Operation Move Dad To Seattle

My 86 year old father answered the door of his townhouse wearing his signature t-shirt and tighty-whities. I said, “Dad! Formal attire? What’s the occasion?” trying to sound chipper even though I was exhausted from my 8-hour Seattle to Chattanooga flight.

Dad chuckled. I dropped my bags and wrapped my arms around him, enveloping him like a human blanket. His body was frail, bony against mine. He clapped my back twice before trying to weasel away from me. He never was much of a hugger. I held on for an extra second, leaned down, and kissed the top of his scalp through thin gray hair.

I’d come on account of the inguinal hernia surgery he had scheduled for the following morning. It would be a routine procedure, but the doctor warned Dad he’d need two weeks of rest after the operation and should have someone stay with him for a while. Dad balked at this suggestion to me over the phone a week earlier. He didn’t need any help by God. The last thing he wanted was for me to fly across the country for something silly like this. After 30 minutes of cajoling, convincing, and insisting, I wore him down.

“Fine,” he said. “Come on out here if it’ll make you feel better.”

Now, shutting the door behind us and walking into the foyer, I was glad it was me at Dad’s place. My older brother, Robert, would’ve rather been there. But the fact that he lived in Germany and worked for the FBI made it unreasonable. I had Dad all to myself. I relished feeling like I was the one he could count on.

“Alright, Dad, let’s see what you’ve got going on down there with this hernia of yours.”

“Oh, you want to see, huh?”

Without missing a beat, he yanked his undies down to his knees, little-kid style. The move caught me off guard. I struggled to keep a straight face because I didn’t want to hurt his feelings.

I looked down, and indeed, Dad had a nasty bulge in his groin that demanded medical attention. But that’s not what really caught my eye. My old father had as fine a penis as I’d ever seen. It was surprisingly robust for a man of his stature and with a healthy complexion, too. I dare say it was the wang of a man twenty years his junior. But I’m no expert. Magnificent, I said on the inside. On the outside, I said, “Yeah, Dad. I’m glad you’re gonna have that taken care of.”

LOVE ISN’T PRETTY
After his surgery, Dad was woozy in his hospital recovery room. I sat him up on the edge of the bed. His skinny legs dangled above the floor. It felt intimate, just the two of us there in that cold, quiet room. I reached inside a blue plastic bag containing Dad’s belongings, took out a pair of his underwear, stuck Dad’s feet through the holes, and pulled them up. Dad said, “It wasn’t long ago I was dressing you like this.”

It hit me how right he was. I would be the one holding him now. I would do the comforting, the watching over, the protecting. A contented smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. Oh, how I’d yearned for Dad to trust me the way he was doing now. I liked that he needed me.

The day after surgery, Dad was agitated since he couldn’t poop. I called the doctor, and he suggested I give my father an enema. “Uh, OK,” I said. I drove to a CVS, picked up a kit, returned to Dad’s place, and watched a few YouTube videos to show me how it was done.

“Alright, Dad,” I finally said. “You ready for me to show you who’s boss?” He laughed and said he was. He lay down on his bed, rolled to his side, and pulled his pants down.

“Here we go.”

I stuck the plastic bottle in his ass, squeezed it, and thought to myself, “Boy, oh, boy. Love sure ain’t pretty.”

And it really isn’t. Love is a raw, untidy thing. 

MANLY MAN
Growing up, Dad and I hadn’t been close. He was from a generation that saw any hint of emotional expressiveness as unmanly and shameful. While I understand this kind of social programming today, I had no idea what to make of Dad’s stoicism, remoteness, and self-reliance as a boy. I ached to be close to him. I internalized the distance, felt Dad didn’t like me, wondered if there was something wrong with me.

Now, staying with Dad as he recovered, he opened up to me. He recalled his successes, his failures, his regrets.

I’d long known his height had been a tender spot with him. But he’d hidden the full extent of how it’d shaped him. On his back porch, Dad looked off into the middle distance and spoke about the short man’s plight in a similar way I’ve heard black guys talk about being black. Being the smallest man in a room isn’t something that goes away. It’s never not an issue. He told stories of insults, jokes, taunts, discrimination, losing jobs to taller men. It’s a fact that most CEO’s are over 6 feet tall, so his complaints are rooted in something real. It’s just not a bias that gets a lot of airtime. Dad told me that my height is a privilege I’ve taken for granted.

To encourage him, I explained that he’d been a larger than life figure for me. He was always the smartest guy in any room: quick to read a situation, insightful, and ready to act, full of energy, in command. “Dad,” I said. “I don’t think this world could’ve handled a bigger version of you.”

I disagreed that his height held him back. If anything, it probably helped him. He felt compelled to work twice as hard as his competitors. Wasn’t that why he made it to higher ranks of an international corporation? He’d had something to overcome, something to prove?

Did I know any man with a better rags-to-riches story than him? The way he grew up on a small farm in North Carolina, boot-strapped his way out of there and up a mighty tall ladder.

In most of my childhood memories of him, Dad is wearing a business suit, leaving for Colgate Palmolive’s headquarters in New York City, or returning from his life on the road. Even during his downtime, he remained a hummingbird of a man, alway busy producing or working on something.

FOUR LETTER WORD
Again and again, Dad thanked me for being there with him. It was too much. At one point, I told him, “Dad, listen, you need to relax. Accepting help is very tough for you. But, it’s not a dirty word, you know.” He hung his head and nodded.

I imagined his position. Here was a man that had spent his entire life trying not to feel small. His feverish scraping up the hierarchy, his quest to build wealth, his perfectionism – all shielded him against feeling weak. Now, I saw the hard reality that no matter who you are or how beautiful you were, or how successful you’ve been, or how big your bank account is – old age is going to make you feel small.

One morning, Dad announced, “I’m going to make this worth your while, Stephen. You’ll see. I’m going to pay you for your time here.”

Pay me? The idea stung, but I tried not to show it. I felt like he was stealing my chance to be generous. Why couldn’t he just let me be a decent son to him?

“Dad, you keep trying to turn this into a transaction, and it’s not. Don’t you get it? I want to be here. I get to be here. I get to help you.”

And that only made him squirm all the more.

A few hours passed, and he couldn’t help but make it weird again with effusive gratitude. Then I had to argue my case against him like an attorney.

EXHIBIT A - “Dad, the timing is perfect for me right now. I’m freelancing. I’ve got more flexibility than I’ve had in my life. The kids are all grown and getting on with their lives. This is the best thing I can be doing right now. Besides, you’ve helped me so much over the years. I’m thrilled to be able to help you a little.”

EXHIBIT B - “Dad, do you remember how you took care of Mama when you realized she had Alzheimer’s? You rose to the occasion. Putting her in that that nursing home, moving around the corner from her, visiting her every day – that was a good thing. You did her right after all the mistakes you made in your marriage. I think you needed that. Maybe I need this time with you.”

EXHIBIT C - Who’d been there for me over the last 25 years whenever I faced a layoff in my fickle advertising career? Hadn’t it been him, who talked me off the ledge? Him who’d said: “Stephen, if worse came to worse, I could cover any expenses you’ve got indefinitely. Relax. You’ve got an ace in the hole, son. Remember that. You’ve got an ace in the hole.”

I put both hands on Dad’s shoulders and said, “Dad, look at me. I want to be your ace in the hole now.”

GRASPING
Over the previous year, my brother and I noticed that connecting with Dad on our weekly Skype sessions was becoming difficult.

“Goddam this stupid computer,” Dad would sputter, almost on the verge of tears, after not being able to find the right virtual buttons. “Why do they have to keep moving everything around all the time? I just want to throw this thing out the window.”

It was hard seeing him get so puzzled and exasperated over things that had been so simple for him just a year ago. He was also starting to repeat statements he made five minutes ago, just the way Mama did before we all realized she had Alzheimer’s.

