life – Page 46 – The Tao of Bill

the erroneous comment I wish I never heard about

“I overheard her say that she doesn’t love you anymore at the dinner table”

“Wait…what?”

“Yeah, I don’t know who she was saying it to, I caught it at the last second but she said it.”

I felt like I had just tripped over a wasp’s nest but I kept my composure as the words set in.

I was having a glass of wine with my mom’s boyfriend. He was telling me about the dinner he had the previous day with my mom, my ex-wife and my oldest daughter on Mother’s Day. They had all gotten together at the restaurant my son works. It was an impromptu get together. My mom and Dave went down to MA to decorate the family stones with flowers and my ex-wife had called her to wish her a happy Mother’s Day. When they realized they were in the same state for once they made dinner plans. I didn’t even know about it until they got home that night. Mom told me all about it. The next night, that would be the time of this writing, it was just Dave and I for a while. I had just asked him of his account of the dinner, particularly because it was the first time he had met my ex-wife and oldest daughter. He had all good things to say and I was feeling good about it. Until he said that line about my ex-wife’s comment. Two questions came to mind; why did she say this and why do I care?

He continued talking as we watched the Red Sox play the A’s. I became noticeably quiet. Eventually, he asked me if he had crossed a line by telling me. I assured him that it was fine, I was just taken aback. While I was unsure why he mentioned it, it wasn’t done out of harm or malice. In fact, he probably mentioned it because it resonated with him after being in a terrible marriage himself. The pressing question remained. Why is this bothering me?

I truly don’t understand why I am having such trouble with this. I was married to this woman for 22 years and for the last 12 I would have chewed my arm off to escape her. There were times when I actually felt that I hated her. Towards the end, we de-escalated into a tolerant phase where we put up with each other but there was no love. Eventually, there was clearly no desire to even try to recapture what drew us together in the first place. When we separated I was relieved. When she asked for a divorce I was ready. When the divorce was finalized I felt liberated. So why am I surprised to hear, second-hand mind you, that she doesn’t love me anymore? It could easily have been said in the vein of “We still care about each other but aren’t in love anymore” as she explained to my mother, or my daughter, or the fucking waiter…again why does this bother me? Do I still even love her?

I do love her. I’m just not in love with her. I love her because we raised four wonderful children together. I love her because I spent most of my adult life with her and there were some good times. I can’t deny them.

I have dreams, vivid dreams of her. I dream of conversations in which she reveals past infidelities. I have dreamt of being with her, in the present, still married and talking about how we “almost split up.” Sadly, I even dreamt that I had died and she wasn’t at my funeral. These dreams are so lucid, so vivid that Freud and Jung could come back from the grave and revive their careers. When I wake from them I find myself wishing she was in my life. Then I shake it off and remind myself that I really don’t want what we had any longer. Still, I am wrought with these conflicting emotions.

I am burdened by memories, racked with guilt, saddled with regrets. A mere matter of months ago I was bitter, angry and resentful of her. Lately, I look back at photos in which we were all smiles. I find myself asking where it went wrong. I find myself asking if I could have done better by her. I remember how much she once loved me and I ask myself if I drove her away, caused her to morph into the cold, detached person that she was in the end. Did I, in the course of exorcising my demons and finding my real self, push her away?

I asked my mother last night if she had heard the comment at dinner. She said she had. It was said to one of my son’s friends who works at the same restaurant. He had come over to the table and asked my wife where I was. She had told him that we were divorced and he was surprised. So, she explained it. She cares about me, but she doesn’t love me anymore.

There you go, I have my explanation. For the comment at least. I still don’t know for the life of me why the explanation stings so badly.

the man who said NO

I’ve been everything I hate lately. I am a lazy, joyless sofa-bound fuck. The will to do anything has been sucked out of my body and I feel helpless to do anything about it. Even though I know I will kick this pneumonia eventually, I have just been down. If you have ever read me, quality of life is everything. By that logic, I have lost everything.

I can’t breathe. I am exhausted after the most minor exertion. I procrastinate on everything because I just don’t feel it. My life now consists of Dr.’s visits, consequent runs to the pharmacy, and sitting on the sofa. Last week I drove to the pharmacy and instead of going in I sat in my truck listening to the radio. I never went in, the seat was too comfortable and the front door was too far away.

Pain is temporary. A disease is treatable. It is very feasible that at some point I will walk around like a normal person. Right now that moment eludes me. I walk slow, resent those that breeze past me, breathing heavy and my body language reeks of “I’m done.” The day that I hoped would never come is here, it is now affecting my psyche. I’m acting out like never before. I am unfollowing friends on FB because I can’t look at how fucking happy they are; frolicking in the Bahamas on vacation, out at restaurants at tables full of smiling friends and family, scuba diving in Australia. I started leaving FB groups that I follow about mountain biking and weightlifting because they are terrible reminders of the dreaded used-to’s. I have been getting angry seeing people laughing and enjoying themselves doing activities that used to be routine for me. I watch TV and I see so many things that elicit anger and frustration. Or worse, the realization that I used to be able to do that thing and I never will again. A year ago I would have said “Someday”. Now I say “Yeah, you wish.”

On top of everything else, I have become the Introverted Extrovert. Yes, it’s a real thing. The introverted extrovert likes people but is prone to finding ways to avoid making or following through on plans. Once you’re there, you’re fine, it’s getting there that’s the problem. In short, I’m saying NO way more often than I used to. I have shut out my only asset, my support network. Something that I need now more than ever.

I don’t know how to shake this. I’ve never let the physical affect the emotional side of me. I have maintained an almost cheery attitude in the face of everything. But lately, I have felt like giving up. The worse part, I don’t even know what that means anymore. Give up on what? I don’t do anything!?

