People Roulette

Okay, so I know I only met you a few minutes ago and we’re just two people forced to sit together on a domestic flight, but I saw something back in the airport that’s giving me an adolescent fit of the giggles, and I just have to share it with someone.

Before I tell you about it, though, let me just say this: thanks so much for being a normal person. The fact that you’re under 300 pounds, able to formulate coherent sentences, and seated next to me, makes you a statistical anomaly. It’s the thing that scares me most about flying – not going down in a ball of flames – but who am I going to have to sit with. It’s like People Roulette. I could get someone like you; or I could spend three hours, wedged in the fetal position, between a couple of inbred Sumo wrestlers.

Take that guy: see that porker wearing the ‘Who Farted’ t-shirt? The guy with the gurgling smoker’s cough, bumping passengers in the head with his backpack, looking for his row? Yup. He’s the kind of travel buddy I usually get saddled with.

Whenever I see a guy like that, squeezing his way down the aisle, I know he’s headed for an adjoining seat. I’ll start centering myself emotionally and getting into character while he’s still a ways off. The role I usually go for is Dead Guy In The Seat, and it’s something I take seriously. If my performance is unconvincing, I might be forced to listen to hours of penetrating insights on every topic from celebrities to third world economies; sophisticated opinions like: “I’ll tell you how to fix the Middle East right damn now. You just bomb all their asses. That’ll teach them sonsabitches.” If my acting falls short, I’ll have to hear all about medical ailments, or the finer points of vacuum sales, or about alcoholic uncles who should’ve kept their hands to themselves.

With a guy like that, I like to make sure and claim the armrest early. It’s sort of a douchey land-grab, I know, but surrender just a corner and he’ll eventually annex the rest of it like Germany would. Then, all you’ve got is enough room to do little Tyrannosaurus Rex arms for the remainder of the flight. Shh, here he comes. Quick, claim your armrest. You and I can share ours. You want the front or back? There. Now act sleepy.

What a relief, he’s passed us. I think we dodged a bullet with that one. It’s lucky for him they don’t charge airline tickets by the pound.

Am I talking too much? Oh, no. Now you think I’m a talker. I assure you I’m really not. I’m just excited about the thing I witnessed in the airport; something unusual I’ve never seen before.

So, get this. In line, at the security area, I see a man, right? He’s burly, at least six-two, and he’s got a thick, scraggly, rapist beard. He’s looks like any regular guy: maybe late thirties, wearing plain blue jeans and a faded softball shirt. Everything about him is ordinary and forgettable. He’s the sort of guy that’s probably only referred to as What’s His Face; a man who blends into the background like human wallpaper.

But there’s one little thing about this guy that’s different. One small detail makes him impossible not to look at: he’s wearing these bright-red, patent-leather pumps, with three inch stiletto heels.

Totally bizarre, right? Weirdest thing I’ve seen in a long time. I mean, I’d get it if he was a full on cross-dresser – there’s some sort of logic to that – but this guy’s your standard-issue dude except for the shoes.

After his bags are scanned, the man makes his way off towards the gates. The high-pitched click, click, click he makes with each step, echoes off the terrazzo floor and commands attention. Every few strides he totters off balance awkwardly, which only ads to the spectacle. People are gawking. They nod in his direction and whisper to each other. They crane their necks to get a better look. The Man In The Pumps is causing quite a sensation.

I walk in the same direction as the man. The whole time I’m following him, I wonder what the deal is with his bizarre choice in footwear. I figure he’s lost a bet or something. The shoes are some kind a joke, or he’s worn them on a dare. If not that, then maybe he’s got some weird foot problem where a doctor’s ordered him to walk in heels for therapeutic reasons. I keep studying the man to see if I can discover more clues.

He turns into the same gate I’m headed for. More people stare at him. More whisper and snicker to each other. Waiting for the flight, I keep tabs on the guy occasionally. The serious way he’s conducting business over the phone is in stark contrast to his ridiculous appearance. What the hell is this guy thinking? By the time they call for boarding, my curiosity is running wild and I’m scared that if I don’t find out what the deal is with the shoes, my head might explode.

As people start to form a line, I see my chance. I squeeze my way through them and get a spot behind the guy in the heels. “Okay,” I say, in the most winsome tone I can muster, “I’ve just got to ask you this…” The guy turns around, gives me a skeptical look and waits for my question.“What’s up with the shoes?” I ask. There, it’s finally out there. What a relief.

“Well,” he says in an effeminate voice,“I just … like ‘em.” He’s kind of snippy the way he says it, and he quickly whirls back around.

“Well alright, then.” I say with a quick chuckle, filling in the awkward silence. His answer takes me completely off guard and so does his voice. I’m not sure what to think. First, there’s a flash of admiration, as if I’ve stumbled upon a rare and fearless soul living life by his own rules; a rugged individualist who thumbs his nose at all social norms and conventions. I’m tempted to offer up a high-five and say, “That’s right, you go girl. You wear your high-heeled shoes and to hell with what everyone thinks about you.”

