How We Met Vol. 5 part 2: Genesis 6:6

I ended the treatments early. I felt better to a degree and I couldn’t really see how more could help. Dr. Phillips didn’t care for this decision, but it was she that had originally told me that I had the power to decide these things. So I did.

Returning to work was more difficult than I had expected. I wanted to go back to resume some sense of normalcy, but with my short term memory burned to a crisp, life in a detail oriented society seemed impossible. So much so that, after several slips, I decided to speak to my manager.

Dan was my boss’s boss. My boss was new to the company and had come in during my time away. I didn’t exactly know or trust my boss and the rumors of my recent lobotomy did nothing to ensure that protecting my privacy would be one of her strong points.

Dan was tall and round. He resembled an oval sitting on one of its short sides. He was a lot younger than a man in his position should be, I thought, and that made me respect him. I knocked on the door to his office and he motioned me in to sit.

“What’s up?” he asked.

“Well, Dan. I really need to talk to you about something. See…you know I’ve been out and since I’ve been back, I’ve screwed up a few times.”

Dan shook his head and continued to stare at me from behind his desk. I had expected a response at this point. Something along the lines of, “Hey don’t worry about it. Mistakes happen,” or anything like that, but he just nodded. So I continued.

“Well, see I’m…uh, well, I’m Bi-polar and the thing is…I got into a funk that I couldn’t get out of and…I tried ECT. Its electro-shock therapy and that wasn’t so bad, but the thing is that short term memory loss is a side effect. That’s why I’m having a bit of trouble remembering things.”

Dan continued to nod and look at me. He put his hand to his chin and looked upward like he often did when he was thinking. I’d seen him do it one time when I tried to lick my thumb and wipe some dirt off of his forehead. I didn’t know he was Catholic or that it was Ash Wednesday or that Catholics put an ash cross on their foreheads on Ash Wednesday. I just didn’t want him to go into a meeting and be embarrassed.

“Chris?” he finally asked, “Did you realize…” he looked down as if trying to put this delicately.

“Did you realize that this is the fourth time we’ve had this conversation?”

I turned a shade of red that was unlike any other shade I’d ever turned. It was an audible red that rang in my ears.

“Dan…aw, man. I am so sorry,” I said as I stood to leave.
“Chris, Chris, sit down,” Dan said laughing now, “I was just fuckin’ with you. Listen, don’t worry about it. Even if you didn’t have this treatment, I would expect someone who’s been out that long to have a few issues when they come back. No big deal.”

I breathed a sigh of relief and grinned.

“You’re an ass, sir.”

“I know. So, electro shock, huh? Cool.”

****************
Donna and I started spending time away from the floor. We’d sneak into a conference room or the basement for a comforting hug. These comforting hugs quickly turned into comforting kisses which led to uncomfortable guilt.

Our regular conversations were littered with another speech we gave one another frequently.

“Chris, we can’t keep sneaking around like this.”

“I know.”

“We should just stop seeing one another before we go too far.”

“Ok.”

“I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“Me either.”

We always agreed, but never acted on it for longer than one or two days. One of us would miss the other enough to break the agreement with a phone call, an accidental touch, or a pleading email.

***********

I was at my mother’s one night when she jerked to attention and said, “Oh, I forgot to tell you something! Do you remember Alton who used to work for you?”

I did remember Alton. He was the lisping prankster that first dubbed me, “Thuperman”.

“Yeah, of course I do.”

“He passed away last week.”

I thought back to the days that I first moved to this town and my first days working with Alton. I was just a feeble target to him initially, but then he saw something more in me. He never forgot that day. He never called me by my name. I was either Thuperman or Clark to him, depending on whether or not I had on my safety glasses. I never forgot it either.

Without Alton, I probably would have never fit in with the people at the boat company. Had I never fit in, I would have probably packed up after my three week temp job and gone back to Tennessee where, without my parents close by, I would have probably killed myself at some point. I would have never met Donna. Krista would have been raised by her mother and a thug. Alex wouldn’t exist.

But I had stayed and though it wasn’t without hardships, it wasn’t without gain. I was Krista’s rock, Alex’s best friend, mom’s baby, dad’s memory of his father, and Donna’s favorite secret. I was happy? Almost, I suppose. More importantly though, I was Thuperman again, if only for a while.

