off-briefer

[off-briefer]

On The Smart Girl

We’ll see if the “smart girl” thing sticks. I was the “smart guy”. That lasted until second grade. I don’t know what happened. Something in me, after teaching myself to read at 3 (yep, sounds like a brag, maybe it is, it’s about the only thing I’ve ever achieved, really. Which is sad, thinking about it, topping out at age 3). Anyhow, I’m wondering what’ll happen with her, if her intelligence will continue to grow, or if she’ll regress into whatever I regressed into.

She’s being raised by different people than me, her grandma and grandpa are gone, but that wouldn’t have anything to do with anything. Grandma was a sweetheart to my kids. Not like she was with me. She wasn’t mean with me, but she was strict without a doubt. Lots of pressure, real early.

My first experience with putting too much pressure on mine was when she was 4 and I was trying to teach her how to ride her bike. We went over and over and over. And she was getting frustrated and I knew that but I wanted her to work through it. Tough love I guess. Kept putting her back on the bike, again, again, again. Then, I looked, and she was crying. Tears coming down her face. Not wailing crying, but sniffling, tears, pretty steady stream, and I was totally taken off guard. Had no idea that I was pushing her that hard. But I was. It was my mother all over again, coming out in my toward the absolute most important thing in my life. I adore her, just like I adore my son.

I stammered to regain her trust as fast as I could.

“Honey, aw … no … I … are you okay? What’s wrong?”

“I don’t,” she said through her tears, “I’ve had enough.” She was putting together emotionally vague yet complex sentences like that when she was 4. Another reason she’s so smart. Her main reason for putting up with, apparently, quite a bit from me, was that she didn’t want to disappoint me. I’d been obsessed with trying to make her strong. The world is shit, she needs to be prepared, that’s my constant thought. With my son too — he’s small for his age — I’m on him a lot too. But I’m standing there, what has to look to her like a giant, watching her cry, trying to get her to stop.

I pick her up in one arm, and pick up her bike in the other.

“Daddy’s sorry honey. Daddy didn’t mean to make you cry. When you’ve had enough, next time, maybe you could tell me before it gets to be to much for you?” I said, my neck craned back, so she could see me clearly.

“Ok,” she said quietly, eyes still red.

I couldn’t help but think that I’d lost her trust for a bit. I’d pushed her too hard. I’d made her scared of something that should be fun. Something that should be liberating for a 4 1/2 year old.

Kids bounce back. Like a racquetball. The next night when I got home from work, she wanted to go to the basketball court at the park again to try riding the bike.

“But when I’m done, I get to say it.” Fair. Trust remained, likely never lost, but she was calling the shots on this one.

The night prior I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t sleep thinking of the way I’d made her cry, and not realized it. The way I’d pushed her too far. I felt horrible. Damn near mentally abusive. But I hadn’t realized it. That’s what scared me most. That I had no idea I was pushing her too hard.

We got to the basketball court and had it to ourselves. The sun was shining on a September evening. At about 6:15pm she rode her bike without training wheels. I let her ride around and around the basketball court all by herself. Her smile was huge. So was mine.

She’s smart, I remember thinking, she’s driven. Any other kid would have wussed out on the whole ride a bike thing. Dropped it.

Not her. 

So I’m done beating myself up about that day. And she’s not the biggest bike rider in the world, but the things she loves, she sticks with them, so far. 

And looking at her now, she could care less what other kids think. Or what they’re doing. She wants to do what she wants to do. Drawing. Reading. Softball. Basketball. Karate. 

Trusting me. It’s a big deal. And she’s smart enough to know it.

[off-briefer]

On Walking Away

I walked out on the top of my stoop on 1433 Carlotta Street in Baton Rouge, with an Army-issue duffel bag on my back carrying everything I owned aside from what was in my other bag strapped to my other shoulder, a backpack filled with books, an empty journal, a pen, 10 packs of cigarettes, and two bottles of Jack Daniels. I stood on the stoop with my entire life on my back, looking out onto the street where a friend had his 1977 red Jeep CJ-7 ready running, ready to go, ready to take me to the train station to start the three day ride home. I stood on the stoop and stared out onto the street where I’d stumbled home high or drunk so many nights, without her, always without her, always high or drunk, and suddenly the street turned to night and the streetlights lit the way, and I saw myself standing, staring back, smoking, looking up to the second floor where we slept, looking up at the reading light that was still on at 4:30am, I stood and stared and looked up at the silhouettes of she and two of her friends walking around, I could hear music playing, watching them dance, listening to them laugh, I stared up at them having a time and I flicked the cigarette to the curb. I shucked another out and lit it, and sat legs crossed, on the sidewalk, watching the window, waiting for the light to turn off, waiting for the party to end, but it never did, it never happened, the window had always been dark every night as she lie up there alone night after night. 

I stood on the top of my stoop with my life on my back and nothing in front of me. the night turned back into day.

“I wish this was different,” her voice said, to my left, at the bottom of my stoop. “I wish this was different,” she repeated. I turned and looked at her, still drunk, tears in my eyes, and she had them too. 

“You wish I was different,” I said. I walked down the steps and toward the Jeep waiting for me, and she started to wail something, “Mario, I…” when I turned around.

“If you knew how badly I wished I was different, too,” I said. She ran at me and held me, her six-foot frame enveloping me, her tears striping my right cheek, mine dousing her shoulder. I dropped my bags and I let her hold me. “I wish you knew.” She kissed her tears away from my cheek over and over, and dried them with her hand. “You will always be here,” she said, not pointing to anything, just stating a fact, I suppose. 

I was numb. But not to her. She always had a way of making me feel. Always had a way of making me do lots of things I didn’t want to do or feared. I didn’t say anything as I picked up my bags and threw them in the back of the Jeep.

I last saw her when I turned around as the Jeep inched away from the curb on  Carlotta, her hand was over her mouth, her eyes glossy reflecting light, twinkling in the midday sun. 

[off-briefer]

On Losing It at Work

Sitting here at work, working, typing, re-typing, thinking, my thoughts get the better of me.

She’s still in that hospital bed, she’s still in pain. And we’re there. Watching her fade in and out of sleep, in and out of pain, in and out of conscious thought and scrambled missives about her surrounding reality; thinking the view of the street outside her window is a landing strip for the airport, thinking she’s at her friend Barbara’s house, working for the Mother’s Club at the school we grew up attending, thinking that she wants to go home, thinking that we don’t need to be there. 

My thoughts get the better of me and I begin to cry. Silently, I hold my breath so I don’t make any sound, and tears come, and I wonder what I’m doing here. Why did I come back to work the day after we buried her? Why did I come back so quickly?

I sit here and cry and I feel more alone than I’ve ever felt, surrounded by people. No one sees me, no one hears me, they see, if they look, me concentrating on my screen. They can’t see my face. They can’t know what I’m feeling. They can’t know what I went through. I tried to be strong, these two months since I've come back to work. I’m 45 for fuck’s sake. I should be able to handle this. 

But she’s gone. And I was there every second she endured losing her life for 55 days. I reached out to people here at work, then. All that time I looked to them for some type of escape during. I think I out texted my welcome. I feel very very solitary here, like I said, in a room filled with people. 

I do not know what to do. She’d know what to do. But I, I don’t. 

[off-briefer]

On Casey, my 4th grade basketball coach

When basketball season came around in fourth grade, there was a lot of us that wanted to play. So many so that they had to split us up into two teams. So as kids we got to choose which team we wanted to be on. We knew the coaches of each team, they were our classmate Shane's older brothers. Beanie would coach one team, and Casey would coach the other. So they gathered us all up in the gym and we walked over to the coach that we wanted to play for. Some went to Beanie. Myself, Shane, Pete, Sean Carney, Nate, Chris Nelson and one or two others went to Casey.

Casey seemed taller than a tree back then. Bushy, curly hair that came out of the baseball hat he always wore, black hooded sweatshirt. He chewed gum all the time, I remember. But he was nice. A really nice guy and we all looked up to him. I think Casey too took a lot of pride in getting to coach his little brother. Casey was in high school then, a senior I think. He had two of his friends help him coach, this guy Thompson and this other guy who's name I can't remember but in the team picture that I still have of us, he was wearing a clash t-shirt.

Casey Cody taught us basketball. But more than that he taught us how to be tough, and how to have fun.