But after a second, it sinks in how utterly unsatisfying his answer is. He just wore them on a whim? What? The guy just happened to look in his closet this morning and decide a pair of bright-red, patent leather pumps, with the three inch heels, were perfect for the airport? The heels made more sense than the sneakers, boots and loafers that were in there too? That’s total bullshit. And where do you get a pair of men’s size thirteen pumps anyway? They can’t exactly be an ‘off-the-rack’ item. A lot of premeditation went into this and I’m irritated by his lame answer. I think it begs a bit more inquiry.

“It’s just…” I begin, tentatively; giving the man a head-to-toe gesture as he turns around again “… incongruous.”

He looks at me thoughtfully for a moment before answering, “A little incongruity can turn a trip to the airport into an adventure.” Then he straightens up and smiles, preening momentarily.

“Well, I suppose it can,” I laugh. And there at last is an answer I can live with. It’s plain-old shock value the guy’s after. He could have just said so to begin with. I mean, I totally understand the desire not to blend-in. I guess some people get neck tattoos and bolt shit to their face to stand-out, others wear high heels. I think if I was going to be that overt about it, though, I’d just wear a sign around my neck that says: 'I Need Lots Of Attention – Please Look At Me,' and avoid the risk of breaking an ankle.

That’s one of the things that makes flying such a great social experiment, don’t you think? You have to admit that purely from an Anthropological standpoint it’s pretty interesting. Where else do you get mashed together with so many people you’d never choose to hang out with, and for such long periods of time? It’s like the line at the Division of Motor Vehicles except with wings.

So the guy in the pumps is a few seats behind us. No, no don’t look now. He’s sitting down anyways. You wouldn’t get the full effect. But make sure you take a look when you hit the restroom. It’s worth your while.

Do-Gooding 101

The Saturday morning AA meeting I go to is filled all types of people: There’s everything from hardcore addicts, living on the streets, to affluent, well-spoken CEO’s. This morning, a tough looking guy is sharing a bit of his story: “I’m going to classes,” he says, in a thick Brooklyn accent. “I even made the Dean’s List. But here I am still on the streets. I get paid on Tuesday and if I can make it to then, I can move into a place of my own.”

The imposing appearance of the guy, and his deep, scratchy voice, contrast the vulnerable manner in which he speaks. I’m stirred by it. After the meeting I approach him and hand him a few bills. “Hey man,” I say, “I really appreciate what you’re trying to accomplish. Tell you what – I know you don’t know me, but my wife and kids are out of town for a few days, and if you need a couch to crash on, just let me know.” He whips out a little booklet and I write my phone number down.

Almost immediately after the words come out of my mouth, I start regretting the offer. That was impulsive. Maybe even risky. But it’s out there, and I’ll do it if he takes me up on it. He probably won’t anyway. For the rest of the day I’m hoping the guy won’t call. I start thinking of excuses I could give him why I can’t follow through. I’ll say the wife said no. I’ll just be honest and say I’m not comfortable with it. I’ll say some other guys in The Program advised me not to.

I think back, about a friend of mine in Atlanta, who was once similarly moved, and brought a homeless guy in to live with his family for a few weeks. They extended him every generosity, treated him like one of the family, and even admitted him into a drug rehab center. Eventually, the guy simply skipped out on them; but I remember telling my friend that I thought it was a reckless move, especially with little girls in the house. And here I am doing practically the same thing. Damn, I hope the guy doesn’t call.

He calls around four o’ clock. I tell him – let’s call him Alex – I’ll pick him up at Pike’s Place around six o’ clock. I call David, my nineteen-year-old son, and let him know we’ll be having a guest spend the night.

Before I leave to get Alex, I take all the computers and electronics out of the main living area and put them up. Why needlessly tempt the guy? I also put away any papers that might have personal information on them, along with all extra sets of car keys.

I pick Alex up from Pike’s Place. Driving back to my house, he starts letting little bits of information loose. “I couldn’t get that job because I’ve got a felony,” he says. Oh, that’s great. I figure the best way to handle the news is with nonchalance, and I don’t ask him what the felony was for. But my imagination starts running wild.

We stop along the way, and pick up a sandwich for Alex. I take a longer, indirect route home to make it more difficult to retrace. When we finally arrive, Alex says, “Man, this is a nice house.” I fight the urge to be apologetic about having a house and just say thanks.

Alex eats his sandwich and tells fragments of his story. From what I can make out, he grew up in New York and quit school, his senior year, to be a roofer. That set him on a negative trajectory, which kept him working menial jobs and bouncing around – Florida, the Midwest, and California. He regrets quitting school and ever getting mixed up with drugs.