My brother and I agreed Dad’s faculties were diminishing. We worked together to sell Dad on the idea of moving out to be near me in Seattle. To his credit, Dad had been receptive to the idea.

Staying at Dad’s, I saw a new urgency in the situation. When his mind would slip, tangle, and turn him around, he would curse himself. “Goddamit, I’m losing my mind.”

I’d try to soothe him like a child. “It’s OK, Dad”; “Slow down”; “We all forget sometimes.”

But it was clear to both of us that we couldn’t wait forever to move him out near us. We needed to do it now.

“Stephen, I don’t like what’s happening with me,” he said at his kitchen table, small pools forming on his lower eye-lids and voice cracking. “I can tell my brain’s slowing down. I’m not the man I was a year ago. And I don’t know if I’ll be here a year from now.”

I rubbed his back. “I know, Dad.”

“No, I don’t think you do.”

I gleaned that part of the reason he was willing to leave Chattanooga was shame over his decline. He’d noticed his dwindling abilities, but more importantly, he’d noticed other people noticing it. He was no longer asked to lead in his Hiking Club; no longer invited to deliver Meals on Wheels. I wondered what else people had said to him. The idea of a fresh start, where no one could compare him with what he used to be, appealed to him.

Dad and I made a plan. After his recovery and an OK from his doctor, we’d fly back to Seattle together. We’d visit a senior living facility around the corner from me. If he liked it, we’d reserve an apartment, fly back to Chattanooga, and move him out to Seattle permanently. 

WHISTLING DAD
It felt good carrying Dad’s bags, leading him through crowded Atlanta International Airport to catch our connecting flight to Seattle. I imagined I was an NFL blocker carving a wake behind me big enough for Dad to glide through un-harmed. It was difficult for him to keep up with me. When we reached our gate, I could’ve spiked my carry-on bag I was so happy.

At our home on Mercer Island, Dad was wary of our two overly-friendly Pitbulls. “Get down, get down!” he scolded them as they jumped on him. But after a few days, I’d catch him baby-talking to them as he rubbed their bellies.

Touring Dad’s potential new apartment building, two blocks away, I was a nervous wreck. I worried he might not like it, and then what would we do? Fly him back to Chattanooga and leave him there alone? I hated the thought of it. Luckily, Dad liked the apartment. He put some money down, and our plan was in action.

Dad seemed to lighten up at this resolution. I’d hear him whistling in our guest room like a happy songbird. It was a sound I often heard as a child on Saturday mornings when Dad would wake up before us and tend to our yard – his pride and joy. I remember hearing his whistling outside my window mixed with the sound of a lawnmower, or edger, or electric hedge clippers. Whistling Dad meant Happy Dad. Whistling Dad was easily approachable and likely to throw the ball with me or wrestle a little.

STRONG MAN
A week later, we were back in Chattanooga. I jumped into action, loading Dad’s remaining possessions into a 16X12 foot cargo container. Thankfully, he’d purged much of the furniture he and Mama had accumulated over the years after she died from Alzheimer’s 5 years ago.

Of course, Dad felt useless watching me do all the heavy lifting. He wanted to help, but he was in the way. I gave him a few small boxes to carry like I would’ve done with one of my sons when they were little, just to make him feel like he was contributing.

As a child, my brother and I thought Dad was the strongest man in the world, able to perform feats of strength that we still talk about.

There was the time my brother goofed-up a jump on my yellow Schwinn Lemon Peeler and bent the front forks. We’d used sledgehammers, pliers, and a vice to try and straighten them. When Dad returned home from a business trip, he found my brother and me in the driveway sweating over the bike and asked what was up. We explained the situation. Dad put down his briefcase, loosened his tie, and rolled up his sleeves. He got down on one knee, grabbed the forks, and with great concentration, bent the forks back in their proper shape. My brother and I gaped at him in awe. It was like watching the Six Million Dollar Man. We could practically hear the sound effects: “ch-ch-ch-ch-ch- ch-ch-ch.”

“Wow, Dad! How’d you do that?”

Dad laughed. He stood up, tousled our hair, walked away like it was nothing.

Then there was the time my brother and I – along with three other friends – couldn’t lift our garage door when it was stuck. Dad pulled in the driveway after work, still wearing his suit, and heaved up the door alone. The five of us boys let out a collective, “Wooooah!”

Now, moving furniture out of Dad’s townhouse, he marveled at the way I hauled the heavy furniture around.

“My God, Stephen! How can you lift that by yourself? I won’t forgive myself if you get hurt.”

“It’s no problem, Dad. I pay gyms plenty of money to lift heavy objects and put them down again. It’s my thing. I’m just getting a workout.”

“God, I couldn’t do that on my best day. You’re like Charles Atlas.”

I swelled with pride as I felt him watching me lift the big boxes. I liked showing off for him in the same way I used to love showing off for my three sons. And I couldn’t help but think that now, at 48, I was a better father to my Dad than I had been to my own boys. Oh, how they would’ve benefitted from my middle-aged patience.

Dad reads more than any person I know. He seems happy with his new library.

SETTLED
Two days ago, the sale of Dad’s townhome was completed. It was the last big piece of the move puzzle. So, after almost two months of solid effort, Dad is officially settled in his new place around the corner from us. I stop by to see him whenever I want, or whenever he has an issue, which is turning out to be every other day.

Dad could’ve balked at the idea of moving to Seattle at the age of 86, could’ve dug his heels in and said, “I’m not going anywhere. Chattanooga is my home, by God.” Plenty of aging adults make a final stand as a way of asserting their autonomy or even spiting their adult children. I’m thankful Dad made the move easy for me.

He seems content where he is now. He socializes with people. He’s made a few friends. His voice has grown stronger now that he’s exercising his vocal cords regularly.

I imagine that in time, the honeymoon period will likely wear off. Dad might slip into griping about his new digs and blame me for moving him out here. I hope not, but it’s a possible scenario. More probable is that Dad will continue to sink little by little into dementia over the next few years and someday forget who I am.

But whatever happens, I plan to be with him, in the pocket, until the end. I’m grateful he is near, grateful for the time we’ve had.

Dad is quick to tell me he’s lucky to have a son like me.

I tell him I’m lucky to have a father like him.

Fun With Alzheimer's: Appreciating moments of lightness and acceptance

Visiting my mother in her Alzheimer's care facility, she didn't recognize me at first. After some explanations she caught on to who I was. I showed her pictures of my wife and boys and there was no recognition. Over the course of 30 minutes she asked me what I did for a living at least five times. Every time I answered the same: I’m in advertising. She seemed to understand this, but it was met with a complete lack of interest. Since I knew she was going to forget, I thought I might as well mix it up a little bit. “And what is it that you do for a living up there in the North?” she asked. Since my German vocabulary is limited, I went with one of the few professions I knew. “Well, Mamma,” I said. "I’m a lawyer.” Her jaw dropped and her eyes widened.

“You?” she asked, like it was some kind of mind boggling impossibility. "You’re a lawyer?”

“That’s right, Mamma. I’m a lawyer.” She gasped and beamed and looked so proud I thought she might burst.

“For how long?”

“For the last twenty years.”

“That’s outstanding, Stephen,” she said, shaking her head to herself in disbelief.

An old man in a wheelchair scooted into our room. I met him earlier when he said something incomprehensible in a thick Tennessee accent about getting some pussy or a nice piece of ass after one of the nurses walked by. He now swore something at my father and gave a lecherous guffaw. “I’m glad you’re hard of hearing so you don’t have to listen to this guy,” my father said to my mother. "He’d be a bad influence on you.” She had no idea what was said but she laughed along because the rest of us were.

After five more minutes she asked me again, “And what is it you do up there… where is it?”

“Seattle,” I said. “I’m a pilot.”

“Oh, my goodness. A pilot,” she said with enthusiasm. “That’s truly excellent.”