One practice he lined us all up against the wall, the wall by the hot lunch counter where we'd get pizza or Burger King hamburgers every Wednesday, and we all kind of wondered what we were gonna do, we figured we'd run liners till we fell over, but Casey had two basketballs in his hands and he was standing in front of us.

He told us we were gonna practice our reflexes.

Then he threw the basketballs at our heads as hard as he could. We ducked. We veered. We laughed together. We got hit sometimes, but mostly we laughed. Not one of us thought him throwing the balls at our heads was odd. Or mean. We thought we were honing our reflexes. I will never forget this. Never have I had more fun at practice. But it got better.

There were only a few of us on the team. He lined some on one side of the court under the scoreboard, and some of us on the other side by the bleachers.

"when I roll the ball in the middle, you," (he pointed at the first person in one line) "and you"(the first person in the other) "run for it, dive, fight, and get the ball."

Someone asked "what else?"

"That's it," he said. "Get the ball."

He rolled the ball. I remember being smaller than everyone else, but I didn't give a shit. All I wanted to do was prove to Casey I was tough. I wanted him to approve. I looked up to him so much.

I sprinted. I dove on the crappy gym floor for the ball. I wrestled with my best friends for the basketball. I dont remember if I came up with it or not, but I didn't care. I wanted to do this drill over and over and over.

And I remember we were good. And I remember feeling so confident that whole season, so tough with my teammates around me, and Casey as our coach, than no other school intimidated. No other gym seemed big, or foreign or scary. I don't believe we lost that whole year.

He used to pick a few of us up for games in this shitty car and drive us to and from. I remember it smelling like musty leather and crappy cologne. Musty leather and crappy cologne can be a great smell.

I also don't remember ever practicing passing, shooting, or anything fundamentally basketabll related. I mean, I'm sure we did that plenty. But I remember having fun. I remember diving. I remember ducking. I remember wrestling. And I remember smiling, laughing and never being more excited to go to practice, or to games.

I saw Casey a few years ago off Burlingame avenue. I hadn't seen him in years. He greeted me with the excitement of an old friend. He chatted a bit about those days, what we were doing with ourselves now, etc. but I remember feeling like I was still 8 years old talking to my coach. I remember feeling a bit in awe.

You are thought of in high regard and you are missed, Casey.

[off-briefer]

On Saying Goodbye

The following is the eulogy that I read in front of the 500 people that showed up to my mother’s funeral. I loved my mother more than most sons. She was my life in a lot of ways.

First, seeing all of you here fills myself and my family's hearts with joy. My sisters and I know that my mother is loved, but seeing you all here leaves no doubt that Judith Margaret Biancalana left a positive mark on this earth, a feat that not all are able to claim. You are all a tribute and testament to, and ultimately, the result of a life lived unburdened by regret, the “what ifs”, or could-haves. My mother lived a full life, one with many happy, glorious times, memories we all share. Thank you. The pain of our immediate loss is dulled and is washing away at the sight of all of you. She's looking down and thinking she must have done something right. In fact, I believe that’s how she would have put it, “I guess I did something right.” To me, that would be my mother grossly understating the truth. To me, she did near everything right. But she'd never boast, she'd never shine a light on her life's achievement. If she was anything she was humble, honest, and set in her ways. But she really did do so many things right.

Father Donal, thank you. We have known you for more than 30 years and are beyond pleased that you’re our celebrant today. My mother is happy, I can assure you, as are we all. Through her time at the hospital recently and well before, you were and are such a wonderful friend to Mom.

To Mrs. Pat Casey, one of mom’s lifelong friends, for being there every single day my mother was in the hospital, 55+ days, for being a source of comfort to our whole family and to, most of all, mom. No one but she had her dedication and love. Pat was there 27 years ago when my father passed, and she was there for Mom. Her consistent presence and counsel will never be forgotten.

And one more but not least thank you to the team of doctors and medical professionals that helped my mother over the years, specifically Dr. Aileen Whelan, Dr. Donald Ho, Dr. Fred Lui, Dr. David Kursrock, Dr. Khan and Dr. Lee. Were it not for their dedication, expertise and guidance, my mother would have truly been lost, our family without a path or plan. You helped extend mom’s life and we’re all so thankful to have had those days and memories.

The poem says "grieve if you must" but if you all can, remember mom at her best, funniest, her most lively. What I’ve written tries at that.

Aristotle once said, The roots of education are bitter, but their fruit is sweet.

Judith Margaret Baldassare was born on November 9th, 1940 in a bit of a shanty called McKees Rocks, just outside of Pittsburgh Pennsylvania. She was the daughter of Joseph, who worked for the “local men’s group” running numbers for them, booking sports and betting. Without too much detail, my mother was raised to be street smart. Whatever she learned in school paled in comparison to the education she received from life in those years, living above a pool hall with her aunt and uncle, their children and her father and her sister.

My mother was older sister to Eileen, who was the polar opposite of my mother. Aunt Eileen was brash and crazy and untethered. My mother was responsible and studious and obedient. My mother and her sister Eileen were very much alike though in that they were both a joy to know, a joy to be around. They accepted each other much the way my sisters and I accept each other. And today, we remember our Aunt Eileen as well.

Mom moved to San Jose to live with her aunt and uncle in the mid fifties and attended Willow Glen High School. She was very involved in activities, was her student body president and was a beautiful example of her own will and drive to affect her world in a positive manner by participating in athletics and school programs as much as time would allow. She was smart about her money at a young age and bought her first car, a 1957 Chevy with money she earned herself. In 1958 she graduated.

Famed sportswriter Ring Lardner said, “The family you come from isn’t as important as the family you’re going to have.”

In the early sixties, Mom went to work in San Francisco at an insurance agency as an administrative assistant. It was there she met her best friend, Barbara Fenich, and it was Barbara that set my mother up on a date with a guy named Mario. She fell in love and they married in 1966.

Soon after they married, in 1968 they had Diane, 1970 Debbie arrived and in 1972, my fathers last try for a boy, I was born. My mother wrote me a letter after my father passed letting me know how much she loved me and that that day I was born how proud they both were, delighted they had a son. I can remember feeling more proud reading that letter than I have ever felt. Under that strict exterior was a heart as big as her, and in all her children she saw unlimited potential. She saw humor, athleticism, intelligence and poise. When we were awkward she was stalwart. When we faltered she let us solve the problem and fix it, and when we succeeded she was the first to congratulate and beam with pride. She pushed us to take chances, to achieve. To work hard, to persevere, and to never give up.

Angelita Lim is quoted as saying “I saw that you were perfect, and so I loved you. Then I saw that you were not perfect and I loved you even more.”

This is how my mother felt about all of her children’s spouses. My mother had picked up telling me over the past decade, "you better thank your lucky stars." She refers to me thanking the stars for my wife, Laura, whom she loved, and I tend to agree. Her sons in law, Gary and Rob were beyond good and kind to my mother and she was very lucky to have them in her life. She loved her entire family equally, in law or otherwise, without fail.

Billie Jean King once said, “Champions keep playing until they get it right.”

Mom was competitive. She loved the Pittsburgh Pirates and Steelers, and of course the Giants and Niners and Warriors. She was present for every one of our games, whether it was baseball or softball or basketball or volleyball, she was there. She was involved in everything we ever did. Coaching, managing, running things. And if she wasn’t managing from the dugout, or driving the car to a tournament, she was always cheering on the sidelines. Taking carloads of friends of ours to teepee the houses of Burlingame. Mom made sure that a dull moment was never had.

My sisters would be the picture of athletic and academic achievement where I, had two hobbies, baseball and driving my mother nuts.

But no one could handle me like my mother handled me. More than once. And I expected and deserved every whalloping I got. But as tough as my mother was, she taught me what it meant to love unconditionally, to care about whatever we did, whether it was school, sports or even much later in my career as a writer — that I give everything I have to everything I do with passion and focus, and most of all, with a fire inside. And no matter how hard I may have fought against her at times, no matter how many mistakes I'd make, she let me make those mistakes, it’s my belief, for two reasons: because it turned me into an adult, helping me learn and grow and stand firm, on my own two feet and the second reason, so that she could say with no doubt, "See? What'd I tell you."

From Mother Theresa: “The miracle is not that we do this work, but that we are happy to do it.”

