Heck, I even see him in the afternoons
and evenings; always with a different group of people; always with a few recent
creations tucked under his arm.
I won’t tell you his name, because I
know he treasures anonymity.
He was a Gunnery Sergeant in the Marine
Corps; so, I’ll just call him, “Gunny.”
Gunny’s an artist by trade, although he
didn’t start until he retired from Corps at the age of fifty.
He’s good.
Very good.
Although to look at him you’d never
expect it.
Creeping up on seventy, his longish
white hair mostly hidden under a New York Yankees cap; always wearing a
Harley-Davidson leather vest, jeans and motorcycle boots.
I was just noticing this morning that
his face sort of matches the leather vest in that both have seen more than a
few miles; hard miles; miles that leave their mark.
But his smile, ah, now that’s something
to talk about.
It’s a smile that says of all the
hardscrabble landscape over which life’s journey has taken him, “You will never
beat me, so you might as well stop trying!”
It’s a smile that is so very evident in
his art—art that depicts a world in which there is a settled peace won through
battles dark and bloody.
Colorful, bursting with passion and
realism, I’ve seen Gunny sell quite a few pieces to interested customers over
the years.
I even saw him do a presentation to a
gallery owner once.
She loved his work, and while I didn’t
get to hear the end of the conversation, I’d be shocked if she didn’t agree to
an exhibit.
He’s that good.
And, unlike many in his age group, he’s
very tech savvy.
He will quite typically have his iPhone
and iPad on the table in front of him and be busily engaged in the utilization
of both devices.
Today he convinced a man far older than
himself to purchase an iPad.
Apple should be paying this guy a
commission!
People of his generation should be
paying attention, because as George Burns so poignantly observed once, “You
can't help getting older, but you don't have to get old.”
Gunny is mostly alone these days.
His wife left him for another man when
he was still on active duty, and it just never made sense to him to remarry.
His two children, and six grandchildren
are all on the east coast, and even though they exchange visits regularly, it
doesn’t really help to fill the holes loneliness has gouged into his day-to-day
life.
I asked him once what fueled his art,
and he said, “Hope.”
When asked to elaborate, he simply
replied, “I fought in two wars and trained Marines to fight in two more. As a
result, I’ve seen enough despair to last me the rest of my life. If my art can
give people hope, then I will have served my purpose.”
I feel the same way about my writing.
I’m sure there are those who wish these
stories that fill the pages of Snapshots At St. Arbuck’s had more of an edge;
that there would be a “realistic ending” every once in a while.
But life is filled with bad endings;
life is filled with “edgy” realism...why add to it?
I just choose to focus on the
indefatigable hope that seems grafted into our DNA.
And even if it seems life has kicked
the hope right out of you, it’s still there; and in response to the right
resonance...it will rise up.
I feel that’s my role in life...to
release a “sound” into the universe; a sound that will penetrate to the core of
the most tragically broken heart and see it resonate with hope once again.
It's another soft, misty morning here in Ocean Beach, where I'll be spending much of my summer--three days a week here and four in Vegas.
This trip, however, is for ten days, the express purpose of which is to provide uninterrupted time to complete editing on the first draft of, "Ring Of Roses," a novel that I and my co-writer have been working on for quite some time.
Editing--and more specifically self editing--is a huge part of the novel writing process. And, yes, I am fully aware of the tendency some writers have to over-edit, but I assure you that is not the case here. This is all about getting it right. If the foundation is crooked, the entire structure will be unsound.
When this draft is completed, I'll go back to the beginning and start anew with the goal of creating a final draft. And hopefully by summer's end we'll have a manuscript worthy of publication.
For those of you who don't know, "Ring Of Roses" is essentially a love story about two people caught up in a domestic terrorism plot. Both tender and taut, it details the resiliency of the human spirit when faced with insurmountable odds and indescribable evil.
The
early morning sun danced over the ocean's surface as blithely as a bride at her
wedding reception.
Scents
of lavender, mixed with a myriad of unrecognizable, exotic tropical smells,
filled the air with a potpourri of fragrance enlivening my senses and
refreshing my soul.
St.
