A Petroff In A Pear Tree

Nobody cried when Daniel Petroff passed away, I mean hell, there wasn’t even a memorial service for him. It was sad really, I mean even though he was pretty fucked up, he still deserved to have someone love him enough to cry when he was gone. I couldn’t help but feel sorry for the poor bastard, I mean sometimes the choices we make in life really aren’t our choices at all. I was pretty sure that Daniel Petroff never planned to spend his life drifting through space believing that he was God. There was a time when his life was filled with as much hope and promise as any other. When we were in college there was a girl, although Monica Vibrato was no ordinary girl, I mean she was the stuff that wet dreams were made of. There were stories written on bathroom walls at The Rolling Hills Golf And Country Club that spelled out in iambic pentameter exactly what she was willing to do. Petroff would stand quietly nearby and watch her sitting by the pool as she soaked up the sun and about half a dozen Whiskey Sours, while beads of sweat danced down her chest and came to rest in her cleavage. He was head over heels, and after a couple of weeks of innocuous flirtation and fantasy, he was sure that she felt the same. She didn’t, and I’m not even sure she knew he was alive, but during the Canada Day weekend that summer Daniel Petroff’s life changed.

A bunch of us spent the weekend at someone’s cottage on Lake Simcoe where we wandered around the far reaches of our minds, wired on peyote and psilocybin as Spirit and The 13th Floor Elevators carried us through the darkness and delivered us into the light on the other side. Somewhere along the way Petroff got lost, I mean he stepped into the darkness but never came out. Not that anyone really cared, but he simply disappeared. When the smoke cleared, and the winged horses flew off, he stepped out of a brilliant, white light in calm confusion. It happened sometimes, I mean Aragon Nixx, who always seemed to be around whenever we ventured into time and space, said that it was almost inevitable that someone wouldn’t be able to find his way back from the hallucination he had disappeared in. Petroff was completely unaware that something may have been wrong, as he reached for Monica Vibrato with an outstretched hand and a solemn promise to give her the light he was certain was his very essence. She didn’t hear a word though, I mean she busy doing Nixx in the back seat of the Chevy Vega her father bought her as a graduation present. It didn’t really matter anyway, I mean she would never have believed that Petroff was who he thought he was.

The auditions for the background Apostle positions were completed and the heavenly chorus that was to be an integral part of the upcoming tour was assembled. Monica Vibrato had thought about giving it a try, but there just wasn’t enough room in the back seat of her Chevy Vega to set up a microphone for an audition. That was the last time Petroff saw Monica, I mean he hovered inches above the lake to rousing choruses of ‘hallelujah’ and ‘amen’ as he headed out on the road with the Apostles. When I think about it, it always reminds me that there are more times than we care to remember when life just doesn’t work out the way we want it to, I mean you can’t always be lucky enough to dodge the bird shit if you want to feel the sun on your face. I heard Petroff on the radio several times over the years as he spoke about how to save your soul on his syndicated radio show ‘Salvation Showdown’, or some other bullshit that sounded like that, and I saw him on the news a few times as he was being carted off to Queen Street Mental Health for insisting that he was God. I never really understood it, I mean it was weird, but he was completely harmless. All he really wanted was to spread love and peace. I just couldn’t understand why people were so afraid of  him, I mean it was the same thing over two thousand years ago.

Monica Vibrato, a little upset that she never got the chance to at least try out for the travelling Apostles, drove off into the sunset with Aragon Nixx, but he eventually abandoned her somewhere in Algonquin Park where she was rescued  by Tobias Tremolo, and got to know him the way David knew Bathsheba. They stayed together for almost two years, until Tobias was killed by police while attempting to shoot a guy who was trying to pass himself off as God. Nixx was always Nixx, When he’d had enough of the idiocy and short sightedness that we continuously display, he headed back across time and space and settled down with some female he found on Sherman’s Planet. It always seemed to work out for Nixx, I mean he never had any   expectations or preconceived notions to fuck anything up. The rest of us, well, we could stand to learn a thing or two from the Sci-Fi Private Eye, I mean we’re just so damn confused, and lost, and unhappy, that I suppose we just never seem to find a way out of it all, unless of course we fill our minds with peyote, or psilocybin. I’m not sure what the answer is, but I don’t believe for a minute that Nixx or for that matter, Petroff were wrong, I mean I don’t think that there were very many choices available to us, although spending the rest of my life in a hotel room with Franny Glass would have done me as much good as it did Salinger. As for Petroff, he died of natural causes, quite prematurely really, I mean his heart simply stopped. And while there is no medical evidence to confirm the theory, most of us believed that died from a broken heart when he learned that he had been betrayed. Everything else was just icing on the cake, I mean he was dead long before he was crucified on a pear tree.