I was thinking this morning about a Jim Carrey movie that gave me a good chuckle. Inspiration comes in many forms and sometimes a silly movie will do it. Yes Man is about a guy who just won’t engage. He goes to great lengths to avoid interaction outside of work, either for fear of rejection or getting hurt. His favorite word is NO. Sound familiar? Until he attends a seminar that preaches one simple message…say yes to everything. Through all of the silliness and suspension of disbelief the movie attempts, it makes a good point. Saying yes is opening a door, saying no is hiding behind one. I’m definitely hiding right now behind the door of illness. It’s not even a screen door, at least that would provide some fresh air.

I need to find a way to embrace life again, to look forward to each new day as an opportunity, not another obstacle. I need to get back to enjoying my life, regardless of my position in it. I need that one moment where I leap out of my chair, fist clenched and scream at the top of my lungs YES, FUCK YES!

Today, that task seems insurmountable. Tomorrow it may be possible. I suspect that the outcome is largely up to me.

A bitter anniversary

For the last year, I have made wondrous progress in reconciling with my past. I have tried to get away from negativity, to stop beating myself up over mistakes made and poor decisions. Be that as it may, today is the 2 year anniversary of the worst decision of my life. 2 years ago today, I ignored my inner voice and better judgment and left the best job I ever had for what I thought was a better opportunity. There is no doubt in my mind that, had I not done so, I would be in a very different place right now.

I have spoken often of the “best job of my life”. I romanticized it a bit, truth be told there were some very difficult times, but in hindsight, it was more often great than not. After bouncing around in my career, making mostly upward and a few lateral changes in position I had a rare moment of good fortune. I just happened to meet someone looking for someone with my exact background. The initial interview was very exciting, I had never before felt so right about something. I was hired almost immediately and the owner made it clear that I would be given whatever I needed to establish and grow my own department. Who wouldn’t jump at an opportunity such as that?

It was a small company that was growing too fast when I joined them. It was a sub-prime auto loan company. By sub-prime it is understood that they dealt with people with poor to no credit. They were being inundated with repossessions and my short-term goal was to find an outlet for them; auction them off or remarket them to our dealer base. My long-term goal was to assist collections in determining the reason for the increase in defaults and try to find a way to stop the bleeding. I immediately found myself in a shitty situation. I would get tremendous opposition from the collections and sales departments who felt that I was meddling and feared that I would cost them money. Their paychecks weren’t predicated on losses, only on sales volume. I somehow managed to be very diplomatic, selective in the battles that I chose and eventually made them understand that I was there to help.

It eventually started clicking and my knowledge of appraising vehicles, my relationships with auctions all over the country and my work ethic made me a top manager in the first year. My biggest contribution ended up being problem-solving. I didn’t always have the answers but no one ever worked harder than I did to find one. In a building full of people able to make decisions, I became one of the only ones to follow through on them. The employees and dealers who we funded loans for, essentially making them our customers more than the debtors, came to appreciate and value my efforts. It came down to one essential ability that I had that you would think is common but strikingly not so…I knew how to talk to people and I worked with them, without hubris or bluster. It worked for everyone.

For a while, I almost thought it was too good to be true. Because I always think this way I waited patiently for the other shoe to drop. It didn’t take long. I soon saw the real personality of my manager, who I spent a lot of time with, and it wasn’t pretty. An accomplished man with the gift of gab, he really came across as a genuine and nice man. He was very good at his job. But underneath that exterior was an explosive temper and a very insecure personality. In short, he wanted me to be good but not as good as him. I could be smart, but not as smart as him. He was unpredictable in how he was offended and as volatile a man as I ever met. As I began to really establish myself, he became insanely jealous and tried to tear me down as often as he could for fear of becoming upstaged. I tolerated the closed-door meetings in which he would slyly try to put me down and sometimes burst out in angry tirades. For a while. Then I gave it back, sometimes in spades and our relationship deteriorated. We would be like this for the entire time I worked for the company. Overall, we got along more than we didn’t and we made it work.

It was difficult for me. As hard as it was to tolerate his megalomaniacal behavior, I both liked and needed the job. My relationship with the owner kept me grounded. A quiet, non-confrontational and highly intelligent man, the owner refused to get involved in personnel matters but he would always take care of me financially and he often referred to me in his distinguished class of businessman and clients as “the best in the business” at what I do.

Two years into my employment I hit a real downward slide. My ongoing financial woes, that I took with me upon hire and my health both came to a head at the same time. I had to declare bankruptcy, our house was foreclosed upon and we had to move. In addition, my illness progressed from maybe needing a transplant to definitely needing one. I would become increasingly ill for the next 2 years. While keeping up with my rigorous schedule, it was starting to take its toll. Until the greatest stroke of luck I ever had came my way.

A co-worker offered to donate a kidney to me. It would end up being a perfect match and she saved my life. In addition, my manager initiated a fund-raiser for me. The owner personally kicked in $15,000.00. I would end up getting the transplant before the fund-raiser. Deb and I limped in, a mere 7 days after our surgery, to a huge room filled with friends, family, and co-workers. I have to give my GM credit, he really stepped up for me. But little did I know that his gratitude would be a permanent wedge in our relationship. He held the fund-raiser over my head mercilessly.

As generous as Deb’s gift was, the only one who made me feel guilty was my manager. Whenever I appeared ungrateful, to be determined by him, I would get beaten down for my lack of reverence. Other than recovering, coming back to work in a mere 33 days total, and working harder than ever I will never be clear on the source of his animosity. But as I said before, the good days outnumbered the bad and I loved the job. I was a key player, I was in a position to help people, I was well-known and respected in my industry and earning a good living. I would stay for 9 years.

Towards the end of my ninth year, the company started getting visitors. Those visitors were involved in a lot of closed-door meetings that I wasn’t invited to. As it would turn out, the company was being sold. Not the worst news, many companies sell. But this buyer intended on liquidating us. Some knew some didn’t, but 2 months later everyone would hear that in April of 2016 we would write our last loan. The entire sales and most of the administrative staff was summarily let go with no notice and a very weak severance check. My GM was among those let go, he was livid, to say the least. I was asked to stay indefinitely because my role was a clean-up position and I was needed now more than ever.