In the early 80s, when I and Debbie were still at OLA, and Diane was at Mercy High, she was a teachers aide at OLA, and then the school secretary in 1985. She was also a yard duty — the best yard duty, as any of the boys in my class can attest. Anyone that knew the kids in my class knew we weren’t the nicest children, we were mischievous, and my mother would have none of it. We never said no to her, she was the law and we all respected her. Because she was firm and resilient and fair. A perfect example, if two boys were fist fighting, my mother would sometimes take her time in breaking it up. I always wondered why. I found out later that she’d let the brawl go if she liked the kid that was winning.

In her time as secretary at OLA, there are many many stories to tell, but one which I truly love. On no particular day, a student walked in and said "Mrs. B. I don't feel good," the child holding their stomach. My mom said, “Okay, what's wrong?” The kids said, “Well, I threw up.” My mother, always skeptical of kids faking so they could get a free trip home said, "Oh yeah? Where’d you throw up." The kid said, "In the upper yard" thinking, there’s no way Mrs. B would follow up on that. My mother stood up, took the kid’s hand and said, "Show me where you threw up." So they walked to the upper yard. In the end, the student was back in class. My mother knew which kids were faking, which kids weren’t and which one’s cried wolf all too often. I think more children spent more days in school during her years behind that desk, because unless real circumstances were afoot, kids were staying in school. My mother treated each one of those kids as she would have treated her own.

There are more stories. But her time at OLA was about the children. It’s what she cared about most, and it is encapsulated by her incredible work ethic, never leaving her desk until every bit of work was done leaving nothing for the next day, her desk clean each night, no matter the hour. Thankfully for us, my father was an amazing cook, as some nights she got home very late. In that, she had a dedication to our catholic education, bearing three children that went kindergarten to college degree in Catholic school, my sister Diane and I finishing at St. Mary’s College of California and my sister Debbie at Santa Clara University. Even after my father passed, she made it her personal quest to put us through the best education money could buy. The two of them, my father and mother, sacrificed everything for our education, for our wellbeing, and we never wanted for anything. Our childhoods and and the years that followed were always privileged ones, in our eyes. At times we couldn’t rub two nickels together, as my mother liked to say, but we would be educated, we would be happy and we would always have family.

There’s a great line in Cormac McCarthy’s “All the Pretty Horses” — “Scared money can’t win.”

She loved to play cards, to gamble. As a young family we would take vacations to north and south Tahoe in the summers and winters accordingly, always close to casinos. We kids played in the arcade while my father played keno and kept a close eye on the bank account, while my mother played black jack, 12 hours or more at a time. Sometimes she won and sometimes she'd come away empty. I remember one night we sat down for dinner at a restaurant in one of the hotels up there, maybe Harrahs, and my mother informed us that she had just played black jack with none other than Clint Eastwood. We kids wanted autographs. "Did you get his autograph" we asked excited. "No I certainly didn't. I got up and left.” We looked at her incredulously. She went on, “He sat down right next to me. He ruined the table" she said, "He screwed up the deal. They let him get up and deal the damn cards." We couldn’t believe she didn’t get Clint Eastwood’s autograph. She couldn’t believe the Pit Boss at Harrahs allowed Clint Eastwood to handle play dealer with my mom’s chips on the line.

When I lived in Louisiana for a couple years, my sister Debbie and my mother visited and we ended up on a riverboat in New Orleans one day. My mother and I were playing black jack side by side, as she won hand after hand after hand. Soon a crowd gathered. The other players at the table had stopped playing to let my mother continue, just she and the dealer. Soon I noticed as I sat next to her that two large men with cowboy hats were standing right behind her. She kept winning and they kept watching, too close a watch for me. I had my eye on these two guys in case they did something, follow my mom away from the table — I didn't know, I was worried. By the time my mother played her last hand she had 7 or 8 thousand dollars in front of her. The crowd applauded as she finished by beating the dealer a final time. We got up, my mother oblivious to the two men behind her. I hooked my arm with hers, to “protect” her (there was nothing I could Have done. I was 165 lbs. soaking wet, these guys were enormous). One of the cowboys stopped my mom, put his huge hand gently on my her shoulder and said, "ma'am, it was a genuine pleasure to watch you play black jack." I sighed with relief. We cashed out, and I remember that night being our favorite in New Orleans.

Taking trips to casinos around the Bay Area with her best friends Mary Meyer and Mary Lycett and Judy O’Rourke and in recent years friends like Molly Mitchell and Father Flavian have been her escape and minor vacations - strangely with the winner of the group usually being father Flavian, not my mother. 

A.A. Milne says perfectly — “If you live to be a hundred, I want to live to be a hundred minus one day so I never have to live without you.”

No quote could better sum up my mothers great love, her reason for being and source of joy and pride, her grandchildren. They became her life the day Samantha was born in 1997. Watching her hold, talk to and play with her grandchildren, you understood true passion and love. She had so much pride in, and so much peace and joy filled my mother with each of her 8 little babies - Samantha, Ashleigh, Jessica, Mario, Dominic, Daniella Lucia and her youngest Joseph. When I say grandma loved you 8 kids I understate the word “loved” by miles. No one could love you kids more. A perfect example is when Samantha was born. Mom told us she wanted to be in the background and let Rob and Diane enjoy their new baby, to give them their space and not be too intrusive and mothering. So instead, not able to hold in her pride and love,  she turned to walking the hospital hallways wearing a sweatshirt that read #1 Grandma. Not too subtle but classic Mom.  When my father passed in 1989 her heart most definitely broke. My sister Debbie contends that her heart began to beat again when Samantha was born.

Finally, Tennessee Williams writes, “To be free is to have achieved your life.”

And after the stories I’ve told, illustrating the life she lived, she is certainly free. In the past two months my mother endured, fought tooth and nail, clawed. She fought until her body simply couldn’t any longer.

As we say goodbye to mom, grandma, Judy, Mrs. B we remember her fondly, happily, with her set ways, with her "don't care about what other people are doing care about what YOURE doing" attitude. We remember her as the only Giants fan that didn't like Will Clark because he swore using the worst of swear words on live tv in 1987 after they won the west, “no I STILL DON’T like him”, she'd say decades later, we remember the school secretary that ushered hundreds of kids to and from class, teachers and principals in and out of OLA, we remember the mother and friend that displayed an unmatched generosity and passion that would put her in front of a bus for a loved one if need be, the mother in law that never minced words and always, always gave as good as she got, we remember the grandmother that filled a living room with Christmas presents to rival Santa’s workshop, gifts piled shoulder high making all her grandchildren lucky and insane with happiness, we remember the woman that fell in love with my father and created a beautiful, strong family that she knows will survive any hardship or bump in the road. 

This is what I believe over everything: 

As are with all works of art, we all have a favorite, our favorite piece whatever it may be, we cherish it because of the emotion, true feeling that it brings out in us, the way it affects us, be it a painting, a sculpture, song, prayer. And we always talk about those amazing creations in the present tense as we hold them close. Because works of art are infinite. They live forever.

In the hearts of your family and friends Mom, you are loved, you are happy, you are smiling and joyful, and you live forever. Mom, I love you. You are my favorite work of art.

[off-briefer]

On a Night Off

When I lived in Baton Rouge, I went to graduate school for creative writing, to receive my MFA in Fiction, and being from California, the initial culture shock wasn’t too bad. Northern California, specifically San Francisco, prepares you for whatever might come along in life. Because whatever comes along in life has a place in San Francisco. So, at 22, after living in the City for a year, I moved to the capital city of Louisiana to start my graduate degree. 

I was less concerned with my studies the day I got there, I was more worried about getting a job. I applied at the most popular place I could find, The Chimes Restaurant and Tap Room. It was at the edge of the Louisiana State University campus, at the end of a long stretch of mostly bars that didn’t serve food like we did, and the bartenders there, whom I’d tested out as a customer upon visiting the campus months earlier, were very nice and the food was good. I didn’t have any restaurant-type skills so I figured I’d start there to find a job, why not. I was young and stupid and I’d literally do anything for a job. Plus being a bartender sounded fun. I applied the day I arrived in Baton Rouge and the manager there, whom I immediately interviewed with, told me they needed a barback (helping the bartenders), to shave, and to get rid of my earrings. And he told me to show up to work tomorrow at 4.

I’ve never worked harder. From running to get food for the bar to changing 200 pound kegs, to making sure the glasses were cleaned and stocked, to shucking oysters as fast as I could. It was baptism by southern fire. It was Mario, figure out how to do it immediately, or lose your job. There were myriad other responsibilities, coupled with staying out of the bartenders’ (there were always three or four at a time) way as the served people, I learned a thousand things in a night. How to pour beer, shuck oysters, carry way more than I could handle at once without dropping it, being fast. I had no problem with being fast. 

