Shag Girl

 

I was sitting at a red light, doing what I always do: drifting. It hit me then that I no longer look to see who is stopped beside me—at least, not the way I did when I was younger. Back then, I was constantly scanning. When you’re twenty-two, that passive radar is always on; you aren’t even conscious of the split-second glances you cast at the women driving past or idling in the next lane. It’s only when you take that second look that you find yourself suddenly awake.

“Oh... she’s cute!”

Go back nearly forty years to the coffee nook inside the Rhode Island College student union. I was there with Vin, my "adopted" academic advisor. I’d blown off the one the college appointed for me out of sheer laziness. Vin was an educational psychology professor, and for some reason, we just hit it off. He was sixty; I was twenty-two. We met at the nook to pick my next round of classes, but mostly we talked about everything except school.

As we sat there, a student walked by, and Vin’s eyes locked onto her ass. He tracked her until she disappeared through the door. I sat in silence, watching Vin’s face while he watched her. After a few seconds, he realized I was staring.

He just looked at me and said, “So?”

“I know May-December romances are a thing, but the age gap here is pushing it, don’t you think?” I said, poking fun.

Vin shrugged. “You don’t know yet—you’re just a kid. But even at my age, you don’t lose the desire. You see a pretty woman and you still respond. The problem is, you just can’t do much about it anymore. There are, however, professors here who hit on their students, date or even live with them, social permission and the Dean’s office be damned. I don’t date them, but I still notice an attractive woman.”

“So, getting older means you keep the desire but lose the ability?”

“That’s the mistake people make,” Vin said. “They think one day the switch just flips off. It doesn’t...and I still will look at pretty women. But just you wait, you’re going to find yourself doing the exact same thing.”

Now fast forward forty years, at a Market Basket where I found myself about to fulfill Vin's predictions.

I move slowly pushing a carriage, largely ignoring the people around me—I assume I don’t exist in their minds, just as they don’t in mine. I’m white-haired, moving with a slight limp, and wearing what the kids at my old job called “the Scrooge Coat.” It’s a grey, 100% virgin-wool overcoat with a formal cut, made by Pendleton Woolen Mills. I like it, but the younger ones thought it made me look like I’d stepped straight out of 1840’s London. Fine. I look old, and because so I vanish. I’ve become part of the scenery, just like all the rest of the "old ones."

I’ve accepted that.

Turning down the breakfast aisle, I stopped. Ahead of me stood a young woman. I could only see her back, but she looked no older than twenty-five.

Wow!

There was no one else in the aisle. I found myself staring, entranced. She was wearing a simple white crop top and baggy, low-slung jeans. The way she stood—relaxed and confident—made the clothes look like an extension of her demeanor. Her hair, a thick, auburn, longish shag, was striking. She’s beautiful, I thought. I didn’t even need to see her face to know.

I swear we all have a detector that triggers when we’re being watched. She turned her head, and I was right about her face: bright blue eyes, dark bangs, an easy smile. Like a fool, I remained frozen, staring in a daze. She gave me a quick, impish but polite smile before turning back to her cart.

I snapped out of it. You’ve been busted. Caught red-handed.

I looked away far too late.

I returned to my shopping, stealing glances as she drifted down the aisle before turning off to another section. The part of me that still remembers being twenty-two—the wolf, wanted to follow her but the civilized part of put that to a stop. I was startled by how completely she’d caught my attention. Maybe I’d stopped noticing. Or maybe age had narrowed my world more than I realized due to just socializing with only people over fifty-five. Whatever the reason, I welcomed that electric, expectant feeling.

At the checkout, I was placing my groceries on the conveyor belt, lost in thought, when I saw her out of the corner of my eye: Shag Cut Girl, getting in line directly behind me.

Don’t look. Don’t be creepy, I lectured myself. Act like no one is there—for God’s sake, you’re old enough to be her grandfather!

Men suck at subtlety, and I am no exception. I needed one more look, so I sheepishly turned. She might as well have received a text three minutes earlier: He’s going to look again. Wait for it... 3... 2... 1...

Our eyes locked. Her gaze wasn't accusatory or annoyed; it felt entirely natural, even kind. Okay, I’m not being a total jerk; she’s not put off at all. I turned back to finish paying and headed for the exit.

This whole thing happening startled me how quickly some dormant part of my brain came back online. I guess it wasn’t noticing her that unsettled me. It was how shockingly strong the jolt was. Pow!

While packing the trunk with the goods, I berated myself further. You dirty old bastard... just what is she supposed to do with a guy like you? Administer CPR after you keel over in the ice cream section?

At the next red light, I drifted off again, but this time Vin came back, accusing me from the grave: ”Just you wait! You’re gonna do the same exact thing!”

Okay, Vin... you win. I get it now. Forty years later, the circuitry still lights up brightly. So for a few moments in a grocery store aisle, the twenty-two year old I thought had vanished appeared again and now know he never really left.

 

Maya and Her Goy Date

I’ve dated only one Jewish woman in my life—not out of personal preference, but because Rhode Island’s Jewish population is less than two percent. Around here, you’re far more likely to meet people of Italian or Portuguese descent than anyone else. Most are brunettes—except for those who peroxide—stand under 5’7”, and, in some cases, speak with that distinct, slightly nasal Cranston accent.

For a stretch in the early 1990s, I spent a great deal of time at the Last Call Saloon on Elbow Street in Providence. I went for the blues music and because it had the best sound system in the state. Another advantage was that both the cover charge and the beer were cheap.

In 1996, I met “Scituate Girl” at the Last Call, someone I’ve written about before. Before her, though, in 1992, I met Maya, the first Jewish woman I ever dated.

As the band played, I noticed a woman standing a few feet in front of me. She caught me looking at her, quickly turned back toward the stage, then glanced over again a few moments later. Our eyes met briefly before she looked away. A few minutes later, it happened again.