Some Kind Of Wonderful

 

No one seemed to realize that Dillon Riker had fallen asleep in the middle of his sister-in-law’s birthday celebration at Chipotle, even though they were all right there when it happened. For seven minutes he sat in his seat at the table and didn’t move or make a sound while his family carried on with their conversations as if he wasn’t even there. It didn’t really matter though, I mean he wasn’t really asleep and he wasn’t at his sister-in-law’s birthday celebration at Chipotle any longer.

He had no idea what had happened, but he found himself in a small tacorita, sitting at a table across from a man who looked a hell of a lot like John Candy and identified himself as a guardian angel named Armadillo Phil, while somewhere in the distance someone was listening to Grand Funk. “Try the chicken tamales.” Phil said. “They’re sensational.” Dillon had no idea where he was, but he was sure that he had never been there before.

“Where am I?” he asked.

“Well”  the guy who looked a lot like John Candy said. “I can’t be one hundred percent sure, but if I had to guess I’d say it looks like we’re in Mexico.”

“How the hell did I get to Mexico?”

“Well, we’re not really in Mexico. I said it kind of looks like we’re in Mexico. Actually, we’re in a waiting room.”

“Doing what?”

“Waiting.” Phil said. “What else?”

“For what?”

“You really don’t know, do you?” he asked looking up from his plate of tamales. “You’re dead. Well, kind of, and right now you’re waiting for the council to decide what happens next.  There’s nothing to worry about though, I mean there are really only three things that can happen. First, they decide that you’re supposed to be dead and you head upstairs, or second you’re supposed to be dead and you move downstairs, and third, it could be that you’re not supposed to be dead at all and you wind up being sent back to life on earth, but that only happens in cases where a guardian angel screws something up. We don’t like to talk about those situations, but shit happens.”

“I have to tell you” Dillon said, “I don’t find any of this very comforting.”

“It’ll be fine.” Phil said. “Have something to eat. You’ll feel better.” For a guy who looked a lot like John Candy, he was right, I mean the chicken tamales were sensational, and Dillon was beginning to feel better even though his fate was still so uncertain.

“Is it just me, or is somebody playing Grand Funk?” he asked.

“Ya, Mark Farner’s here.” Phil said. ” Its been slightly less than eighteen hours and we’ve already had numerous complaints about him. Don’t worry about it though, I’m pretty sure that he’ll be heading back very soon.”

“Another guardian angel mistake?”

“Like I said, shit happens.” Phil wasn’t kidding. It seemed that shit happened more often than anyone cared to admit. There were waiting rooms across the cosmos filled with people who were victims of some guardian angel mishap or another. The problem was compounded by the fact that the entire operation was based on a three strike system with angels that screwed up being given two more chances before they were reassigned. Sometimes it seemed to take forever to sort it all out. The whole thing seemed like one hell of a mess. The irony of it all, as it was explained, was that the reassigned angels all wound up in accounting, keeping track of the number of strikes accumulated by other guardian angels. So, they sat and waited for the council’s decision, even though Dillon already felt like he had been waiting forever. Armadillo Phil tried to explain that there was no time where they were. It had absolutely no meaning, I mean there weren’t even any clocks or anything.

“I never imagined it would end like this.” Dillon said.

“It doesn’t really matter.” Phil said, “You need to understand that there’s no end and there’s no beginning. Its only the stuff in the middle that has any real value, anyway. The whole concept of time is just a construct of life on earth, that’s a totally unnecessary means of linear measurement that permeates one’s existence, and really has absolutely no meaning at all.”

“I’m not sure that makes any sense.” Dillon said. “So I’ll just try to sit here and wait for the council to make a decision.” Dillon had always found it difficult to wait for anything. His entire life had been based on the premise that he mattered, that he mattered enough to get what he wanted when he wanted it. According to Phil, Dillon and most of his generation were spoiled little shits with an incredibly distorted sense of self worth. No one he was told, absolutely no one had any rights other than to be treated like everyone else. For good or bad, everyone was equal. So they waited, like everyone else, with Dillon feeling like he had already waited forever, eating  chicken tamales and drinking Canadian beer.

Dillon and Phil were both somewhat relieved when they were advised that the council had reached a decision regarding the disposition of his case. A monitor on one of the walls of the tacorita powered up, and the chairman of the council appeared to render the decision. “I hope it works out the way you want it to.” Phil told him.

“Me too.” Dillon said.

“And so do I.” Phil said. “I’ve got twenty bucks at two to one odds riding on this.”

“On what?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Phil said. “If I win, will split it.”