“That’s too bad,” I said as I smiled mom’s way.


***************

FIVE YEARS LATER

Dad:

Dad is currently struggling with his own bout with Cancer and trouble with his knees. His prognosis is good. They inject Tuberculosis into his bladder every couple of months to make sure it doesn’t come back. He says it makes the wrong part of him swell. His knee surgery was successful, though he still limps a bit.

We get along better than we ever have before. I think a lot of the credit goes to Cancer and knee surgery. He’s had to depend on me to do things for him that he would have never dreamed of asking of me before. We still work together in the same building.

Mom:

Mom has been Cancer free for 15 years now. She still works at the same boat company. She would still lay down her life for me. She is ageless and constant.

Mike (Lisa’s brother):

Mike is now married with 3 kids. I haven’t spoken to him since Lisa and I separated, but Krista still gets to see him on occasion.

Lisa:

Lisa remarried two years ago to a 26 year old guy. I told her how proud I was that she was robbing the cradle, but she said that he is robbing the grave. We have a good relationship and speak to each other often.

Cindy and Ryan (my oldest sister and her husband):

We didn’t speak for over five years. Shortly after Charleen and I separated, I received a note from her where she condemned my life and what I do to people. The phrase, “You have the blood of your hell-bound children on your hands,” was used.

She and Ryan are still married with three boys. The oldest, David, is now driving.

This summer we buried the hatchet. Dad had his whole family together for the 4th of July.

Samantha:

Samantha is married now with a gorgeous little boy named Cotton. She is a city councilwoman in the town where we grew up.

Jo (my middle sister):

Jo and Jim split up shortly after the twins were born. Jo remarried six years ago to a great guy. The twins call him dad.

Emily (my youngest sister):

Married with three kids. She’s still spoiled and lazy.

Connie and A.J.:

Moved back to Tennessee and divorced. He’s still with the company.

Charleen:

Remarried last year and is going to school.

Teri:

We see each other occasionally, but she has never really forgiven me. She and I don’t speak to one another very often.

Donna:

Donna and I are still good friends and still work for the same company. She is still with her husband. We’ve stopped seeing each other outside of work, because I’m now her supervisor.

Krista:

Krista is 14. She is an honor student, making All County in chorus. She now lives with her mother. Krista decided last year that she wanted to try living with Lisa, but only stayed for a few months because she couldn’t handle living with her any more than I could. Over the summer her mother begged for her to come back and try again and she did. It has been an adjustment for both of us, but sometimes I guess girls do need their mothers.

Krista has recently discovered a love of all things gothic and dark which pleases and scares me all at the same time.

Alex:

Alex is 7. He is frequently honored as “Terrific Kid” at school. He plays soccer, basketball, and has most recently played football for the city where he ran for 2 touchdowns and had 12 sacks in his last 8 game season.

Alex has my sense of humor along with my face and demeanor. He is often seen doing a re-enactment of the “Help! I’ve fallen and can’t get up” commercial while wearing a T-shirt that says, “Chinese Toys taste Better!”

He is my manic to Krista’s depressive.

Me:

I still harbor a deep fear of getting too close to anyone, but I do so enjoy women who think they can change that. I push away if I like them, because I know what will happen. I try to tell them what will happen, so I don’t have to be the one to push, but it doesn’t work. They say that a woman marries a man hoping she can change him and a man marries a woman hoping she won’t change. I don’t know if that’s true or not, because I’m not sure where I fall in that theory.

My dad tells me I should just find a nice girl, give her a house, and never see her again. He’s efficient like that, though.

I realize that throughout this memoir it may seem as if I’ve been a little harsh with God. Rest assured that this is how God and I roll. We do speak to one another. At least, that’s what I believe happens. Being crazy isn’t very productive in a relationship with a heavenly being, because there is a distinct chance that I’m just talking to myself.

But when we speak, I cut Him no slack and he appreciates it. Just as questioning your government is the ultimate form of patriotism; I tend to believe that questioning your God is the ultimate form of worship and love. Both scenarios seek to understand and what could be a higher form of affection than to want to know someone?

But unfortunately, the results are often the same with the answers you receive or, worse, don’t receive.