Arbuck's in Ka'anapali, on Maui's north shore, was filled with the pleasant
buzz of conversation typically found among those who have nothing better to do
than enjoy a perfect day in paradise.
It was
definitely what Kenny Chesney would call the "coast of somewhere
beautiful."
So far
Maui was definitely living up to its billing.
I sat
there with my beloved who, true to form, was navigating her way, quite
successfully I might say, through the morning Sudoku while I perused the local
news.
Have I
mentioned that she has now graduated, at long last, to real coffee?
Well,
'tis true.
I feel
so triumphant.
My eye
happened to fall upon an article about a high school band in the south that had
been bilked out of several hundred thousand dollars by a nefarious travel
agency in Fiji. The money was to have paid for a year-end trip to the islands.
Turns
out the money, instead, paid for a rather lavish lifestyle for the travel
agency owner.
I love
bands.
I may
have mentioned this before, so stop me if you've heard this (actually there's
nothing you can do to stop me—others have tried), but I grew up in a small
town.
Like
10,000 residents small.
At the
age of sixteen I joined the local community band—the Watsonville Community Band
to be precise.
The
band's musical prowess was the stuff of legend among those of us inclined
toward wind-driven instruments.
Which
compels me to ask: What do you call a wind-driven pitch approximator?
Give
up?
A
trombone.
(Cue
groaning)
Since
you didn't know that, you most likely don't know the range of a tuba—about
thirty yards if you've got a good arm.
I'll
stop now.
The
band had an aggressive concert and marching schedule and an ambitious young
manager.
We
triumphed over most of our competition in parades up and down the state of
California and, as a result, were invited to march in the International Lion's
Club Parade in Chicago, IL, which, as it so happened, was scheduled during the
World's Fair in Montreal, Canada.
We
decided to do both.
It was
pretty heady stuff for a generationally and socially diverse bunch of amateur
musicians from a tiny agricultural community.
Chartering
a United Airlines flight, we headed for Chicago.
I’ll
never forget that flight!
A
spontaneous jam session broke out at thirty-seven thousand feet as the
majorettes danced in the aisles with older men whose inhibitions had been sent
packing by a seemingly unlimited supply of free booze.
I had
just graduated from high school and was far too lacking in confidence to join
in the festivities, although seeing Darlene moving fluidly up and down the
aisle wrapped up in the arms of one drunken dancing fool after another was
sheer torture.
Darlene!
She of
the ten thousand-watt smile, dancing eyes, perfect body and personality that
seemed to brighten any space she occupied.
Oh,
yeah, I had an adolescent-sized crush on Darlene.
What?
Of
course she didn’t know it!
What,
do you think I was crazy?
You
didn’t go around telling major babes like Darlene stuff like that!
I mean
she was the love/lust object of every guy in the band.
Old,
young...it mattered not.
Panting
from all the exertion of having just danced with fifteen or twenty men, she
plopped down in the empty seat next to me.
My
heart nearly stopped!
She
sort of stared at me for a few seconds, her lips stretching into that crazy
smile. “So, you going to dance
with me, or what?”
I
can’t remember exactly what I said but in some form or fashion I indicated that
while I would have loved to accommodate her request, I was, sadly, forced to
decline on the basis that my dancing resembled an octopus on crack!
She
pouted for a minute before saying, “Nope! Not buying it. Come on.” And with
that she pulled me to my feet—which suddenly felt like the size of beer
kegs—hauled me into the aisle and, well, she danced like a whirling dervish
while I held on for dear life at once both terrified and enraptured by being
that close to the one and only Darlene.
When
we were done, we returned to our seats and she looked at me in silent appraisal
long enough for me to be quite uncomfortable.
Finally
she said, “You’re pretty cute.”
Once
again, I can’t remember exactly how I responded to her compliment, but I’m
certain it had something to do with blushing and babbling something profoundly
incoherent.
We
talked for the rest of the flight, the dirty old men casting frequent resentful
and envious glances my way as they tottered down the aisle toward the restroom.
We
talked about life, plans for college—she had none, I was going away—a guy in the
drum line she kind of liked and whom I instantly hated; music, dancing and
whether Taylor’s Hot Dogs were, in fact, the best hot dogs on the planet.