When Dillon woke up, his family was still celebrating his sister-in-law’s birthday at Chipotle. They continued to talk among themselves and really didn’t notice his return. Dillon felt that something was different although he could quite put his finger on it, I mean something seemed to be missing, somehow. He had seen something else, no he had been someplace else, but he just couldn’t get it all to tune in clearly. He simply couldn’t remember a thing. When the server appeared to take their orders, Dillon felt compelled to order chicken tamales although he wasn’t sure why. He reached into his pocket to grab a cigarette, and pulled out a twenty dollar bill that he was certain wasn’t there when he put the jacket on earlier in the evening.  His mind was swirling, trying to put the pieces of something he had no idea about together so that something about the night made some kind of sense. The food came, and Dillon dug into the best chicken tamales he had ever eaten. while somewhere in the distance, someone was listening to Grand Funk, and for some reason, Dillon had an incredibly intense urge to kick the crap out of Mark Farner.

FIVE MINUTES

by  Solomon Tate

 

Farberman died on the table. It was just a routine appendectomy, but something went wrong. By the time they brought him back he had been dead for almost five minutes, well five minutes in this world. On the other side of the bright light there was no time. He said that he had met his maker. I wasn’t sure if I believed him at first, but he was convinced that he had spoken to God.

He said that he had floated down a long hallway into a white light and arriving on the other side, found himself standing in a conference room. There were four angels seated at a table mulling over the contents of a pile of file folders. “Name?”, one of them asked.

“Martin Farberman.”, he answered. A bell chimed, and the angels stood as the door opened. An older man who appeared to be in his seventies entered the room. He was dressed in a tie dyed tee shirt with a peace symbol emblazoned on it, faded blue jeans, and sandals. He sat at the head of the table.

“Martin Farberman, sir.”, one of the angels announced.

“Farberman, eh?”, the  man repeated as he flipped through a folder handed to him by one of the angels. “Sit down, Mr. Farberman.”

“Where am I?”, Farberman asked as he sat across from the old man.

“Funny story.”, the man began. “It seems there has been some sort of mix up on our end.”

“It was Julius’ mistake.”, one of the angels shouted out.

“Yes.”, the man continued. “A mistake has been made. Who made it is irrelevant. What is important is how we are going to correct it.”

“A mistake?”, Farberman asked.

“Yes.”, the old man repeated, “a mistake has been made. We were expecting Marvin Faberman, and well to our surprise, we got Martin Farberman. Pretty funny, don’t you think?”

“I’m not so sure.”, Farberman replied. “You still haven’t told me where I am.”

“Oh?”, the old man questioned. “Haven’t you figured that out?”

“I’m not sure.”, Farberman responded.

“Well, let’s see.”, the man said. “You came via the tunnel. There was a bright light. You’re in a room with angels, and then there’s me. Where do you think you are?”

“Who are you?”, Farberman asked.

“I am God.”, the old man said. “Now to our problem.”

“Hold on a minute.”, Farberman interjected. “God is supposed to be wearing a long, flowing white robe.”

“Says who?”, God asked.

“But it’s so 1960s!”, Farberman exclaimed.

“Ya”, God explained. “The 1960s. That was some of my best work. Peace, love, great music, and some wonderful drugs. Not a bad decade at all. I thought you would have kept it going, but you threw it away on discos balls and cocaine.”

“Am I dead, then.”, Farberman asked.

“Well”, God replied, “that’s precisely the problem. “You are, but you are not supposed to be. You’re not quite deceased. You’re preceased. A premature passing. Sometimes mistakes happen. Sometimes death arrives at the wrong address and sometimes an angel gets a little over zealous and poof, we have a problem. But I’m pretty sure we can correct it.”

“I hope so.”, Farberman said. “I didn’t know God made mistakes.”

“Really?”, God replied. “And why not? It gets pretty intense around here. The 1980s was a mistake. The banjo and kale, also mistakes. I don’t know what I was thinking, but we’ll have your problem fixed up in a jiffy. In the meantime”, God continued, “if you’re hungry the Ten Disciples Diner makes an exceptional spinach and feta omelet.”

“Aren’t there twelve disciples?”, Farberman commented.

“Well.”, God answered, “There was an incident some years ago, and we lost two. Bartholomew and Phillip, I think. We traded them to Asgard for Thor. We had to beef up our Rugby team for the playoffs.”

” And we needed an Allen key.”, Julius said.

“Right.”, God continued. “We had just received the new desks, and needed an Allen key to assemble them. There’s another mistake, the Allen key. Anyway, the two disciples are no longer with us.”

“Can I ask you something?”, Farberman queried.

“Of course.”, God answered. “Anything.”

“So many people are so unhappy.”, Farberman asked. “Is there some kind of secret to being happy?”

“You are a very confused species.”, God told him. “You spend so much time and energy moving around, looking for something that might make you happy, and all the while you just keep moving farther and farther away from it. You want to know the secret, its very simple. Do what makes you happy. Stop living your life with pretense and lies. Be the kind of person you want to be, but be kind and generous to others. And be nice to animals. All animals. And maybe get yourself a dog.”

“That’s it?”, Farberman asked. “That’s all there is to it?”