I chuckled. I was beginning to see how low advertising ranked on her internal list of impressive careers. My eyes met my father’s and he was giggling too. It was good to feel light. This is what acceptance looks like, I thought.

9 months ago when I visited the facility, the experience was a punch in the gut for me and I fought back tears the whole time. I was helping my father move out of his house of twenty years, I had just started a new job, and it was the first time I had seen my mother in her new and final home. It was too many transitions for me at once and I felt fragile. When I found myself alone, the tears came and wouldn’t stop for a long time.

But now I can find some humor and even beauty in this ugly situation. Watching my father dote on my mother has been an amazing thing. They hated each other for as long as I can remember. Separate beds, venomous arguments, resentments and grudges without a hint of resolution, no forgiveness, no tenderness, no laughter. They were a model couple of what not to want in a marriage. And here, in this Alzheimer’s care facility, my dad is treating my mother like a princess. I’m watching him kiss her more times in one day than I saw living with them for twenty years. He’s calling her Sweetie-Pie. He’s holding her hand.

As we were moving out of their old house, my father was plagued with remorse. “It was your mother that did all this moving stuff before,” he said. "When we left New Orleans, and left Chattanooga and moved to New Jersey, I never lifted a finger. She’d do all the packing and unpacking. She'd set up all the furniture and hang the curtains and put pictures up. That takes a talent, you know that? She’d make it feel like a home. She never complained. What did I do? Did I ever praise that effort? Hell no, I didn’t. That son of a bitch. I never appreciated her.” And there were bitter tears in his eyes.

My dad once came home from being out of town on business, which was frequent throughout my youth, and he made an announcement at the dinner table. “I was reading an interesting article today,” he said. “It was saying how important affection is and how everyone should get at least one hug a day.” And from that point on he’d give us a hug a day.

What that was, I see now, was an attempt. Closeness was not easy for the man. He grew up on a farm in North Carolina after the Great Depression. His father killed himself when my dad was just a young boy. He had to be tough. He bootstrapped it, as they say, and made something of himself. And the byproduct was a hardness that distanced him from everyone. But that is not all there is to him. He makes attempts at softness and connection. And however ham-fisted some of them are, it is the intention of the attempt that matters. He tries and I love him for it.

“And what is it you do for a living over there in Wa… Wa…" my mother asks again. "Washington," I fill in for her. “I’m a doctor.” She just nods because she didn’t hear me this time. I let it rest, but I’m excited to know that my success in her eyes is only limited by my knowledge of German. I’ll have to study up and find out how to say congressman or neurosurgeon. And I feel strong again. Acceptance is good. I’m not battling this reality or judging it or hating it. I’m experiencing it with some kind of neutrality.

Even in the morning when I went with my father to the bank to go over, in painstaking detail, all the financial arrangements he has made for when he dies, I didn’t well up this time. This is happening. This is reality. He is going to die and he has set me, my family, and my brother up for success in as wise and methodical a fashion as possible. He has planned everything to the letter. Now I accept what he’s done with gratitude and even a few smiles.

And perhaps my biggest test of all, when I walked on the Walnut Street Bridge this evening, where I scattered the ashes of my first born son over twenty years ago, I didn’t sob quietly to myself on a bench the way I always do. I just had a nice walk and that was it. Acceptance sometimes takes me a while. Thank you, Lord, for a healthy dose of it today.

Occupy Wall Street Anthem

Just a little piece I put together to try and help the OWS folks refine their message.

What Occupy Wall Street Can Learn From The Republicans

by Steve Andrews

If you put all political ideologies aside, you have to admit that – purely from a mass communications standpoint – no one is better at simplifying a message, getting their point across and galvanizing support for their agendas, than the Republican Party. Nobody.

Occupy Wall Street would be well advised to take a few pages from the Republican playbook if they want to see any real effect in what they’re doing. If they ask themselves: “How would the Republicans run Occupy Wall Street?” they might get somewhere.

KNOW THE PURPOSE

To start with, if the Republicans were running Occupy Wall Street they wouldn’t have any illusions about the task in front of them: The challenge is, first and foremost, to sell ideas to the public. 

The Republicans know they are marketing. They speak advertising. They talk about being ‘on brand,’ and staying ‘on message.’ They know they need to persuade a massive population in order to get support and have good poll numbers; which in turn persuades the undecided. There’s nothing lofty about this job. It’s not philosophical. It’s tactical. The Republicans roll out their agendas like they’re launching a new product, and they’re successful because they do so.

NAMING

The Republicans know that a crucial part of any branding process is naming. Especially in a noisy environment where soundbytes are all that stick. Occupy Wall Street seems to have skimmed over this part. What they need is a name that if you oppose it, in any way, you look bad. No Child Left Behind is a prime example of effective naming. You couldn’t possibly stand up and proclaim, “No Child Left Behind is wrong,” and look like anything but a jerk-off. “I’m against Occupy Wall Street,” sounds fine when you say it because you’re against an implied hostile take-over. It’s almost admirable to be opposed to it. Occupy Wall Street’s name is so ham-fisted I wouldn’t be surprised if the Republicans actually started the whole thing to make liberals appear stupid and laughable – there is precedent for this sort of thing.

The Republicans would have hired an ad agency or think-tank to brainstorm names and then focus-group test them. Since Occupy Wall Street has no ad agency, here are a few names for them off the top of my head:

Stand for Corporate Reform - Anyone who opposes reform sounds like a stodgey old fart in the way of progress. And taking a ‘Stand’ against anything sounds admirable.

Fix America - Too general. But it’s hard to be against fixing things.

Clean Up American Business - Same.

People for Ethical Business - Too dry.

Level The Field - I like it, but it’s a bit too abstract. The Wallmart crowd would never get it. And you need the Walmart crowd on your side.

Other options - Anything with Build, Reconstruct, Heal in the name might work. Maybe it’s Heal America. Too soft? Could be: Rebuild American Business. You’d sound like a complete tool if you were against that.

You get the idea. The protestors could beat these thoughts easily if they were able to make a collective decision.

WHAT ARE WE TRYING TO SAY?

Since the Republicans are smart marketers, they know that when it comes to messaging, if eveything’s important, nothing is important. If they were running Occupy Wall Street, they’d drill down on one tangible idea and sing that song over and over and over across every possible outlet.

The central issue that Occupy Wall Street is dancing around – but can’t seem to articulate – is Corporate Reform. They’re not against wealth itself, but they oppose a corporate system that stacks the deck in its own favor. A system that influences elections and legislation through donations, political action committees and lobbies. 

Every complaint Occupy Wall Street has about concentration of wealth – from greedy banks, inequality, and minimum wage – stems from the erosion of limits on corporate power. With corporate corruption as the enemy, not wealth itself, the protesters could portray themselves as modern-day Trustbusters, Robinhoods, or Guardians who seek to reestablish laws that protect the people. This is a rich emotional territory: Everyone likes to root for a do-gooding underdog.

If the Republicans were running Occupy Wall Street, they would’ve understood this and crafted the narrative around bringing back safeguards we used to have against corporate control. Tangible protections that existed until the mid 1800’s, such as:

• Corporations had limited duration, 10 years, 20 years, 30 years -- they were not given forever, like corporate charters are given today.

• The amount of land a corporation could ow poration could have was limited.

• The corporation had to be chartered for
a specific purpose. Not for everything,
or anything.

• The internal governance was very different. Shareholders had a lot more rights than they have today, for major decisions such as mergers; sometimes they had to have unanimous shareholder consent.

• There were no limitations protections on liability – managers, directors, and shareholders were liable for all debts and harms and in some states, doubly or triply liable.

• The states reserved the right to amend the charters, or to revoke them – even for no reason at all. ^[1]

The reinstatement of these protections would eventually create most of the changes Occupy Wall Street wants: A trustworthy governance, a more humane business environment, and a stronger middle-class. This issue should be the main course, but it’s currently a side dish. 