They
were and still are.
She
finally fell asleep with her head on my shoulder.
I fell
asleep feeling like the luckiest guy on the flight.
At one
point she woke up a little, looked at me, smiled a little and then promptly
fell back asleep.
Wow!
I’ll say it backwards...woW!
When
we got to Chicago we marched down the same street that in a year and one month would
be filled with thousands of war protestors battling the Chicago police and
chanting, “The whole world is watching! The whole world is watching!”
In
eight months, Martin Luther King would be assassinated, followed two months and
two days later by the death of Bobby Kennedy.
Of
course, we knew nothing about those tragedies then; tragedies that would
forever change the trajectory of our nation.
We
played on the grand staircase of the Conrad Hilton hotel; ate a lot of good
food; the adults drank, and drank and drank; Darlene danced, and danced and
danced; my obsession grew and...well, you get the picture.
The
night before we were to leave for Montreal, we had a party.
A real
blowout!
The
afternoon of the party, I was out by the pool when Darlene—clad in a bikini
that did things to my hormonally charged eighteen-year old system that
should’ve been criminalized—sat down on the lounge next to me.
She
did that silent appraisal thing again and then said quite matter-of-factly,
“You’re my date tonight.”
And I
was.
Gladly.
We had
a blast.
At the
end of the evening when I walked her to her room, she unlocked the door and
then turned suddenly and kissed me full on the lips.
“You’re
such a sweetheart,” she said a bit breathlessly, while cupping my face in both
of her hands. “You are kind and caring...and cute. Don’t ever change.”
And
without another word, she went into her room and shut the door.
I
stood there reveling in that kiss—a kiss that I would remember for years to
come—breathing in the warm, velvety summer air and, although I didn’t know it
at the time, making a decision that I would, indeed, attempt to be a caring and
kind person for the rest of my days.
Darlene
and I remained friends for the rest of that trip and very good friends
thereafter, at least until I went away to college.
“What
are you thinking about, baby?” My beloved said softly, jolting me out of my
reverie.
“Oh,”
I said. “Just thinking about how random moments in time can completely change
the trajectory of a person’s life.”
“Do I
sense the genesis of a new story?” she asked with that dazzling smile of hers.
It had been a rough week, what with having said a final goodbye to Miss Alice, my mother-in-law.
She had fought bravely against the stroke that had come without warning, stripping away everything that had made her, well...her, and in the end, as so often happens when the very elderly are so stricken, it took her life.
My trip to St. Arbuck’s was an attempt to find solace in the routine, the mundane, the common and predictable ebb and flow of life in my favorite coffee shop.
I sat there slowly sipping my medium coffee, with room for cream, and enjoying the randomness of passing customers.
The Artist—no idea what his real name is, but that’s what I call him—was hard at work on a pen and ink drawing at the next table that was so dense with detail and brimming over with life that you’d swear the image was photographic.
Two young women were hunched over a computer puzzling about what to do with their fledgling company’s website and discussing the need for a more “robust” presence on the web.
A bored businessman patiently awaited the delivery of his beverage, his eyes betraying a more than passing interest in the young woman standing next to him—a twenty-something beauty so busy texting that the barista had to call her name three times before she collected her latte.
The collegian in the corner stared in studied concentration at absolutely nothing while listening to his iPod; fingers drumming out a crazy rhythm on the tabletop.
An aggressive, thirty-something salesman paced obsessively while talking to a potential customer on the phone.
In the midst of this fascinating human tableau, my phone rang.
I checked the caller ID.
It was Eddie.
That would be Eddie Washington, my disgustingly good-looking, African-American best friend, at present on indefinite assignment in New York City.
I answered the call.
“So, like I was saying—“
“What?” he replied, puzzlement coloring his deeply burnished voice.
“I was going to tell you what.”
“Tell me what, about what?”
“What do you mean?”
“Dude,” he said in that tone of longsuffering patience for which he is known far and wide.“You can’t answer the phone like you’ve been in the middle of a conversation.”
“Says who?”