David comes home from work and introduces himself to our guest. Alex talks for a while, and David and I listen. I study what must be a prison tattoo, of a flower, on Alex’s forearm. It, along with his piercing stare, leathery skin and shaved head give him a sinister air; but I try not to dwell on it. I’m a big guy, and I can take care of myself. But I imagine guys in prison are used to taking risks that fighters at the gym, where I train, aren’t used to. Guys with nothing to lose are dangerous. More doubt creeps into my mind.

Alex talks proudly about his brother who’s a successful corporate guy; but many of his other family members also succumbed to drugs. One cousin’s a Meth addict; an uncle’s into heroine; someone else got sent away for trafficking cocaine. I wonder how a person can get out of a system where there’s such heavy drug abuse. Alex says it’s hard, but not impossible.

We both talk about the economy and how it’s affected everyone – how there’s not enough work to go around anymore. I tell him that my industry is in decline and that I peaked a few years back. I feel like bitching about my own financial woes but it would just sound stupid and sniveling to a man whose only worldly possessions are contained in a small plastic grocery bag.

After a while we put on a movie. It’s a Quentin Tarantino flick about grifters and smuggling. Every now and then, Alex take’s a cue from the movie and says things like: “That reminds me of this guy I know who would dress up like a businessman, go into office buildings and steal everything from petty cash to computers;” or, “I know this one guy who stole an industrial generator and sold it for $50,000;” or, “I know this guy who robbed a bank.” My takeaway from all these statements is: Alex knows an awful lot of thieves. I can only guess, by association, that he might be one too.

When the movie’s over, it’s totally dark outside. Our house is well lit and we don’t have any curtains drawn; so the darkness shouldn’t really make a difference. But it does. I’m suddenly more wary of Alex. I tell him I’m going to call it a night and I start locking everything up for the evening.

I keep all the lights on. I go into David’s room and leave one of our dogs with him. I tell him to lock his door. I take our other dog to my bedroom and lock my door behind me.

I can’t get to sleep. Not so much as a wink. I lie in bed wearing all my clothes, and a baseball bat is within reach on the pillow next to me. I keep a small light on. Every noise I hear – every shuffle or the slightest cough – I sit up, and see if sounds of a struggle are coming from David’s room. What was that? Was that the turning of a bedroom handle? Was that the gurgling sound of David being strangled? Or, was it just the dog, scratching? It was the dog. Phew!

In the morning, I’m out of bed and in the kitchen around seven. Alex is up and having a hand-rolled cigarette out back. I fix us both eggs and sausage.

After we eat, I offer Alex provisions for the road and he takes a water and a grape soda with him. I speed downtown like a stunt-driver and I’m in good spirits. This plane’s coming in for a landing. But I’m not out of this yet. I’m still half paranoid that something weird, like a hijacking, might happen: you hear stories.

I stop the car in front of Pike’s Place. Alex is grateful. When he gets out, we shake hands. He looks me in the eye and gives me a sincere, “Thanks brother.” I like it when he says this, and I think: Yes. Right now, at this moment, we are indeed brothers and I’m glad to have been able to do you a small kindness.

Driving back home, I’m utterly relieved. Except for a small, nagging worry, in the back of my mind, that now a homeless drifter and ex-convict knows where I live. Deep down, though, I don’t think I really need to worry about Alex. I think he’s just a guy who’s had a lot more setbacks than I have.

Here’s the thing: All my anxiety has been about something I’m supposed to do; and not just once in a while. I’m supposed to help people.

This big, black book, I keep in my night stand, uses some rather forceful language about helping orphans, caring for the sick, visiting prisoners, and being a general benefit to those who are forgotten and in need. It doesn’t list these things as optional. It wildly asserts that it’s my obligation to help others even if it means inconveniencing myself, being uncomfortable, or taking risks. It claims that I should be bold and somehow fearless in the pursuit of compassion.

Do I do that? Not so much. I rarely extend myself in the aid of others and that’s one of the things that makes me more of a church-goer than a church-doer. The fact that I’m even mentioning all this reinforces how unusual altruism is for me.

But I liked it. And I’d like to get better at it.

Next time, though, I think I’d probably get someone a hotel room instead.

BP CEO, Tony Hayward, and The Importance of Being British.

Listening to BP’s CEO, Tony Hayward, offer his apology for soiling the Gulf of Mexico, made me wish, once again, that I was born British.

The first time I felt that way was back in 1995 when I saw actor Hugh Grant, apologize on J. Leno for his well publicized infidelity with a prostitute. Hugh skillfully applied a public-relations policy the military calls: Maximum Exposure, Minimal Delay. Instead of hiding from what he did, he went on national television, the week it happened, and said, “I think you know, in life, what's a good thing to do and what's a bad thing; and I did a bad thing… and there you have it."

Sure, Hugh had some things going for him. He was handsome. He also appeared genuinely contrite. But what really made everyone want to say, “Aw, don’t worry about it, Hugh; what’s a crack-whore between friends,” was the British accent. Seriously. Try saying, “I did a bad thing… and there you have it," with a Brooklyn accent. It just doesn’t fly.