“Its never easy for your species to do. As simple as it is, you always seem to want to complicate everything. Its no wonder the other species want nothing to do with you?”

“Are there really other life forms out there?”, Farberman asked.

“Everywhere,”, God replied. “But you’re not ready for them.”

“Almost ready here, sir.”, Julius called out.

“Good. Good.”, God said. “Ok Martin, are you ready?”

“I guess so.”, Farberman said. “Is there anything I should do to make life better?”

“Listen to Motown and The Beatles.”, God said. “And spend time at the beach sitting in the sun and listening to the waves.”

The next thing Farberman saw were the faces of the surgical team leaning over him and looking quite relieved that he was back. He would tell that story over and over again, right up until the day he disappeared in the Portlands. I have no idea if he really saw what he said he saw, but I would like to believe it. Since he first told the story, I have consistently listened to Motown and The Beatles, and regularly headed down to the beach. I am hoping to prolong my trip to the other side of the bright light but when I do arrive I think I would like to try out for the rugby team.

 

The Doctor Is Out…

by Fielding Goodfellow

I am at that age when shit happens. Not just to me, but to people I have involved in my life. It was sad to learn that the doctor was sick. He was by his own admission, really sick. He had been diagnosed with cancer some time ago and despite beating it back with his love of life and the usual regimen of assorted treatments, it had returned with a vengeance. And anger. It seemed so very angry this time. And while he continued to fight back, he recently discovered that the battle was lost. He began preparing for the end by doing his best to enjoy whatever time he had left. He was like that though. He had survived a stint in the army, a truck load of ex wives, and years of relentless hallucinogen use with a laugh and a story to tell. He said he was okay with it now, and I was certain he was, but it was hard for me to get my head around the fact that the doctor of debauchery and depravity was on his way out.

I called him my friend, but we were really kindred spirits, enjoying life in the theater of the absurd, and travelling across time and space to worlds that existed only in our own minds. We met somewhere on the Oregon trail, balls deep in female loggers, peyote buttons, and a polka music playing drummer who joined us on our journey of paradoxical pandemonium, all in an attempt to rewrite history as we imagined it. We shared our own life stories, our love of science fiction, books, beaver hunting, and music. We traded barbs and snappy retorts, wrapped in sarcasm and irony, and laughed until we forgot what the hell we were laughing about.

I had planned on visiting the good doctor, several times, but it seems I left it too late. Its a shame really, I mean I would have liked to have smuggled the Italian French-Canadian hybrid into Comerica Park and stuffed him full of hot dogs and beer as we watched the Tigers blow a two run lead in the top of the ninth to the Jays. But shit happens. At least we were able to boldly go where no man has gone before. For that I am eternally grateful, but man I hate having to look for a new doctor.

Cheating Death

 

by Solomon Tate

I lost one of my peers a while ago. While vacationing in Mexico with his wife, children and grandchildren, death swooped in as Jack was on his way to  a family dinner, and took his life as he collapsed on the hotel room floor. And now, another one was now gone. Another one of my peers had been snatched away to meet his maker. Graham woke in the morning, sat up in bed, clutched his chest, and that was it. There was nothing else. His wife did all she could to save him, performing CPR, calling 911, but it was of no use. He was gone before EMS arrived. Franklin, a writer friend, met a similar fate earlier this year, suffering a massive coronary as he sat at his desk typing. They all must have been aware that death had come for them, and as they futilely tried to cling on to life, if only for a second, the crushing fear of the unknown arrived, leaving them lost and alone in the anguish.

And that is, as I have come to discover, how death works. It does not come with an invitation to a sporting game of chess, but instead creeps up when you least expect it, with hooded cape and scythe in hand. There have been times when I have found myself obsessed with it. Times when I was so afraid of death, that I became too frightened to live my life. And as my friends and colleagues begin to shed their mortal coil, I can’t help but wonder why death can’t arrive peacefully and perhaps just a little more personably.

It would be a lot less unnerving if death arrived as an amiable, elderly man dressed in a pair of jeans and a tie-dyed tee shirt, looking like Bernie Sanders and sounding like Billy Connolly, willing to take his chances on a few hands of winner take all Texas Hold ‘Em or a few rounds of Hungry Hungry Hippo, while I sit at the kitchen table, with aces and marbles shoved up my sleeves, with no qualms about cheating death. Or perhaps we could sit by the television, drinking magic mushroom tea and watching a short film entitled ‘So, What Happens Now?’, directed by Ed Wood and starring The Marx Brothers.

If death is to arrive with maliciousness and malevolence, my friends would have been better off passing away in their sleep, ignorant of its arrival and spared from the fear that hangs heavy at one’s demise. Death is heartlessly cruel and perhaps that is why we spend most of our time here doing anything and everything we can to avoid it. As I question my own mortality, I am pretty sure that I don’t want to know the fear. I don’t want to know when death decides to pay me a visit, and under no circumstances will I be opening the door. I will be peering through the peephole in my front door, completely silent, with the hope that he will simply go away. If not, I can only hope that I am so messed up on peyote that it doesn’t really matter anyway. Given half a chance, I’m sure that Jack, and Graham, and Franklin would have preferred to go out that way as well.