He sighed and then chuckled. “I miss you too, sugar.”
“We were in the middle of a conversation when you had to go. Remember?”
“Man, that was, what, three weeks ago?”
“’Bout that.”
“And you expect me to remember what we were talking about?”
I said, “This from the man who remembers minutia of arguments from years gone by?”
“Can’t help it if I’m in touch with my feminine side,” he replied huffily.
“Right. Anyway...like I was saying, why did you feel it necessary to move to the east coast when you had a perfectly good life here in Vegas, not to mention a perfectly good best friend whose life is now but a sad, hollow shell since you left!”
“Oh,” he said. “That.”
“Yes, that!”
“It’s like I told you, RG, the boy just wasn’t making enough money in Vegas and there are more opportunities for jazz musicians in New York.”
“But everyone who cares about you is here. Your life is here...not in New York!”
I could tell by the long silence that I had struck a nerve.
“I know all that,” he said quietly.
I’ve only seen the man cry twice in all the years I’ve known him, but I could tell he was close to doing so now.
He continued, “I’m so sad I wasn’t there to see Miss Alice off.”
“Yeah, it happened kind of suddenly,” I said.
“I always loved that old woman.”
“She loved you too.”
“I know she did. You guys actually in the room when she passed?”
“No. After ten days of my wife and her sister literally being there around the clock we decided that maybe she didn’t want to die while we were there. Turns out we were right.” I paused for a moment before saying, “I’ve gotta’ tell you, Eddie, I don’t understand the whole death thing, which is quite odd given my theological background. I mean, one minute you’re there, breathing, thinking, dreaming, planning; and the next...you’re gone.”
“It’s definitely a mystery.” He seemed to consider something before continuing. “Let me ask you something...do you think people fear death?”
“Without question,” came my immediate reply. “I think everyone fears death, and the ones who don’t are either lying through their teeth or are completely self-deceived.”
“So, you actually saw the body?”
I said, “We did. Everything was so still. Even the air in the room seemed still. Especially her. We’d been watching her breathe for so long all of us had moments where we swore she was still breathing.”
“Must’ve been a little spooky.”
“No, not spooky. It was, I don’t know, kind of sacred, I suppose.”
“How is your beloved taking the loss?”
I said, “Well, she’s obviously sad, but the stroke had left her mom so diminished, and with no chance of recovery, that when she finally died it was kind of a relief.”
“Everyone coming in for the memorial?”
“Yeah. It’s kind of like the gathering of the clan. People coming in from all over and—“
“Staying at your house,” he said, completing my sentence.
We both laughed.
“You know my family well.”
“Yeah, man. What you get for having a big ‘ol five bedroom house!”
“Well, needless to say, they’ll all be full.”
After a few seconds silence he said, “Wish I could be there, man. “
“I know. And, for the record, given your present circumstances no one expects you to make the trip. But the thought is definitely appreciated.”
His voice broke a little when he said, “Las Vegas will always be home, and you guys will always be my family.”
Since my throat seemed to be momentarily constricted, I said nothing.
He apparently suffered from the same affliction.
“So,” he said finally. “I’ve gotta run. Got an audition in ‘bout an hour. Could be a really good opportunity for me. One of those things that could launch me into a whole new stream of exposure.”
“Exposure is good.”
He was silent again before saying, “RG, I...”
“You don’t have to say it. I know...I know.”
“This won’t be forever.”
“And we’ll be here when you get back,” I said. “Might even come and see you in the spring.”
“That’d be cool. That’d definitely be cool.”
After a few more casual comments the call was over, and I was left feeling utterly bereft, beggared and bereaved, my emotions threatening to spin out of control.
I slugged down the remains of my rapidly cooling brew and quickly headed for the parking lot and the asylum offered by my car.
It just felt like so much loss—a reality of life with which I have always struggled.
A few deep breaths; a casual wave to a recently divorced friend who pulled their car into the spot right next to me; a glimpse of young mother holding tightly to a newborn; a frantic text from another friend who seemed to be in crisis; the elderly couple who arrive at the same time every morning, holding hands as if they were still in high school...and I realized that I was experiencing the cycles of life.