Now the same thing is happening with Tony Hayward. In BP’s television ads, he’s puppy-dog-sad as he addresses the camera. “The gulf spill is a tragedy,” he says, softly, “that never should have happened…To those effected and your families, I’m deeply sorry.” How can I be mad at the little guy? He looks and sounds like Frodo from The Lord of The Rings. My first reaction is compassion. What I want to do is give him a hug. Then the voice of reason, from deep inside me, yells, “Wait a second! Wait a second! This guy’s a total, A-Hole!”

I guarantee if Tony were, say, a Texas oil-man, speaking with a thick Southern drawl, his head would’ve been on a pike weeks ago. But, since we’ve been conditioned, over years, through countless movies, to associate a British accent with honor, trustworthiness, and intelligence, Tony gets his pass.

To the American ear, even a British retard sounds suave. This makes the accent practically a superpower, like atomic energy, which can be harnessed and used for good or evil. If you don’t believe me, try this experiment: Next time you’re hanging out with a British guy, have him approach a group of attractive women and say, “Pardon me, ladies, I just pooped my pants.” See if he doesn’t go home with one of them.

It’s dangerous to watch Tony Hayward on television. If you do, beware: He’ll speak English the way it ought to be spoken; and next thing you know, you might feel linguistically inferior. Then you might assume it’s best to shut up and listen; let the expert of our language show you how it’s done. Once that happens, it’s too late; you’re open to his persuasion. You won’t know why, but you’ll find yourself saying: “Thanks for the $20 billion, Tony. What’s The Gulf of Mexico between friends.”

The Strongest Finger In America

I'm experiencing post-traumatic flashbacks from my first full-medical-checkup, this morning.

Before the doctor shows me who's boss, I warn him: “I might break your finger if I accidentally clench-up.”

“Are you kidding me?” he says, displaying his pointer. “This is the strongest finger in America. Do your worst.”

The doctor isn’t lying: His finger is quite powerful. Or perhaps he’s substituted a plunger-handle, as a practical joke, when I wasn’t looking.

As he’s violating me, it seems like the doctor’s taking a long time and I ask him if he’s misplaced his car keys up there. The doctor says no and that my prostate’s in good shape.

Removing his glove, he flatly says, “Never go to prison.” I tell him I surely won’t. What an unexpected bonus this is: Not only do I learn about my health, today; I also get a valuable anti-crime lesson!

Taking my rape-shower, back at home, I crouch in the fetal position and gently rock myself back and forth; sobbing quietly.

To my gay friends out there, I’ve got to say: Gentlemen, I salute you. If that’s pleasurable, then you dudes are - for sure - the absolutely toughest bastards on the planet. Not only should you guys be allowed in the military, I think we need to start an all-gay armed force. With your obviously high threshold for pain and stunning fashion sense, you guys would be unstoppable.

Consider The Rap Music Crisis Officially Solved.

Critics of Rap music have been suggesting, for some time, that it’s gone soft: “Lost it’s teeth,” they lament. “Sold out.” While it used to be the voice of the counter-culture, now songs from former bad-asses, like 50 Cent, are being used to sell tampons.


Indeed, the appeal of Rap has grown so broad it’s become vanilla; but, I dare say, it’s not too late to recapture the genre’s original rebellious spirit. In fact, if I were given 6 months and a million dollars, I could save Rap Music: By starting the first ever Hip Hop label for Senior Citizens.

WHY THEM?
What’s lacking in Rap is authenticity. Young rappers pretend to act like gangsters in hopes of gaining street-cred; but what do these kids truly know about being hardcore? Old farts, on the other hand, are the real deal. Take Cal Wallace, a 73-year-old Vietnam Vet living in Seattle: “Kanye West’s a big, fat, giant pussy if you ask me. Oh, he grew up on the rough streets of Chicago, did he? Try being 19-years-old, knee deep in a rice patty, shoving your buddy’s intestines back into his abdominal cavity after he’s been turned inside-out by a mortar. Not ‘street’ enough for you? I once infiltrated an underground command post – filled with 23 Viet Cong – and took them all out, using just a rusted pistol and a commando knife. Trust me, Kanye West doesn’t know shit about the Thug Life. His punk-ass wouldn’t last five seconds in the jungle.”


WHAT ABOUT THEIR MATERIAL?
When you think about it, who has more justifiable discontent to write about than Senior Citizens? With their bodies in a state of irreversible decay and the threat of death imminent, their frustration is rich artistic territory. For instance: Raisin-faced, Leonard B. Callis, 83, of Atlanta, Georgia, hadn’t had a decent erection in over fifteen years. His resulting dissatisfaction inspired the now famous poem Yo, Why My Dick So Soft. Imagine if Leonard could breathe his wisdom into a broader audience by combining his prose with a really sick beat. With their own record label, Seniors would be able to impart compelling insights through songs such as: Damn, I Shit Myself Again, or Bitch, Get Me My Jello, or As I Stand On The Precipice Of The Great Abyss, I Realize My Life Was Completely Meaningless.