God speaks to me though and he doesn’t shun me when I ask him about the more embarrassing scripture, like what he was thinking when he told Abraham to kill his son. He doesn’t flinch when I elbow Him in the ribs when I thank Him for making me a better father than He was. And I still remember the first time He belly laughed when I said, “When I take over your job, I’m going to do things differently.”

When I tell Him that now, however, He still chuckles in a friendly manner, but the same hint of wonder or fear I detected the first time seems to have grown stronger.

Unfortunately, the same growth continues in this disease I harbor. The dark has me firmly in it’s clutches as I type these words. Every day I wake a few minutes later and fall asleep a few minutes earlier, exhausted by an invisible lead coat. The dark has a new trick this time, too. Tiny voices that I know at the moment aren’t real are becoming more and more convincing with each insult. They whisper in the distance for now, but I find myself asking others what they were saying and they claim not to have spoken. I look over my shoulder only to find no one and I turn back to hear them criticize my stupidity.

I push to finish this because I feel, as I often have, that it’s just a matter of time now.

Eventually, I’m sure I’ll hit a real low, meds will change, and everything will be as right as it can be for as long as it can be again. I’ll be able to be amusing and convince the neighbors that I’m a descendant of a rare breed of ninja Indians called ninjians that wore the black mask with feathers shoved in the back, went shirtless and when they attacked, yelled, “How…YAH!”

But not today. Today isn’t funny. Tomorrow doesn’t look funny either. Unless someone kills a clown and gets multi-colored splotches on the calendar. Then, and only then, tomorrow might look funny.

The day after tomorrow is hilarious, though. How could it not be?

All this time, I never thought I would reach this part of the story; today, tomorrow, or whatever it is. I don’t tend to finish anything I start. So, the stark realization that I am 34 years old and for the most part, utterly alone, wasn’t part of the original outline. Yet, here I am.

I’ve both feared and looked forward to this moment and now, I don’t know how to feel. I have three other files with words upon words but no endings. I have the endings in my mind, but once I’ve realized how things should end, what’s the point in writing it down?

Because of that personal flaw, I had to write about something in which the end couldn’t be predicted. But now I’m torn, because technically, I do know the end. Technically, we all know how all life stories end; we just don’t know how that end will be obtained.

I will apologize to you now, dear reader, but as hard as I’ve tried to convince myself to write one, there is no neat and tidy resolution to be had here.

Forgive me, but I can’t summon the strength to manufacture a corny, grinning epiphany that has lurked in the shadows of page numbers only to jump out and pull your mouth agape and lift your heart into your throat.

This is not a script, story, or a fairy tale. It’s nothing more than the deepest cut I’ve ever had the nerve to give myself. These are not so much words as they are blood on a page.

Though, I feel as if I have an obligation to the genre, to try and make up for any disappointment you may be dealing with after looking down the page and thinking, “Oh shit, there aren’t enough words down there to make this better!”

So, I leave you with this: Find your son, your father, your brother, and your husband and hug them long and hard.

Brush their hair from their eyes and stare until you must blink.

In that blink, you should pray.

Pray and thank your God that I’m not looking back at you.

(And then pick on him about that whole Noah/flood thing. Trust me, it’ll be funny. There is nothing quite like bathing in the bask of God’s blushing cheeks to make one feel truly normal.)

We all have regrets, I just happen to be His favorite mistake.







*End*

The End is Near

How We Met – Prologue

When I first began writing short stories and poetry for fun, I had no idea that other people would enjoy reading them. I liked them because it was a new way to express myself and it came rather easy. It was about that same time that I discovered that some other folks enjoyed reading them too and though I’d never been much of a reader, I found that I enjoyed reading stories and shorts from a lot of those same people that enjoyed me.

It was later in the sharing process when a wonderful writer and a dear friend gave me the most poignant critique I’d ever received. It was not what she said about the particular piece that stuck with me, but rather about my writing in general. I have kept her words with me since then and, when writing, I refer to this quote often:

“You are a terrific writer, can consistently play with words like they are Trix on your tray, mooshing them around or tossing them on the floor easily in situations when others would be struggling over each syllable or comma. As often as not you use them to obscure, to put a veil over the truth hiding behind them. (I find this frustrating as hell because I get this powerful sense that there is more there, but you either won't tell it or won't let yourself know it -- either way, I want the whole story, the firehose full of power or glory or pain.)”