I wanted to talk to her, but the speaker array was only a few feet away, and there was no way I was going to begin a conversation by shouting over it. I decided to wait for the band to take a break.

When they finally did, I moved quickly to her side and said "Hi". She returned the greeting, and we began talking. We were both relaxed, which I took as a good sign. Had either of us become stiff or self-conscious, the conversation probably would have died immediately.

We spent the rest of the night together, eventually moving to the back of the club where we could actually hear one another. I learned that she was a RISD graduate working as a bank teller while trying to figure out what she wanted to do with her life. I didn’t judge her for that; I felt much the same way myself.

As we talked, I found myself mentally cataloging everything I learned about her: RISD graduate, bank teller, sharp dresser, intellectually quick, and confident enough to abandon her friends and spend most of the evening talking with me. She easily kept pace as our conversation wandered through dozens of unrelated topics that I shot at her.

Near closing time, I asked for her number. She wrote it down immediately.

“Cool,” I said. “I’ll call you in a few days. Maybe we can go out next Saturday.”

“Next Saturday? Ohhh... I can’t.”

“Why?” I asked, already wondering whether she was backing out.

“Saturday is Tisha B’Av, and my family kinda wants me there this time.”

“What’s Tisha B’Av?”

“It’s a Jewish holiday,” she explained.

I remember thinking: She’s Jewish... and so what?

I suggested the following Saturday instead, and she agreed without hesitation.

A week later, I called her, and she sounded genuinely happy to see me again. I had been trying to think of something interesting for us to do, but before I could suggest anything, she said she wanted to go to the Wickenden Pub. I had never been there, though I’d heard it was a decent place.

She gave me her address and added, “I’ll meet you outside. I’ll flag you down when you get there.”

Meet me outside? I wondered. Maybe she didn’t want me knocking on the door or meeting her family. I pushed the thought aside. At that point, I was more excited about the date than concerned about minor red flags.

Later, I looked up her address and realized it was just off Blackstone Boulevard.

Holy shit, I thought. She lives in one of the most expensive neighborhoods in Providence.

For a moment, I wondered whether I could even compete, being a “slug” from Pawtucket driving a ten-year-old Dodge 400 convertible held together mostly by optimism and a few backyard mechanic tricks.

Still, Saturday came, and I drove there anyway.

As I turned off Blackstone and headed down her street, I saw her waving at me from up ahead. I pulled over to pick her up and noticed that she was standing three houses away from the address she had given me.

The Wickenden turned out to be a great place—small, crowded, and full of neighborhood energy. Maya and I hit it off immediately. A few beers in, she asked whether I wanted to do a “half-yard” with her.

I had no idea what that meant, but she ordered two before I could object.

They arrived in enormous test-tube-shaped glasses mounted on wooden stands. Maya warned me not to tilt mine too far back or the air bubble would surge upward and dump beer all over me.

My first sip ended with several ounces splashing down the front of the best Oxford shirt I owned.

Maya burst out laughing and admitted she had seen it coming. I tried to dry myself off, but honestly, I didn’t care. We were having too much fun for the usual first-date nerves to matter.

 

 

She looked incredible. Her bangs formed a sharp line just above her brows, while the rest of her dark hair spilled over her shoulders. Between the spray-on jeans and the off-the-shoulder Christian Dior top, she didn’t just look expensive—she smelled like money. She was magnetic. I tried to keep my eyes from wandering all over her, but I couldn’t help myself.

I, however, did not smell like money. I’d done my best with a decent shirt and my newest pair of Levi’s 501s, even going so far as to douse my sneakers in Lysol so they wouldn’t reek of sweat and foot. It’s amazing what a guy will do for a date. On a normal day, my usual “caveman chic” was good enough for me.

We both got through about half the tube when she asked, “Can you do this?” She then proceeded to open-throat the rest of the beer, finishing the tube in one continuous pour. Great, I thought. Now I have to keep up. I tried it myself, but I could manage only a few oversized gulps. I was surprised she could do that; I’d only ever seen one guy back in my hometown pull it off, and that was with cans of shitty Budweiser.

At the end of the night, when we left, I realized I was completely pickled—and so was she. I managed to drive her home, and while we sat in the car outside her house we talked but the eye contact kept getting stronger and finally we both leaned into one another to kiss. Wanting to be a “good boy,” I sent her off into the house rather than pushing things too far. 

Driving home, I thought, Wow, she can drink. But she’s fun, too.

I planned a second date for the next weekend and told her I’d gotten two tickets to the Comedy Connection to see some comedian I’d never heard of. It didn’t matter; neither of us had ever been there, and it sounded like fun.

This time, she didn’t tell me to pick her up outside. I arrived, walked up to her door, and knocked. A petite woman in her sixties—about 4'11", with steel-gray hair and an unmistakably Eastern European look—answered the door.

“Yeah?” she asked.

“Uh, is Maya home?” I said.

She turned around and shouted through the house, “Maya, that goy is here!”

Within a few seconds, Maya came hurrying to the door and quickly ushered me back to the car.

“I’m sooo sorry... I thought she wouldn’t be home!” she said.

“Who was that?”

“My mom,” Maya replied, sounding irritated.

I didn’t ask what goy meant, but I figured her mother had already decided she disliked me.

About halfway to the Comedy Connection, Maya opened her purse, revealing roughly eight nip bottles inside. She handed me one, unscrewed another for herself, and said, “For a head start!” before tossing it back.

I hadn’t realized the tickets I’d bought were so close to the stage. By the time the headliner finally came out, Maya had already ordered three rounds of Snake Bite shots along with our usual beers. She was getting drunk.

