Untold Stories: The Final Chapter

A few years ago, I was sitting at some slot machine at the Wynn Hotel when you sat down next to me.  Okay, it wasn't you but for about two minutes, I was convinced she was.  My recollection of you is vague but I remember a few specific details:  Like your beauty mark.  And your smile.

Of course, I remember your big bangs and denim skirts but this was 2009 so those two details weren't relevant at that moment.

She sat down next to me; obnoxiously drunk and as soon as she hit something on her slot machine, she would slur, "winner winner chicken dinner" and then look at me and laugh.  I knew she wasn't you when her yellow nicotine stained teeth came into view.

She quickly lost interest in her gambler's drug of choice and stumbled off into the distance. 

I have to admit for those two minutes I thought she was you, I was nervous, excited and clumsily trying to think of words to say to reintroduce myself to you. 

Back when I used to call you on my old olive green colored rotary phone, I always made a list of things to talk about with you before I called.   You made me nervous.  I've always been intimidated by girls of your caliber.  So, in preparation of hearing your voice, I made certain there would be no awkward silence.

This was even true after you left, right before we lost contact, and technology had evolved to cordless phones. 

Frankly, you scared me and it's because you were unlike all the other girls.

Maybe, that fact alone explains why over the last 20 something years I have been looking for you.

Many things have crossed my mind in my feeble attempts of finding you... Like, will you even remember me?  Was I so ordinary at that young age that I am just a blur in the dark crevices of your memories?  Or if I do find you and am not prepared with a well thought out list, will I say something so remarkably stupid, you kindly rebuke my reintroduction?

Here we are in 2014, twenty something years after we last spoke on the telephone and I am at peace, finally.   Finding you... seeing you with an incredible husband and two beautiful kids is the best scenario for you I could have ever dreamed of.

As I stood in the elevator at the Wynn Hotel to head to my room that night, I was standing next to Rod Stewart.  He was wearing a denim jacket and his bangs were slightly reminiscent of how yours were the last time I saw you.  Any other moment in my life, I would have probably been star struck or at least, in awe of this famous singer.  But not that night... it was the night I had thought I finally found you again.  You were all I could think about. 

Life is really amazing.  All these people wander in and out of our lives like busboys in a restaurant.  And every once in awhile, someone becomes a permanent fixture, regardless if their moment in our life was lightning quick, and we never forget them.

You are one of those rare people.

I've got so many stories I will never get to share with you and I am sure you've got plenty more than me.

Untold Stories: The Orphan Year

Once a month, a truck filled with donations would pull up to the front office.   Being a self-centered 13 year old with aspirations of being a cool kid, I was certain to grab any piece of clothing that had OP written on it.  I would snatch the OP corduroy short shorts and those oddly popular Ocean Pacific T-shirts. 

One of the perks of being the son of the secretary at an orphanage was being the first person to rummage through donations intended for orphans. 

This place, my home for one year, was called Sunshine Acres.  The perk my mom received as their secretary was a small salary and a humble house right there on campus.  It was me and my mother living adjacent to the dorms that housed kids aged 5 through 17; all of whom had some horrible background.

This was just a few years before I met you.

You know how you are sitting there with your significant other for the first time showing them all your baby and childhood photo albums and suddenly you come across three random childhood pictures that you completely forgot about?  Well, that one year at Sunshine Acres was those three pictures. 

It was a remarkable year in my life as far as character development goes and simply learning that my self-perceived lonely childhood was nothing compared to what other people face.  Those orphans, those kids, all of them; they welcomed me with open arms and treated me like family. 

I suppose I could go into a long winded tour with you and tell you about the times I played Marco Polo with them in the swimming pool there on the grounds of Sunshine Acres.  I probably could tell you how I ate dinner with all of them at the cafeteria every night and they would be praising God for the wonderful brussel sprouts that sat on their plate while I complained and made faces at the mere presence of those leafy green vegetables. I could tell you how some of the kids would ask me daily how school was and asked me what I wanted to be when I grow up.  I could tell you how significant I felt just because these orphaned kids showed a real interest in me and my life.  I could go into a lot of detail at how children who grow up in extreme circumstances often emerge with the utmost character and courage.  Those kids, those orphans; all of them... prepared me for you and others like you who came into my life after you left.

But like those three random pictures that show up in your childhood photo album out of the blue, my one year of living at Sunshine Acres is better left unspoken about.  The experiences and lessons I garnered at that awkward year of my life is better exhibited through action instead of words.

It's funny but in my childhood photo albums there are way too many pictures of me wearing those super short corduroy OP shorts and posing like I was some pre-adolescent James Dean.  I have viewed those pictures a thousand of times and it wasn't until tonight that I remembered how I greedily stole them from the donation truck during that year I lived at Sunshine Acres. 