WOULD THEY KEEP IT REAL?
Young rappers are self-conscious and worried about their image; both of which cloud their ability to be honest. Because old people are free of the desires to look cool or get laid, they’re able to give us unfiltered, culture-changing Truth. If old men were worried about appearances, would they wear black socks with sandals? No. They do it because they don’t give a rat’s ass what other people think about them -- that’s exactly the kind of unflinching boldness needed to save Rap.


WOULD THEY BE PROFITABLE?
From the fiscal standpoint, a geriatric Hip-Hop label makes total sense. Right now, there are around 40,000,000 old folks out there that don’t listen to Rap. That’s money in the bank when this thing catches on. As an added bonus, some Seniors might even forget they purchased our records and turn into repeat customers!

HOW WOULD I DO IT?
Easy. Since old people are usually bored to tears watching television and waiting to die, they’d probably jump at the chance to learn some new things! With nothing better to do, they could spend as much time as needed in the studio, honing their technique. Since rhyming requires only rudimentary verbal skills, the learning curve wouldn’t be too bad, anyway! Our elderly performers would be up and running in no time!

LET’S DO THIS.
I would hate to see Rap continue to lose its way. But, if we act quickly and deliberately, by letting Senior Citizens take the lead, we can guarantee it’s relevance for generations to come.

First time I saw my wife

The gym is dead at this hour. It's completely silent except for the muffled thud of a bass-beat coming from down the hall. I wander in the direction of the music, which gets louder with each step. The door to the aerobics room flies open, pouring a million decibles of hip-hop out at once.

Terri, a petite aerobics instructor with spiky hair, notices me as she props the door open. “Hey Steve!” she says loudly. Her eyes are so big and bedecked with lashes, they almost look cartoonish.“You’ve got to come here and see this,” she says. Her movements are fast and I imagine every sentence she’s ever written ended in exclamation points with little smiley faces where the period should be. “Quick,” she says, gesturing with her hand that I need to hurry, “She’s about to run through her routine again.” From inside the aerobics room, the music stops, and I hear someone say, “That last one was great, Elizabeth. A couple more times from the top.”

In my early teenage years, there was a popular sci-fi artist named Boris Vallejo, who created oil-portraits of mythical, warrior-goddesses being attacked by monsters. The heroines in Vallejo's work had impossibly sculpted bodies - the personification of beauty, health, power and vitality - and wore next to nothing. They were rendered in absurdly erotic positions with body-parts that defied all natural laws of geometry and gravity. These women captured my imagination and became the benchmark, however unfairly, that all others would be measured against.

As I pass through the doorway of the aerobics room to see what Terri is so damned excited about, I’m astonished to find, there in front of me, a Boris Vallejo Warrior Princess come to life. Under the spotlights, she’s even posed like one, waiting for the music to start again. Her toned back, glistening with sweat, is towards us. Chestnut hair, in a ponytail, cascades over her shoulders. One arm is flexed and she's staring at her open hand, dramatically, revealing a hint of profile. Her other hand reaches forcefully out in the opposite direction, shifting her weight. My eyes follow the line of every taut muscle, from her calf up to her perfectly shaped bottom. One leg is gracefully elongated, creating a sense of movement even though she’s completely motionless. “That’s Elizabeth,” says Terri, “she’s got a competition in three weeks.”

Angie, another instructor, finishes fiddling with the tape-deck and commands, “Here we go. Make sure you hit that straddle-press higher this time, and remember to point you toes.”Angie hits play and Miami Bass comes blaring over the PA system. Elizabeth flies into action: an explosion of kicks, springs, presses, jacks and splits, in time with the music. Her sapphire eyes are sparkling and a smile that would make a toothpaste model jealous is glued to her face - both of which make this combination of a gymnastics floor routine and dance seem all the more effortless.

The way she’s capable of contorting her body, the way she’s breathing heavily, the way she whips her hair around flirtatiously, the way everything's bouncing with just the right amount of resilience - I’m not sure if the routine is meant to be sexy, but it’s certainly having that effect on me. I find a lack of rhythm or coordination repulsive (for me it’s the equivalent to a finger up the nose) but this woman, in all her physical refinement, is the farthest thing from awkward I could possibly imagine. I wasn’t expecting any of this and I'm getting nervous in the presence of such greatness.

When she’s finished, Terri and I clap. Angie tells Elizabeth good job and to take a quick rest before running through it again. “That was so awesome,” Terri says, with a look of such fawning adoration it’s almost embarrassing. Angie hands Elizabeth a towel and she dabs herself off while walking in our direction. She’s at least a few years older than I am, I assume, something which only heightens her mystique to me. “Oh shit,” I’m thinking, “here she comes. Just be cool.”