I noticed the comedian eyeing Maya during his set, and I began to wonder where he was going with it. Eventually, he came down from the stage and walked over to our table to rib me about my very obvious salt-and-pepper hair. I got the usual “elderly” jokes, since I apparently looked like the oldest person in the room—at twenty-eight. I played along out of courtesy.

Then he turned to Maya and said, “My... you’re having a good time tonight, aren’t you?” He glanced at the empty shot glasses and beer bottles scattered across the table. Maya giggled.

He cupped her chin in his hand, tilted her face toward his, and said, “You’re wicked pretty... you know that, right?”

Maya, visibly flattered, giggled again and locked onto his eyes as he spoke.

Watching this unfold three feet in front of me, I thought, "You fucking prick. You’re hitting on my date?"

I was irritated with Maya, too, for encouraging it. Still, I knew I couldn’t lose my temper in the middle of the club, so I swallowed the anger and kept quiet.

Eventually, I drove her drunk ass home. I helped her through the door, got a second kiss, and left without attempting to stay. Her parents’ presence made that impossible anyway.

I told Barney about Maya, and he said, “You know, goy isn’t really a pejorative; it’s just a word for a non-Jew. Still, depending on how it’s said, it can absolutely sound insulting. And the way her mother said ‘that goy,’ I suspect she doesn’t like you at all.”

Then it hit me why Maya had asked me to pick her up away from the house the first time: I wasn’t supposed to meet her mother.

“Do you still like Maya?” he asked.

“Yeah... I guess. She’s cute.”

Barney continued. “Okay, think this through, Einstein. She got visibly drunk on the first date. On the second, her purse was filled with nip bottles, and she got wasted enough to flirt openly with the headliner while sitting next to you. Do you not see the problem here?”

“She’s... not worth it? Unstable? Is that what you’re trying to say?”

“Duhhhhhh! Did you just now figure that out?” he said.

To tell the truth, I sort of had. Barney had no problem burning me with brutal honesty and then rubbing salt into the wound afterward. He was merciless that way. In short: Wake the fuck up.

There was no third date.

Honestly, I never cared much what religion someone had been raised with. I’d dated Catholics, Protestants, hardcore atheists, Jews, and even one Taoist girl from Fall River. None of those things ever made my “deal breaker” list. What would? Alcoholism, a cocaine habit, or massive credit-card debt.

I once paraphrased that last point to a woman I met at the Celtic. I don’t even remember how the conversation drifted toward finances, but I jokingly said, “I hope you don’t have $10,000 in credit-card debt!”

The moment I said it, she shot me a deeply bitter look. Immediately, I thought: Wow. Thanks for that reaction. You just confirmed that you absolutely do have ridiculous debt.

Maya was beautiful—at least to me. I just hope she eventually got control of the drinking. Lushes tend to lose their beauty once they start falling apart.

 

Maya sorta, kinda looked like this...but not model quality like this chick. Close enuff i guess.

 

60 BPM

 I’m not sure when, if ever, I last had a resting heart rate of 60 bpm, but for the past few weeks, it’s been hovering right there. If I had a blood pressure cuff, I’d bet that’s lower, too. These are the unexpected "bennies" of retirement I didn’t see coming.

Three months in. I recently went back to my old job, ostensibly to pick up a 1095 tax form (which I did actually need), but really, I just used it as an excuse to see everyone. I didn't tell them I was coming; the surprised looks on their faces were proof that I’m still loved—mostly, or at least sort of. I realized then how much I’d missed that interaction.

I’d also been trying to coordinate a reunion with an older group of former coworkers, but setting a date is like scheduling a doctor’s appointment; everyone has to be off on the same day, and life—work, kids, etc.—usually gets in the way. Oh well. One day it’ll happen.

What I don’t miss is the bullshit. As I watched them scurrying about—serving lunch, fielding phones, and hitting that dreaded “outside line” (the universal signal for a call-out)—I realized all over again that being retired kept me from being fire-hosed with all of it.

Am I any happier? I asked myself that a few weeks in, and two months later, I’m still asking. As I thought then, it’s more about the removal of annoyances than it is about gaining 24/7 bliss. But something has changed.

I find I treat myself better now. Since I’m not required by anyone, I can finally put myself first. I didn’t realize how restrictive I was with "life’s little pleasures" while I was working. Half of that was self-imposed; the other half was the usual demands on my time. For years, I stuffed retirement accounts and denied myself "goodies," probably stupidly slitting my own wrists for the constant needs of others. Then there was the shit I couldn't control—life demanding a new CV joint in the car—the "paying the piper" we all do. I’m no Puritan, but I’m a master of self-denial and impulse control. That Protestant work ethic had me squirreling away pennies and playing "nurse" to everyone else. Others always came first.

But now...

I drink coffee, something I’ve never really done in my life. I brew a pot, settle back, and drink it screaming hot after a quick zap in the microwave. I’ve discovered the simple pleasure of just sitting and sipping. It’s a ubiquitous joy millions have known for ages, but now I finally understand what’s so great about it: having the time to sit without someone needing me. I’m a latecomer to things others have long mastered, but this time, I have the luxury of "slow-poking" through the morning with my heart thumping at a ho-hum 60 bpm.

I’ve also become a fan of German wines, thanks to a sommelier I met years ago. Before that, I never drank wine, likely because I was buying the cheap stuff without knowing better. I thought it was wild when I learned that the proof of a well-made Riesling is a faint scent of burnt rubber. The problem is that if you buy a bottle of Auslese, you’re supposed to store it for 10 or 15 years to let it develop. I’m fairly certain I’ll be dead by then, so I drink it "young." And so what? I can. What rule am I breaking? It’s another common joy I’ve come to late. At least I don’t need a 30-pack of beer a day. I’ll sip my weird Deutscher Wein in moderation; it’ll knock me out before I can cause any damage. Lucky me, I was never a booze hound.