The downsides to narrowly focusing on Corporate Reform are minimal. One negative is it would no longer be a party issue. It would concern everyone. Therefore it wouldn’t have that necessary fringe appeal that makes agendas successful in our current political scene. Also, it might not be as fun or satisfying as blaming stereotypes. And the ‘Movement’ could no longer be a grab bag of all kinds of grievances. Worst of all: changing something in a small, tangible area is a lot harder than rallying against everything and accomplishing nothing.

COMPETITIVE ANALYSIS

After correctly diagnosing the problem and specifically defining what they were trying to communicate, the Republicans would consider the opposing viewpoints. They would study the barriers to acceptance and understand the philosophy at work. In this case, they would play devil’s advocate and appreciate the legitimacy of the counter-argument: We need to do everything we can to help business because they provide for us. Don’t do anything to hurt corporations because that would shoot all of us in our proverbial feet.

Only once they understood the opposition would they poke holes in their argument. They’d arrive at a folksy kind of ‘kitchen table logic.’ Just because someone pays me doesn’t mean they can’t be abusive, or greedy or manipulative. If your dad is mean drunk, it doesn’t matter how big an allowance he gives you. Right? Of course. They’d put it this way: “Is it wise to place so much faith in institutions who’s sole reason for being is to make money? You wouldn’t trust a person with that agenda. Why trust organizations where, out of sheer size and numbers, no-one is directly responsible.” And they would be right.

MENTALITY 

The Republicans seem to treat politics like it’s a game and they want to win it at all costs. And like all games, there’s an element of fun to it. They’re not just motivated by ideology, but by the sheer joy of tripping up the opposition. They have team spirit.

It’s like this: If you screw someone over it’s bad. But if you get someone to screw themselves over, that’s where things take on another dimension. There’s an element of creativity and zeal to this approach. Mustaches are being twirled. Giggling is involved. The winner is left smug and smirking at the end. 

If Occupy Wall Street is an actual organic movement and not something concocted in a boardroom – purely for the purposes of making the Democrats look like losers – the protesters might want to adopt the Republican mentality. The accusation that Liberals are soft has been well earned. It’s high time they worked to reverse the perception.

1. Revoking The Corporation, a discussion with Richard Grossman & Ward Morehouse, transcribed by rat haus reality press, 1996.

A Year In The Desert

THE CRIPPLER

I’m filled with dread about the trip I have ahead of me. It’s 1200 miles from Seattle to Las Vegas and I want to make it to Boise by nightfall. I’m already way behind schedule. I need to be on the road. I can tell that I’m on the verge of an epic meltdown as I pack my car with all it can hold.

My wife, Elizabeth, has been staying out of my way all morning. She can sense that I’m approaching a breaking point and she doesn’t want to be caught in my crosshairs. I’m a torrent of activity, tearing open drawers, pulling out clothes, slamming doors, and making a mess of the place, trying to find last minute items. I’m mentally and physically exhausted from the marathon of work I’ve been doing on our house over the last few weeks – trying to get it ready for market, should we decide to sell. Plus, I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in who knows how long.

Flying through the upstairs hallway with a box in my hands, I squeeze past the youngest of my three boys, Jonah. “Daddy,” he says. “Can I help you?” He’s nine and his eagerness to lend me a hand, like he always does, cuts into me. I stop, turn and put the box on the floor. Kneeling down, I put my hands on both his shoulders and stare into his puppy-dog brown eyes. “Jonah,” I say. “You’re such a good son to your Daddy. Do you know that? I’m so glad you’re my little boy. Do you know your daddy loves you?”

“Yes, sir,” he nods. His soft ‘R’ makes it come out more like ‘Yes, sew.’

“Who loves you?”

“My Daddy,” he says.

“Your Daddy what?”

“My Daddy loves me.”

“Do you know you’re one of my favorite people in the whole, wide world?”

“Yes, sir,” he says.

“Out of all the millions and millions of people in the world, who are my favorite people on the planet?”

“Me, Mommy, David and Gabriel.”

“That’s right. Do you know who else means as much to me as you do?”

“Nobody,” he says.

“You’ve got that right, little man. Nobody.”

At this, I pull my son into my chest and hold him. His little arms wrap around my neck and squeeze. A single rivulet of tears rolls down my cheek. My body convulses against the futile attempt at composure I’m trying keep. I kiss Jonah and stand up, wiping my eyes. “Do you think you could help your daddy find his cell phone charger?” I ask. “I have no idea where I put it.”

Jonah agrees and runs off to look, drying his face with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. I go to the bedroom where Elizabeth is busy cleaning up after me, folding clothes that I pulled out in a rush. “Do you think you could fix the door real quick?” she says. “You said you’d fix it before you leave.”

“Are you kidding me?” I say, glaring at her.

“You said, you’d do it. It’s not my fault you always wait until the last minute.”

“I’m about to sit in the car for the next two days, going off to work in a town I hate, in order to support you. The least you could do is not sweat me over trifles before I leave.”

“Fine,” she says. “If it breaks while you’re gone I’ll just have to pay to have it fixed. Suit yourself.”

“You really don’t get it do you?” I say, raising my voice. “I’m exhausted, I’m miserable. I’m nervous as hell about this job. I hate that I’m leaving and I hate where I’m headed. I’m at an all time low, and you’re throwing this petty bullshit at me. How do you even think like that?”

“Forget it. I’m the one who’ll have to deal with the door when it comes off the hinges. You just go ahead and worry about yourself like you always do.

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck yourself,” she says. “I can’t wait for you to get out of here.” Storming out of the room, her face is red.

Her last comment is the one that really hurts and I’m overcome with despair. I turn and stub my big toe on this fat wooden chair we use at the computer. A jolt of pain shoots up my leg. I’ve always hated the damned chair. It’s thickly proportioned, heavy and miserable to sit in. Years ago, I named it The Crippler. It looks like an electric chair minus the straps and all. How many times in the last fifteen years of our marriage have I tried to get rid of the monstrosity only to give into Elizabeth’s objections and keep it? Hobbling in pain, I accidentally knock over The Crippler. Stupid chair. In a spastic motion, I pick it up and throw it back into its place on the floor. I feel something in The Crippler loosen. I’ve damaged it, so there’s no turning back now. I pick it up again to finish the job. I lift the Crippler over my head and slam into the floor. The thing flies apart. It’s so satisfying, but I start sobbing. I pick up the smaller pieces and smash them into the floor again and again in a frenzy. When I’m done, all that’s left of The Crippler is a pile of large splinters. I stand there for a moment, panting and staring at what I just did. A dull pain in my thumb begins to throb. Oh shit, I think. I must’ve broken a finger.

I finish packing. I kiss the boys and get in the car. I pull out of the driveway and I linger for a moment. I’m hoping that Elizabeth will come running outside any second with her arms open wide. I want her to say, “Stop. You can’t leave this way.” I’m wishing she’ll give me one last hug and tell me she loves me. I wait. I think about going back in to find her, but stop I myself. What’s the point? You can’t unscramble eggs. I give her a moment longer, but she doesn’t come. Waving at Gabriel and Jonah, my face is wet with tears. I honk the horn and drive away.

CROSS COUNTRY

For the next few hours, I’m in and out of angry weeping fits. I find only occasional moments of solace listening to songs by The Avett Brothers and Elliot Smith. I guess this is the denial phase of the grief process, because I’m shaking my head to myself. A lot. I can’t believe that I’m leaving my home for who knows how long. To Las Vegas of all places.

But what choice do I have? Two months ago, the small ad agency I was working for, fell upon hard times and they let me go. I’m grateful I was already looking when it happened, that way I at least had some interviews lined up. My last day was on a Monday and I flew to Las Vegas for an interview at the end of the week. I got the job offer a few days later. With all the agencies in Seattle cutting back, I accepted the position and made my start date two months out.