A few months later, I was made a bartender. This was physically easier than being a barback, I had paid my dues, and I had become very good friends with all the people I worked with, the waitresses as well as the guys and girl behind the bar. The people I worked with behind the bar with were Jeff, Heath, Reesi (only girl), JB (John Bell), Stefan, and others, and they’d all become my closest friends very quickly. I loved working there. Some days I wish I was still doing it. But that was 22 years ago and I’m a family man now, and it’s not the sort of work I’d be able to handle knowing what I know now.

Anyhow, going to school from 8-2pm everyday, then working from 4-2am (then after partying till 5am), was how I lived my life. I rarely had days off, I wanted to work as much as possible so I could always have money to party with and pay my rent at the same time. I remember being late on the rent quite a bit. Partying was more important. 

I was a part of a family there, at the Chimes, and I was the only one from so far away, from the left coast, from the liberal mecca of San Francisco. I think the furthest west from the Mississippi someone was was Denver. No closer though. 

I worked with beautiful girls who were our waitresses, funny-as-hell fellow bartenders and barbacks that were my close friends, and kitchen workers from the other side of town, from the black side of town, who made the food there taste the way it did, who invited me to be their friend, who showed me a side of the world that I’d never seen before. What it was like to be a black man in the deep south. They were Hatch, Big Jeff, Sean, and others. But those three were constant. They never got fired (as many folks back there did, couldn’t hack the speed or the hours) so those three were always there in the kitchen, working their asses off to server the people in the front of the restaurant, while they stayed behind the metal swinging doors that gave a loud “BANG” any time anyone came through with food or went in looking for their plates. I could make the obvious “back of the bus” comparison that it sounds like I’m making but I’m not making it on purpose, it’s just how it was. We had one black waitress for a period of time (I was there for almost three years). 95% of the kitchen was black. 

We all worked our asses off and this was never more apparent then on gamedays, when LSU was playing football on Saturdays, these days, our restaurant was packed like a Japanese subway car, except everyone was white, rooting for LSU or another SEC team and drunk. Very very drunk. Staff would work 15-16 hour shifts, from 9am to midnight, sometimes longer, depending on how busy it was, and by the end of it, we were tired, sweaty, dirty, and wiped. And we couldn’t wait to count our tip money and have a beer and a shot of Jagermeister. Times five. 

I could tell you a story about every person, every aspect of what I’ve just listed as the people and places and things we did on the job, some of them great and hilarious, some sad, some bad and uncomfortable, some ridiculous and unbelievable, but this time I’ll simply tell you about one night off I had. Aside from our place, the street was lined with other bars. Slinky’s, The Bayou, The Library and then a coffee shop. Can’t remember what that place was called but if you were there on a thursday or friday or saturday night, you were really really dedicated to school. There was too much going on to ever go there on a weekend night (I considered thursday a weekend).

THIS IS UNFINISHED

[off-briefer]

On Letting Go

We love so many things in our lives. I think when we’re born we learn to love our parents first, mother first, then father shortly thereafter. It’s just how it is. You learn to love your mother as a brand-new infant because you are never apart in the first days, months, year. The father makes his appearance, he takes his night shifts, walks the baby to sleep, rocks the baby to sleep, feeds the baby from the bottle. But our mothers are the first thing that we learn to love. And no matter what happens to us, for the rest of our lives, we are taught how to love and completely rely on our mothers first. If we never love again, if we never rely on anything or anyone again, there is a mother’s love first. They are, in many ways, certainly our first loves, and as is with most first loves, they shine the brightest and live forever in our hearts, minds, in our everyday.

You never want to say goodbye to anyone you care for so deeply. You never want them to be gone. But unfortunately, life speeds by us and it comes to the point where you’re forced to say goodbye. You’re forced to let go. When life takes a toll on the person you love the most to the point where their life is a constant stream of pain, you let go. You make the difficult decision to be okay with your mother’s wishes. You make the difficult decision to let go. Because it comes to a point where it’s not about you. It’s not about what you want. It’s about the first person that ever loved you. It’s about what they want and when they want to let go. 

You let go because you love your mother with everything you have. You let go out of love. You make sure they’re not scared. You make sure they’re as comfortable as they can be. You make sure that your mother knows she’s surrounded by everyone that loves her. You assure her that on the other side there is no pain. There’s no suffering, there’s only happiness and wisdom and everyone she loves. That dad is waiting too. You make sure she knows that her two daughters are there until the end. That her son is there. That her grandchildren know how wonderful she is and how sad they’ll be to let her go, but remember, in time, only the good things about their grandmother. 

Life is positively cruel. And at the same time it’s glorious. It’s the most complicated, wonderful journey we’re allowed to make. Love always overcomes hate,  always out performs negativity, always leaves selfishness in the dust. 

As I let go, I am remembering so many of the wonderful, crazy, tough and touching times that I shared with my mother. They’re enough to fill a book, some stories familiar. Some stories much stranger than fiction. She knocked me out cold one night after my father died, I was 17, came home drunk, and gave her some choice words from the more difficult part of my personality. SLAM. Out cold in our tiled foyer. My aunt woke me up.

She loved sports. But as she and I watched the 1987 Giants celebrate clinching the west division, and Will Clark screamed a semi-famous profanity loudly on live, local TV, my mother said “What did he say?!?!” I was all too happy to repeat what he said. After she slapped me for repeating it, she’d never like Will Clark again. You had one chance with her. Will Clark blew really blew it.

The day my daughter was born, she held Lucy, and I saw in her eyes the happiness that a mother, grandmother, feels. It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen. I was lucky to see it again as she held my son Joseph. “That’s what it’s like,” I thought to myself, seeing my mother beam. You do not know a passion or a love that comes close to the one you feel for your children. Grandchildren I imagine are even more wonderful, experiencing the joy of your child having a child.  

As I let go, I have known what it is to love completely and unconditionally. And it was my mother that gave me that gift, from the second I was born. It’s an ability I don’t intend to waste. Thank you Mom. I will miss you so so much. But you will always be with me, in the heart that you helped form, mold, make. The heart you created is filled with every memory that you had everything to do with. All of them. She made me who I am, and who I am is my mother’s son.  

[off-briefer]

On the pursuit of perfection, at age 44

There’s that cry you hear from recent college attendees or college graduates, “what will I do with my life?”, or “what should I do with my life.”

The answer is always, from 9 out of 10 people, “do what makes you happy.” Turns out, what makes you happy, doesn’t always make you money. And when you’re young, money doesn’t always matter, it’s fine, make enough to get by, make enough to pay for drinks and food and rent. Make enough to entertain a date or two. Make enough so you can live somewhat of a life, while enjoying a career beginning. May not be in what you love. May not be in what you even like. But you start somewhere. You have to. Or, you call mom and see about a spot in the basement. 

I have always wanted things to be perfect. Since I graduated from college. That is to say, whatever I did, I wanted it to be perfect, and when it wasn’t, I’ve blamed myself.

But now, at 44, I don’t have a full-time job. I mean — I work 40 hours a week, sometimes more, but I do not have a set job. I am a freelance writer. For the last two years, I’ve been bouncing around. And for the most part, I’ve been really happy. Been able to support my family, my wife my daughter and my son, better than I have as a full-timer. You learn to adapt as a freelancer. You learn that relationships are everything. You learn that some places, some jobs, are better than others. You learn that people you work with become increasingly important. You learn that a little bit more freedom in life is a very good thing.

At times, I struggle with fear, the fear of providing for my family, the fear of being enough for them, the fear of performance as a father and husband, and a writer. By at times I mean all the time. It’s the one thing that I’d really like to fix in myself. I find it a burden, one that holds me back from, who knows? It holds me back, I wouldn’t know from what. The fear won’t give me a chance. 

It’s powerful, the fear. My wife always says whatever happens, we’ll deal with it. And I get what she means, but what she sometimes fails to truly understand, is the amount of pressure I put on myself to give my kids the life they deserve, to give my wife the life she deserves. 

Per the recent election, per my feelings toward the coming year, my fear has peaked. I’ve been leaning on nothing in particular to deal with it. I’ve been stuck in my own head. I wish I could get out of it sometimes. Tracking twitter and the news doesn’t help. I have to unplug all of that. In a way, I have to make ignorance (semi-ignorance) my bliss. But I’ll find a way to let the fear creep back. 