Of course, I’ve discovered the "old age betrayal" of alcohol. As you age, your body doesn't process it like it used to, which means you get blotto faster. Is that a good thing? It certainly reminded me that I can’t drive afterward. Not that I’ve driven drunk since my 20s, back when everyone is stupid. Now, I just crash on my own bed.

In a few days, I’ll be seeding herbs indoors to plant outside in late May. I want fresh herbs; having a gallon of pesto in the freezer is a luxury I can finally pull off. A zillion years ago, I was a decent gardener. I used to turn half the backyard into a personal farm. Once established, it only takes 30 minutes a day to maintain, but you need the energy that a full-time job robs you of. In the past, I’d watch the garden get weedy and unproductive. In a few weeks, I hope to reestablish that rhythm.

Speaking of pesto, I can cook now without a gun to my head. After years in professional kitchens, you learn to time everything so tightly and efficiently that it becomes a bore. Now, not having a deadline is the ultimate plus. I actually brown my rouxs properly now; before, I’d toss in a raw roux and "cook it out" in 30 minutes as a cheat. Clarifying butter? Pffft. In the old days, where could I put it to solidify in the walk-in without a "kid" knocking it over? I can clarify at will in my one-man kitchen. I can’t remember the last time I made an authentic Béchamel at work, but I made one the other day for a Gratin Dauphinoise—sliced potatoes, cheese, thyme, garlic, and a calorie-bomb sauce. It helps to have the time to be relaxed.

And then there’s the music. I’ve been a "whore for audio tech" since I was a kid. One night, right after that blizzard in February, it was pushing midnight and I felt like listening to my system. I’m not a jerk; I didn’t blast it. I killed the lights and just sat on the couch.

Because it was late, I leaned my head back and drifted into that cat-nap state—the one I can maintain for an hour if I put in a little effort. I remember thinking, "Wow... I didn’t know that was in the song. That guitar rasp is great. Is that Stevie Nicks on backing vocals? Damn, Melissa Manchester’s 'Midnight Blue' really is that awesome." I was totally relaxed, zeroed in, with no intrusive thoughts about the next day. I haven't felt that in a long time.

I woke up at 3:30 AM. The stereo was still softly idling. I thought, "Shit, you fell asleep in your clothes on the couch again." Then I thought, "So fucking what? What law have I broken? Where do I have to be? Who do I have to impress?" I got up and went to bed.

Three months in, and the biggest change is that I treat myself better. I have the time to do things at the speed I choose. People still come to me to solve their problems, but it’s nothing like before.

My friend D—who still runs a business and is always wired tight—asked me with genuine puzzlement: “What do you DO all day?” From his perspective, my life seems alien, perhaps even driftless.

“I take all day to do whatever it is I want,” I told him.

I could see he didn’t get it. He didn’t see that the tranquility was the prize. My life might not look like I’m "producing" anything or advancing toward a goal, but he’s forgotten that living in peace is the goal. He hasn’t had that in years. It’s become a foreign language to him.

 

 

 

 

30 Days

 

 

 

So I’ve been retired for 30 days or abouts and was waiting for what changes I’d see. One thing that took forever was trying to sleep later. I didn’t need an alarm anymore but I kept waking up between 4 to 5AM anyways. My alarm was set it for that time when working to give me some “me time” before going in. Now that I was free of work, I still kept waking up naturally at 5ish.

Today, I rolled over and saw the dawn light in the window instead of the usual blackness. With a quick look at the radio, it said 6AM. OK, some improvement. Took damn long enough to get it though. To be honest as well, if I get up after 7, I feel I’m wasting the day already.

Guess what else hasn’t happened since I left. I have not had a single episode of muscle cramps. I would get them twice or more a week in both thighs, both calves and my left hand for years now, each year increasing in frequency. Now, not a single occurrence. For too many times I would have dropped to the floor, while the muscles in the backs of both thighs could tighten up at the same time for a good 15 minutes while I was gritting my teeth and swearing, on the floor, the front yard lawn or wherever. Once, it was fun when it happened while driving on 95 and my entire right leg locked up...and I was driving manual transmission car. The cramps have disappeared thank God.

Add to that my hips have not bothered me much and less so as time went by. The big test was that big snowstorm we got. I was out there slinging that stuff around and when I went inside, I had just a slight annoyance in my hip that went away in under 20 minutes.

How about that. If I don’t beat the crap out of my body with a job meant for younger men...I manage to heal up some. (The girl who replaced me, “L,” I’m am glad to hear, is totally killing it at her new job! I’m sure being 19 has a lot to do with it! No leg cramps!). Hopefully other physical benefits will arise I have no idea about yet.

I did realize I need some exercise (instead of living on the couch) but of a different sort which I discovered at my first official visit to the senior center. I was all for getting free physical therapy in some of the various classes they had so I tried the arthritis one, as I am sort of afflicted with now.

Holy shit! Did I find out just how tight and bound up my tendons are and never mind the joints! Some of the move they had the class do..I swear some of my tendons wanted to rip themselves off the bone. No, it’s not Olympic stuff, the exercises are all geared to used up, worn out old farts like me and it still, for me at least, was a bitch to do.

I need to keep at this.

There used to be a Tai Chi class I’d see in the park that’s behind me with about 30 people in it, They’d follow the moves of, and this is stereotypical, the Tai Chi Master Qiang who had longish white hair and a goatee. A few days later, with the help of YouTube, I found a Tai Chi instructor you could follow along with.

Tai Chi looks beautiful, graceful...and above all...EASY! But some of those moves put you into positions that require you tense up 2/3 of the muscles in your body while trying not to fall over since your center of gravity has shifted to areas you never had to compensate for.

I will first do the simple kiddy stretching stuff first before I try Tai Chi again.