Vanity is a funny thing.  You probably don't know this but on those rare occasions I knew I was going to see you at church or at some church event, I stood in front of the mirror for 30 minutes making sure my Levi 501 button fly jeans looked good on me.  I really wanted your approval.  I wanted you to like me like I liked you.

I suppose you made me feel important just like those orphans once did.


I am glad you didn't know me during my OP corduroy short shorts days.  But I am glad that I knew you during your big bangs and denim skirts days.

I've got so many stories I will never get to share with you and I am sure you've got plenty more than me.

The Introvert

Nobody loves the spider.  The spider doesn't mind.
Such an ugly frightening creature comes a beautiful design.
And so it goes, only the introvert knows the best way to kill time
Take a look, get up close to see the spider make the most of all those things which he is maligned.
Nobody loves the spider, the introvert opined.

Nobody thanks the sun.  The sun continues to shine.
Her selfless love can only be defined as something from the divine
And so it goes, only her broken heart knows
why we have night and day
The moon will never again be mine, the sun opined
as she continues to light the way.

Everybody doubts the dreamer.  The dreamer doesn't care.
His poker face is out of place in his game of solitaire
So it goes, no one knows of his busy mind and its despair.
If hope was currency, the introvert would be a millionaire
She'll love me again, the dreamer opined as if it was a dare

Nobody understands the introvert.  The introvert doesn't mind.
He spins his web from inside his head
to the outside world, he's blind
And so it goes, only the spider knows, the introvert is benign
Love is rare and hard to find, the sun and moon opined.

Planet Mom

I guess it was appropriate that Forrest Gump was on television again tonight.  Sure, it's become the cable movie of the week these days since every week, it's bound to be on some channel.  I'd like to think that the programmers at ABC Family intentionally showed this movie tonight with a specific purpose in mind. 

Maybe, some suit and tie executive was sitting behind his solid oak desk with the sole responsibility of penciling in Saturday night's time slots holding back the tears because he took a quick glance at his calender and noticed what day tomorrow is...  Maybe, that stuffed shirt loosened his collar, released a deep sigh and thought of his mother.

I have a lot of faith in humanity and I like to think that nothing is accidental like; that every course of action, every decision we make is due to some well thought out reasoning and even when things are done impulsively, it's simply because our instinct is on cruise control.

I told my mom I hated her once.  It broke my heart.  She stoically stood there; withstood my cruelty and sighed.  Moments later with her bedroom closed, I heard what could only be her crying.  A few years later, I told her I loved her.

Grandma Esther was a kind woman.  She had an angelic face and soft hands.  She used to play these old Patti Page records while mom helped her with the dishes.  1953 was a good year.

1954 Grandma Ester died of cancer. 

1954 was the year mom stopped learning what it was like to be loved. 

Grandpa remarried.  Step-grandma Doreen made Cinderella's step mother seem like Mother Theresa.  That's all I will say about that.

In the beginning of Forrest Gump, young Forrest is sitting in the principal's office.  Mrs. Gump comforts him and says, "Don't let anyone ever tell you that you are different than the others, Forrest.  Do you hear me?  You are the same."  The principal interrupts her and says, "He is not the same.  His IQ is 75."  Mrs Gump looks at Forrest with that unyielding look in her eyes and says, "Of course, he is different.  We are all different".

I love that scene.  There is nothing funny about it.  That scene epitomizes a mother's love. 

I used to make my mom drop me off a half mile from school so I could walk the rest of the way.  Attending a rich kid's private school while your mom drives a banana colored muffler-less piece of shit car is rough on a child.  Lost in my vanity was the irony that she drove a piece of shit car because she was sacrificing her own vanity and her own comfort so I could attend this rich kid's private school. 

I imagine being a mother is tough and being a single mother is worse.  I imagine being a single mother with no loving family to speak of is insufferable.

I met Step-grandma Doreen once.  I knocked over an ashtray that sat on the arm of her tacky plaid couch and she screamed, "Are you fucking stupid?"  Those are the only four words I have ever heard from her.

She died in 2011 from old age.  2011 was a good year.

Eighth grade, mom picked me up from school in her piece of shit car.  There was barely enough room for me to get inside.  All of our belongings were tightly packed into every inch of that car.  Earlier that day, mom was evicted from our home.  We had nowhere to go.  I had no idea we were even behind in rent.  Mom had the best poker face.

I probably should have felt guilty that she was picking me up from a rich kid's private school since my tuition probably deterred her from making rent.  Lost in my worry was the irony of that moment.