Women have no appreciation for the amount of effort it takes a guy to maintain his composure in front of a woman he’s impressed with: We don’t talk with amazing women, we audition for them. I’d like to tell Elizabeth I think she’s the most incredible creature I’ve ever seen. And creature is the appropriate word. I’m convinced that, hundreds of years ago, she would've been burned at the stake for being a witch. She’s that unusual. Mere mortals just aren’t supposed to look like this. I feel like telling her all that, but when she holds out her hand to shake mine and says, “Hi, I’m Elizabeth,” in a raspy, still breathless southern accent, I’m mercifully able to muster up enough restraint to answer only with, “Hi, I’m Steve.”

When she grasps my hand firmly, I look into her eyes and smile to create the illusion of self-confidence. We exchange pleasantries and I ask her about the competition she’s doing. She begins a detailed description of the contest but I really have no idea what she’s talking about. All my energies are concentrated, instead, on how I’m standing, how much eye contact is too much, and how I might be able to slip in a witty line or two. I just nod along with her, pretending to be interested. I look for openings to keep things rolling, but to my disappointment, we’re cut short by Angie who says it’s time for another run-through.

I could stay and watch, I suppose. But I’m satisfied with my performance here, not having said or done anything that might betray the impression I’m reasonably self-assured and together. I opt, instead, not to push my luck, and simply say, “It was nice to meet you, Elizabeth.” I wave and leave with my dignity intact.

Confessions of a Mediocre Father

I arrive home tired and emotionally drained after a long day of feigning interest. I haven’t even unwound yet when I look in the backyard and notice that someone has graffitied my cedar fence.

What the hell?Who…?

I could guess that the damage was done by some of the teens that frequently wander, in packs, around our neighborhood. Or, God-forbid, maybe I applied weed killer to a dandelion and one of my ostensibly tolerant, crystal-wearing neighbors vandalized the fence in retaliation for my heinous assault against mother nature. I might wonder who else would want to send me such a hateful message, if it weren’t for the initials of the perpetrator included in his work and if he weren’t in the middle of spray-painting a trash can now.

“Jonah,” I yell, ripping open the glass sliding door to the back porch, “What are you

doing?”

“We’re spray-painting the trash can.”

Yeah? No shit. “Stop doing it.” I shout, “I told you never to spray-paint anything without asking me.”

Jonah and his buddy look at me blankly and lower their paint cans.

I go outside to more closely survey the damage they did to the fence. “Why? Why? Why would you do this?” I ask, grabbing my head out of confusion and frustration.

“Gabriel, did it first. He said it was OK.” He points behind me, gesturing that I should take a look.

I slowly turn around and my heart sinks. Ten feet of fence wall is covered in large, spray-paint doodles. I stand there, momentarily frozen with my mouth hanging open.

As I march inside to call Gabriel, I begin my transformation from Tired And Weary Dad into Angry Dad. Jonah’s ten years old and just barely in an age range where doing completely senseless stuff like this is still in the realm of understandable. But Gabriel? The kid’s thirteen. He should damned well know better.

“Gabriel,” I shout. No answer. I double my volume and try again,“Gabriel!”

In a muffled voice, from down in the basement, he answers, “What is it?”

“Come up here, now!”

I hear the door to the garage slam shut, followed by footsteps thudding up the stairs quickly. “Yes, sir. What is it,” he says, out of breath. He can tell by the tone of my voice that something’s wrong. “What is it?’ he asks. I’m leering at him, trying not to explode. “What did I do?” he asks again.

“Come out here.” I say, coldly. Making my way past the patio, Gabriel trails behind me. Jonah and his buddy have disappeared somewhere. No doubt he saw where things are headed. I stop in front of the fence and Gabriel slows his pace.

“Over here.” I tell him.

“Yes, sir,” he says, cringing as he steps over to see where I’m looking. But he already knows.

“What the hell is this, Gabriel?”

“The other day, Jonah was spray-painting the wall and he said it was alright.”

Now I’m afraid of myself. I can feel it coming. I’m about to say things I regret and turn into one of those awful dads you hear about: the blaring, red-faced, veins bulging, die-of-a-heart-attack-at-forty-three kind.

“What the fuck, Gabriel? How old are you?”

“I’m thirteen.”

“How old is your little brother?”

“Ten.”

“Are you the older brother, or the younger brother?”

“I’m the younger brother. I mean the older brother.”

I put my hands on my knees and bend down to get eye-to-eye with him. My face is inches from his. I’m six-foot-one, two-hundred and ten pounds and no stranger to the weight-room. From my son’s perspective, I must look absolutely terrifying.

My lips tighten,“Gabriel,” I say, thrusting my finger into his chest, “You’re three years older than Jonah and I expect more from you. You could have told him to stop spraying the fence. You could have told him it was wrong. You could have said something to mommy, but instead you chose to take part in it yourself. What’s the matter with you?”

