Ma Vie En Prose

This afternoon I attended a birthday party for a buddy named Pete. Pete is homeless. For a few years, I’d seen him downtown riding his bike but I never really spoke to him. Pete mostly keeps to himself. Most nights, he’s just wandering around doing odd jobs for various bars. He usually cleans up after people . . . bussing tables and sweeping floors and helping people lock up.
I only really met Pete recently. He never bothered me so I never bothered him. However, a few months ago, that changed. Not long ago, I lost a friend. She was killed by a homeless man. After that, I harbored a passionate distrust and disgust for the homeless. This included Pete. One night a few months ago, I was downtown hanging out with John John, a friend who was bartending. That night I had too many to drive home. While I wasn’t very drunk, I still wasn’t comfortable driving. I decided to walk home. I only live about a mile from downtown. Though I’d walked the route many times, I knew it was a foolish thing to do. You see, I don’t live in a good neighborhood. A body shouldn’t walk it alone at night. That night John John complained to Pete about my history of doing just that. Well, Pete immediately turned to me and said that he’d walk me home so that I wouldn’t have to make the trip alone. Incidentally, Pete is an intimidating individual. He’s 6 feet tall and a hell of a lot stronger than most people his age. (I’ve seen him beat 30-year-olds at arm wrestling.) It also doesn’t hurt that most people downtown know him, including the unsavory types.
I initially ignored his offer. I assumed it was random talk from a local drunk. However, that night, he repeated himself. For whatever reason, I believed him. I bought him a beer, and later that evening, Pete walked with me back to my place. I was glad to have the company and shocked that he didn’t ask me for money when we arrived. He just told me good night and kept walking.
Since then Pete and I have been pals. He calls me Doc. I’m not sure if he remembers my real name. I’ll buy him a beer or two most nights that I see him out. Sometimes I’ll hand him a few bucks, always making him promise that he’ll buy food with it. He’s accompanied me home a few other times. Hell, he walks a lot of people home or to their cars. He shows people respect, and they return it in kind.
The party was in a warehouse. A couple of local bar owners organized the whole thing. There was a keg, and four turn tables were put to good use. John John was on the grill slowly filling an aluminum pan with sausage and ribs and pork chops. At least 30 people milled about wishing Pete a happy birthday, enjoying themselves and making sure Pete enjoyed himself. There were even two sweet dogs wandering around making friends with anyone willing to offer a bit of whatever they were eating. When I left, Pete was sitting in a chair with a very full belly and a cup of beer.
Happy 60th birthday, Pete. You’ve helped me see things a little differently.

Masters week is now over. I spent the week working as a backserver at a very nice restaurant. This is not the same restaurant where I worked last year. I'll be sharing random stories from the week in the next few days. Here's a few to start you off.

I met a doctor from the area. I forget his name. I was chatting with his wife about a doctor we both know who lives in Savannah. The woman keeps me at the table talking to her for several minutes, and the husband begins to laugh. Apparently, she has a predilection for loquacity. (You know you like my big words!) I excuse myself from the table so I can return to work, but before I walk away, he shakes my hand. Now, maybe I imagined this, but the handshake felt odd. He kinda twisted my hand from side to side. It wasn't really obvious, but it was definitely different than the handshake I got when he and his wife left the restaurant at the end of the meal. Maybe he was just being lazy at first or maybe I've seen too many old spy movies.

Also, Masters fans do not laugh when you suggest watching The Dukes of Hazzard instead of the last hour of the tournament.

Two days ago I got some bad news about a friend. I was upset. I wanted to write things out, but I didn’t have it in last night. I won’t go into the details here. I felt a little better today. I’ve even tried to be productive. Hurray for healthy decisions.

My night didn't begin badly. It began with the standard dose of anxiety to which I've become accustomed and a pinch of hope. The hope was based on the fact that I was supposed to meet a woman for drinks. My night would come to take a sudden and horrible detour.

I don't have the heart to finish this tonight.

Bye Bye Life - "All That Jazz" 1979
It's a little out of synch. That's youtube for you.

I've been trying to fall asleep for hours, and it hasn't been working. Bad thoughts keep rushing through my mind leaving me lonely and uncomfortable and angry. On nights like this I miss the time in my life when I could shut out people and emotion. I would walk through much of my day with a chilled emptiness. Even though I felt isolated and unhappy, I could at least detach myself from what was bothering me. It was almost as if I could pull a bit of the hurt and resentment out of my mind and lock it behind glass. I could sit and study and contemplate the badness while remaining safely removed . . . mostly removed, anyway. Once I relearned how to open myself, I thought that I'd rather feel Hamlet's slings and arrows instead of enduring the blunted and protected existence to which I'd become accustomed. Looking back, those thoughts now seem like arrogance. At times like this, I dearly miss that numbness.

If anyone is concerned about me doing something foolish, then let me address that now. I will not hurt myself in any fashion. I simply need to get some things off my chest. If you are still concerned, then call me, and I'll calm you down. Some of you have a tendency to talk too much. If I want to discuss this with anyone who doesn't read this blog, I'll bring it up with them. That's not your decision to make.

Friday, I drove to Savannah. My brother and father and oldest nephew were in Daytona for the Daytona 500. I'm not into NASCAR so I didn't go. My sis-in-law was in Savannah with my two younger nephews with my mom. Saturday, Mom, SIL and the baby went to some kind of craft show. My middle nephew (six years old) and I used this as an opportunity to spend a day being boys. We went to a local fun park. First, he rode a gokart by himself on the kiddie track. There was only one other boy driving at the same time. Both of them had the same problem, namely the tendency to pay attention to where the other driver was and not to where they were going. There was more than one near-miss with the metal railing. After that, I drove him on the big track in a two-seater gokart. Even though our kart wasn't as fast as the single-seaters, I got a thrill out of frustrating another guy's attempts to pass us. He was not pleased, but I couldn't stop grinning. Then the boy and I played miniature golf. His score ranged from 3 to a much higher number. (A few times I stopped counting after 10 strokes.) Before we left, he played a lot of skeeball, and there were a few unfortunate attempts at standard video games. We turned in the skeeball tickets he won for a purple lollipop and three temporary tattoos (a snake, a happy face and an alien). On the way home, we stopped at Burger King for a well-earned manly feast. He had just finished his fries when he fell asleep in the car.

Sunday, I took him fishing in the little pond at my parent's place. It's really an enormous mud puddle, but it does have fish. I taught him how to cast a line which he did really well. He only hit the land 2-3 times and didn't once hook himself. I was very proud. While we were fishing he kept asking me questions about the pond.

Him: Did you ever swim in the pond?
Me: Yes, when I was a boy. See that tree? We tied a rope to it and swung into the water.
Him: What's in the pond?
Me: Mud and sticks.
Him: You walked on the sticks?
Me: Yeah, but it wasn't too bad.
Him: Were there fish in it?
Me: Yeah, and turtles. (I didn't tell him about the occasional snake.)

--Can you see where he's going with this?--

Him: Can I go swimming in the pond today?
Me: No, not today. It's too cold. Maybe I'll take you later.
Him: Can I stick my hand in the water?
Me: Sure, that is fine.

Negotiating with a child isn't much different than negotiating with an adult. The goals are just a little different. I remember when swimming is a pond was a matter of enormous importance.