 

 

Things Never Said

 

I never really knew him well, even though he was always there. I suspect that he didn’t know me either. It wasn’t for lack of trying on his part, but in retrospect I don’t believe that I was able to accept what he had to offer me. I just wasn’t ready. I do know that he was a good man, a strong man, and a loving father.

I drifted apart from him sometime during my adolescent years, when rampant sex and substance abuse permeated my life, engulfing me in a protective bubble that kept everyone else out. He asked me many times what the hell was going on, but I just didn’t know what to say, or rather how to tell him the truth. Lies were strewn about like blankets on a cold man, designed to tell him what I believed he wanted to hear. And then there was another lie, and another, and on and on. The rift grew deeper and deeper, and it became increasingly easier to remove myself completely from his world. we just stopped speaking, although I can’t be sure how long ago it began.

Many years later, I received a call from one of my brothers. “Dad is in the hospital. Its not good. If you want to see him before he’s gone, I suggest you get down here now.”

The drive down to the hospital was filled with regrets and guilt. I was stopped in the hospital hallway by a brother who informed me that he was gone. I went into the room and sat in a chair, just looking at him, trying to figure out what I was feeling. I couldn’t think of anything to say, so I just sat there in silence. The funeral was no different. I seemed to be empty.  I didn’t even cry.  I felt nothing, and said nothing.

It’s been 15 years since he passed, and I finally figured out what I wanted to tell him. I’m sorry. I’m sorry that we weren’t closer. I’m sorry that we didn’t try harder to understand one another, and I’m sorry if I caused you any pain. I want you to know however, that it is because of you, because of the things that you taught me, that I have been able to devout my life to helping others, and to take care of my family. What you showed me in everything you did, kept me from giving up. There were many times, when I felt despair, that I asked myself what would you have done. You taught me kindness, and you taught me to get through adversity. None of what happened between us is anybody’s fault. Shit just happens. Know that I now understand. I understand that I love you, and that often times life twists and turns on itself and leads us down roads no one has been before. I’m sorry it took me so long to sort all of this out, but I wanted you to know that I’m okay, and I wanted to thank you for teaching me what I needed to know about life, about myself, and about being a husband and a father. Nothing else really matters. And now, maybe, we can both get some rest.

Remembering Charlie Garrick

by Solomon Tate

“I guess it hasn’t really been that bad.”, Garrick said to Dr. Perlmuter, the cardigan clad Psychotherapist who bore a striking resemblance to Tim Curry. “I mean there have been many potholes, and a whole lot of wrong turns, but it’s really been pretty good.”

“So why are you here?”, the doctor asked.

“Well, out there may be okay”, Garrick answered. “But the shit in my head freaks me out.”

“Well, we’ll have to pick it up right there next time.”, he said matter of factly, “I’m afraid we’re out of time.”

The good doctor was right. They were out of time. Two hours and seventeen minutes later Garrick stepped in front of a train at the St. Patrick subway station, ending the life of a good man.

Charlie Garrick was 54 years old. He spent 30 years as a reporter for a group of small, community newspapers. He had written a book, but came to the realization that he could say everything he needed to say in 2 or 3 sentences. ‘The Decline of Modern Culture’, which he wrote in 1998, consisted of 250 pages, of which 249 pages were left blank. On the 2nd page Charlie wrote “The tyrannical web of deceit that has circumvented the universe has been left to run amok, unattended for far too long. Stop the fucking lying”. He was right about it,I mean  he really didn’t need more than 2 or 3 sentences to say what he needed to say. ‘Stop the fucking lying.’, pretty much said it all.

Charlie Garrick was my friend. We served two tours of duty together in rehab, during which neither one of us could muster the courage to achieve any measure of success. During our conversations, usually held over a couple of pitchers of beer and numerous tequila shots, he spoke lovingly about his children, and passionately about Taoism. Charlie believed that life just is. Nothing more needs to be done. If we could all accept our lives, commune with nature, and seek and want nothing, all of the world’s problems would cease to exist. I don’t really understand much of it myself, but he was certain it was right. “Be like a river.”, he said. “All it ever is is a river. It flows, and nothing more. And in doing nothing but being a river, it carves through solid rock, creating valleys, and massive canyons. Pretty impressive for doing nothing.”

We sat at The Brunswick House one afternoon, many years ago contemplating life’s purpose, as 2 incredibly naive young men were prone to do. I was a psychology major, infatuated with opportunities to delve into the psyche’s of troubled souls, and help them change to live more fulfilling and positive lives. Garrick, reluctantly chose his major in his 3rd year. He opted for a combined major in history & English. He stated that since man was destined to repeat the past, someone should know what the hell had really happened, and be able to write about the dangers of repetition.