I looked at a few other possibilities. There was an interview in Charlotte, North Carolina, that didn’t pan out. Then there was an offer for an executive creative director position in Kuwait. Between living in a desert, on another continent, and living in a desert, two hours flight back to Seattle, Vegas was the choice that made sense.

Out the window, I watch the gray stone of the Cascade Mountains give way to hemlocks, and the lush green of the foothills transition into the tall, golden grass fields of Eastern Washington. I start accepting my fate. I’m really doing this, I think. My occasional blubbering subsides, only to be replaced with a steely ambivalence.

I put on an audiobook to take my mind off things. The book is Albert Camus’s ‘The Stranger’ and shortly into it I realize it’s a mistake. I keep on listening anyway because I feel like wallowing. So, for the next 3 hours, I bathe myself in Camus’s nihilistic worldview which is basically: That we float aimlessly in a cold and indifferent universe. That life is meaningless, futile, absurd and ultimately hopeless. He’s making a lot of sense to me, that Camus.

After two days, several audio books, and a series of awkward phone calls patching things up with Elizabeth, I’m a few miles outside of Las Vegas. It’s nothing but beige dirt bisected by a line of asphalt as far as my eyes can see. I’m shocked by the desolation. It looks like the backdrop to every post-apocalyptic movie I’ve seen. The only thing missing is an army of The Undead.

Then, I come round a corner and see this sprawling, glistening island of metal and glass. The city looks so out of place to me, surrounded by the sea of sand. It’s like some kind of monument symbolizing man’s might against the elements. Screw you nature, we will live here, by damn. We don’t care if there isn’t any water or life here. But, time will tell who wins. Nature has a way of getting the last word.

Pulling into the condominium complex near Red Rock I’m anxious about my living arrangements. The agency that hired me is letting me stay in the corporate apartment for a month, but I’ll be sharing it with another new hire. I have no idea what to expect in a roommate.

JERSEY BOYS

When I meet Dom, I like the guy almost instantly. By his accent I can tell he’s from Northeast, too; and he brings to mind buddies I used to hang out with. The more he talks, the more I get the feeling I know him already. As he’s telling me about himself, I realize that the person he most reminds me of is a version of myself that I’ve often imagined: the one that didn’t leave New Jersey when he was eighteen; the one that didn’t get married so early.

The fourteen years I spent in the South, with my wife, softened my New Jersey edge. It sanded away most of the brusque, ‘I don’t have any time for bullshit’ delivery, and the swaggering braggadocio you typically find with guys from the up there. Dom spent most of his life in New York – more than enough time for the traits to incubate and reach their full maturity in him.

Dom is in his forties. He’s single. Handsome in the Italian way: tall, dark, broad shouldered, and well groomed. He’s got a head full of salt and pepper hair and wears an expression that hides an underlying but perpetual smirk. It’s only a microscopic thing, but it suggests self-assessed superiority – something which is either incredibly attractive or incredibly repulsive depending on your tastes. I know the look well since it’s the same one I had on my face in nearly every high-school picture.

“So what’s your plan?” Dom asks me.

“I don’t really have one,” I say. “I guess I’ll sort of check things out for a while and make sure this is the kind of place I want to move my family.”

“Yeah. It’s definitely more complicated with kids. Man, I can’t believe you’ve got three. You look too young to have that many. What were you thinking?”

“Thinking? Obviously, I wasn’t. They call it ‘Fall In Love’ for a reason, you know? It’s like an accident, like stubbing your toe or something. One minute I’m twenty years old with hopes of becoming a world-class womanizer, next I’m in love with this girl who’s seven years older than me and has a kid. We dated for a few years. I knocked her up and we got married.”

“Wait. You got married because she was pregnant? They have surgeries for that kinda thing, you know?”

“Yeah. I know. That was my first reaction, to be honest. She wouldn’t hear of it. We actually ended up losing the baby twelve days after he was born. It’s a long story and I won’t bore you with it. But I could’ve gotten out, then. I was in love with her and her boy, though. I just couldn’t leave them.”

“Wow. I’m sorry about your kid. That’s really heavy. When did all that happen?”

“When I was twenty-three. It was a real blessing, though. It changed my life. I quit drinking because of it. Did the whole AA thing and all that.”

“You still don’t drink?”

“No.”

“Well what are you going to do for fun around here?”

“Tell me about it. I don’t drink, don’t gamble, and I’ve been to one strip joint in my life. This whole town is completely lost on me.”

“Well, we can fix the strip joint issue anytime you like. Just say the word. There’s only a few thousand of them here.”

“That would be all I need. I come down here, a married guy, with everything to lose. Then, bam, I fall off the wagon. Believe me, the thought has crossed my mind. That kind of stuff actually happens here and I take it seriously. I know my weaknesses. A few wrong moves and I could be snorting coke off a strippers tits in no time. Then it’d be on to hookers and swingers clubs and God knows what else.”

“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it,” Dom laughs.

“No, I mean it. It would end with me divorced and penniless, living in some shitty studio apartment. The neighbors would find my rotting body with a belt tied around my neck. All because I went to an ‘innocent’ strip-joint. Like it’s not hard enough being monogamous without going out and purposefully looking to tempt myself.”

“Monogamy is completely un-natural.” Dom tells me.

“True,” I say. “It is unnatural.” Dom starts telling me about what it was like when he was married, but I’m still thinking about the last thing he said. I wish I’d said, “Monogamy might be unnatural, but everything we call virtuous is unnatural. If all we are is just animals in the jungle, then stuff like honesty, kindness, patience, courage, justice, love and mercy wouldn’t matter to us. Despite what people say, we all value these things. We write books, movies and songs about them. We want more of them and we’re quick to call foul if we don’t get them. So, surely we’re more than just animals.”

But the moment for my rebuttal is gone. That’s something I’ve got to get used to with Dom. He’s much quicker on the draw than I am.

As we dive into our new roles at the agency, it’s apparent to me that Dom has a lot more experience than I do, and I know I could learn a lot from him. He’s written and shot a movie. He’s directed some internationally awarded commercials. He’s run large creative departments in the past and managed some top tier clients. His confidence is far beyond mine and it’s not just hot air.

I’m jealous of Dom in the way you might be an older brother. He’s funnier than I am. There’s a forcefulness about his convictions that I just can’t match. His practical, single-guy-wisdom (or, more specifically, his once-married-but-got-screwed-over-big-time-guy-wisdom), is much stronger than my sentimental philosophies. He has simple, powerful ideas like, “If women didn’t let men have sex with them, we’d hunt them for sport.”

The agency itself is a much better situation than I had imagined. The people are welcoming and friendly – a refreshing departure from the indifferent attitude I’d grown accustomed to in Seattle. And there are already some cool projects on the table. I’m optimistic that I’ll be able to do the kind of work here that’ll improve my portfolio.

Not a bad first week, all in all. The first Friday after arriving in Las Vegas, I’m headed back to Seattle for the weekend. I’ll be returning late Sunday evening. As I hurry to my gate in the airport, the clatter of slot machine sound-effects is ringing in my head. I’m completely overwhelmed and exhausted by the process. There won’t be much of me left emotionally when I get home, but I can’t wait to get there.

ACCLIMATION

Over the next few weeks in Vegas, I settle into a routine that’s basically: Work until seven or so, hit the gym from until nine-thirty, then head back to the apartment for a late dinner. If I’m lucky, I get to read a little while or watch some television before bed.

It’s sort of a treat for me – keeping my own schedule and not having to worry about putting the kids to bed or answering to my wife. The ability to be footloose, and come and go as I please is intoxicating. Yes, I miss the children and Elizabeth, but I don’t miss the volume and the thousands of trivial conflicts that make up daily family life. This new situation is a welcome vacation from the responsibilities that I’ve silently resented for so long.

Elizabeth is having a different experience. She sounds exhausted every time I talk with her on the phone. “I had to teach class at 9:00 and take Gabriel to the doctor at 10:30,” she’ll start. Then she’ll proceed to rattle off a nearly endless list of obstacles the day’s thrown her way. “I’m sorry, baby,” I say, doing my best to be empathetic. “I wish there was something I could do to make it better.”