My GM was so upset, due to a combination of embarrassment and not being consulted with in the process that he went on a tirade. He made a hell of a scene on his way out the door and conducted a serious phone campaign after to pull any remaining employees away. Myself included.

I was experiencing many powerful emotions. I was sad for the fate of my company. I was upset over the good friends that lost their jobs. I was relieved that I was safe for the moment but aware that it was definitely temporary. In the interim, I negotiated my terms for the immediate future.

At the same time, a good friend who had left the company a year before called me. He would never recruit me before, but now that the job was defunct it was perfectly legitimate to see if I wanted to join. I would be Operations Manager of a large finance company that specialized in financing motorcycles. The job was perfect for me. 3 interviews and 3 weeks later I was offered a position. I asked for an offer letter. It took them 9 days to provide one and I was very turned off by this. My wife and I were arguing, she thought I should stay and ride it out, I argued that I was on a sinking ship and I had a chance at a new beginning. Add to this mix my former GM calling me constantly urging me to take the job, joining him in sticking it to the company that wronged him. He put a lot of pressure on me. My decision was made when my present company immediately cut my pay. When the offer came I jumped at it.

I ended up working for the worst manager in history. Controlling, arrogant, unaccepting of any input than what spewed out of his fat, donut-stuffed mouth. It was a horrible experience. My staff loved me, I could do the job, but he was unbearable. I think he’s mentally ill. Speaking of ill, my new kidney began to fail and I started to miss a lot of work. The days of working for a company that cared for me and worked around my illness were long gone. I was laid off 3 months in. I had made a huge mistake.

I could have stayed at my previous company for years. They are still open, collecting on their portfolio. I’m not sure how long they would have kept me, but I know that I would have earned for a while longer and they would have worked with me as I dealt with my health issues.

Today is a day that is hard to just pretend never happened, regardless of how hard I try.

38,325 days… installment 2

As I stated in the last installment, my Grandparents’ marriage was not without tragedy.

In 1948, on a typical late fall afternoon, my Grandmother had just finished making dinner. A fresh pot of coffee was percolating in the kitchen and my Grandmother had just asked Charles to run into the living room and tell my Grandfather that dinner was ready. The distance from the kitchen to the living room was not even 15 feet but Grandpa’s game was to ignore her until she yelled then he would come into the kitchen with a big smirk on his face. Marion didn’t want to deal with the game. Charles did as he was told, and dutifully ran down the short corridor to call his dad. As he did, he accidentally tripped the power cord to the ancient coffeemaker. As if in slow motion, my Grandmother watched helplessly as the pot tipped and the scalding hot coffee poured down his back. He screamed, immediately went into shock and was dead moments later. My mother tells me that a team of doctors, with today’s technology, could not have saved him. My grandparents were completely crushed. My grandfather would retreat into himself, my grandmother would deal by completely, and I say this without exaggeration, smothering my mother, her only remaining child.

Not the grieving types, life went on. The UK in them sustained them. Grandpa was from Scotland, Grandma was from England, they were built of sturdy stock. My grandfather found work as an Oil Burner repairman and worked several side jobs. My grandmother busied herself immersing herself in her daughter’s life. She would find fault, in as matronly a manner as possible, with her friends, their parents, their houses, and their clothes. No one or nothing was good enough for her daughter. It wasn’t snobbery, although it looked an awful lot like it, it was merely overprotection. My mother somehow managed to maintain a small circle of friends, she simply coached them to look past the interrogations and disapproving looks and see the nice, battle-worn woman within. She managed to have a fairly normal childhood. At least for a while.

As it would turn out, tragedy would unfold again. After going upstairs during her 7th birthday party because she didn’t feel well, my mother would be found unconscious in her room. The diagnosis would be Viral Spinal Meningitis. In 1952, this disease had no cure. She would languish in a coma for a week until a young doctor approached Mel and Marion with a glimmer of hope. He told them of an experimental serum that had shown promise but was not approved by the government yet. With little to nothing to lose. they agreed to try it. It would save her life. It would take a year of recovery, including learning how to walk again, but my mother made a full recovery. I only wish the same could be said about Marion. The smothering would escalate to epic proportions.

to be continued…

The day the walls came crashing down

Back in the good old days, when I was a working and contributing member of society, I was an auction guy. I didn’t start in that industry. I worked at a restaurant for a very long time, until I was 31 to be exact. When I was diagnosed with Cancer I made a change. A haircut, a closet full of new suits and a pay cut of $20,000 later I entered the “real world” in the exciting world of car rental.

As the unofficial world’s oldest trainee, I ran circles around the recent college graduates and moved up the ranks fast. I was a blur known as “who the fuck is that guy?” After 18 educational months, I was forced to take a stand (a story for another blog) and I quite ceremoniously (also a story for another blog) left the company. No skin off of my nose, I had secured a position with a concrete company. I would become a dispatcher of concrete trucks servicing the USA’s second biggest, only second to the Hoover Dam, civil project, the Central Artery Tunnel AKA the “Boston Big Dig”.

It was a bloated, bureaucratic, enormously expensive and corrupt project but it was great for my resume. I acquired fleet, management, union negotiation and project supervision credentials in a short time. The job was killer, 6-6 daily nailed to a desk answering phones, monitoring job sites, and listening to drivers whine like bitches (some, not all) but it was worth it. Seeing the project coming to an end 2 years later and fearing downsizing, I went on the internet and found an opening at a National Salvage Auction. An industry I knew nothing about. Using the internet, not a real familiar medium in 1999 for me, I was interviewed within a week and off to CA within 2 to learn how to be an Assistant General Manager of a Salvage Auction that I had never been to and had not met one employee. 8 weeks later I would return from job training, walk into an unfamiliar building and ask for a Manager that I would grow to hate. I lasted 2 years, despite the fact that she never wanted me there. Gordon Gecko was less of a control freak than this woman. At the end of my 2^nd year, an old friend from my Enterprise days reached out to me. He was the new GM of a wholesale auction and he needed me. Wrecked cars to whole cars? I thought to myself, why not? I joined him.