“I don’t know…I”

“Are you the baby of the family, now? Is that it?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, what the hell were you thinking?”

“I don’t know,” he says, starting to cry.

“‘I don’t know’ is a stupid answer. Are you stupid?”

“No, sir.”

“Then stop doing purposefully stupid shit, O.K? What’s between you ears, Gabriel?” He just stares at me.

“Between your ears, Gabriel. What’s that called?”

“My skull?”

I can’t tell if he’s sassing me. “And what’s inside your skull, Gabriel?” He’s looking at me fearfully, unsure of what I’ll do. I don’t wait for his answer. “Your brain,” I bark, “Your brain is between your ears, Gabriel. Do you ever plan on using it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“When?”

“I don’t… I”

“You’re going to clean this up and I don’t care if it takes you all night. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir.”

I head to the garage and grab an extension cord and drill. I can’t find the stripping brush among all the tools scattered on my workbench. They’ve probably done something with it, damn it. They’re always messing with my stuff. How am I supposed to keep anything organized with those little pricks in my business? I find the stiff wire drill-bit where I left it and carry the gear around back. Gabriel’s not there.

As I prepare to see if my setup will remove the paint, Elizabeth comes quickly walking towards me. I know what she’s going to say and I’m fairly determined to ignore her.

She reaches for my arm and quietly says to me, “I don’t think now’s the time.”

“He’s doing it now and I don’t care if it takes him all night,” I say. She should see that I’m at the point where opposition only strengthens my resolve. But she doesn’t.

“I think he should clean it up, I just don’t think it’s necessary he does it now. Do you?”

“Yes, I do.” I say, resentfully. Screw her fancy logic and reasonable advice.

“He’s got his small-group coming over any minute, don’t you think he could use…”

“Listen. Let me be the dad, O.K.? This is the consequence of his retarded choices, he needs to fix the mess he made.”

“Fine, I just think you’re being hard-headed.”

“Then leave me alone and let me be hard-headed.”

She walks away, shaking her head, and I begin sanding off the paint, muttering to myself. I call Gabriel back outside. There’s no answer and I have to call him again. When he arrives, I show him how to use the drill, but he’s hesitant about it.

“I can’t do it,” he says, after a weak attempt.

“No, not if you don’t try and just quit every few seconds.”

“I am trying. It keeps jumping off,” his tears begin again. “Can’t I do this another way?”

“You’re going to do it, and you’re going to do it like I showed you. It’s the quickest, most effective way.”

“O.K. But if I lose a finger, and have to go to the hospital, it’s not my fault.”

“You won’t lose a finger.”

I walk back inside the house, listening to make sure the drill is working it’s magic. A few guys from Gabriel’s small-group/Bible-study are starting to trickle in. The contradiction isn’t lost on me that mere seconds ago I was emotionally drowning my son and now I’m endorsing his learning the Bible. Maybe I should practice some of it myself.

I hastily exit, avoiding the group leaders, and leave to get more paint-removal supplies.

Alone in my car, storm clouds form in my head. Isn’t my home supposed to be my castle? My safe haven? Aren’t my wife and kids supposed to be my side? Friends don’t go around tagging their friends stuff, do they? Throwing up roadblocks on purpose? Breaking and losing my things. This is when I hate being married. This is when I wish I never had kids. People who hate me would show me more respect. This isn’t what I signed up for.

I slip into my favorite hallucination where the 39-year-old, present day me is somehow transported back in time to have a talk with the 21-year-old, Little-Shit Me. Backwards I drift through the years before moving to Seattle; before Atlanta and the births of Gabriel and Jonah; before the death of our first son, Christian; before the shotgun wedding and before getting Elizabeth pregnant. “Listen, dumb-ass,” I say to Little-Shit-Me, “You have no idea what you’re doing with this woman and her son. You have no clue how this will…What? Yes, yes, I know she’s a beautiful and you love them both and all that, please let me continue. You’re playing with fire, my friend. You’re going to sacrifice all your freedom for…What’s that? Yes, I understand the ‘physical aspects’ of your relationship are top-notch; that’s fine, let me finish. You might be having fun now but you’re in for a tough road, mister. It’ll be the hardest thing you ever…Hey! Where are you going? Come back here! I haven’t told you about… Oh, wow, he’s so much faster than me. Come back, you stupid, love-sick fool!”

It’s not one of my more satisfying daydreams. I prefer the ones where I change Little-Shit Me’s mind and he heeds Bitter Older Me’s advice: he stays single, thereby creating an alternate present where I’m a rich, famous, artist and playboy with an inexplicable head full of great hair. There’s also the simplified version where I just go back in time and kick Little-Shit Me’s ass, purely for spite. That’s pretty gratifying, too.