I like to think that there are two heavens:  One for us and one for mothers.  And maybe, once a month, both heavens get together for a barbeque but the mothers don't cook. 

Everything you need to know about one's mother will always be found in their children.  You, whom has spent the last 25 years taking care of your disabled brother, have your mother's selfless love.  You, whom encourages me often and speaks to me casually, have your mother's kindness.  You, whom has handled my moods and tolerated my stubbornness, have your mother's grace.  And I thank each of your mothers for you but I will never tell you.

Mom isn't very affectionate.  It isn't natural for her.   I think maybe text book definitions of how one is supposed to be is a huge problem in this world.  I think we spend too much time relying on some predictable behavior instead of looking below the surface for substance.  Mom loves me.  She will never admit it.  She doesn't have to.

When the father I never met or ever spoke to died a few years ago, I cried.  I'm not sure why.  At the time, my explanation was closure like his death was the ending of some untold story.   When mom heard the news, she immediately made some phone calls to see if he had a will.

Once she saw his obituary and noticed the absence of her name and mine, she cried.  Her reasoning was closure.

There is no such thing as closure.

Tomorrow, some will celebrate the day and others will mourn. 

And some of us will just sleep in.

Untold Stories: Home Sweet Home

I used to sit in front of this family piano and show off my unknown talent, let's call it one of my seldom talked about secrets, of exclusively using my right hand and playing a few songs.  My repretoire included Swans on the Lake, Joy to the World, those 18 key notes in Chariots of Fire and the oddly out of place, Motley Crue's Home Sweet Home.

I was never going to grow up and become some classically trained pianist.  Anything music related or sophisticated wouldn't fit into these ordinary genes but that piano, there's just something about sitting in front of a piano all alone and tapping away at those ivory keys. 

Mom did one thing right when I was kid:  she made me take piano lessons.  The karate lessons, which were intended to help me defend myself against this bully who had Down Syndrome when I was eight, well, those lasted about two weeks.  My trumpet lessons in 5th grade lasted a month because I could never get that damn trumpet to make a noise; no matter how hard I blew into it.  But my piano lessons; those lasted almost a year.  I never could get the left hand down or play with both hands but damn it, I was the best 12 year old exclusively using his right hand pianist in all of a 4 block radius of my home. 

During a significant and life changing period of my life, I lived with 3 friends and a revolving door of other friends in a large upper middle class neighborhood.  We had horses, a basketball court, a hot tub, a ping pong table, scorpions infested in that palace and of course, the piano.

The parents of my friends were off in some European country spreading the word of God while we lived in that house; drinking every night, playing naked ping pong and trying to not get stung by scorpions.  It was the best of times. 

Late into the night after everyone passed out, I would find myself sitting at the piano half inebriated.  I would just start playing.  There's something to be said about music or art when it comes from your own hands.  I can't even explain how liberating and peaceful it can be.

Often times, as I played from my short list of learned songs, I thought about you and others.

I'm not really a corny person; at least, I don't believe I am.  Except when it comes to really bad TV shows from my childhood.  Or when I am talking to my girlfriend and trying to convince her that I am the Fonz while she corrects me and says I am more like Ritchie.  Or when I am alone in my thoughts trying to think of some clever way to rhyme while expressing my emotions at a given moment.  Really, I am only corny when it comes to her or others who came into my life along the way before her.  And that includes you.  Especially, you.

I haven't sat down at a piano since I left that old house with those old friends which was immediately after their parents two year mission trip had ended.  Last song, I ever played was Motley Crue's Home Sweet Home.  Ironic, I suppose, considering I have never felt like I had a home... except when I lived with them. 


The friend who taught me that late 1980's song on the piano had a lot of secrets.  One of which was he could play the piano, too.  Maybe that little unknown fact was one of many things that created this remarkable bond between us.  Maybe, it's one of many reasons, his early exit from life is simply noted as the worst of times. 

Sometimes, I would play that piano when no one was looking and wonder if you could play, too.  I don't recall ever asking what you liked to do or what your hobbies and passions were.  I was probably so nervous around you, I never shut up and let you talk.  I don't remember anything, really.   Except your big bangs.  Denim skirts. 

And how peaceful I felt in your presence.

Just like a piano.


I may never regain that familiar feeling of being home but who says home has to be a physical thing?   This moment right now, talking about me, remembering you, remembering them, recalling specific details of an extraordinary time is home sweet home to me.  . 

I've got so many stories I will never get to share with her and I am sure she's got plenty more than me.






. 

Something

You're dead to me, she said to me.  Regrettably.
I'm not your remedy, just your enemy, she fed to me.  Impeccably. 