I was immediately hooked. Being on the road, talking to dealers, being around cars new and old (I love cars, have since I was a kid) and then there was auction day. Auction day was about deadlines, a week worth of preparation going off at 10 whether you were ready or not, regardless of weather or any other excuse you could come up with. It was “Go Time”. Hundreds of dealers, lane after lane of bidders frantically waving as auctioneers spoke lightning fast selling cars at the rate of 1 every 30 seconds per lane. There I would be, maintaining my dealers, meeting new customers, shaking hands and making money. I would turn out to be very, very good at the auction business. For the first time in my life, I had found my special purpose. Apologies to Steve Martin.

I had never done sales in my life. As it turns out, being knowledgeable of your product, attentive to your customers, and passionate about what you do is enough. I worked hard for my customers, I earned their loyalty and I never had to be “Slick Willy” once. I simply did what I said I would for my people and I became a well-known guy in the business. With success comes some obstacles and the owner eventually decided that I was making too much money, despite the 38% increase in overall volume during my tenure. I warned him that I wasn’t taking a pay cut and should I leave my customers were coming with me. He called my bluff and he lost…bigly.

For several years after I left this company I expanded my experience in the car business. I dabbled in retail sales for a bit and one day in 2008 I had a serendipitous moment. My mother-in-law worked with a woman in Real Estate whose husband was GM of a sub-prime Automotive Loan company. He was looking for a guy with car biz experience. Once relayed, my mother-in-law, over a glass of Chablis immediately took down the husband’s phone number and called me. I went to meet him the next day. He was looking for someone with experience working with car dealers, sales management, remarketing and strong negotiations skills. In particular, knowledge of auto auctions. It was a perfect match. At first, he didn’t believe that I knew the people that I said I did, but as good fortune would have it several dealers would traipse through the office that day, poke their head in to say hi to the gentleman I was interviewing with, and subsequently say “Bill, what are you doing here?” As the saying goes, SOLD!

I was hired on the spot, given a department to set up, funding to staff it and leeway to run it my way. It would take time, but I became an integral part of the operation. Part of my responsibilities were to attend the auction every week with my GM. For 9 years we went to the same auction, a huge operation in MA where we sold our repos, mingled with our dealers and met as many new dealers as we could. Because most of our dealers were there, it was the ultimate way to conduct business. We would get there early, I would evaluate our vehicles and set prices and hunt down any poor sap that owed us money. When 10 AM rolled around, I was “on the block” selling cars. Wheeling and dealing, as they say, working with the auctioneer as he captured bids as fast as lightning. Once I was done, my GM and I would evaluate how we did, process our titles and then relax. On nice days, we would lean against the outside wall of our lane and enjoy the weather.

Last year to the day, a driver lost control of a vehicle, sped into a crowd of dealers and crashed through the very wall that I would always lean against. 3 innocent people died and 24 were injured. It was a senseless tragedy.

Fortunately, I wasn’t there that day. My career was over by then.

Being in the industry as long as I had been, I had seen accidents before. People are careless and walk in front of cars as they roll up to the line to be sold. People run across entire lanes in order to bid on a vehicle at the end of the building. They forget that these are used cars and the brakes may be old and worn out. In this particular case, old and worn out described the driver. He maintains that the accelerator stuck. Something was clearly defective because the first victim he killed was hit at approximately 35 miles per hour.

I was reminded of this incident by Facebook Memories today. I had posted a tribute to the victims last year and briefly touched on my history at that auction. I re-read my post, had a quick moment of silence for the victims and then I read the comments. I had completely forgotten the response my post generated. The most significant aspect was how many people immediately thought of me when it happened.

It was a pretty well-known fact among my friends that I was in the industry. I would often post pictures of nice cars that I saw at the sale. All of my dealers knew where I was every Wednesday. But the number of people who I thought had no idea what I did for a living was checking in with me on Messenger, calls, and texts to make sure I was unharmed. It really affected me today. Well, that and the actual tragedy itself…you know what I mean.

I didn’t have the heart to tell most of those that checked in that I was out of work for health reasons. I thanked them for their concern and assured them that I was fine. But it is nice, at the end of the day to know that people are there for you when you really, really need them.

38,325 days…a life truly lived

Yesterday, May 2^nd is a tough day around this house. My mother was uncharacteristically quiet and I had no interest in pushing her to talk about it. I knew why, and wasn’t going to bring it up.

Over the course of several May 2nds for the last 16 years, my mother had lost her father, her mother, and her 2^nd husband. My Grandfather, a wonderful man who I have written more than one tribute to passed in 2002. He lived until 92, I miss him terribly but he didn’t owe anyone anything. My Grandmother died in 2015, 12 years to the day that my Grandfather passed. That was no coincidence, despite her semi-conscious state she knew what she was doing. 1 year ago, on May 2nd, my mother lost her second shot at love when her husband of 3 months passed from lung cancer. He lasted 10 days from diagnosis to departure. May 2^nd is, safe to say, her least favorite day of the year.But she doesn’t talk about her problems, she bottles them up and shoves them down deep where they can’t be felt.

I felt guilty being in a good mood yesterday knowing she was in such pain. I couldn’t help it. The sun was out, I was on the deck blogging in view of my beloved duck pond. I washed my truck without sucking wind and I was finally starting to feel better. I was grateful for all of the support I have gotten from friends, family and the WP community. As my buddy Bojana pointed out, I have been fortunate enough to have some wonderful people in my life. Especially those that have passed on. Instead of mourning, on March 2nd of this year, I chose to celebrate the memory of my Grandmother.