So what do I do? How do I cope? Prescription drugs? Booze? Both? Or, I could throw myself into what I’m doing right now. Writing. Every word I write I feel myself living more. I feel myself repairing. Take for instance, this post. It’ll take me down a notch. Not a big one by any means, but it will put into perspective what I’ve let myself forget because of fear. There’s a little girl who loves basketball and karate and softball and reading that needs me. There’s a little boy who cries too much sometimes, but that’s okay, because he tries, he tries hard to be tough for daddy, a little boy who loves superheroes and baseball and apparently cowboy boots? Just got a look at his Xmas list. Cowboy boots. We’re in Northern California. That’s him though. Likes what he likes. And I have a wife who is inherently a good person through and through, who needs me more than I make myself available, who needs love just like I do, and I remain paralized by fear at showing love. At showing her my true self sometimes. She gives everyone the benefit of the doubt, she gives everyone a chance where I won’t trust you until you prove yourself trustable. This doesn’t make her stupid. It makes her kind and genuine. It’s why I married her, among other things.

My bliss needs to turn into a dedication to my family and this right here. Writing. I mean, it is already and they are already, but I need to rededicate myself to maintaining that bliss through them and this, and not let the outside world stop me from chasing after my goals. 

I’m a big believer in you make your own luck — that hard work pays off. That if you dedicate yourself fully, you’re rewarded in kind. I feel like it’s not true somedays, somedays I feel like giving in, like throwing in the towel, like stopping it. Just fading away into the ether like the microscopic combination I began as.  

Somedays I wish Id win the lottery and I let my mind wander as I take the quick pick tickets Ive bought, think what I’d do with 50 million dollars. That becomes my goal while I’m daydreaming. Dispersing my millions properly. How I’d set my whole extended family up for life so they would want for nothing their entire lives. 

Then I pop out of it, and realize that I’ve already hit a lottery of sorts. My family. One likes karate, one likes cowboy boots and the other needs to be held a little more, by the man she married. 

And I put my key in the door, and walk through after a day of freelancing and think, “Home.” Perfectly imperfect.

[off-briefer]

On what I pray about, today

Well 2016 has sucked. As one person whom I follow on twitter put it, “I thought 2016 was going to suck because some rock stars died too early.” Nope. Much, much more sucky than that. Got to get rid of twitter, soon.

The feeling after our country, the country I love, my country, elected a misogynistic, rapist, serial racist, liar, financial failure for a president with, and this is the worst when it comes to doing the job, holding the highest office in the world, no political experience whatsoever, I can only describe the feeling as one of hopelessness.

I pray for my family daily. Now my prayer goes further. My prayer must go much much further. To be strong enough to provide anyone I can with kindness, with empathy, with a helping hand.

I pray for the black, brown, muslim, LGBT, women, black brown muslim LGBT women, anyone of color or different creed, that they find hope and kindness in their fellow person. That they find strength in each other. In their family. That they realize they matter more now that ever. That they stay strong, hopeful and good to each other and those around them. And that they stomp out the barriers in their path barring them from leading a happy, healthy life in a peaceful but “never again” manner to where no one misunderstands that being of color a woman, or a muslim, or both, any LGBTQ people, means as much as it does to be white, and privileged, and a man.

I pray for women who deserve much better, beyond much better, a world that doesn’t exist where bullying and rape culture are so accepted. Sexist, down-putting horror will not be tolerated, I pray that I have the strength to thwart this. To have it never in my house, never around me, not while I’m a father and husband, not while I’m alive, not while I walk the earth.

I pray for the disabled, who, have been dealt a hand by god that I cannot fathom, that I cannot even empathize with it’s so out of my league. But they fathom it, they deal with it, their parents do, their caregivers do, and their families. I pray for them. They are to be treasured and emulated.

The last people on earth I pray for, or that deserve a prayer, are white, american  men. I pray for them only that they are afforded the common sense they lack, the knowledge they lack but sorely need, to push away racism, sexism and xenophobia. This last prayer is a hail mary, I know. This is the one that truly has me hopeless. 

One that has me clinging to my family, but one that I will continue to pray. 

[off-briefer]

On the other side of life

I can’t even remember when it started with my Mother, but her sickness took hold over years of having a hard time with her weight, quite a few decades of smoking which hampered her breathing greatly in the last 15 years or so (she’s since quit smoking, I believe it’s been 13, 14 years) and just time with both of these ailments taking their toll on her, leading to 15% kidney capacity, which at the time I write this, is I’m sure very much less than that now. 

She’s on dialysis, which would be crushing on a healthy person (aside from their kidney ailment), and it has taken it’s toll. She has no strength, no appetite, her skin is so thin that she gets sores from things as simple as wearing socks, and these sores are made worse by the socks coming on and off. Her legs need to be wrapped and rewrapped every day or so, to keep them healthy. She’s starting to lose her sharpness, she’s getting to the point where around the clock care will be a necessity. 

My sister has taken the most care of my mother, and that is to say, as close to 24 hour care as a mother of 3 can achieve, so in this there’s been a blessing. But my sister can’t do it all, and she has. I’ve certainly focused on my own family while this has gone on and let my sister bear the brunt of my mother’s entailment, mostly due to the fact that I’m determined to never have my family want for anything, partially due to work, and a bit due to not wanting to face the fact that my mother is slowly, certainly painfully, fading away. In many many ways, for the better part of 2 decades, during the years where I was a functioning drunk, on into the years where I lived on my own, and now the last 7 years with my wife and two children. I’m a city away. I used to live even closer. Still — my brother in law has been more of a son, more of the man of my family than me, and I have a very hard time actualizing that in my head, being okay with it, but there’s nothing that I can do about it now, the time has passed, the opportunity to be a true son now gone and done. Currently, I try to balance the attention I pay to my mother with my family life and work life and it’s not easy but I could always do more. We can always always do more, can’t we? Certainly.

My other sister, I’m sure she’s present for my mother in ways I’m not aware, more than me to be sure, we aren’t especially close, she and I, so I wouldn’t know where to begin describing her interaction with my mother, but I could say it’s there. That she supports my mother. But none more than my sister. Am I jealous that my sister is so close with my mother and involved in her care? Of course. Am I so relieved that my sister is the one that bears the brunt as I previously stated? So relieved and thankful. I could never amount that kind of strength, had I the time and money to support my family and be a true care giver to my mother like my sister is. I never tell her that I am proud of her because it would be met with vitriol or some other type of response, not thanks. I don’t mean she wouldn’t be thankful, I mean she’s not the type of person that accepts accolade for being a proper daughter. To her it’s love. Simple. It drives her to the edge, the constant worry and maintenance that my mother requires, but she endures for love. It’s all she knows.

However this is starting to sound like a poor me, self-deprecating, selfish ant-modal, I don’t mean it to. This is simply how I see things. And the manner in which I’ve accepted them. I’m not entirely proud of myself in any regard when it comes to being the man that my mother needed/needs to help her, the son my mother needs, but I am inherently lazy. It’s disgusting when you think about it long enough. I think about it every day, I do little to remedy it.

When my father passed away, when he got sick with cancer and passed away months later when I was still at home, a senior in high school, I saw the deterioration of the human body and mind in fast motion, yet I could paint you a picture of every second. It was 27 years ago, and I remember it as if it were now. Every single day. I remember the smells, the sights, sounds, the hush whoosh of the respirator he was on in his final days. The sprint my sister and I took down our hallway in the house we grew up in on 2405 Valdivia when Mrs. Casey, a friend of ours, pronounced him dead. My sister and I lay on him, sobbing. Kissing him, wailing.  Part of me wishing him alive, another exhausted from the reality and strain of the past months he ailed, another strained with sorrow at him taking his final breath. But he fought like any Dylan Thomas hero would. My mother will too. She’s tired, but she’s pissed off and a fighter at heart. A survivor. 

As I watch my mother deteriorate and pass at a much slower, more painful (who knows?) rate, I am consumed with guilt, heartbreak, extreme, palpable anger at myself, and sadness for her. 

I believe I’ve succeeded in many ways in life. None of which I’ll list. They are few. But I’ve certainly failed my mother in ways numerable. From a lack of self love? Complete laziness? A non-existent heart? I’m unsure. But I will pay in some way for my fault. I don’t know how, but I will. I promise, Dad, I tried. I simply didn’t try hard enough. Regardless, I failed utterly. This is indisputable.