Although  customary in these instances, Charlie left no note, leaving the usual culprits to ask why. All that they could do was to ponder circumstance and speculate in an attempt to rationalize what had transpired. I’m not sure if even Charlie knew why. More important and  certainly more relevant is  how  no one noticed the anguish and desperation that was consuming Charlie. He had friends, and family and it just didn’t make any sense. It never did. Something was eating away at him, from the inside out, and it had probably been going on for years and years.

I hadn’t spoken to Charlie in a few years, and I suppose that should have been some sort of warning that things weren’t right. But we always assume the best, I suppose. People get busy, and their lives twist and turn like a river, taking them where ever the river leads. It wasn’t unusual for Charlie to disappear, but he was pretty consistent in letting us know that he was okay. There was always some kind of smoke signal, a letter or a telegram, and more recently, a text message or an email, simply stating ‘All is well. Glad you’re not here’. But there had been nothing over the last few years.

Charlie had once told me about the time he headed north and spent 2 weeks alone in the wilderness. He said that when one removes himself from the human race, even if only for a short time, it becomes evident that you never really belonged, and no longer wish to be a member. Isolation was liberating, and in isolation, he was able to truly know himself, and to become himself.

But even in his reluctance to be a part of humanity, Charlie Garrick was always there for me, and scores of others. When my wife became ill, Charlie was there, and when my first daughter was born with a disability that required her to undergo 11 surgeries in 7 years, Charlie sat with me at that hospital every single time. He was a loving and caring man who always seemed to put others before himself. Sadly, most people didn’t notice as Charlie acted within the realm of silence and anonymity. He hated the recognition and notoriety that often went hand in hand with doing the right thing so much, that he had refused to attend 3 separate award events in his honor. Few people knew that he sat on several committees that dealt with social issues, or that he taught a creative writing course for marginalized youth in the city core. And that’s how he wanted it. He did what he did, like a river, doing nothing more that just being, and he carved a life of good deeds, touching so many.

And now that he’s gone, I regret for not being a better friend. I regret that I was not there for him when he needed someone. I feel guilt that I didn’t take the time to find out what the hell was going on so that I could at least try to help. I will miss him. I will miss the way he argued with the server at Szechuan Palace that Peking Duck is really only a chicken that swims and flies. I will miss the way  beer came streaming out of his nose like a fountain when he laughed. Most of all, though, I will miss his friendship. I will miss the commitment and dedication he devoted to being my friend. I will miss Charlie Garrick.

The Girl From Founder’s College

 

I met Lily in 1975. She was a full time art student, and part time bartender at The Cock & Bull Pub, in Founder’s College. In those days of politically fueled metaphysics and drug induced socialism, she was a wet dream some true. She was from Uruguay,  and moved with her family up here in the early 1970’s. She was beautifully South American, with an accent that could render most men speechless, and most women sick with envy.

The Cock & Bull was my pub in those days, drinking Labbatt’s and discussing Camus & Kierkegaard,  Dylan and Ginsberg, and Thompson and Kerouac. In those self absorbed moments of pseudo-poetic philosophy, her face brought me back to the essence of real beauty. She was always smiling, with a smile that illuminated the room, and dark eyes wide open, accepting of everyone, warm and welcoming. I fell in love with Lily, right there at The Cock & Bull, as I pondered life’s purpose over pints of lager and lime, from a table on the other side of the bar. We would speak occasionally, and our encounters soon included those signature smiles that so often indicate ‘I like you’, and those knowing glances from across the room.

One day, in one of our brief encounters, she informed me that our little group of liberal arts socialists, was the only one she could really tolerate. She hated the arrogant and abrasive jocks, and was bored to death by the business and science majors. We were, it seemed, the chosen ones. “We should go out sometime.”, I told her.

“Whenever you’re ready.”, she said. “All you have to do is ask.”

We dated for the rest of that school year, and she became one of the best friends I ever had. Long after we stopped our romantic tryst, we hung out together, catching movies and concerts, and just sitting in her dorm room on campus getting high. She called me once when she was sick, wanting me to bring her soup and cold medication, and I suppose to keep her company. When she found a spider in her room, I got the call to come and exterminate it. Sometime in 1976 or 1977, I was hospitalized and required surgery. When I woke in my room, I found Lily sitting there, patiently waiting for me to wake. “Hey”, I managed to blurt out.

“Hey, yourself.”, she said. “You really need to stop all of this attention seeking shit.”

“Ya.”, I said. “Thanks for being here.”

“Where else would I be?”, she responded. “Are you doing okay?”

“Ya.”, I told her.

“Good.”, she stated. “I have something for you. I hope it cheers you up.” And then Lily stood up, closed the drapes that separated my roommate’s bed from mine,  undid her trench coat, and revealed her totally naked body.