She has her hands full with three boys. The oldest is getting ready for college, which means she has to deal with mountains of paperwork on top of an already ridiculous load. The extra fitness classes she’s picking up to help with the finances leave her drained. Without any kind of relief, her patience with me and my absence is already wearing thin.

We talk about moving the family down to Vegas and about how much house we could get for the money and how it would be nice to have more sunshine. But the town just turns me off, no matter how much I try to see its benefits. Talking with locals reveals that the schools are under-funded. Nevada, it turns out, has the distinction of being the second dumbest state in America. The local economy is shrinking and everywhere you look you see building projects in the middle of construction that have been abandoned due to a lack of financing. But it’s really all the fake, Disneyland looking neighborhoods, the omnipresent casino cheese and bankrupt people driving around in Hummers that make it so I can’t see raising a family here. Elizabeth and I decide that I’ll just commute indefinitely.

NEW DIGS

With temporary housing almost done after two months, I’ve got to find a place to stay. Dom’s been looking for houses. “It’s a great time to buy,” he says. “They’re giving away McMansions for a couple hundred thousand dollars a pop. Maybe I can buy some extra ones and rent them out. I could become a slum-lord and rule over my tenants with an iron fist.” I laugh, but he’s not exaggerating. The real-estate market is so depressed I’ve seen foreclosure bus-tours.

When he finds a fully-furnished house not far from the agency and buys it, he offers to rent me a room for $600 a month. “I’m in,” I tell him. Dom’s house is new and big with a landscaped swimming pool out back. When he’s showing it to me, he says, “There’s one rule: No sex in the pool.”

“Who am I going to have sex with, Dom?” I say. “My wife’s a thousand miles away.”

“Exactly. Let’s just say that, hypothetically, if I were to have some crazy party here with a bunch of coked-up strippers, I don’t want you sticking your dick in any of them in my pool. I don’t want to end up swimming in your jizz. You got it?”

“The chlorine would kill it, Dom,” I say.

“Don’t be a smart ass. Just keep your body fluids out of my pool.”

The way our schedules work out, Dom and I hardly see each other. Lately, he’s spending his free-time trying to woo a beautiful young account executive at the agency. She’s half his age, but it looks like he’s making progress. “Dom, I salute you,” I tell him. “You certainly have excellent taste. Best of luck to you, my good man.”

When he’s back at the house, Dom holes-up in his master bedroom, with a robe on, like a poor man’s Hugh Heffner. So it’s kind of like I have his big villa to myself.

THE MEATGRINDER

Weekends back home, in Seattle, are becoming more difficult than I’d like them to be. It’s squabbles over what the kids want for dinner, or what movie we’re going to watch. It’s hearing the boys yell at each other over video games. It’s hearing my youngest say, “Daddy, Gabriel just called me a tattletale,” and him not getting the irony.

Elizabeth and I start to fight more often. There are hurt feelings over the phone and the spans in-between calls grow longer. At home, the little time we have together is centered around sorting out our differences. We hold long deliberations with each other. The complex intricacies of maintaining a relationship are boiled down into hours – an emotional science project to figure out against the clock. Before long, it gets to where I’m not excited to come home.

Several months into the commute, Elizabeth picks me up from the airport. I approach the car at the baggage claim area and she doesn’t get out to give me the usual ‘welcome home’ hug. I’m tired and cranky from the flight and now my feelings are hurt.

“I want to drive,” I say.

“Just get in, I’ll drive,” she says in a chipper tone, trying to counteract my foul mood. She must read it on my face. This only irritates me more.

“I’d like to drive,” I bark. With a heavy sigh and an eye-roll, she gets out of the car and walks around to the passenger side. She gives me a half-hearted hug along the way. I sit into the drivers seat and turn the music down.

“Hey, I was listening to that,” Elizabeth says.

“I just want some quiet, OK?”

“Fine,” she says.

She starts talking about the details of the week that our phone calls left out. She’s animated in her description. As she’s talking, I find her voice abrasive. The more she talks, the more annoyed I get. Man, I never realized how bossy she is. It’s a by-product of the long-distance-commute I hadn’t anticipated – a new, critical eye on my wife.

As she continues recounting the week, I start to wonder: If we had no history together, and I met her for the first time today, would I be attracted to her? Would I choose someone like her to share a lifetime with? I’m unsure about the answer.

I reach for the center console and turn the driver’s side heat down. Elizabeth reaches over and turns it back up. “I’m hot,” I say. “Do you mind?”

“When you turn down your side, cold air comes out of my vents,” she says. “You know how cold I get.”

“Well I’m burning up.”

“Fine,” she says, and turns the heat off completely.

The rest of the car ride home is tense. I start to feel hopeless. We as a couple, are doomed, I’m thinking. A mistake to begin with. We got married because she was pregnant and what the hell did I know at 23?

It’s a stressful weekend. Elizabeth and I avoid each other most of the time. When she drops me off at the airport, Sunday evening, the goodbye is icy. I’m looking forward to getting back down to Vegas and decompressing.

HEAD GAMES

Seattle was always an easy place for me to be faithful to my wife. It had, pound-for-pound, the ugliest women I had ever seen in my life.

Of course there were the rare exceptions – like my wife, who looked like Ms. Universe by comparison – but, for the most part, a guy could easily spend an afternoon walking around downtown, counting how many attractive women he sees, and come up empty. And it wasn’t just the Seattle women’s wardrobe of technical rain gear and fleece jackets, or the absence of makeup and time in a gym that were to blame. You topped off all their visual mediocrity with a bookish, disapproving attitude, and that’s what really did it – that’s when you got The Real Ugly.

Here, in Las Vegas, it’s a different kind of ballgame. And it’s not helpful to a guy trying to retain any kind of chastity. Beautiful women are everywhere and they’re so friendly I’m unnerved by it. Most of the women I meet here give strong eye contact. They’re more touchy when they talk. They’re more likely to start conversations and keep them going.

At first, I figured the reason they were so approachable was because it’s such a service-oriented town. Hospitality is just good business and it probably becomes a habit. But now I think they’re so outgoing because they’re just as aware as the men that sex can be purchased for next to nothing.

You’d have to be blind not to notice all the signs, posters, flyers and brochures for escorts wherever you go. And there’s just something about the knowledge that a man could pay to have sex with a beautiful young woman for less than it would cost to take her out to dinner that’s hard for the sub-conscious to shake. Women here have got to know, instinctively, that in order to compete with the sex trade they’ve got to be easier and more flirtatious than they might want to be.

I’ve never been in a place were sex is so interwoven into the culture. It gets absurd sometimes – to the point of being un-sexy. A billboard I pass daily has a nude woman holding a sign that reads, “The naked truth about dentistry.” Dentisty? That’s just retarded.

Strip-joint combination businesses exist here in every conceivable form. It’s the only place I’ve ever been that has a coffee-shop/smoothy-bar that’s also a strip-joint. If there’s a strip-joint-slash-Jiffy-Lube in Las Vegas I wouldn’t be surprised.

I feel like wherever I turn, temptations are there to knock me off balance. At the bank, on a Monday, it’s a stream of un-naturally proportioned goddesses pulling up in Porshes or Mercedes to deposit their weekend’s earning. At the agency, we’ll have commercial casting sessions where I’ll walk in and be stunned by a line of a fifty gorgeous models in tight dresses, all with expectant glances that say, “I really, really want this part and I’ll do whatever it takes to get it.” At the grocery store a curvy, doe-eyed cashier reels me into a conversation. She asks me out for a drink and I tell her, I’m married. I point to the tattooed wedding ring I have on my finger and she says, “I don’t care if you don’t.”