My mother is just that, my mother. And I love her with everything I have. She deserved a better son in me. She received one later in life with my sister’s wise choice in husband, but I only wish I was worthy of her as a son. 

As she wanes, she’ll fight but at some point, she’ll have to give in. It’s inevitable and unescapable. I hope she’s comfortable, ready for it, and I hope she sees everything she loves most on the other side of life.

[off-briefer]

Today

I write more.

[off-briefer]

On My Dad Being Proud Yet Mad Yet More Proud than Mad

My father was old school. Not 50’s-60’s pot roast and potatoes old school, not hippie old school, not Jimmy Carter Iran Hostage Crisis Gas Shortage Old School. He was from the 30’s and 40’s, where if you had a fight it was with fists, where if you wanted to go out to the pictures or somewhere else you stole a car (and left it in a safe place, mostly undamaged), when hitchhiking was normal and safe, where your next-door neighbor was a part of your family, where if you fucked up you owned up and moved on. Where emotions weren’t spoken about, they were swallowed, where expressing yourself through colorful language was normal, where you were either American or nothing. He fought in WWII. He won medals. He was a man. There are far too few men in the world today.

My father wanted me to be a man. His definition of a man. He wanted me to date broads, play sports, be a kid, be respectful, get good grades, fight hard for what I wanted, and try my best at everything I did whether it was picking weeds in the back yard or pitching a ballgame or writing a book report.

So when I was 16, I believe he was relieved when he found me to be his definition of a man. Were there doubts? There’s always doubts, aren’t there? As a parent you ascribe to an ideal that you put in your head and you want your kids to exemplify it, and you see glimmers of that ideal, sure, but not the ideal in one fell swoop.

It was a Saturday afternoon in June, and I pitched the first end of a double header where I incited a brawl after beaning the first batter I faced, but I didn’t run, I stood my ground, and I took a beating. I got to stay in the game, I finished pitching a one-hitter, won the game 4-0.

That night my parents went out. Don’t remember where, with friends from the neighborhood I assume, and I had some time to myself while they were gone before I myself met some friends out in the neighborhood for who knows what.  A party most likely. So I “prepartied” before going out with a buddy, not too much, but enough.

I got home not too late, 10pm, 11 maybe, and walking through the front door, I yelled “hey I’m home!” to my parents who were, I was sure, either asleep or watching TV.

“In here,” my mother said, stern, loud, from the kitchen. Shit.

I walked in the kitchen and they’re sitting there at the table with two Playboys, a handle of Early Times whiskey, an opened 12 pack of Budweiser with 10 beers still in it, a tin of Copenhagen snuff, and the piece de resistance, a VHS tape entitled “Pornucopia”. I hadn’t even had the opportunity to watch that one, since we didn’t have a VCR.

“Wanna explain all this?” my Mom asked, my father sitting there, not looking at me, arms crossed, leaning back.

“Not really,” I said, stupidly, receiving the first of many hard smacks to my head and neck area that night from my father.

“Ok, ok,” I said. I had no idea what to say, so I said this:

“That’s a 12 pack of Budweiser, that’s a can of chew, that’s a bottle of booze, those are Playboys and that’s a porn movie.” I thought my explanation was quite concise and correct. My father laughed. Quickly. But…

Smack #2. This time harder.

“NO, YOU LITTLE ASSHOLE, WHERE DID YOU GET ALL OF THESE THINGS?” my mother asked. Yelled really.

“Ok, I’ll tell you but first, I’d like to point out that all of these things were in my closet, my closet, in my room, and that’s a super big invasion of my privacy…” Again, a laugh from Dad. And, yep,

Smack #3. Was starting to hurt.

“Who the hell told you that’s YOUR closet,” my mother said. “That’s MY closet. Your FATHER’S closet. You have nothing in this house aside from the things you paid for. Which is nothing the last time I checked.”

“That’s a good point,” I said. And I explained where I got all of the things. Half the things I said I stole, the other half I said I found. I stuck by each story, implicated no one, and received 2 months hard time.

My father walked me to my room.

“Sorry Dad,” I said, tears welling.

“Just hide them somewhere smarter next time, dummy,” he said, and walked to his room, where he slept and I have to think he slept easy, knowing I was a man. His man.

[off-briefer]

On Giving Feedback

I have no filter. I try to have one, but if I care about something, and I care about the person that's requesting my feedback, I am unfiltered. Because I think they deserve it, and because they've come to me not for a pat on the head, but for criticism to make their work better. And whether I know what I'm talking about or not, I give the person everything I have in the way of thought, instruction and suggestion.

To wit: a very ambitious friend at work, one whom I'm fond of beyond words for her humor, intelligence and work ethic, asked me yesterday to help her write a manifesto for the ad agency she created with her team in a class she's taking. The agency is called Riot. Great name. We sat, she and I, and discussed what should come from a manifesto. Truth, I told her, about what your agency stands for. IN fact, it's my belief that this is the only area of advertising that should remain true — to the people that make up the agency. She went away, wrote the manifesto, a first draft, and came back with something for me to read.

It wasn't good. But, this was her first go round, and i understood that. But she deserved everything I had in the way of instruction, so I gave it. This is my feedback.

_________________________________________________________________

Name withheld,

Look — you know I love you so this is harsh. This needs to be good which is also why it's harsh. 

Overall— don’t use buzz words. And don't actually use the term "buzz". Blech. BE HONEST. SAY WHAT YOU FEEL. Not what you think people are used to hearing. Forget the words that some asshole marketing prof taught you. Believe that RIOT exists. Believe that it's an agency. Believe that you've got some shithead with a boat load of money ready to lay it on you. 

Feedback below. This is literally both barrels of the shotgun, so don't be pissed. I want you to nail this. 

M

FEEDBACK:

First line: 

We are RIOT.

I wouldn't lead with this. Lead the reader in with what you're about. Then, we are riot. Like: 

We are the idea. 

From the idea is born an entire world where boundaries are non-existent. Where the sea of sameness that we're all so used to is drained. Put in its place is new. Previously unseen. It's the story turned on its ear. It's exactly what you'd expect from  one team with one goal.

To start a riot. We are Riot.

First paragraph:

It's way, way too general. You're using terms like "break the mold" and "push the envelope". These are fluff. You forgot "we think outside the box". That first paragraph is an exercise in marketing generalities. It's total bullshit.

Second paragraph:

"We were born out of the necessity for change and a hunger to separate ourselves from the sea of sameness". That's not why you were born. You were born cause two guys with a lot of money started their own agency. Say something about what your agency is setting out to do. Something that says what your agency stands for. What it believes in.

RIOT is a kickass name for your agency. But at the same time, your agency isn't an extreme BMX race team. You're not pounding red bulls and punching each other in the face. Don't make it come across like that.

Third paragraph:

"Like successful social movements…" nope. You just compared your agency to the civil rights movement of the 50's and 60's, and every other "movement". Delete.

These are the only words I'd keep in this paragraph: inspired, essential, and edgy.

"Internalize" you use to describe what your shop does — no. It has negative connotation. I know what you're trying to say — but "internalizing wants and needs" sounds like a psychotic ex-boyfriend trying to win his girlfriend back.  "Incite action" is good. Keep that. "the world needs change" you're over-dramatizing what your agency does. You're not changing the world.

Last line:

Ok. I like "we are change." You're making a statement and where it's a bit dramatic, its got a weird syntax to it that rings true. "We are strong". Nope. Sounds like the tag line to a women's empowerment conference.

_________________________________________________________________ Was is too much? Maybe. Does she hate me? No. She wrote a second draft and it's 50% of the way there. Couldn't be happier.

[off-briefer]

On Almost Getting a Tattoo

I worked as a bartender for almost three years at a popular bar and grill at the gates of the LSU campus. As fun as it sounds, it was one of the hardest jobs I’ve ever had, physically, mentally. People that work together in places like this either become very close, or get fired. Those that become very close, don’t get fired. You become tenured. A part of the ambience. People that come to the place expect to see you there. Some know when you’re working. At any rate — given the fast-paced, real-time nature of the business, all who work there — from the dishwashers to the managers, become fast friends.