The thing about cycles is that...well, you have to let them run their course.
If you don’t, you short-circuit the process and never experience what you were meant to experience.
After wiping away that pesky leakage around my eyes I started my car and drove home.
I sat there at my usual place in St. Arbuck’s experiencing the same empty-headed stupor that had assailed me most of the week, sipping coffee while watching busy people come and go in a kind of spontaneously synchronized rhythm.
But even they seemed dull.
Nothing was interesting.
Perhaps it was the holiday.
With Christmas a little more than one week away, the proximity seemed to have everyone rushing about under the relentless prod of “Christmas Spirit.”
Peace on earth could wait for another day.
There were presents to buy!
Pies to bake.
Stockings to fill.
I had just closed my eyes and buried my face in my hands when I heard a small, almost angelic voice say, “I have a dress.”
I looked up and found that the dulcet tones belonged to a little blonde-haired girl of perhaps four or five.
She stood by my table, doing that swinging-your-torso-back- and-forth-with-hands-clasped-behind-your-back little girl thing and gazing innocently at me as if awaiting a response to her pronouncement.
“Why, yes you do,” said I as a smile crawled its way onto my previously dour countenance.
She kind of tilted her head to one side and said, “My daddy says I look like a princess.”
My smile grew broader.
“Is that right?”
She nodded her head as a shy smile appeared.
She wasn’t a particularly pretty child and her handmade dress seemed poorly sewn.
Someone had made a valiant effort to tame her mane of unruly hair—painfully evident was the fact that the hair had eventually won.
And yet, there was a sweetness in her that was compelling.
Glancing past her I noticed a thirty-something man waiting in line to place his order.
By the frequent looks cast my way, I assumed that he was the little girl’s father.
The vanquished hair warrior, no doubt.
After a minute or two, he seemed to decide that I was a decent sort and presented no threat to his child.
“Is that your daddy over there?” I asked, pointing to the man.
She nodded quickly after a brief glance in his direction.
I said, “Are you two buying something to take home to your mommy?”
She stared blankly at me for what seemed like an eternity and then with her lower lip trembling slightly she said, “My mommy is in heaven.”
Dear God!
“Oh, I’m so sorry, honey,” I said.
Yes, I know my response was woefully insufficient, but what could I say, indeed, what could anyone say?
Fanning out the sides of the dress she said, “Mommy made it for me to wear in our church’s Christmas program.”
In an effort to avoid further clichéd and hackneyed drivel, I simply nodded my head in silent understanding.
“She wanted to be here for Christmas, but God took her to heaven last week.”
My heart felt ready to burst.
I wanted to pick that precious child up, cradle her in my arms and tell her whatever she needed to hear that would bring comfort and hope.
She said, “Why did God take my mommy?”
A sniveling voice somewhere inside my mind hissed, Come on, Mr. big-shot writer. You’re so clever, say something to the kid that’ll make the pain go away.
“Well, sweetheart,” I said, struggling for composure, “sometimes God gets lonely for his special children—so lonely He just can’t stand to be away from them so He...He brings them home.”
She nodded silently as if, along with me, weighing the truth of my statement.
After a moment or two, she said softly, “Mister?”
“Yes?” said I, my voice choked with emotion.
“Do you really think I look like a princess?”
Her gaze was piercingly direct.
I blinked my eyes rapidly, hoping by doing so the river of tears pressing against its levy could be held in check.
“Honey,” I said. “You are the prettiest little princess I have ever seen.” And I meant every word.
I sensed her father’s presence before I saw him.
“Megan, come on. You don’t want to be late for your program, do you?”
Pointing my direction she said proudly, “Daddy, this man thinks I’m the prettiest little princess he’s ever seen.”
As he stood just behind her, holding a coffee in one hand and hot chocolate in the other, our eyes met, this brave father’s and mine.
And while no words were spoken, understanding passed between us.
That and something more—gratitude.
Then with his lips pressed together in a tight smile, he said, “And did you say thank-you?”
Megan looked at me and said bashfully, “Thank-you.”
They turned to go and almost made it out the door when suddenly Megan ran back and threw her arms about my neck hugging me tightly.