Something always brings her back to me.

We're dangerous, the two of us.  We're perfect together when we aren't together.  It's serious, I'm curious if she ever believed in forever...Mysterious, like balmy weather.  Our skies are gray, soothing and hideous.  Can't look away...

Something always brings us back together.

You are my sleep, my insomnia, my cancer and my hypochondria.  I do not doubt nor think twice that God makes mistakes or rolls the dice.  I cannot hear through your silence.  It's deafening like violence.  I should go towards someone new...

Something always brings me back to you.

Walk away, I won't beg you to stay.  If a man like me isn't the man I should be, I'll be dead to you, remorsefully.   Smile begrudgingly and push me away, forcefully.  I won't blame you or name you when I resort to writing about you...

But my words will bring you back to me.

We're in sync, don't you think?  Pass the devil's cup so I can drink.  Independence and being right, such lonely words.  It's fourth of July every night and there are no fireworks.  Celebrate life without me.   Stare at the clock and count your money.  Time can't be bought.

Something always brings you back to me. 

Untold Stories: Numerology

We were sitting in the backseat of his father's car; smoking pot.  #64 was that guy who was never created to do anything rebellious.  A blunt in his mouth was about as believable as the pathetic attempts of the pastor's daughter at being promiscuous. 

We were laughing uncontrollably at nothing and I said something about how slowly the car was moving.  #64 reminded me we were in the backseat of his father's parked car. 

He shouldn't have been dabbling in those things we did.  It just didn't suit him well.

#64's mom was resting on the mantle above his seldom used fireplace in an urn.  He rarely gave her eye contact because he was ashamed of whom he had become.  Funny thing about that fat, lost and broken kid... he's one of the best people I've ever known.

The first week of high school our freshman year, this 15 year old, 300 pound kid was riding his bike; holding a box of donuts in his hand.  In fact, he was holding that box of donuts with both hands because they were that important to him.   Funny thing about being 300 pounds on a tiny bike while riding without your hands on the handlebars because you are afraid you might drop your donuts... you'll crash.  And crash he did; right into a pile of rocks.  Bloodied and bruised, he emerged from the giant rock pile with his bike bent and twisted as if he had a head on collision with a semi truck, #64 screamed, "MY DONUTS".

That was the funniest moment of my high school years.  #64 whom later became one of my best friends didn't care he wrecked his bike or that he was bleeding from face to knees.  He only cared that his $5 box of donuts were ruined.

And that's how I met #64. 

We were camping in the middle of the desert; smoking pot.  I don't think I've ever laughed harder than I did that night.  #20 was THAT guy; the guy boys envy and girls want.  He liked to drive shirtless and speak in one or two word sentences.  He was an enigma to those who didn't know him.

Rumors swirled, he was fucking our english teacher, taking drugs, an alcoholic... a bad boy.  #20 was a victim of his good genes, quiet demeanor and upper middle class upbringing.  Funny thing about #20, he was exactly the opposite of my preconceived notions... he was one of the best people I've ever known.

Junior year, I was a little out of place.  I took pride in my independence and unwillingness to be part of a clique.  It's pretty lonely when you don't completely belong in one specific circle of friends, I learned.

#20 befriended me.  He would say "hi" every single day as we crossed paths in between classes.  Mind you, he was a senior and I really was the black sheep of this relatively affluent private school.  Or so I believed.

One Friday, he invited me over after school to party with him and his friends.  And I did.  And that Friday night continued for the next decade.  He became my brother and one of the best friends I ever had.

And that's how I met #20.

I never played football in high school.  I think I attended one game after graduation and that was to show off my awkward ear ring in my left ear so all those kids would know how rebellious I had become.  Funny thing about how we view ourselves in a specific moment is that years later, we will realize how ridiculous we were.

I never saw #64 or #20 play football.  I only knew the legend of their talents.  But funny thing is I remember their football jersey numbers.  I remember those friends.  In fact, the rare times I ever play the lottery or Keno in Vegas, those are the first numbers I choose.

Man, thank God for friends.  Even ones who exit our lives unexpectedly or depart this life tragically.  Thank God that we have this crazy ability to remember things; even trivial things like the number on a back of a football jersey.

#64 and #20 are more than numbers to me, I would be remiss to not mention that.  Both of them changed my life for the better and continue to do so today despite the fact, they are no longer around me... as one is living the dream his mother hoped for before she became a fixture on the mantle above their rarely used fireplace and the other is probably looking down at me finally at peace with himself. 


I've got so many stories I will never get to share with her and I am sure she's got plenty more than me. She would have loved #64 and #20 just like I do.