It is hard to be sad about losing someone who lived almost 105 years. In my estimation she graced God’s green Earth for 38,325 days give or take.

Born in 1910, Marion Francis Barnes lost her parents in a house fire when she was only ten years old. She was raised by her Grandmother, a tough as nails Yankee woman with ties to the Mayflower and as deft with a wooden spoon as a Ninja warrior and his sword. I barely knew her, but I heard the stories. She did an admirable job of raising Marion and her sister Bertha, both finishing High School as strong, independent women, as the Great Depression in 1929 ravaged the country. She wasn’t entirely unscathed by the atmosphere of the times, pictures of her then suggest a very serious, proper woman who valued etiquette and upbringing. If one didn’t know better, she was a snob. In actuality, the purest example of a New England “Blue-blooded” Yankee.

Marion would become a victim of the wiley charms of my future Grandfather, a hard-working young man who didn’t worry about his future because he could build, paint, repair, rebuild and refurbish anything. Another skill, he was not fazed by her Yankee sensibilities and I suspect that he was the first person to ever make her laugh. The unlikely couple married in 1935 and began their life of 65 years together. Family was the main goal, and once the house was built, by him, my Grandmother conceived 3, and lost, 2 babies. One was a miscarriage and one a stillborn. She became pregnant for the fourth time with my mother just before my grandfather enlisted in the Navy Seabees and went to fight in the Pacific in WW2. He tirelessly wrote her letters. I have them in a box, all of them expressing his love for her, his son Charles and my mother. I’ve read the letters, one thing that stood out was the guilt when he missed penning one letter a day.

Marion was busy doting over my mother. Having lost 2 children already, nothing was going to happen to Charles and my mother. She worried about her husband, feverishly wrote letters to him and friends and patiently waited for him to come home and resume their lives together. They, as one single couple, embodied the Greatest Generation. True to the nature of the said generation, when he came home, he didn’t relax. He didn’t talk or complain about what he saw (he saw a lot as I would later learn) but instead, he started making up for lost time.

My Grandfather returned from active duty in 1947. He spent 2 years working on battleships once the Pacific campaign was over. Charles was 6, my mother was 2. They acted as if they never skipped a beat. They would almost never be seen apart after that. Theirs was s love story for the ages. Life went on and they were a big, happy family again. But it was not without heartbreak, tragedy and incidents that tested the concrete foundation of their marriage.

Tragedy would strike a mere year later.

To be continued…

The mystery text…part deux

Approximately a year after I became sales manager Eric’s performance had reached an all-time low. His daughter was at the peak of her illness, his marriage was in disarray, he was missing work by starting late and leaving early. I suspected that he was drinking heavily due to the bags under his eyes and a noticeable weight gain. Never was it harder for me to walk the line between friend and manager. Up until this point we had made it work, he was receptive to my input and appreciated my attention to his performance. In turn, I treated him with the respect that a man of his experience deserved and I was as lenient as I could be with regards to the number of appointments he was committed to as the ordeal with his daughter continued on. Family court, doctors, and lawyers all work 9-5 and I couldn’t stand in his way in this difficult time. It soon became clear, however, that his work, and consequently my department was suffering. My leadership would soon be called into question.

Little Machiavelli, as Eric and I jokingly called him, summoned me to a meeting with the owner. The topic du jour was Eric’s performance. The owner was a very nice, highly intelligent man who knew everything about his business numbers wise. The rest he relied on my manager for. This relationship was at the center of all of the problems I had with the company. The owner was fed daily doses of one-sided information, carefully crafted to build up the performance of my manager while carefully chipping away at the accomplishments of the other players…like me. In addition, he ran some solid defense in not allowing us access to the owner, insisting on following the “chain of command”, aka the wall of misinformation. I sat before my two supervisors and patiently listened to a long list of things I already knew. Eric’s sales numbers were way down. He looked disheveled and overtired. His customers had been calling in more often, which usually suggested a rep wasn’t making his rounds. None of this was news to me. I was told that disciplinary action was in order. I had been expecting this but the dread that consumed me was as if it came out of the blue. It was also not lost on me that both of my supervisors had never, ever reprimanded him during Eric’s entire career because they were both extremely non-confrontational. I was to be the heavy. I told them that I would write up a disciplinary action proposal, sit him down in person and give him terms. We agreed that he would be subject to a 90-day probation period at the end of which time he would be deemed, by me, as satisfactory or unemployed.

I called Eric and asked him to come into the office the next morning before he started his rounds. He wanted to know why. I explained that I had to review some things with him and left it at that. I didn’t sleep that night. I hadn’t had to be the heavy up to this point and while certainly capable of the role, I didn’t like it. My style was one of collaboration, hands-on assistance and to lead by example. I had disciplined employees before, but not one that I cared as deeply about.

The next morning arrived and I was in early doing my daily reports. Eric had come in without my knowledge and was in my GM’s office. My first instinct was that he was fishing for information about why he was called in. My GM dutifully called me and I went in, made small talk for a few minutes and then asked Eric to join me in the conference room. I was nervous and extremely uncomfortable with the task at hand so I got right to it. I handed him my written disciplinary action which listed in great detail the concerns we had with his performance with statistics to support it. I sat in silence as he read it. At several points, he offered up objections but I was ready with a fact to support my position. Finally, he finished reading it, looked up defeatedly and asked: “Where do we go from here?”

I explained to him that he was grounded for the next three months. He was to be in the office, with me, working his customers from inside. He would leave only by a verified and legitimate appointment. It was explained that I would do whatever I could to help him and to count on my support. It was further explained that I would decide after those 90 days if he still had a job. It was painful for me to say the least. To his credit, he made no excuses and offered no arguments. Amazingly, he said, “This must be hard for you.” Interesting take, as accurate as it was, that he was concerned about me at this point. I accommodated him:

“This is one of the hardest things I have ever had to do” I admitted.