With the stressful weekends and the emotional distance with my wife becoming the norm, I’m finding it harder to shake off all the temptations. I’m less put off by the debauchery around me and view it with a growing curiosity. I contemplate what it would be like to take a little walk on The Wild Side. I fantasize about answering personal ads on Craigslist, joining a swinger’s club or falling in love with a showgirl.

I continue to feel myself getting weaker. One night, I’m staying at the MGM for a commercial we’re shooting. The place is teaming with prostitutes. I watch as a few of them proposition a group of men. They all flirt for a few minutes and get on the elevator together, cackling. What would that be like, I wonder. Could I go through with something like that? For the rest of the shoot, the question rolls around my head.

When we’re done, a couple folks from the agency are going out for drinks. “I’ll pass,” I say. “I’ll catch you guys in the morning.”

I head for the elevators to go up to my room. The crowd of hookers has thinned, but a few are still milling about. I try not to make eye contact and beeline straight for the elevator button. I feel a tap on my shoulder and I turn around. In front of me, there’s a short, thin Asian girl in tight jeans and a tube top with her boobs pushed up to the ceiling.

“Hey there, stud,” she says. “Where you headed?”

“My room,” I say, in a flat tone. “I’ve had a long day.”

“How about some company?” she says.

        I’m intrigued. If I was actually interested, how would I know that she wasn’t a cop. I ask her, “Now how does that work exactly?”
        “Well,” she says, stepping closer. “I’m an exotic entertainer. If we go up to your room, I’d love to entertain you.”
        “And how much would your… uh… entertainment services cost me?” I ask.
        “Five hundred dollars,” she says. I’m thinking: I just so happen to have four hundred dollars in my room upstairs.
        “Wow, that’s a lot,” I say.
        “Well, how much have you got? Don’t you want to let me take care of you tonight?”
        I’m silent. I’m thinking: Nobody would ever know. I could totally do this and it would be my secret. I’ve been faithful to my wife for the last sixteen years. I’ve never so much as kissed another woman. What’s one little indiscretion?

The girl can see me struggling. “I know,” she says. “You want to, but you don’t want to.”

“Listen,” I say. “You’re very attractive. But I’m going to get on this elevator, go upstairs and go to bed.”

“Aw,” she says, rubbing my arm. “My pussy is so tight and wet for you.”

The elevator door opens and I get on. I turn around and the girl blows me a kiss and the doors close.

When I get up to my room, I’m confused and sad. I know I did the right thing, but it doesn’t feel like it. Because I didn’t really do the right thing: I played with the idea and I wanted it. One second I’m ashamed of this, the next minute I’m filled with self-reproach, telling myself I’m a sissy for not going through with it. If I were a real man, a guy more like Dom, I would’ve probably done it. Then, I decide that’s bullshit too. I take a shower and lie in bed, awake, for most of the night.

REALITY CHECK

The next weekend, I’ve got to stay in Las Vegas. I don’t want to do it, but all the back and forth is getting expensive, even with financial help I’m getting from my dad.

Friday night, Dom asks me if I want to go out with him, his girlfriend – the brunette sweetheart he met through work – and his friend, Anne, who’s visiting from New York.

“No, thanks,” I say. “I think I’m just going to stay in tonight.”

“Alright,” he says.

Saturday comes and Dom invites me out again. When he sees me waffling with an answer he says, “Oh, come on, man. You need to stop acting like such a big vagina and come out with us. We’re just going bowling. It’ll be fun.” I think it over, for a second. “Alright,” I say. “I’m in.”

Dinner is at T-Bones Chophouse & Lounge. It’s a lively place. Everyone’s drinking except me. This is the part of any evening that’s awkward for me. It looks like they’re having so much fun. As the token non-drinker, I’m outside of the action looking in. After a while, though, I notice that Dom’s friend, Anne, is really putting down the drinks. She looks like she’s on a mission and she keeps up the pace through dinner.

By the time we get to the bowling alley, Anne is sloppy drunk. She’s getting louder, falling down and making a decent spectacle of herself. Dom looks concerned about her. “I think we should probably call it a night,” he says.

When we get back home, Dom and his girlfriend go straight to bed. Anne and I are in the foyer and I’m making sure the doors are locked for the night. She tells me she wants to go out back for a smoke. From her voice, I can tell she wants some company. “I’m beat, Anne,” I say, yawning, starting up the stairs. “Don’t stay up too late. You’ll feel rotten in the morning.”

“Goodnight,” she says, sounding a bit wounded. Her high-heels click on the tile as she totters away.

When I reach the top of the stairs, I hear a thud in the kitchen and a frightened cry. I run down to see what happened and Anne is sitting there with her hand on her forehead sobbing.

“What happened?” I ask.

“Nothing. I just, tripped… I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Are you alright?”

“I’ll be okay. It’s just a little bump.”

I pull her hand back and there’s a knot growing above her eyebrow in the shape of a plum. Damn, she’s lucky it’s not worse.

“Can I do anything for you?” I ask. “Can I get you some ice?”

        “No. I’m good,” she says, wiping her tears and sniffling a bit. “Go on to bed. I’ll see you in the morning.”

She looks so sad as I leave her. I feel sorry for her. She’s easily forty-something. Never been married. No kids. Probably no prospects of a relationship either. I’m thinking: So this is it, huh? This is that single-life I’m always pining for?

THE MAESTRO

In the morning, Dom is busy putting together a rather fancy brunch. He’s a flurry of activity in the kitchen and he looks so competent I tell him he should have his own cooking show.

Something I notice is that, as preoccupied as he is, Dom still manages to dote on his girlfriend between tasks. I like how much softer his whole demeanor is around her. Watching them reminds me of something I heard once: Men are a lot like pickup trucks – they drive squirrely without a load. Dom’s girlfriend has a stabilizing effect on him and I think he’s a much better man for it. I can’t help but think my wife and kids do the same for me.

It’s serene in the shade on Dom’s patio. There’s hardly a cloud in the sky. A gentle breeze blows ripples across the pool. Music is playing in the background. Doug serves us our meals with the skill of a maestro, all his movements controlled and smooth. It’s all so damned civilized. No quarreling children. No contention. Just easy.

I should be enjoying myself. Instead, I’m overcome with loneliness. I wonder why it is that I rarely get lonely when I’m by myself, but I’ll get that way when I’m surrounded by other people.

My thoughts drift and soon I’m two thousand miles away, back in Seattle, in my kitchen, watching Elizabeth get the kids ready for church. She’s making pancakes and the place is a mess. The boys are at the table squabbling.

“Mommy, Gabriel keeps staring at me,” Jonah says.

“I am not,” says Gabriel. “Who would want to stare at your ugly face, you liar?”

Elizabeth slams a pot into the sink. “Can’t you two get along? There are other people here too, you know? Have you ever thought how miserable it might be for people to have to listen to you when you’re like this?”

She’s in way over her head. The boys are just being boys, but they’re too much for her to handle. She’ll have to ride them to finish their breakfasts. To make sure they’re dressed. To brush their teeth. To let the dogs out. To make their beds. She’ll be running late and order the boys to pile into the minivan. Then she’ll speed all the way to church, cutting off traffic and cursing along the way, so she can get them there to learn about the sweet and peaceful love of Jesus.

I wish I could console her. I wish I could be there and not here. She needs me and the boys do, too.

The party at Dom’s is enjoying their meals, chatting and laughing together, while my mind continues to float farther away. I think back about my early years with Elizabeth; how intense it was with us from the day we met. I loved her. I hated her. I wanted to be there. I didn’t want to be there. We made each other miserable and made each other ecstatic equally. I have no doubt that two more practical people would have bailed out years ago.

I think it’s funny that we ended up in Seattle. The place practically is my marriage. It has gray days – many of them – where it’s gloomy and depressing and you think to yourself that you can’t go on. Then you’ll get this day that’s so impossibly beautiful it’ll bring tears to your eyes. The greens and blues will be so lush it’s like the world had a contrast knob and someone cranked it all the way up. Jagged, snow-covered Mountains, evergreens and the endless expanses of water and sky: The place is as close to heaven as you can find.