One of our line cooks, this guy Brian, a hard man to be sure, a tattoo artist when he wasn’t working at the restaurant, also sold weed on the side, was about to go to jail for 6 months on a possession charge (another part of people that work in restaurants. Trouble with the law). On one of his breaks, he sat down at the end of the bar, lit a cigarette, and I walked over and asked him if he wanted anything to drink (a soda or whatever. Although on busy nights I’d been known to sneak Henessey and beers back to the kitchen guys. Made the food for the bar come out a LOT faster, and of a better quality.) Brian was 5’7”, skinny, arms and neck tatted up and wore a navy blue do-rag. He was white, smoked a ton of weed, obviously since he’d be spending the next 6 months in Angola because of it, but was all around a really sweet guy. With a ridiculously hot girlfriend.

“Hey man,” he said to me, “I need to ask a favor of you.”

“Sure,” I said. I’m thinking sneak him a beer later. Pick up his car at the shop for him. Wash his dog (a Malamute)?

“I’m going away for a few months, probably back in two or three. I need you to watch Kelly for me.” 

“Watch?” I asked.

“Yeah, just keep an eye on her for me. Make sure she doesn’t get into any trouble.” I knew exactly what he meant by trouble. She was beautiful and insane. Partied. Flirted. Loved attention. Anyone who had the time and the balls, got Kelly, both barrels, right in the face. This almost always ended weirdly, badly or with Brian beating the shit out of some poor fucker who had zero idea she was attached.

“Sure man. I mean, how do you want me to, I dunno, stop her? If she’s getting in trouble?” I asked. Club her? What. Pretty sure she could kick the shit out of me if provoked.

“Just remind her where I’m at, and that I’ll find out all the shit she’s doing, one way or another,” he said. This worried me. What if she did all this crazy shit? I’m on the hook for that?

“I can do that,” I said as nonchalantly as I could. Could I though? I could barely keep an eye on myself.

He held out his hand for a manly shake sealing my new side job.

“When I get out, I’ll get you that ink you want, no charge,” he said. He was referring to the tattoo I wanted him to put on my left forearm, a design that I’d shown him and that he thought was cool. It would end up costing me about $300. I had drawn it myself, I’m no great artist, but it was a simple tribute to my father. A cross, with a purple heart in the middle of it, with the number 13 in the middle of that. The cross represents my father and his strong religious beliefs, the purple heart his service in WWII and the Purple Heart Medal he won by getting half his fingers blown off while trying to shoot down the Luftwaffe from the side window of a B-17 bomber, and the 13 is his, was his, lucky number. And now it was my adopted lucky number.

“Cool,” I said. And that was that. He walked away and that Friday he went to jail for 3 to 6 months.

The first time and last time I saw Kelly before Brian got out was at one of the bars nearby called The Library. She was hammered with two of her friends and she walked up to me.

“Hey you,” she said.

“Hey Kelly. How’s it goin?” I said.

“Fine. So you’re keepin’ and eye on me huh?” she asked.

“Look,” I wanted to diffuse this as quickly as possible with as little hub bub as possible, “do what you want. It’s not like I can stop you. But I promised Brian I’d watch out. That’s all,” I said and I started walking toward the bar to get a beer.

“Oh honey, look,” she said as she rested her hand on my chest, then lightly massaging the area with her thumb, yikes, “I’m not gonna do anything you wouldn’t do now. So don’t worry,” she said, her hand sliding off me.

“Sure Kelly,” I said. I was so screwed. I knew it then. I knew it when Brian asked me to do it. But I really knew it then.

10 beers later I’m walking Kelly and her friend Alison to their car. Alison didn’t drink much, she was driving, I at least made sure that Kelly was getting a semi sober ride home, proud or myself, I opened their doors and tucked them in.

“You comin’?” Alison said. Just as pretty as Kelly. Less nuts.

“Yeah you comin’ chaperone?” Kelly blurted from the passenger seat.

“Depends where y’all are headed” I said. I was hammered. But lucid. Not lucid enough to not get into the car with them though.

“My house,” Alison said.

“Yeah alright,” I said, reluctant, as I slid past Alison’s moved up front seat. The two-door Honda Accord sped out of the parking lot and we were on our way to Alison’s house.

Alison lived alone in a two-room apartment not far from where I lived. We got to her place and I plopped down on the couch as they went into the kitchen for some reason. They came back with a bottle of whiskey and glasses.

We each had a drink, sitting on the couch, me on one end and the girls on the other. There was music, 311 I believe. I hated that band but they were from our area and everyone just loved them. They were local heroes. I zoned out, thinking about how crappy 311 was except for that one song that I couldn’t remember the name of, the last song on the album that I couldn’t remember the name of, then I started thinking about how I was going to get out of this place gracefully, before the whiskey took hold, before the night got any later, before I got too comfortable, before the girls looked at me at the same time.

That’s when they looked at me at the same time.

I never got the tattoo.

I moved home to California exactly one month after that night.

Amazingly, with the advent of social media and technology’s annoying advancements making the world as small as the head of a pin, I’ve never run into any of them, Brian, Kelly or Alison. Thank god.

[off-briefer]

Athleticism I still has it.

[off-briefer]

On Going Home

It was a Sunday afternoon in the early summer, the end of June, and my teammates and I were laying in the freshly cut grass of Livermore High School’s baseball field outfield, that fresh-cut grass smell still strong, intoxicating, taking off our spikes and talking about the double header we’d just played against the Livermore Reds. Our team was “semi-pro” that is, a club baseball team, that is, a bunch of guys that thought they still had it, and played hardball on weekends together, for fun, not for money — hence “semi”. It’s an accurate moniker, semi-pro. It sounds like I’m saying minor league, but it couldn’t be further from professional baseball in any regard. It was an adult baseball league. But semi-pro… sounds much cooler.

I was lying down, my head propped up by my gear bag, Brooklyn Dodgers hat wet with sweat and caked with dirt, as was my jersey, as were my pants. I played “like a wind-up toy” as a former coach once said, meaning I never stopped, I’d run through the fence to catch a fly, slide spikes first into the second baseman if I thought it would break up the double play, sacrifice my body for anything hit to me. I never understood the kids that were happy with a clean jersey. Clean jersey meant the minimum, it meant sticking the ass-end of the plug into the socket to me. It was the wrong way to play.

My mitt lay on my chest and I could smell the mink oil that I rubbed into it so, so many times to make the tool malleable, the burnt smell of leather such a familiar aroma that would put me in so many places all at once — walking back to the car with my father after one of my Little League games, my first game playing for my high-school team, playing around with the good friends I grew up with at one of the local fields, hitting balls as far as we could, waiting to see if we could make amazing diving catches to impress on another. So many places.

My hi-top spikes lie to the right of me, one standing and one lying on it’s side, a ring of red dirt painted around my white socks, around the lower calf. My jersey was untucked, and I could feel the day’s sun on my face, my arms and neck, as I’d played all 18 innings, first game in left field, second game at pitcher and center field. My teammates, most of them friends, were rehashing the plays that made up the day’s games, someone mentioned the triple I hit, how I’d one-hopped the 400ft sign in center. I smiled, and didn’t say anything. I was too content; tired but happy. Dirty, sun-stained face, a lip filled with snuff, and a beer sitting in my right hand.

I mentioned to Mark he played great at second, nothing got passed him, and he returned saying he could have hit better. I told him 2-8 in a doubleheader isn’t something to sneeze at. I had gone 1-8. Yeah but yours was a bomb, he said. Mark was a best friend from college, and a hell of a second baseman. The sun was telling me that it was time to hit the road, to get back to the peninsula, to get on 580, then 80, then 101home. An hour or so.

Walking into the parking lot where the first car I ever bought, the first car that I ever called my own, sat, a 1974 BMW 2002, maroon, silver rims, no side interior at all, beautiful on the outside, but a skeleton on the inside, save the front bucket seats, and the back seat, even the floor was bare, metal, a pioneer tapedeck with pretty good speakers, an enormous trunk, and a 4-speed manual with an engine that the most novice mechanic could work on. The leather seats were light mocha color, in great condition, but in whole contrast to the rest of the interior. Made the car really loud to drive. At least on the inside. I loved every inch of the car. Even the e-brake that was essentially ornamental. Even the manual sun roof that took quite a bit of effort to wind back by hand. Now that I think of it, that was my favorite part of the car. The sun roof. It was huge! Took up what seemed like the entire width of the roof and about half the length.