The next 90 days were painful. It was difficult for him to be “grounded” and he struggled with the micro-management. I did my part and worked with him to rebuild his client base, making calls and visits when needed. His numbers began to turn around. As the deadline approached, I was again summoned by my GM regarding his fate. Was he doing the work? Has his attitude improved? Do you want to keep him on? I explained that I did want to keep him. I was then told, shockingly, that I didn’t have the “balls” to let him go. My response was “I’m the only one with enough balls to write him up. You sure didn’t.” This pissed him off to no end and I was told to do whatever I wanted. And I did. I told Eric the next morning that his job was secure and that my assistance would continue if needed. His response almost knocked me off of my chair. “Thank you, Bill,” he said. “You saved me when I couldn’t.”

We became even stronger at that point. Many things would happen after that. I would later be removed from sales because my previous department fell apart in my absence. Eric would be given my old job and we were true peers again, co-managers. He would deal with Little Machiavelli as I did and eventually would quit because of him. But we always stayed in touch until last year.

Our conversation would reveal that he is doing very well professionally and has a very nice girlfriend. While his daughter is still a tremendous emotional burden to him, the situation is “stable” so he is dealing with it. He was in a good place. It occurred to me that the tables have turned. I once sat across from him at the lowest point in his life, in a position of power. Today, he sat across from me as my life was at its lowest point ever. He had no power over me, but he is clearly doing much better than I. And he was kind. A lesser man may take advantage of my situation. I decided that I had to address the elephant in the room.

“You know, my Facebook post wasn’t intended to make anyone feel bad for me. That’s not me.”

“I know that. But your post reminded me that you were out there. That you weren’t feeling well. That maybe you needed a friend. You know, like you were to me.”

I thanked him for reaching out to me. He responded, “You’re one of the few people that I smile every time I think about. I needed to reach out to you, it’s the least I can do.”

He paid the tab, his theory was that now I owed him one and a second lunch was now guaranteed. I thanked him and we walked to the cars.

On the ride home, I marveled at how much he and I had been through together. I fondly remembered my working days. The good and the bad flashed through my mind as I drove. It seems so long ago, the days when my days were full of meetings, I was called upon to make decisions, my presence was felt and my absence was noticed. I accomplished things. My, how my life has changed. To imagine that it was only a mere 10 months ago.

Eric’s text reminded me of one thing, there are people who still care about me out there. That in itself provides hope where there once seemed to be none. I look forward to our next meeting.

The mystery text

Hey, I am a bachelor this weekend. I’m staying with my girlfriend in Dover but she has art class from 8-4 Sat and Sun. I want to meet you for lunch and catch up.

I stare at my phone, No name and I don’t recognize the number. This person clearly knows me. After pondering the myriad of negative consequences of responding “who the hell is this” I went ahead and did it anyway. Who is this? It’s ten O’clock at night and I now have to wait and see if I’ve just offended an old friend. In need of immediate gratification, I hoped that I would get an answer soon.

While I impatiently waited for my answer, it occurred to me that I recently lost my phone and all of my contacts. I’m terrible with phone numbers and spoiled by the option of going into “contacts” and just pushing the button next to the name. Obsessing, I sent another text. Lost my phone recently and most of my contacts, sorry if I don’t recognize the number. Who is this?

It’s Eric.

Eric, former co-worker and good friend. A relic from my past life. We chatted by text for a few and set up a lunch for the following Saturday. After we concluded I found myself experiencing a rare emotion, anticipation. I haven’t had much to look forward to lately. It will be good to see him.

I arrived at the restaurant on time. I had suggested the restaurant, a local watering hole with good burgers and cheap beer. At 26 miles door to door, it was still the closest place for me to go to drink beer and people-watch. As I walked in, Eric waved to me from the far corner of the room. He looked the same as always; moon-faced, greying hair, big belly and a genuine smile. I walked over, said hi and he stood to greet me. Fuck the handshake, I gave him a man-hug.

As we sat, he immediately commented on my appearance. He had never seen me with a beard. The last time he saw me, I was clean-shaven, in pressed pants, a 75 dollar shirt and shiny shoes. It makes sense that the pallid, scraggly bearded guy in jeans and a sweatshirt, shivering despite it being 65 degrees out may have unsettled him a bit.

We made small talk for a while. He asked a bunch of questions about my “transition to NH life” but they were really all thinly veiled attempts to find out what the hell had happened to me. After some small talk I finally asked him “so, what prompted this invite?”

“Well, I think of you often regardless of how often we actually speak. And I do follow you on Facebook” his voice fading towards the end as if to convey a hint. I got it immediately, he had seen the link to an article I had posted recently. It was an infuriating article about CKD (Chronic Kidney Disease) patients and dialysis patients being “entitled” and not as sick as people think. Written by a dialysis nurse, it was a senseless and incredibly insensitive affront to all who suffer from an invisible illness. It pissed me off enough to share with the caption “really? because it’s kicking my ass right now.” Because I have been basically nonexistent on Facebook lately, this post stood out to Eric and grabbed his attention. I felt bad, I’m not one of those people that post their laundry on FB to elicit sympathy or pity. I posted it out of frustration.

I was at that point sitting in front of the last person on earth that I would ever complain to. Eric has been through so much in his life, not the least of which being his daughter is dying of Anorexia. For as long as I have known him, his daughter has been sick and it has torn him apart. He has resigned himself to the fact that she will never recover. She has failed to thrive outside of a hospital environment in 6 years and her current situation is considered permanent. As a fellow father and friend, I have always felt compelled to ask him about her. He knows that I have a “is it better to ask or not mention it?” mentality and I lean towards asking because I want him to know that I care. He always responds with something along the lines of “I’m losing her.” It breaks my heart to this day. Yet, here he is sitting across the table worried about me.