It’s difficult reconciling Seattle’s two extremes. It can be a maddening. But those who choose to call the place home know that even when it’s dreary and most of the scenery is obscured, the potential for beauty never goes away. They know it’ll be back and that it’ll be worth it.

Elizabeth and I have that same kind of potential. And no matter how hard things get between us, the fact is that she’s the only woman I’ve ever been can’t-eat, can’t-sleep, crazy-in-love with. I know I could only give myself over to love like that once. If there were ever someone else, after Elizabeth, I know I’d hold something back.

A MEETING

When she comes to pick me up from the airport in Seattle, I’m stiff and grouchy from being wedged in the middle seat on the flight home. The first thing Elizabeth tells me is that she’s set up a meeting with our pastor. I hate when she does this. It feels like I’m being sent to the principal’s office or something.

“You ever consider,” I say, throwing my bag in the trunk, “that if we really were a decent match, we wouldn’t need a team of experts to keep us running smoothly?” I say this with a heightened sense of dignity, thinking I might bait her into canceling our appointment.

“Whatever,” she says. “I called him this week. He’s concerned about us and wants to see us both. We’re meeting him after church.”

I’m bummed that my comment missed its mark, and I can hear from the determination in Elizabeth’s voice that there’s no use fighting her.

It’s not that I have anything against our pastor. I’m actually quite fond of the guy. His name’s Jesse. He’s young, tall and athletic. A guy’s guy. We’ve wrestled together in jiu-jitsu and I consider him a friend. The issue is that I hate feeling like Elizabeth is taking me to court; that our case needs to be heard by a judge of sorts.

Sunday morning comes, and we go to Jesse’s office after service. He listens to Elizabeth and I talk about our differences. Most of it, he’s heard from us before. Me living in the past, wishing I hadn’t gotten married so young. Elizabeth saying I never make her a priority. Me wanting independence. And so on. We recite the song to him without emotion, tired by the old melody. After a while of listening, Jesse stops us.

“Steve,” he says, in his mellow Southern California way. “This situation with the commute… all the time to yourself. You hanging around only single people and trying to cram a weeks worth of family time in on weekends… man, it can’t be done. I’m worried that if you guys keep going the way you’re headed, you’ll end up divorced... It’s the only logical conclusion to this. You keep increasing the distance physically and mentally... The situation’s just feeding...” he says this, making a gesture like a hungry ogre, “... feeding all those parts of yourself that are opposed to marriage and family. And there’s nobody in your life on a regular basis to feed you anything but messages that fuel your own narcissism... How could you not be anti-marriage? The situation is creating it. And you choose to reinforce it with everything you’re putting in your head, man.”

I’m silent as I think about what he’s said. Elizabeth starts to cry. He’s right and I know it. “Thanks for saying it so plainly,” I tell him. “There’s a lot of truth to what you’re saying, and I appreciate you being direct about it.”

We all talk some more and, as we do, I feel the last remaining bits of frost in me thaw. Elizabeth keeps having to blow her nose and dry her tears. I hold hands with her as Jesse prays for us. We hug and leave.

Driving home, Elizabeth and I are quiet, taking in the things Jesse said. I can feel tears welling up and I’m holding them back. “Elizabeth,” I say.

“What?”

“I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry, for how I’ve been.” Tears are rolling down my face and Elizabeth’s too. She grabs my free hand and says, “I love you.”

“I know I’ve been an awful husband lately,” I say. “I’ve been cold and mean. I’ve done you wrong, baby. I hope you can forgive me.”

She grabs around my free arm with both of hers and says, “I always do.”

PARKING BRAKE

I start flying back to Las Vegas early Monday mornings instead of flying out Sunday evenings. It’s only one extra night in Seattle, but it makes a difference. It’s one more night to read with the kids; one more night to snuggle with the wife. Sundays aren’t halved anymore or nearly as hectic.

Five AM, Monday morning, the alarm sounds. Elizabeth and I hold each other, cocooned underneath the covers. “Don’t go back,” she says. She’s not serious; but at the same time, she’s dead serious. She nuzzles into my neck and tells me, “Stay here today.”

“I wish I could, baby. I really do.”

“I can’t wait until you don’t have to do this anymore,” she says.

“Be careful what you wish for.”

“It wouldn’t be so bad, I’d rather be broke and have you here. We need to be together, Steve. The kids need you. I miss you. I hope I never take simple little things like lying in bed together for granted anymore. If I ever forget, remind me okay?”

“Okay,” I tell her. And I’m off to the airport.

At work, there have been several rounds of layoffs. A few months back, salaries were cut five percent. State-of-the-agency meetings are more tense as client budgets continue to be slashed. The agency’s bread and butter, ‘recession-proof’ business of casinos and gambling, evidently isn’t as recession-proof as was thought. New business attempts have been fruitless and you can sense the fear oozing from closed door meetings the partners are having. Given these signs, some of the agency’s lifers are saying another round of layoffs is immanent.

On a Friday that I’m supposed to fly home for a week’s vacation, my boss stops by my office and asks me if I’ll be there the following week. It strikes me as peculiar that he would ask. I walk into Dom’s office and say, “I think I’m getting laid off.” I tell him why I think so and he says I’m probably just being paranoid.

An hour later my boss calls me into his office and closes the door. “Ah. A door closer,” I say, to lighten the mood. “This is hard,” he says. “I’ve got to let you go.” He tells me how it’s purely a financial decision, that he likes me and feels like he failed me. “This has been a good job,” I say. I assure him that there aren’t any hard feelings. It’s the truth.

I go up to Human Resources and review the finer points of the severance package. It’s cordial. Driving back to Dom’s house, I call him and leave a message about what happened. I call Elizabeth and tell her, “Well, baby, looks like I’ll be coming home this weekend for good.” She’s stunned.

“Wow. I don’t know what to say. Are you okay?”

“I’m good,” I say. “I can’t wait to be home.”

It takes a few hours for me to pack up my car and I spend the rest of the day lying out by the pool.

In the evening, Dom and his girlfriend take me out for dinner. When we’re all quiet I say to Dom, “Look at me for a second.” Our eyes meet. “You’ve been a good friend to me, Dom,” I tell him. “These last ten months or so would’ve been a lot different without having someone like you around that I could trust and confide in. I learned a lot from you and I’m really going to miss you.”

“I’m going to miss you, too,” Dom says. He looks like he’s got something else to add but his girlfriend says we should stop because we’re going to make her cry.

Early the next morning, I shower and eat breakfast. Dom had asked me not to leave before he got up, so I wait around for an hour. After another thirty minutes I decide to go ahead and hit the road. It’ll save us both from an emotional goodbye. I scribble a farewell note on a paper plate and leave it on the kitchen island.

IS IT STOCKHOLM SYNDROME?

On I-15, headed north, Spoon’s song, “I Summon You” is cranked through my car stereo. It’s an up-beat song, but tinged with sadness, and it accurately reflects my mood. This period of my life has come to such a sudden end it really hasn’t had a chance to sink in yet.

As I approach the Las Vegas Strip, the tall buildings shimmering in the desert sun, I fight to suppress all the contradictory feelings trying to break to the surface at the same time. How I’ve hated this place. But at the same time, I’m really going to miss Dom and some others. I’ll even miss the shitty town itself for reasons I don’t understand.

My defenses don’t last long, and from those pent up, deep places, it all pours out of me at once. I erupt into tears and laughter. I yell for joy, like a complete idiot, as if I’ve somehow triumphed over this Godforsaken place. In some ways, I have. I let out a final holler and give the Vegas Strip the finger as it passes on my right.

My fits of laughter continue for a while. I glance in the rear-view a few last times as the glitzy city vanishes from sight and the open desert spreads out before me.