She had hesitated ever saying this because she feared that I would take it as an insult, but in reality, I found it almost frightening that someone could see that. I assume that the quote was entirely based on my writing, but truth be told it directly applies to my character as well and knowing my friend, she’s clever enough to plant that seed of thought and watch it grow like ivy around me and flow to the page.

I will work to make my “How We Met” stories full fire hoses of glory and pain. I don’t necessarily believe that the women I have ended up with in the past were necessarily true loves, I will tell those stories and though the original idea behind the stories was romantically based, I will include the stories of how I met two of my true loves as pictured in my previous blog post, “My kids think they’re cool…”

To find a full list of present and future “How We Met” stories, click on the link on the right titled Blogdechemist which is written by the lovely and brilliant Bob.

Go (away) Greyhound

An unreasonably large portion of my youth was spent on a bus. From kindergarten through my junior year of High School, I rode the school bus Monday through Friday. On Sunday, I rode the bus to and from church. Saturday was the only official non-bus day, but on occasion, when church or school activities demanded I would be picked up in a big yellow tube during Saturday morning cartoons.

Bus number 45 pulled up to the top of our driveway on my first day of kindergarten and my older sister and I waited until the breaks finished exhaling before making our way up the steps. In the driver seat sat an older man with glasses, thick gray hair matted into waviness with Brill Cream, and skin so rugged and tanned that I felt as if he should be atop a horse rather than nestled in that steel and canvas cockpit. His name was Hopper Hall. I saw him smile once.

Hopper ran a tight ship (bus?). He protected the fresh children from the hazards of the back of the bus. His eyes were always present in the 4 foot wide rear view mirror and I often wondered if he learned to drive by instinct, never needing his sight to guide him. He never hesitated to stop the bus, get up, walk to a seat and tell someone off. I once saw him drag an unruly boy named Mearle from the back of the bus to the front. He didn’t take the boy by the ear as I’ve often seen in black and white films. Hopper grabbed Mearle by the feet and casually walked to the front while Mearle’s head beat back and forth on the metal legs of the bus seats and his face raked back and forth on the grooved plastic walkway. It was nice to see Mearle crying in the front seat, because Mearle had made so many of the rest of us cry and sit there.

Hopper was also there the first time I saw a man die.

The roads in Tennessee are unlike any others I’ve seen since. The straight stretches were rare in most towns and the curves were such that you could look in your rear view mirror and see your own license plate. My house was between Allen Henrys and Daniel Lanes; about a six mile stretch. Allen was absent that day, so our last stop had been Kevin Jones.

The bus rumbled around the 90 degree turn right and over the stomach drop hill, past the underground cinderblock house and down the ski slope hill that ends in a right hand blind dip curve that you have to stop in the middle of to drop off Allen Henry so that he can make the three mile uphill trek on the gravel road that leads to the white and red singlewide trailer where he and his mother have lived since his father left them and later died in a mining accident.

Luckily, Hopper didn’t know that Allen wasn’t on the bus so he hit the breaks as he entered the turn before his stop. Lying in the middle of the road a purple faced man was seizing. His mail was scattered around his right hand and his John Deer cap was still on.

I had seen the man before and at the time I even knew his name. His house was white with a rusting tin roof. It was narrow, but tall and he had bags of aluminum cans and red chickens that ran through his yard clucking and picking on the occasional guinea bird. The man was usually sitting on his porch running a blade through either an apple or a piece of wood. I don’t know if Hopper ever saw the man before, but he couldn’t take his eyes of off him now. After what seemed an eternity, Hopper told us to sit down. He drove around the purple man to my house.

Hopper got off the bus with me and asked to use the phone. Mom and Dad both worked, so I unlocked the door and we went to the kitchen where the green phone hung on the wall. The emergency numbers printed on an orange sticker, so Hopper dialed the number for the paramedics and told them about the man. After he hung up, he looked at me and smiled his one smile. He said, “Thanks kid, I’ll see you in the morning.”

