where the 2 of them were strolling, and I wondered if the duck lived in the water there.

I was happy about that short episode. I don't often interact with people on street corners or with ducks, and this was something new and different.

I Went to the Doctor and the Doctor Said

"Your blood pressure's up," the doctor says as he reads my chart.

"I thought it might be," I tell him as I wonder what he's scribbling. "I can feel it."

"Not much, but a little," he says.

I think that a little can be enough, but I don't say this.

"Any idea why?" he asks.

"A few ideas," I say, and I drag a couple off the top of the list and hand them over. I always wonder if he really wants to hear these things, or if he's simply like a disinterested spouse who asks just to be polite.

Neither of us is overly concerned, so he moves on to other things. He does some stuff that I don't particularly enjoy but have come to tolerate, and he tells me to make an appointment for a couple months in the future. The woman at the counter takes my money--check or cash, no credit cards or debit cards--and asks me when I want to come back. We negotiate a date, and she uses a pen to write my name in the appointment book. I tell her that using a pen instead of a pencil is a sign of confidence that I'll come back, and moments later I'm on the road back to the office.

That night I never do find a cool spot on either side of the pillow. I toss and turn as quietly as I can and wonder what gets the blame for tonight's insomnia: caffeine, the heat, the things I told the doctor about.

After a few hours of marginal sleep, the alarm sounds and 15 minutes later I'm out the door and on the road to the office again--wash, rinse, repeat. Somewhere in the middle of the day I remember being on a ship down near Guam. I was standing on the catwalk outside the compartment I worked in, gathering fresh air after being cooped up inside with radio receivers and cryptographic equipment and the heat all that gear generated. Other than the sounds of the ship's bow sliding through water and the radar rotating on the mast, there was no sound as I leaned against the guardrail and counted stars. The quietest darkness I've experienced was on a road between Sandy, Utah, and Ely, Nevada. The only thing I could hear when I got out of my car and stood on the pavement was the clicking of the Ford's engine.

Returning mentally from the Pacific Ocean to my landlocked cubicle and the computer screen in front of me, I think of the movie Requiem for a Dream, the scenes in which the television seems to come to life. It's strange to go from being at sea to reviewing last weekend's movie. Maybe it's because as my blood pressure is going up my vision is going down from staring into a computer monitor so long every day, and perhaps the monitor has a life of its own and is plotting something just like the television does in the movie. I jump off the third horse in this daydream trifecta, and I imagine getting into my car and taking a little road trip across the country or at least into the middle of Utah. Just a little jaunt I think right as my email program reminds me I have a meeting in 5 minutes. My monitor seems to flicker a wink at me as I lock my computer. I grab a notebook, find a pen, walk into the conference room, sit myself down, and get my mind back to work.

Warm Whiskey in a Cold Ditch: Installment #13

I had joked to my parents more than once that the only time I put pen to paper was when I was signing for my belongings after posting bail or, more likely, having it posted for me. They had never come to see the humor in this even after I assured them it had happened only twice. Plus, the second time didn't really count because no charges were ever filed. "Some things parents never find funny," my mother had said. She was right, I suppose, and I know it must have been more of a burden for her and my father than it had been for me. I could always leave town and start someplace new, but they'd lived in the same house for 45 years and had to live and work among people who knew more about me than even I probably did.

Only half a dozen or so people were in the observation car with me after Margie left. The train would stop next in Helper, and something about passing through that town made me nervous. The Rhodia felt slick in my hands, and I realized the more I thought about Helper, the more sweaty my hands got. I watched a man who looked a few years younger than me come up the steps in the middle of the car. He was carrying a can of beer in each hand, and I thought a beer would taste good then. Behind the counter downstairs a short, wide woman stood counting money. "Can I get a beer?" I asked.

"What kind?" she asked.

"What are my options?"

She pointed to cans of beer lined up on a shelf behind her. I wondered how they stayed there when the ride got rough.

"Coors," I said, picking it only because I suddenly remembered Matt, an actual grave digger I'd known in Pensacola, Florida. This was before Coors was sold everywhere, and Matt had driven from Florida to Kansas and back one weekend just because he wanted to buy a case of Coors. Matt and I would come close to some bad trouble one night, but when he returned with the Coors he was generous enough to share as we sat on the beach and watched lights from ships and boats reflect off the Gulf of Mexico.

There were fewer people upstairs when I returned to where I'd been sitting. I set my feet on the small ledge beneath the window, but seeing my full reflection in the window now made me even more nervous, so I found a chair that would swivel and keep my reflection to myself. Several pages in the middle of the Rhodia were blank, and I picked a page right next to one of Ophelia's entries. I braced the notebook against my knee, test the pen on my hand, and knew after only a few minutes what I would write.