And then she was gone.
Me, I was left breathless with the wonder of what had just transpired.
I sat there not knowing what to do.
And then suddenly I knew exactly what to do.
I quickly threw my things into my trendy European man-purse and ran out the door.
I had a Christmas program to see, and if I hurried, I could probably catch the little princess and her father in the parking lot and get directions.
All at once, Christmas had taken on a whole new meaning.
After the fact, my beloved and I blamed it on the stress that accompanied the situation we’d been dealing with for the past ten days.
She’s in hospice, you know.
“She,” being Miss Alice, my mother-in-law.
Palliative care.
It sounds so cold and clinical; but hospice is anything but cold, and it most certainly is not clinical.
It is kind, caring and staffed with people possessed by a passion to ease the suffering of those who can no longer do so for themselves.
Insomnia had left us thrashing about in the thick sludge of exhaustion, the effects of which had been compounded by digestive systems that apparently had, unannounced, determined to go on extended leave.
In short, no nutrition and no sleep conspired together to produce an early morning phone conversation that had been less than, well, beneficial.
You might as well know that I’m not the sort to simply leave things alone—a reality that works, at times, to my beloved’s profound vexation.
I’ve tried to change.
No, really, I have!
But I just can’t walk away when I know there is something that remains to be said, an action that needs to be taken or, at times—more often than I care to admit—an apology that begs to be delivered.
This was one such time...the apology thing.
So, I showered and shaved; put on some pretty snappy duds, even if I do say so myself, and headed for the hospice facility.
On the way, I decided to stop in at a nearby St. Arbuck’s to collect a couple of coffees and a wedge of sumptuously moist cinnamon swirl coffee cake.
Yes, I know...blatant bribery!
Go ahead and call it for what it is, I don’t mind.
I’ve learned to go with what works.
And that definitely works.
Most of the time.
The neighborhood in which the hospice is located is, um, different than my neighborhood.
I believe the current PC description would be, “economically distressed,” a designator that could be, sadly, applied to many Las Vegas neighborhoods that previously enjoyed an entirely different distinction.
The people were different as well, at least when compared to my St. Arbuck’s.
They too seemed “distressed.”
But there, as in virtually every coffee shop I’ve ever patronized—both in the States and abroad—there was a collegial camaraderie that pervaded the atmosphere; a sense that those who gathered were involved in a shared experience; that, sink or swim, they would do so together.
And isn’t that the way it’s supposed to be?
British poet John Donne said it best, “No man is an island entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main...”
With these thoughts rattling around in my head, (a head that, for the record, seems to grow ever more empty as the years roll by, a reality for which I have no explanation whatsoever) I got into my car and prepared to drive the remaining four blocks to hospice.
But at that moment something caught my eye.
Something so startling; something so stunning; something so unexpectedly out of the ordinary that I simply had to stop and stare.
For how long I know not...but stare I did.
The morning sun had just crested the top of Sunrise Mountain; its rays like drops of liquid gold saturating and transforming the valley below.
A wheelchair-bound man of some years, homeless by the looks of him, sat in the empty parking lot, cup of coffee in his hand, face upturned toward the shimmering light, a smile of consummate pleasure transforming his craggy countenance.
He sat there, bathed in the warm, uncommon ochre radiance .
And sat.
And smiled.
And sat some more.
Finally, he sipped his coffee...slowly, languidly, pleasurably.
What I found so stunning about this scene was the fact that this man who was more distressed by far than anyone else I had seen that morning, had, as Bernard von Bülow coined, found his “place in the sun.”
Literally.
Engaging my often overly romantic, artiste’s imagination it wasn’t much of a stretch at all to picture him in that exact spot, each and every morning awaiting that moment when night turned to day; the cold was sent packing and he could experience a moment of private joy.
And it didn’t cost him a thing.
The coffee? From a gas station on the corner that gave it away for free.
It made me think of Miss Alice and this present journey upon which she has unwillingly embarked.
The days grow cold.
The night is upon her.
The light of life grows ever dim.
But step, by step—breath, by ragged breath—she moves inexorably toward a different kind of light.