****

I worried about boredom but it hasn’t happened. There was a lot of shit around this house I was ignoring and I went on a tear fixing it all. Boxes filled with financial statements, paid bills and other stuff I finally sorted and filed away properly. I created spreadsheets to track my spending as I truly need a good idea of what I’m blowing month to month, so far, it’s within what I thought it would be but I like tight numbers to be sure. I also have been tweaking my ears to music I hadn’t sat down and listened to in a while and some nice surprises arose from that. Sugar Ray’s “Fly” had some moments I was clueless about, like a rasping guitar interlude...which I never knew was there before. It’s nice to focus on that once again as that stereo system I have is my altar to worship at.

****

I have not set foot in Quinn’s bar in months, not that I was worried about that but the thought cropped up I might due to boredom. No, my light-weight status regarding alcohol still stands. I doubt I’ll start a career of spending my retirement hours drunk as shit by 1PM on a Tuesday.

I DO have to watch what I eat though. Before that bastard snow storm, I was whipping up a real, bonafied french classical bechamel sauce to dump on potatoes to bake in the oven, a Gratin Dauphinoise. Each spoonful of that is a terrorist calorie bomb. Oh well, moderation I have to keep front and center to avoid ballooning out worse than I am. Though, I’ll probably gain a few as now I can cook at leisure instead of against a clock.

****

I was curious if I’d be happier in retirement but my mood didn’t go there 24/7. At times I was grateful for the free time and not having to rush and could take all damn day to do something. Another happy moment was that my legs actually felt...good. It’s a wonderful feeling I haven’t felt in years. I could feel the relaxation in them.

What has happened now is that I find I am less disappointed. I have left a lot of that negativity others can bring. I don’t hear lame excuses why you can’t come to work. “You ain’t coming in?” And before I let them finish the excuse I hang up. It got to the point there was no point in knowing why and my courtesy disappeared. Add to that I don’t have to watch them do a shoddy job if they did show up later. I don’t have to step in to fix fuck ups others leave...and fixing those from other departments I had nothing to do with but when something lands in your lap half done and broken, guess who has to repair it?

And this was a huge one for me which ran up my spine since I was sooo OCD about accuracy and safety; being given the wrong information.

“You say it’s for room 269A ? Right?”

“Yeah, 269A….No...I mean 169A….B! It’s B!” And then they hang up fast as I am nearly shouting into the phone...”Don’t You Hang UP yet!”

Click.

“God dammit!” And the kids across the room stop and look at me and wonder why I am shouting.

Already I suspect the request is wrong. I look up the diet for 169B and it’s loaded with restrictions...and what they called down for the patient can never have.

“Sigh...time to play detective again and get the correct info.” I thought to myself. Wrong room? Wrong patient? Wrong everything? Every God Damn day this happens.

This has happened hundreds of times in my time there.

It’s not happening now to me because I am not there.

Without all these people failing me...I am less disappointed now.

****

What I am going to say next will sound mean.

I once opined to my coworkers there, who mainly are from West Warwick, this. I always wondered what happened to those lazy/stupid/idiotic kids I knew in Pawtucket schools who just stubbornly refused to do the work or just enough to graduate. They felt they were smart by doing as little as possible because work was for suckers. While working at that particular facility, I kept having flashbacks to that time when I was in school (I wonder why?).

So I absent mindlessly say this to my West Warwick coworkers.

“Hey, I know where all those lazy kids I knew back then ended up! They all moved to West Warwick and work here!”

Their faces looked like they just sniffed burnt cat fur when I said that.

Whoops! I just insulted their home town.

Oh well. I had to deal with those types of people for too long and I mouthed off. That’s another thing that happens to you when u get older, you don’t care and mouth off more often.

So, in my retirement, I have ran into less lazy moronic fucks...but I won’t be able to escape them altogether. But fewer is definitely better.

We’ll see what else happens now in the coming months.

 

 

Crabby Shack

 

 

The Fun Mafia Story

I never got used to clam flats or it’s mud, they just plain stink. I found that to be true about of wharves where commercial vessels tie up at as well. The water is stagnant, the docks stink of tar and creosote and the first stage of fish processing starts there, which can reek. But guess what, they put restaurants right next to them because those places can be tourist magnets.

The town wharf in Plymouth is no different, it too has long docks and restaurants and Barn and I went to one that’s now called the Crabby Shack next to Cap’n John’s Boats.

“Oh, you’ll get used to the smell. I have.” says he.

“Yeah, you lived here on and off for 60 years...your nostrils are fried from it!”

The waitress comes and Barn whips out his license, shows it to her and we order a couple of beers. I ask “Do they card everyone, no matter what age?” and he tells me he did that so we get townie prices. I find out townie prices are what businesses will charge locals instead of the ‘non-consenting rape prices’ they hit the tourists with.

“I’m just proving to her ‘we’re from here’ and it’ll knock off a good 30-40% on the final bill.”

I get my fave, fried scallops and he his clams w/ bellies (which are killer too) and we dig in. As we eat, I ask him how the hell he ended up in Rhode Island anyway, where I first met him to begin with that long ago.

In 1985 he had just finished up another stint with the 2^nd fleet but this time as a retired civilian (teaching history to the sailors who were advancing their educations while at sea) and that shadowy job he used to do when active as a Commander.

So he’s back home for a few months, gets bored and starts applying for positions as a professor of history around New England. He gets hired by two places, Bryant U and Rhode Island College.

“So a month before classes start, I look for and find a really cheap apartment on Penn St in Providence, in it’s Little Italy off Atwells Ave...you know where.”

He tells me he gets moved in and starts exploring the neighborhood on foot.

“I made the best decision! I got an apartment for nothing and if I walk a few streets down...all the best Italian stores and restaurants are there!”

About a block down from his place, Barn sees a very small bar that has all it’s windows and doors wide open to the street. He walks by it, thinks and then goes back to get a beer and maybe meet some of the neighbors that live there.