I continue fantasizing for most of the ride to the hardware store. By the time I get there, I’m steeped in lugubrious self-pity and blame. While I wander the aisles, searching for materials, my anger starts to dissipate and the image of Gabriel’s frustrated, tear-streaked face begins to come into focus. When the picture becomes completely clear, I study his broken expression and finally feel a great heart-pang. I was really hard on the little guy. He must think I’m a monster. I know I would.

As more sanity sets in, I think about how our little opera wasn’t so much about this one event. It was like all trivial conflicts that turn melodramatic: it was really about the back-story.

Gabriel and I have never had the kind of close relationship I’ve had with my other two boys. From the get-go he’s just been more difficult. As a baby, he cried louder and longer. He pitched bigger fits and was frequently inconsolable. He defied all forms of correction. The rewards and punishments that worked to discipline his brothers had an inverse effect on Gabriel. I had to spank my oldest son twice in his whole life; my youngest son only a handful more. Spanking Gabriel never did anything except harden him more, at which I became increasingly severe.

An older buddy of mine, also with three sons, once told me that no matter how many kids you have, there’s always one that takes up 80 percent of your energy. Gabriel is that child, for me. He’s also the child that Elizabeth says is most like me, which makes his behavior all the more personally irritating. He confounds me regularly and I don’t think there’s an area of my life where I feel more incompetent.

It doesn’t matter what bullshit, jargony acronym you ascribe to his condition either: ADD, ADHD – whatever. None of the technical terms are any more clarifying or descriptive than just saying he’s a Spazz, and I worry that he’ll never outgrow it. I fast-forward to the worst-case scenarios: he’ll end up on the streets because he can’t hold a job; he’ll be miserable and become a drug addict; he’ll be institutionalized or become a Reality TV host.

I can only imagine what a difficult path he’s going to have and it scares me to no end. Unfortunately for him, my immaturity dictates that volume and anger are the best ways for me to handle the fear. My efforts with Gabriel are, at best, clumsy; and I know he deserves better. I fully expect that many years from now, I’ll receive a greeting card from his psychoanalyst that says:

Dear Mr. Andrews,

Thanks for being such a mediocre father. Your son, Gabriel, comes to see me regularly in an attempt to undo all the damage you caused. I’m sure you can imagine, that’s quite a big job! Thanks to your ham-fisted efforts, I just bought a new Porsche 911 GT5 for $250,000. It rides like a dream and it’s really helped my social life! Maybe you and I can go for a ride sometime.

Best Regards,

Dr. Cranium

Most of the time, when I get down on being a family-man, it’s a case of the baker complaining about the bread. I set the tone. I choose the ingredients. Then I’m upset when things aren’t to my liking. It’s an American approach to things – perhaps the unintended by-product of being carpet-bombed with 4000 marketing messages a day – where I view all things, especially relationships, through a consumer lens. “What’s in it for me?” I ask, “What do I get out of this?”

The worst thing about starting with those two questions is that they make gratitude almost impossible. When I’m worried about ‘What do I get out of this’ I stop seeing or appreciating my family as valuable. I see what they cost me, and little else.

There’s this old Puritan expression I recently heard, that I’ve thought a lot about: “The same sun that melts the ice, hardens the clay.” The saying is about religious truth and how people react to hearing it, but I think it works for my situation too: Being surrounded by my wife and kids can either melt my heart or harden it, depending on the sort of man I am. They can make me better or bitter. Where I land on that is up to me.

I’m of the mind that all humanity is broken, to varying degrees. My brokenness shows up mostly at home. Everyone else sees the edited version of me, with the most acceptable parts put clearly on display. Only my wife knows my deepest insecurities and the lengths I’ll go to defend them. Others get mere glimpses, but Elizabeth and the boys know the whole truth about the ugliness and pettiness I’m capable of. Still, they somehow manage to act like they want me around once in a while. I don’t understand how they do it. I wouldn’t be surprised to wake up one night, to find the lot of them, standing around my bed, holding Bic lighters, cans of gasoline and exchanging anxious glances – now that I would understand completely.

Sometimes I find their grace downright heroic. At these moments, I appreciate their efforts to drag me, against my will, into something that vaguely resembles adulthood. Their mere presence – with their needs, wants and desires so frequently counter to mine – has the power to forge me into a decent man.

Someday.

On the way back home from the hardware store, I know I’ve got some apologies to make. I need to tell Gabriel that I was out of line. I need to tell him that I was mean and that he didn’t deserve the extra helping of harsh words I dumped on him. I’ll tell him about the time I carved big stars on an oak desk that belonged to my dad; and that I’ll never forget the bewildered and reproachful look on my father’s face when he confronted me about it. I need to let Gabriel know that I look at him in that same way, far too often. I’ll tell him that I know what it’s like to desperately want a father’s approval even when it’s completely undeserved. I’ll tell him that I love him.

Then I'll ask my son to forgive me, knowing, full and well, it won’t be the last time I’ll

have to.