“Are you fucking crazy?”, I asked.

“Yep.”, she replied. “Now, I take it your not feeling up to tackling this right now, so I guess I’ll just have to do it myself.” And with that, she sat on the chair, legs draped over the arm rests, and proceeded to masturbate in front of me, right there in my hospital room. “You need to get your ass out of here.”, she said when she was done. “I miss having you around.” .

“I’m working on it.”, I said as she was heading out of the room. “Best hospital visit ever.”

“Wait until you see what I have planned for tomorrow’s visit.”, she remarked, as the door was closing behind her.

Lily died in 1978, the victim of a drunk driver. She was 21 years old. She was a beautiful soul, and a wonderful friend. She made me laugh, and she made me cry. It took me a very long time to get over her passing, and much longer to be able to speak about it. There have been a handful of people in my life who have touched me deeply. I hope they know who they are. There’s just some sort of connection beyond what our senses can understand. Its a love for another that is so deep, it requires a minimal amount of effort to maintain. Absence does nothing to hinder it.

I think about Lily a great deal. I never told her just how much I loved her, but I hope she knew. Its been almost 40 years, and I still miss her. I suppose I always will.

 

 

Remembering Uncle Needle Nose

The death of Uncle Needle Nose came as quite a shock. He was my wife’s uncle, well, her Great Uncle, her Grandfather’s brother, and not surprisingly, his name was not really Needle Nose. It was Alistair. The story goes that when he was a child, he had inadvertently inserted one of his mother’s knitting needles up his nose, and required some sort of surgical procedure to remove it. There was speculation that the needle had pierced his prefrontal cortex, leaving him with a somewhat diminished capacity for keeping his manhood in his pants. Nevertheless Uncle Needle Nose had passed away, peacefully in his sleep, at the age of 87.

The news of his passing hit my wife hard, even though they were not really that close. During the years I had known my wife while Needle Nose was alive, we had seen him on 3 occasions; 2 weddings & a funeral. “I’m so sorry.”, I told her as I held her in my arms.

“I just wish I had been able to speak with him one more time before he died.”, she said. “He was a nice, old man.” In reality, Old Needle Nose was an ass. Although not by choice. He spent most of his time devising elaborate schemes to expose himself to unsuspecting women. He had received numerous charges for all kinds of inappropriate sexual behaviors, but all of them were dropped due to diminished mental capacity. Most recently, when he was 78, he was caught in the bushes across from the public library with his ‘willie’ in his hand, showing off to the female passersby.

“I’m sure he was nice.”, I said. “But man was he ever messed up.”

“Ya.”, my wife agreed. “It was really too bad.”

My kids, who had never even met Needle Nose were excused from the memorial, and it was my duty to attend, and provide consolation and support to my wife and my mother-in-law. I was prepared, and up for the task at hand. On the way over to the Funeral Home, we exchanged stories about him in the car. I reminded my wife about the time he called me. “Paul”, he said. “Is that you. It’s Alistair.”

“Alistair.”, I answered, even though my name is not Paul, nor had it ever been. “What can I do for you?”

“Paul.”, he continued, “I am updating my telephone directory, and need to have your phone number to put in the book.”

“Alistair.”, I pointed out. “You just called me. You have my phone number.”

“Yes.”, he said. “I need to put it in my telephone directory. Can you give me your number?”

“Alright”, I told him. “Do you have a pen and your phone book?”

“I had a pen. Where did that pen go?”, he responded. “Hold on just a minute while I go to get another.”

“Who’s on the phone?”, my wife asked. I informed her about the conversation with Uncle Needle Nose so far. She laughed. “Really?”, she continued. “He called you to ask you for your phone number?”

“Thank God I’m not the only one who thinks this is weird. And then he can’t find his pen. The sad thing is”, I told her, “I’m sure, but I think he might have put the missing pen up his nose.”

“Well, just don’t tell him to look there.”, she said.

I waited on the line for over 10 minutes. Needle Nose lived in a very small room in a nursing home, and required no more than 30 seconds to retrieve a pen. I hung up. About an hour later, the phone rings. I answer it. “Hello, Paul. This is Alistair. I am updating my telephone directory, and need your phone number to enter into the book.”

“Sure thing, Alistair.”, I replied. “Do you have your pen ready?”

“Oh, yes.”, he answered. “I have just returned from the store with a new one. Can’t seem to find the one I had before. This one has 4 different colors of ink. Would you like to be black, red, blue, or green?”

“Let’s go with green.”, I told him. “Now let me give you the number, Alistair, as I am about to go out.” I gave him the number, quite slowly, but it took 3 attempts for him to get it right, and then put it in the book.

“Well.”, my mother in law said, “he was quite old and you know he had some problems in his brain.”