As he goes in, there’s a bartender and in the corner, a group of guys drinking and playing cards at a table. He sallies up to the bar and orders a beer.

“Uh...I can’t really serve you.” the bartender says.

“Why? Barn asks surprised. “You’re open, wide open for everyone to see….you served THOSE guys there in the corner.” The guys in the corner stop playing and look up.

The bartender is nervous and then says, “We’re not that kind of bar here...perhaps you should try another place.”

Barn was undeterred and didn’t quite understand why the place, wide open to the street, isn’t serving him.

The bartender then says, “Look, don’t take this personal but this is a private club...you have to be a member to drink here.”

To which Barn says..”Ohhhh, I get it. OK, fine….can I Join?”

Once Barn says that the guys in the corner start laughing.

He goes on. “They all started laughing at what I said but not a loud as this big fat guy that was there. He was wearing black pants, white shoes and a white shirt opened so low that his fat man titties were nearly out.”

The fat one, laughing had also said: “Huh! Huh! Huh! You hear that! He wants to join our club!”

Another one at the table tells Barn, “Youze don’ understand..this a real special club for special guys!”

Out of curiosity, the fat one asks Barn his name.

“Barn Barufaldi” He tells them.

The guys stop laughing and fat man asks, “Where’s your family from in Italy?”

“Cento, north of Bologna...nearing the Italian Alps.” Barn tells him.

After hearing this the fat one says. “Hey Luca, get this guy a beer! It’s on us!”

So Barn drinks it and talks to the guys. After that he thanks them and leaves.

A day or so later, he tells his landlord who lives on the first floor the same story about that bar.

“Do you anything about the Patriarca family?” the landlord asks.

“I have heard of them…” Barn says.

The landlord tells Barn he had walked into one of their little neighborhood hang outs and the fat one ran gambling operations.

“Ohhhhhh…” sez Barn “that sort of explains things.”

But Barn isn’t scared not shooed off when he returns to it.

After a few more visits to that bar, fat man finds out Barn is a professor at RIC and is teaching a class his daughter is in. She’s is having a great time at RIC and loves Barn’s class because Barn was helping her get along as she had trouble at times, scholastically. He hadn’t known prior that she was the daughter of anyone of merit.

The guy, taking a liking to Barn tells him, “Look, youze is new here..youze need anything, have any problems, youze come to me. I can help. OK?”

****

By the time I graduated RIC, the history department head had changed from Norman Smith to George Kellner, whom Barn detested. Apparently Kellner couldn’t stand Barn either, but Kellner was the Dept head and/or “boss” now.

Barn would show up to his classes dressed head to toe in sweat pants, shirts. Sometimes in some real Guido white pants and flashy shirts and many times in his tennis get up, sweating like a pig from whacking a ball around on the college’s courts. To look at him you’d never guess he was a professor and certainly not dressed like the staid conservative history profs that populated the history department, some looking like they taught at stuffy Cambridge.

“Once Kellner got the department head job, I knew he was going to use it to push me out. He never liked me one bit.” Barn had liked to do things, ‘his way’ but at the same time uphold classes/college’s reputation.

“I can prove to the Dean, that all of my exams, fully satisfy validity and reliability scores..can Kellner claim the same? I’d love to know!”

Barn liked too blow off departmental meetings or show up very late to them. When Norman Smith ran the place, he was pretty liberal, easy going and would just tell Barn what was discussed later on or a week later. It was no big deal. Kellner however…

“Nice of you to join us Mr. Barufaldi.” Kellner told him one time, as Barn came in late to the meeting, looking like a pig from playing tennis.

Kellner then wants Barn to run a summer session course as no one else seems to want to do.

“No.” Barn tells him.

“NO?! I need YOU to take over this course!” Kellner tells him, getting visibly pissed as Barn tells me.

Barney sits down at the table, clacking his tennis racket on it and says, “I won’t be here. In a week, I’ll be flying to Brisbane...I’m spending the entire summer in Australia...why don’t YOU pick up that course.”

“Ron” Barn says, “His face got beet red! Kellner wanted to kill me!”

“Mr. Barufaldi, I feel your heart isn’t really ‘with’ our department, I would like to see more cooperation! We need someone to fill that spot.”

To which Barn gets up, picks up his racket and as he is leaving the room, turns around to tell Kellner “No” again and that he already planned and paid for his trip there. Now being a bit miffed, he fires a shot at him as he asks Kellner when was the last time he was published in a a major journal. As a professor, “Publish or Perish” is a real thing. Along with your teaching job, you have to keep researching and publishing articles to keep adding to that body of knowledge. It’s a sort of unwritten law with professors and that culture.

As Barney waited for an answer from Kellner, he says, “I’ll answer that for you...you HAVEN’T published anything in over five years….know when I did last? 13 months ago in the Contemporary European History journal!”

****

Later on Barn tells that same story to fat man from the bar to which he suggests he can, with a few friends, “Slap Kellner around a bit..just to send a message.”

“You were going to have Kellner put under a contract?” I ask.

“You know...I thought of it..for a bit..but decided it wasn’t worth it, Kellner was a prick and I was going to quit RIC and Bryant U anyways after I came back from Australia. I knew I wanted to keep traveling, do that old Navy job again...but still...fat man was going to do this w/o payment and it did sound fun! God, Kellner was this close to motivating me.”

***

The waitress arrives with the bill it was was surprisingly cheap for what we ordered after all. I was expecting it to be much higher but townie prices do work, if you’re a local. Every time I had gone to Plymouth, I’d gas up the car, do some food shopping here at home instead of being overcharged there.

It’s nice to have connections at times.