Joe drove the High School bus. He had the same skin and demeanor of Hopper, but Joe was older and his glasses were thicker. Joe’s most distinguishing characteristic was that no one could understand anything he said. His sentences sounded as if he was an old male cheerleader with weird inflection doing that, “Rah, Rah, Rah!” cheer. Joe installed a cassette player on his bus and I was introduced to not only George Jones, but also the Hee-Haw Gospel quartet.

After several weeks of “He Stopped Loving Her Today,” many of us gained the courage to bring our own cassettes. Joe said, “Rah ru rah, ru ru rah rah rahrahrah,” which we interpreted as “Hey, watch you got there? The new George Jones album? Well, alright!” because he put the tape in. Looking back, it probably wasn’t the best idea to introduce Joe to Metallica on our first attempt to widen our music selection. Halfway through Sanitarium, Joe kicked the tape out and tossed it out the window. He mumbled, “Rarr reruhr rerek,” which I later deciphered as “damn devil music.”

The church bus was the worst. We were bus number 7 which was God’s favorite number according to the bus captain. The bus captain’s name was Mr. Teets (and oddly enough, I just realized how funny that is when I typed it just now) and he was a pretty nice guy. He had an Asian look to him and he said he was from Ohio. We played games on the bus to keep from getting bored on the ride. He gave away prizes for whoever won jumbled word competitions or recited the most verses. Most often, though, he was the one to separate the fights between the Poores and Edwards.

The Poores and Edwards were a group of seven kids that constantly moved from place to place and the bus always followed. They ranged in age from 4 to 16, two boys, five girls. Some had the last name Poore and some of them were Edwards because their parents were divorced, but lived together because they couldn’t afford to live separately. It was never determined how the last names were divided among them.

They were dirty children who would often show up with buzz cuts, even the girls, because their mother had gotten tired of running the lice comb through their tangled manes. I once saw one of them lick the bottom of her church shoe to clean it before she got home and more than once Mr. Teets had to bundle paper towels and clean Sarah’s shit off of the bus seat. Sarah was the oldest girl at 11. Tiny features and frame and undoubtedly mildly retarded, though her brothers and sisters would punch you if you suggested as much.

I not only hated the bus for the place that it was taking me, but also because it was about a 4 hour ride round-trip full of singing and word jumbles and the smell of shit. My dad drove and constantly watched me in the rear view mirror.

I swear here and now that my children will always be car riders.

New Linkage ------>

Check out the new links. Lemme know if I put you there and you don't want to be or if I've not put you over there and you want to be. I'm easy like that.

Good Riddance 2005

No matter what level you look at (global, national, most local, and for some, personal) 2005 was crap. New Years Day has always had a clean slate feel to me. A time for starting over (without the fat, beaten, or generally un-empowered women in one house). I realize that the situation being what it is I’m only fooling myself, but hey, I’m easily fooled.

I guess the only thing that I can actually get my hands on and throttle is the personal side, but that would require some self evaluation and that’s not really something that I want to do. Not because I’m afraid, but because I’m lazy. Legend says that whatever you’re doing at midnight on New Year’s Eve will be what you do the most of during the next year. I hope this is true, because I was sound asleep and dreaming of a Muslim kind of heaven. Whether I sleep all year or am constantly surrounded by my own personal set of virgins, is unclear and to be honest, either will do.

Goodbye to you 2005. We must all try to remember you, lest we repeat you.

A little funny

So, the girl child is with her mother this week and it was just me and the boy.

He went into the bathroom the other night and I heard this:

*Grunt*

*Bigger Grunt*

*Almost an orgasmic grunt*

*Huge sigh*

"Whew! Hey dad!"

So, I go in and he's still sitting there and he says, "Check out my poop."

I look and it was a rather large log around the size of his thigh. I say, "It's pretty big."

"Yeah, but is there needles in it?"

"Ummm...no. Should there be?"

"It felt like it had needles in it, but I didn't eat any needles yet."

"Ummm...you should never eat needles. It probably felt that way because it was the size of your torso."

So then he stands up with his pants still down, bends over and says, "check out my butt."

I ask, "What am I looking for?"

"Is there a hole in it?"

He realizes what he's asked and we both laugh hysterically for hours.

---------------

Dad's doing well. He's got a cyst on the back of his brain that they won't operate on, so he's a little worried, but they claim the cyst had nothing to do with the tingling and drooling.