Windows down, sun roof pulled back, I shifted into reverse, pulled out of the spot, then into first, waving to Mark on my way out. See you next week, I said. That was half of it for me. That I’d get to see one of my best friends once a week. The other half was that I got to play the only thing I’d ever truly loved for two games each weekend, and the drive home in the hot summer sundown along the Bay Area’s highways, bridges and roads. There was a solitude in it, an independence in it that I’ll never forget.

Driving west on 580, up the hill to the bridge, the sun low hitting my windsheild at the top, shorts on, both windows open, warm breeze blowing through them and the sun roof, whatever was in the tapedeck blasting, most likely Green Day’s Dookie, or Rage Against the Machine’s first album, wearing my white t-shirt with the hole in the neckline flapping like a windsock cooling the sweat on my chest, it’s thread thin from over use, black sunglasses, the breeze playing with my way-to-long-for-me black hair … I remember thinking that this about as good as it would ever get. This ride. This view of the Livermore hills, nothing majestic by any means, but winding up that hill, with the sun beating down on my car, on me, the glare reflecting into my sunglasses, the warm breeze feeling like an embrace by something that was much, much bigger than me, this independence, this solitude, myself, my car, the smell of the freshly cut grass, the sound of my car’s interior rattling like an old roller coaster … it was all bigger than me. And I thought that it would never, ever get any better. Until the next week when I did it all again.

[off-briefer]

On Easter Day, 1996

It was early April and the pre-spring Baton Rouge heat was in full force as I peeled myself out of bed at 8am. The air in the apartment was like soup, and I was hungover. I step-staggered to the bathroom and splashed water on my face and downed 3 extra-strength Tylenol. I looked like shit, and felt the same. I made my way into the kitchen and found a can of Miller High Life in the fridge sitting next to the baking soda and vast nothing that occupied the rest of the cooler. I opened the beer and downed it, most of it anyway. My eyes hurt. Like someone was squeezing them from the back. I walked back in the bedroom where a friend of mine lay, sprawled out across the full-size mattress like a goddamn albatross, tall as she was, with one eye opened and pointing to the corner of the room where a gift basket sat with a pink bow on top.

It was Easter morning. She didn’t need to do this, get me anything, as we weren’t officially official, or whatever you call it when you’re 22, 23 years old.

The basket was pretty simple. Two full bottles of Wild Turkey (83 proof, not 101) and two cartons of Camel Lights. What a wonderful celebration of Christ’s resurrection. A basket full of slow death. I couldn’t have been happier. I, of course, got her nothing.

“We should barbecue,” she muttered after I thanked and kissed her through laughter at my Easter gift.

“Ok,” I said. So we made some calls to see who was without a home this Easter morn. Turns out quite a few people, friends we worked with, as well as our friedns that lie on the periphery of our coworkers, others were all excited to celebrate Easter spur of the moment. We told them to bring whatever they wanted to barbecue and drink (students are poor — It had to be a bring your own whatever).

We went to the Piggly Wiggly on University and grabbed a ton of beer and snacks, meat, chicken, and the like. We got back to our place, cleaned it (sort of) threw on some music, opened the French doors on the side of our bottom floor apartment and pulled the barbecue down from the deck at the top of the stairs that led up to the doors. Figured it would make the place more, drop-in-and-out easy.

By 11am, I was three sips into one of the bottles of Wild Turkey (which would reside in the side pocket of my cargo shorts for the rest of the day and night) and feeling fine.

Our friends came through at about that time. JB, one of my favorite people in the world, he was from Houston and had a deep southern drawl, an infectious laugh, brought ice. Millie, one of the waitresses we worked with brought homemade brownies. Ian, this hippie bartender that worked at the Bayou Bar, not our place, with his long dreadlocks and nerdy, horn-rimmed glasses brought brownies as well, filled with hash. Sarah brought cole slaw, Stephan brought chips. Everyone brought something. Charlie, one of our bar regulars, who was 5’5”, had a wild mane of silver and black hair mixed with flecks of white, slight build, skinny, really, big blue eyes, the only bar regular that we liked, even brought something (he usually showed up to things empty handed, which we didn’t mind. He was great to hang out with and a lot older than us but one of the smartest people we knew and always good to do something incredibly outrageous and memorable. Once, when a friend’s Volkswagen Beetle had broken down for the umpteenth time, Charlie, a mechanic, looked at it, and decided that it was dead, unfixable. Before we had it towed away Charlie said we need to have a ceremony, to send the car, which was very special to our friend, away in proper fashion. He took off his shirt, wrapped it around his head like a bandana, took a sharpie and drew a huge VW logo on his chest and walked backwards around the car while urinating and singing the Russian National Anthem. Never occurred that the German one would have been more appropriate.) Anyhow, he brought a Virginia Ham and a box of Cheez-its.

Before long there were about 40 of us in the house and in the front yard, sitting around, drinking, listening to music, eating, tripping thanks to Ian, and enjoying the day that turned out to be nice — not crazy humid like usual, 80 degrees and sunny, with a little breeze that blew through at just the right times it seemed.

I believe it was around 10pm when a friend showed up with his mandolin and started playing. Guy was amazing on the thing, playing everything from blue grass to blues to show tunes. He even knew the music from The Third Man, that crazy Greek zither music that is hauntingly perfect throughout the film. I made him play it over and over again. I love that film. But the zither music from it… you just can’t get any more perfect.

I pulled out my bottle of Wild Turkey and noticed two things. One, that there was about four fingers left, and two, that I was pretty hammered. I wasn’t tripping since I didn’t have a hippy space brownie, but I was damn drunk. Thankfully, this didn’t mean I was falling all over myself, as at that time I had a constitution suited for 12 straight hours of drinking, it just meant that I was prone to do just about anything anyone asked me to do.

There was a pool at this apartment complex called Varsity Village, which we dubbed Variety Village since the apartments were all filled with mostly international students, but the pool was there and it was huge and incredibly easy to get into. One of our friends lived there so we were free to “visit” the pool as “guests”. About ten of us went over there. Swimming turned into piling into the pool in our clothing, which turned into our underwear, which turned into nothing. Which turned into me getting in trouble.

The police in Baton Rouge do not look upon public nudity as police in say, a San Francisco, or a small California suburb might. There’d be a comedic element to the public nudity that the cops could handle in other cities. There’d be a grace period.

Baton Rouge Police deal with asshole college students on a daily basis. Not to mention the slums of East Baton Rouge. Not to mention the gangs. Not to mention the airport. Not to mention one of the South’s most popular football teams/baseball teams. The Baton Rouge Police were experienced riot cops, a junior version of the finest riot police in the world, the New Orleans Police. Reason I tell all this — the Baton Rouge police would suffer a naked fool about as easily as they would suffer a mosquito. Swat him once. Done.

I was challenged to run down the extending street, Varsity Road, naked. Back to the party. I took the challenge with a laugh and a no problem. The opposite results came. Painfully.

The very second I stepped onto the street, naked, a cop drove by. I looked. They had already been in a three point turn to come back and get me, and I did the absolutely stupidest thing possible. I ran. As fast as I could, naked, the opposite way down Varsity Road. I heard the siren kick on, I saw the street in front of me illuminate with headlight and blue and red flashes. I made a hard left at a church and tried to run around the side. The car was at my heels, it stopped with a SKREEE! And out popped Baton Rouge Police Officer Ward, an athletic and not unattractive woman, who tackled me, on grass thankfully, and had her knee on the back of my neck in a matter of seconds while she cuffed me. I looked up to see her partner, looking down at me, shaking his head.

“You must be outside your mind boy,” Baton Rouge Police Sargeant Richard Blue said.

“Yes sir,” I said.

“Just what were you thinking son?” he asked. And I took a line from one of my favorite films, Cool Hand Luke.

“Guess you could say I wasn’t thinking.”

I wasn’t put in jail, but was walked back to the party by Officer Ward. We had a nice conversation along the way, I draped in an official Baton Rouge Police blanket.

“You’re fucking fast,” I said.

“You’re a moron,” she said.

“A little true. You’re pretty strong too,” I said.

“I’m a cop idiot. Kinda helps to be in shape,” she said.

“You wouldn’t want a beer or anything would you?” I asked as we got to the house where people were still partying. We weren’t being loud, or overtly boisterous then, so everything was fine.

“Not here, not now, not with you like that,” she said. She gave me her card.

I went back to the party and put some clothes on. I downed the rest of my Wild Turkey. I stayed up till 6am and watched the sunrise, with the rest of my friends, the ones that were stoic enough. Officer Ward’s card sat in my pocket.