“Yes I know.”, I answered. “That’s why they called him Needle Nose.”

“I hope you don’t call him that at the service.”, my wife stated.

“I’ll do my best.”, I replied.

There were not a lot of people in attendance at the chapel. There were a few relatives, and it appeared some people from the nursing home had attended as well.  I sat beside my wife, and held her hand, trying to comfort her, and just to let her know that I was there for her. My mother-in-law, who had been speaking with the funeral director, returned to where we were sitting.”

“Could you please do me a favor?”, she asked.

“What do you need?”, I answered with a question of my own.

“There is no one to deliver a eulogy.”, she said, “Would you say a few words about Alistair.” My heart sank. I wanted to say no, but there was my wife, squeezing my hand tight, and looking at me with hope.

“Not a problem.”, I said. When it was time for me to speak, I walked past the casket, and notice Uncle Alistair resting peacefully, with a 4 color ink pen in his jacket’s breast pocket. As I approached the lectern, all I could think about was the time he called me, asking for my phone number. I started to smile, and fought hard to keep from laughing out loud. There was not much I knew about Uncle Needle Nose, and I had no idea what I would say. As I stood there, looking out at the faces seeking some consolation for their grief, the following came out.

“I did not know Alistair very well. In fact, I had only met him on a few occasions. But today, as I walked past him, I noticed that he had a pen in his jacket pocket.” I then proceeded to tell the story of the phone call for my number, and being left on hold while he went shopping for a new pen. When I had finished speaking, I used the pen and a piece of paper that were on the lectern and wrote down my phone number, with the name Paul beside it. I returned the pen, and as I walked past Needle Nose’s casket, I placed the paper in the breast pocket of his jacket. I returned to my seat beside my wife. She took my hand, and leaned over to me.

“What did you write?”, she asked me.

“I gave him our phone number. He had a pen, but I didn’t see his phone directory.” I explained. “Just in case he needed to call. Although I would  appreciate it if you told your family members not to call collect.”

“Consider it done.”, she replied.

“And by the way”, I said. “His fly is unzipped.”

“No way.”, she replied.

“Yep.”, I informed her. “Even in death, he’s going to dazzle the ladies.”

“You didn’t, did you?”, she asked.

“Didn’t what?”, I responded.

“Unzip his pants.”, she said, as she squeezed my hand.

“I think we should go now.”, I said.

“I think you’re right.”, she agreed. ” By the way, I love you.”

“I know.”, I replied. “I know.”

 

Chai Anxiety

 

I get anxious allot. In fact, I feel anxious most of the time. Even right now. I was in my late twenties when it started, it is the reason I no longer watch the news. I just can’t.

My wife bombards me with daily updates on the state of the world. It begins with one of those “Did you hear…?” questions, that she knows I did not hear. But it makes her feel important, so I indulge her, despite my angst. The other day, as I walked in the door, I was greeted with “Did you hear who died today?”, and then silence, as if I would need some time to take an educated guess. And so, after careful thought, I offered “Big Bird”. Quite upset at my childish response, my wife asked if I could take anything seriously. “I hope not.”, I told her.

It seemed that Florence Henderson had died. I had assumed that she had passed away many years earlier. My wife was actually quite saddened by the news, and I told her it was, indeed, sad news. I, however, didn’t really care. Death is the most anxiety provoking thought I have. It reinforces my immortality and, as I get older, the certainty that I too will share this fate with the talented Florence Henderson. Sometimes it keeps me up at night.

Many years ago I spent some time with a Dr. Twatwaffle, dressed in a tweed jacket, patches on the elbows, and a black turtleneck. We came to no resolution. I disliked the man, and I particularly found his attire quite anxiety provoking.

“Did you know. Stephen Hawking predicts the planet will be uninhabitable in 1,000 years?”, my wife states with some exuberance. “Do you know how much money we could save if we got rid of the cable, changed our cell phone plans, stopped eating out, and lived on a very strict budget?” Feeling like my head is going to implode, I tell her we need to talk. I remind her, once again, that I don’t want to know. I cannot fix the problems, bring back the dead, or live like a hermit. I just want some peace and quiet. “Why can’t we talk about other things?”, I asked.

“Do you want to talk about the kids?”, she queries.

I reach for the jar of Lorazepam, and prepare myself for the upcoming deluge of things I don’t want to know about. She looks at me, puts her arm around me, and kisses me on the cheek. “Never mind.”, she says, “I’ll take care of it.”

“You know”, she adds, “the light is out in the kitchen, and the toilet is clogged….”. Before she can finish the sentence, I let her know that I am on it. I get  up, and she reminds me just how much she loves me. Instantly, the universe settles, and the anxiety dissipates.

“We’re having goulash for dinner”, she advises. I despise goulash. I turn to look at her, and it really doesn’t matter. The world remains as it should. I will eat the goulash, and forever remember that this is just how it should be.