 

 

Siasconset

 

 

If you know me, I lovvve to tell stories. I probably have a few hundred of them and some of them I would tell only to a certain trusted few who would understand. Who would get it? Anyone who gets sick, black humor and had to have lived with silly absurdity at some point in their lives...and knows that a certain kind of humor can make ludicrousness tolerable. Mainly my audience were the late teens I would work with and I’d entertain them with what growing up in the 70s was like. And how we got away with stuff that would get us arrested today, or at least sent to a psychiatric hospital. Topics I won’t elaborate on here just yet would include: murdering gerbils, beating the crap out of a Hasbro Inch Worm rider toy, spitting in Johnny’s mouth (not me but an older boy at the time), RJ’s bold joke of whipping his dick out in class when he was 13 or ramming a goat’s heads into a cement pillar. Bet that last one piqued your curiosity.

And no, I wasn’t the lead star in all of these stories, but I did witness them.

****

Also, I love to hear stories, if they’re good enough. An old friend, who was lucky enough to travel the world had grown up in Plymouth and the Cape and he had plenty of stories. Probably the most eye opening one to me was his time he spent in Berkeley CA living next door to the Peking Man House and w/o knowing that a cell of the Symbionese Liberation Army commune was living there. They’re the ones who kidnapped Patty Hearst.

Barn held various jobs as a teen and one at his aunt’s general store in downtown Plymouth. This gave him some experience in retail and then he was sent to another aunt’s store for one summer in Nantucket.

“I didn’t want to go.” he tells me. “Nantucket in the 50’s was a desert, nothing happened there at all, but I was a nephew in a traditional Italian family and you go where you are sent to help out relatives.”

He looks at me, “To you..Nantucket is a paradise, a destination, billionaires live there. It was never like that in the 50s...it was a lonely outpost no one knew about...and because of that, many Hollywood stars would vacation there. You could disappear there and the locals left you alone.”

“But with every cool place where artists, stars, actors and writers live, it gets exposed when word gets out and then everybody wants to go there and fucks up forever, the vibe.”

His aunt had a general store in Siasconsett, on the southeastern side of Nantucket. Barn lived with her and every morning, would ride his bike to the store which was all of 40 yards from the beach there. He would clean it, stock shelves and occasionally run the register as people came in and out during the day.

“My aunt told me when I started that certain people would come in and if I recognized them, to shut up, act like I didn’t know them.” To tell the truth, there were Hollywood stars who came in I never recognized at all.”

“Then one day, as I ran the register, this guy comes in, buys milk, eggs and bread an I rung him up and off he went”

“My aunt then asks from one of the aisles with a mile wide grin, ‘You know who THAT was?’”

“Who?” says Barn.

“Ray Bolger” his aunt tells him.

“Who’s Ray Bolger?” asks Barn.

Hearing this I say...“Yeah, who’s Ray Bolger?” as I am just as clueless.

Barn goes on. “Ever see the Wizard of Oz?”

“Yeah, prob 50 times.” I say.

“Ray Bolger was the Scarecrow...look it up one day!” he says.

He explains…

“Ray Bolger, I found out quick, did summer stock theater on the Cape and at Priscilla Beach Theater in Plymouth back then. When he wasn’t on stage, he hid out on Nantucket but was close enough to head back to do shows.”

“There were a bunch of others who came through that store but they have no relevance to you, just old 30’s and 40’s actors and actresses...but I know you KNOW that one!”

 **** 

After a bit I chime in about an autobiography I had read, The Summer of ‘42 that was set in Nantucket in those older times.

“Herman Raucher?” says Barn. Raucher was the author.

“What...you meet HIM too there?” I ask.

“No, but the oldsters on that island know that story well, once it came out and putting two and two together, they figured out who the protagonists were.”

Summer of ‘42 was an autobiography of a 15 year old Raucher when he was vacationing there with his parents. He recounts how he became enamored with a young married women, Dorothy. She was in her 20s who was vacationing there, alone, as her husband was overseas fighting in WW2. The two eventually meet and struck up an innocent friendship. One day, she receives a telegram telling her that her husband was killed when his plane was shot down over France. That night, she seduces Raucher and sleeps with him.

Within a day or so, she had left the island but left note behind for the young Raucher which I will paraphrase.

“I’m sorry...I can’t explain why I did what I did with you. When I got that telegram, I needed someone...anyone..to be with..I was so struck with loneliness. I hope I didn’t harm you. When you are older, maybe you will understand.”

Raucher never did have bad feelings about her or the event. In fact, he looked back on it with happiness as any teen boy would feel at first being laid. It was such a perfect memory he wrote that book about it and it hit hard on the NY Times best seller list.

Raucher never did see her again and I mention that to Barn too.

“Oh! But he DID meet her again, in a way.” Barn tells me.

“Over the decades and because the book was a bestseller, Raucher got letters saying she was the real Dorothy that he had known. But the letters were so vauge or full of blatant inaccuracies that he dismissed them...until he got a letter one day that stunned him. Raucher said it was so full of detail of her summer home, the times and their very quick relationship that he knew this was THE Dorothy.”

She had moved on. Got married again grew old and had grankids when she finally wrote to him because she was fully aware that it was HER in that book. She finally reached out to him.

“I peddled my bike by that summer house many times when I worked in that store and had no idea of it, or what it would represent one day.” Barn says.

I might tell the story of Barn and the Patriarca family when he lived on Penn St that was by Atwells Ave when he taught at RIC.

Or I could explain how a goat’s hardened head was used as hammer by a friend once. If I feel safe about it, perhaps I will.

Jeez, did I grow up with some pretty bizarro types then. Well, the mafia story will be funny and...more normal than some of the other tales I was witness too.

 

 

The Soundtrack To Your Life, El Condor Pasa.

 

 

 

 

 

I can be proud, too proud at times. There are skills I know I have and do well with but life can take me down a few notches when it kicks my ass and then I realize I had deficits in that skill set all along. My problem is losing the sight of the forest through the trees. If you’re in a situation long enough, a rut or whatever, you don’t noticed the insidious creep it does, like ivy slowly growing up your legs to fully engulf you in leaves eventually, even blinding you.