He wanted details, so I gave them to him. Straight to the point, no holds barred, I spared no detail about the events of the last 10 months. He listened patiently, asked the occasional question, sipped his coffee and picked at his Reuben. He was clearly taken back by my accounting of recent events. I shifted the conversation to him. I asked about his daughter. He updated me, there was no change. She was in a psychiatric ward with little likelihood of leaving. I could see the heartache on his face. After a brief pause, he changed the subject to the good old days at the office.

We talked for at least an hour about work. We talked of memories of our time there and the characters we worked with. We rehashed funny stories and updated each other on the whereabouts and antics of some shared contacts. It was a fun trip down memory lane. But in the back of my mind, I was flashing back to some of the incredibly powerful moments he and I had shared, some good and many not so good. As we spoke, I was transported to another time. A time that seemed so long ago but was less than a year. The days when I was working, contributing and feeling good.

We had worked together for nine years. It was a tumultuous time for both of us. He had been there years before me and was “king of the hill” in the sales department. By the time I joined the company, he was struggling and his relationship with our mutual superior was strained. Over the years, we formed a bond over our disdain for the megalomaniacal, Machiavellian despot with a Napoleon complex we called “boss”. Despite not being in sales, I helped Eric with his accounts when possible. I saved a few for him and it helped forge a solid bond. That was a fortunate turn because I would be promoted to be his manager after 3 years and it can be an awkward situation transitioning from co-worker to subordinate. He took it in stride and in turn, I treated him with the respect that he deserved. We became close friends. That friendship would soon face a mighty test.

to be continued…

My Walden

Many of our greatest American poets and writers penned their best work while admiring a body of water. Robert Frost was inspired by hiking the woods in both winter and summer and waxed poetic about the beauty of the seasons in New England. Henry David Thoreau was inspired by the serenity of Walden Pond. Reading Walden as a young man I could relate to the notion of hiking through thick woods, to come upon an opening in the thicket and stumble upon an oasis. A body of water, glimmering in the summer sun, or the frozen surface glistening in the sparse hours of daylight while in the throes of winter. They both convey such a calming image that inevitably leads to a moment of reflection and wonder. I have 2 bodies of water that invoke the spirits of Frost and Thoreau. One is Ossipee Lake, which I am not in sight of year round. The other is my beloved duck pond.

The duck pond is the single one thing that makes the lot we live on graduate from great to awesome. It captivated my mom and dad when they bought it in the 80’s. The lot is two acres but is surrounded by wetlands which mean that despite not owning it, we have the luxury of enjoying another three acres with the security that it can’t be built on. Our view is ours to keep.

The house was clearly constructed with a view of the pond in mind. The main entrance, two sliding glass doors, and many windows all face it. I find myself drawn to the pond year round. Many mornings I have had coffee on the deck and spotted a deer or two that ventured to the water line for a drink. It teems with birds of all kinds, mostly Canadian Geese, and Mallards but occasionally the great Heron with the six-foot wingspan will swoop in like a Concorde Jet landing at a Municipal Airport. I love the birds, all of them. It pleases me to the core to see the small V-shaped ripple in water as a solitary duck makes its way across the pond.

At night, the pond shifts gears from quiet oasis to a bustling ecosystem as frogs loudly make their presence known, crickets (Cicadas?) create a cacophonous symphony, and the industrious beavers work tirelessly at their latest monument. It is deafening in early spring but like everything else, you get used to it.

With the late Spring in New England this year, I have looked eagerly to the pond each morning for signs of my favorite season. The pond tells all, year round. In the fall, the decreasing bird population signals the approach of winter. In the early winter, the encroachment of ice indicates the arrival of winter. In the spring, I monitor daily the receding of the ice and the return of my beloved birds. This year, the pond didn’t give me what I wanted, despite my constant pleading. By the middle of April, it was still in the throes of winter. And then, I think this week, Spring suddenly showed up. The ice is gone, my birds are back and last night the Crickets were deafening, much to the pleasure of my ears. Spring is actually here, I saw both a Wasp and a Tick this morning while walking the dog.

This afternoon, I had a coffee on the deck and admired my pond. My ducks are there, the sun reflected on the ripples suddenly brought on by a light but satisfying afternoon breeze. I have not been outside much lately. My sickness has made me tired, weak and cold. On days that I used to wake early and race outside, I have found myself sleeping late and spending my waking hours under a warm blanket. As I sipped my coffee, reflecting on my life recently, it occurred to me that my beloved pond can serve as a powerful metaphor for my life.

The seasons are fundamentally about change. In New England, we always have four seasons (sometimes in one week) and we can count on it. Change is inevitable. I see it coming by studying my pond. This Spring, my pond shed its blanket of ice and welcomed back all of the creatures that depend upon it. It embraced the change and is now doing what it is supposed to. Today, I shed my actual blanket for the first time and took a step, albeit a small one, towards shaking off the cold, grey winter that has occupied my soul for months. Like my duck pond, I let the sun hit me and I eagerly absorbed it, seeking enough light to allow it to warm me, reflect off of me and have enough in the tank to shine it for those that depend and count on me. I need to welcome back the desire to go on as if the urgency of a coming fall and winter was fast approaching. It is indeed that urgent.

Today, like Frost and Thoreau, I have found inspiration. I don’t know if they ever sat on the edge of their beloved oasis’s with a heart as heavy as I have of late but I can see how it inspired them to put it to paper for others to read and enjoy. It has certainly inspired me to do so, and I hope someone will enjoy reading this. It may be just a blog, but it could also be the first entry in a great epiphany in which a lost soul gets his mojo back.

Imagine that, all this about a bunch of ducks.