I do notice it too late though at times. Usually when I have been freed of it and months go by and I look back, with a now clear eyes and see just how thoroughly saturated I was by it and how it ruled my thoughts, decisions and happiness.

**

I’ve spoken about it before, the life long mental illness my Mom had to endure before they managed, rather late, to control with better meds.

I used to think that her illness never effected me as a kid but it did because even then, say at 7 or 8, I refused to invite friends into my house lest they witness...her! It wasn’t that she thought she was Napoleon but depression has it’s outer effects, like never cleaning the house for weeks on end. I wasn’t about to let anyone figure out our family dynamics with a personal tour of the place.

Everyone, families, maintain a public face and it better bespeak of normality

So I hid her.

I did admit to myself that she effected me after my father’s death. He was her support and it vanished when he died. She now had to run this household and she was in no condition to do it.

My brother, who couldn’t stand her fled as much as he could from the house (physically and psychologically) and that left me, at 14, to be Dad.

This included gathering the mail, sorting the bills, forging her name on checks to pay for these bills and doing a shit job of cleaning the house because I was at 14 boy. I kept an eye out for growing piles of laundry and became more aware of the other household duties she could not care less for.

Due to her depression, which makes you push the world away and any friends, she leaned on me for support as she had no one else. I also did free therapy sessions that lasted to 2AM as we sat in the kitchen as she spelled out her gloom and related worry about everything. So, I countered that with my 14 years of wisdom that amounted to nothing than a pep talk.

This went on for years in one form or another and I propped her up when she fell into deeper despairing episodes. I did know being “nurse” could cramp my life sometimes but I had no clue as to the extent at the time. I was deep within the forest with no perspective. Also, I had grown up under these conditions so it was always like this. If she were stable and calm for a few months, these were the “good” time.

In 1994 to 1996 I was working and going to school full time, both. I worked or was in school seven days a week for two years straight. If anyone ever accuses me of being lazy, I ought to take a hockey stick upside their head! Pile upon that caring for her as the breast cancer and emphysema grew worse. She had been diagnosed with both in ‘94.

I know the following to be true as I lived it. Those with chronic or terminal illness have a tendency to ramp up the worst of their personality traits. Life becomes harder with no hope of resolution and that stress can make them lash out to the ones nearest to them. So, I ate any reaction to that knowing why it happened.

Her diseases progressed fairly rapidly and I did what I could and then one day it was over, the illness took her.

**

I took a week off from work and school to manage the funeral, line up a lawyer, dig up documents and that week raced by. Those seven days later, on a Saturday, I returned to school, getting back to my regular life.

It was 5AM, Saturday, and I had the stereo on, listening to it as that would probably be my only twenty minutes I would have to myself that day. I had on Paul Simon’s “Live Rhymin’ when the CD player cued up El Condor Pasa, which I have heard a thousand times before without much reacting to it in any way.

There is a line in it in which, for the first time, I realized how plaintively Simon sung it.

Away, I'd rather sail away

Like a swan, that's here and gone.

A man gets tied up to the ground

He gives the world, its saddest sound

Its saddest sound.

Not to rip off Marlon Brando from Apocalypse Now but I swear I “was shot with a diamond bullet straight in the forehead” when I heard those lines. The thought that hit me, with full realization, was that I was free of her, her illnesses and everything that had gone before. That the whole situation was undoubtedly over and the song, which instantly became shockingly relevant to me, was like Moses’s coming off the mountain with a message from God. Hyperbole? Over-stated? I don’t think by much, because I was struck at how the song suddenly made sense now. And it was right.

Another thought came: “God..that’s a mercenary thing to think, you’re supposed to put others before yourself.” No, I did have a desire for myself the whole time I played Dad to her.

“Away, I’d rather sail away…” I had to admit I had that awfully quiet wish to be done with it all but it had been buried in the forest of my continual “nursing others” career. Looking back, with hindsight, I didn’t recognize then how another life could so permeate my own and control how I could live it. It’s amazing what you will do for other people, even if you have just a shred of empathy.

I didn’t get my entire life back that Saturday though, having been freed of it all.

There is an interesting thing that happens to land when it’s had a mile thick glacial ice sheet sit on it for 20,000 years or so, the weight of it pushes the land down hundreds of feet. When it melts, the land rebounds, slowly, but it rises again. Norway, Sweden, to this day, are still rising up inch by inch as measured by satellites.

When summer arrived several months after her death, I had been rising too the whole time w/o really trying. Slowly at first and then with greater speed as time went on. I had lost weight without putting too much effort into it. I bought slimmer white pants to wear! I was cruising around the state in my convertible and one night, had met Roberta at the Last Call Saloon. With me in tow, she returned me to the beaches and Block Island and spent some syrupy humid summer nights on the Scituate dam, her and me trying to see aurora in the sky. She literally lived around the corner of that dam in fact. That area is very dense with stands of pine trees which suffuse the air with that piquant earthy scent. I swear that fragrance can get into your clothes with time. I being raised in a city, smelling that Scituate air by the dam and her home was remarkable to me.

If my nose picks up that scent today somewhere, I flashback back to those nights.

By the end of that autumn, I had picked my degree from J&W and started a new career. I had emptied this house of the past and made it my own. To top it all off, in a weird (perhaps lucky?) astronomical portent, the Hale-Bopp comet had returned and was visible for months. I knew things were changing for the better.

El Condor Pasa didn’t change me. I did that. But the song just woke me up and quite surprisingly too. In a short time after, I bolted to freedom like a slave running north.

There are a few other songs that have struck me acutely when their relevance, or rather, my awareness of a connection became apparent.

 

         Scituate Dam