Fallen Idols

I always thought that losing an icon was a terrible thing. I sadly remember that stretch in 2016 when several musicians and actors that dominated the formative years of my life started dropping like flies. FB was flooded with people my age imploring God and the Universe to stop taking our idols. Prince, David Bowie, William “Father Mulcahy” Christopher, Gene Wilder, John Glenn, Arnold Palmer, Dan “Grizzly Adams” Haggerty, Muhammad Ali, the list is so terribly long and sad. But they all left a happy memory with me if not a reminder that life is fleeting and I am getting older. I always could reflect on their impact on my life and smile. It’s not the worst thing in life.

The worst thing is actually finding out that someone you looked up to is not the person you thought they were.

I had the pleasure of being great friends with a guy who was the son of a professional basketball player. A Boston Celtic, the replacement for the great Bill Russell, Mr. Hank aka “High Henry” Finkel. My friend had grown up in an affluent neighborhood North of Boston populated by many famous Bruins, Red Sox, Patriots, and Celtics players and he knew all of them and their kids.

When I first met him, I was enamored by his childhood friends and I prodded him constantly for info on them. I am not a celebrity chaser at all, I just wanted to know more about some players that I grew up idolizing. In particular was a certain baseball player, an absolute legend from the 70’s and 80’s that my Dad and I practically bonded over when I was a kid. My friend told me, actually warned me first, that I wouldn’t like what he had to tell me. I insisted. He told me a harrowing tale of a guy who smiled for the cameras and the fans but mercilessly beat his wife and children on occasion…losing streaks in particular. I was crushed when I heard this, as an adult mind you, that an icon of my youth was a great ball player, but a very bad man. Not one for hindsight, I’m pretty sure that I wish I had never learned this.

We live in the information age, as the saying goes. I contend that in some cases there is such a thing as too much information. I stop short of wishing for ignorance but I can think of so many instances where “new information” or “old family secrets” have destroyed a person that at one time gave me a warm and fuzzy. From the late Uncle that you just learned cheated on your beloved Aunt, to the knowledge that a young President that used to reign over the empire of “Camelot” was actually a pill-popping whore-monger, the list is almost endless and equally sad.

The job of role-model is a barnacle on the hull of celebrity. To be fair, other than elected officials, it is unrealistic to expect actors, athletes, musicians, etc., to be anything more than human. They’re really just people like you and I. I fondly remember the scene in a Bronx Tale, where Sonny challenges young “C” on his idolization of Mickey Mantle. “Does he pay your rent? No, he’s just a regular guy. What’s he do for you?” The boy was disillusioned, but it was the day he realized an important truth. That Mickey Mantle was just a ballplayer.

But OJ Simpson was just a football player…and he almost divided the country in half. And cost me a friendship.

I used to go to the same Barber Shop every Tuesday in the 90’s. I had hair back then. I was good friends with the Barber. Every haircut consisted of small talk and I would always find myself drawn to his wedding picture on the mantle before me. The tall, thin white guy with the pretty African American Wife. I never thought twice about him being married to a black woman. Then the OJ trial happened, and you can only imagine that Barber Shops across the country buzzed about it for months. One day, as the trial was close to an end, my Barber and I became engaged in the conversation as well. I offered up, in my own informed opinion, that I thought OJ was guilty. The room got colder than my ex-wife’s side of the bed. My haircut was over and I was asked to leave. I resisted, asking my friend why he was acting this way, and he said “You know my situation! How can I interact with you now?” I was stunned. I asked him:

“By situation…do you mean that because your wife is black then you have to support OJ? That’s preposterous!”

“Well, you believe he’s guilty because he’s black, don’t you?” How do you argue with that kind of logic? I paid for my haircut and I haven’t seen him since. I guess I’m a racist. My real takeaway is that many in the black community couldn’t accept that such a positive role model as OJ could be guilty of such a crime and their disappointment had morphed into anger and denial.

Facts:

I was disgusted when I heard that Bing Crosby beat his kids.
I was bothered when Eddie Murphy got busted with a tranny prostitute.
I was let down when I found out that our founding fathers owned slaves.
I was pissed when I learned Obama went to a church led by an America-hating minister.
I was disappointed when Mark Maguire and Barry Bonds did Steroids.
I was horrified when Michael Richards went on a racial tirade onstage.
I was shocked when Mel Gibson went off on an anti-Semitic public rant.
I was embarrassed when our president was caught on tape talking like a frat-boy about molesting women.
But at the end of the day, It’s just the new norm. People are not what they seem and they probably never were. The latest and perhaps most disappointing entry of late is Mr. Bill Cosby.

Bill Cosby is a unique story. He was a role model to millions of people regardless of skin pigmentation. He didn’t fall into being a role model, he set the framework. He kept it clean, he worked with children, created positive Television programming, spun wonderful yarns of his beloved wife Camile and his flawed but great kids. He did cable comedy and only swore once. He even defied stereotypes and created a hit TV show about a powerful, affluent power couple with a bunch of kids. His superpower was solving any major issue in 22 minutes once a week. A true icon, I admit I looked up to him.

Today, I just looked at him as he did the “perp-walk” from court after being convicted on all charges of sexual assault on a multitude of female victims. Yup, good ole Dr. Huxtable was dropping Mickey’s in their drinks and then slipping them his famous “Pudding Pop”. Another disgraced icon to contend with. A younger me may be disappointed or disillusioned, but this me is not. He’s just a man. A flawed man. A ruined man. My only disappointment is that I allowed myself to look up to him.

Nothing surprises me anymore. In this age of endless information and instant gratification, I can’t even control what I know about people. My real role models have always been the non-famous among us; the great teachers, hard-working parents, and broke philanthropists who volunteer their time and energy to bettering the world. Celebrity is a height that can only lead to a long fall and a painful landing. My advice, keep your feet planted firmly on the ground secure in the knowledge that if it looks too good to be true, it probably is.