Thursday, December 24, 2015

The Christmastime Trial of Register 8

“You don’t know what a Weeble is?” The older cashier at register 9 asks her young colleague at register 8.

“Nope,” the young lady replies.

“Weebles wobble but they don’t fall down!” The lady customer standing in front of me sings.

Registers 9 and 7 laugh in surprised pleasure, while Register 8 just looks bewildered, as if wondering whether or not she should call Security.

Christmas is coming; I am in line at a local retailer, waiting to purchase a few childish presents for my kids.

“What about Duck Tales?” Register 7 asks.

“Duck Tales, A-Woo-Ooo!” The strange lady chimes.

“Nope,” Register 8 replies with a shake of her head.

“Barney?” This from Register 7.

“Oh, I love Barney! Barney was my jam!” The crazy lady pipes with glee.

I shudder with posttraumatic stress. Hello, my name is Matthew, and I am a Barney survivor…

“Wasn’t Barney that touchy-feely purple pedophile dinosaur?” The girl asks, eliciting a contempt-laden stare from Register 7.

After a pause, the trial of Register 8 continues.

“Mrs. Beasley?”

“Stretch Armstrong?”

The young cashier looks about to cry, but her two co-workers won’t quit.

“Care Bears?”

“What about Monchichis?”

Damn you Register 9, now I’m going to be singing “Monchichi, Monchichi, Oh so soft and cuddly!” for the rest of the week…

“She’s never even seen A Christmas Story,” Register 9 declares with condemnation in her voice, a hanging judge passing sentence.

Don’t judges in England put a lace doily on top of their head when they sentence someone to death?

“What?” The lady customer is mortified. “You haven’t seen A Christmas Story?” She stands with her arms out at an angle, waddles a couple of steps forward and cries, “I can’t move my arms!”

Lace doily to register 9, lace doily to register 9 please…

“I didn’t have a lot of toys, and we didn’t watch television. I read a lot of books,” explains the cashier, hoping for exoneration, or at the very least a lighter sentence.

Oh dear…you’ve gone and poured fuel on your own death pyre…

“Oh, so you were one of those kids, too smart to go outside and have fun, too nerdy to have friends? Must’ve been a great childhood,” Register 9 scoffs.

“I read books when I was young, but I also went outside to play and watch TV like normal kids,” the lady customer says, her voice no longer happy with the singsong of childhood memories.

Why don’t they ask her about something from this century? I want to jump onto the counter, let loose with a Thundercats battle cry, and come to the poor girl’s defense.

But I don’t.

Register 7 has become very occupied with customers, and appears too busy and perhaps a bit too embarrassed to offer a defense.

After paying with a swipe and a jab, the lady customer storms off to towards the exit. As I watch her huff her way out of the store, I hope that someone parked too close to her driver’s side door.

The young cashier begins to scan my purchases, her head hanging low to avoid eye contact with me. I imagine her alone and crying in the break room later that evening.

“I read a lot as a kid myself,” I say, injecting a tone of support into my voice.

She looks up, and I am relieved to see her half-smile at me. After a moment she adds, “We didn’t have a lot of money, so my parents took us to the library for free fun.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” I assure her.

“I think I would rather read than do anything else,” she tells me.

“It’s been a while, but there was a time I felt pretty much the same way,” I admit.

“You should try to get that feeling back.”

“Maybe I’ll make that my one and only New Year’s resolution,” I think out loud while swiping my debit card.

“That’s a great idea,” she says.

I pick up my gifts, a bag of Hot Wheels cars and a hula-hoop.

“Merry Christmas!” The young lady say with a confident smile.

I smile back at her. “Merry Christmas to you!”

The smile stays with me all the way out the parking lot, where it turns to a frown as I approach my car. After a moment of thought, the frown turns into a chuckle.

Someone has parked his or her oversize SUV a little too close to my driver’s side door.

Merry Christmas!

Friday, November 6, 2015

The Secret Word

Back in the late 80s, I played Pee-Wee Herman in a church play (roadshow). The brief and grainy footage below is of my little brother Jared playing the narrator.

Most of the entire video is still very happy for me. I wore a grey suit that was too small, a red bowtie, white Cuban heels, and I did a terrible imitation of Pee-Wee’s voice. In spite of my inability to act, the show was a hit; I believe we won best in show, and I was called up on stage to be interviewed (and to dance) as Pee-Wee. That very same weekend, parents began calling and me offering money if I would perform as Pee-Wee at their children’s birthday parties.

The end of the video is now almost unbearable for me to watch. Jared spoke the last lines in the show, which was about the difficulties of being a teenager and making it through each day. Tears now fill my eyes and shame warms my cheeks as I hear Jared say,

“Mary Jones, typical American teenager, has solved one of the greatest mysteries in life! She has learned to be herself. In Pee-Wee’s playhouse, she has found her ANSWER!”

(ANSWER was the secret word of the play, and anyone who watched Pee-Wee's Playhouse knows that we all scream real loud when we hear the secret word!)

I hate it, knowing now that my little brother was suffering inside and unable to be himself, even as he shouted those thrilling, happy, life saving words with such conviction.

That sad moment wasn’t even the beginning of Jared’s story, and it certainly wasn’t the end.

So please don’t speak to me of time and patience and eternity. Don’t tell me to wait it out, to have faith, and to trust. Don’t post quotes from people you have never met, hollow platitudes and memes meant for a crowd of head nodders that sweep the emotions, questions, and conflict of real experience into the corner, kindly blame whatever tragedy or befuddlement has befallen them on God, and in doing so lose the lesson before the dust has had time to settle.

Why wait? Why don’t we all solve one of the greatest mysteries in life together, and learn to be ourselves now?

After all, didn’t he send us here to find our ANSWERs?

Friday, October 16, 2015

Don't Fence Me In...

While standing third in line at a “restaurant” that induces as much shame as it does phantom labor pains, I was blessed with a second row seat as an older couple placed their order.

“I want a number three with a diet, and a number 4 with a black coffee. Both small, to stay.” The man spoke the order to the young Asian woman behind the counter in a voice louder than necessary, pronouncing each syllable as if it were its own word, and adding a patronizing emphasis to boot.

Coffee with that meal? Somebody’s constipated!

The young lady punched in the man’s order with competence, and without the need for it to be repeated.

He repeated the order anyway, again employing loud, distinct, and condescending pronunciation.

“That’s a number three with diet, and a number 4 with black coffee, both small, to stay.”

After an exchange of currency, the couple stood to one side and began waiting for their food to arrive, giving me a chance to get a better look at them.

The man was dressed in pressed denim shorts that hung below the knee. The waist of those shorts (and perhaps a belt?) remained forever hidden beneath an apron of belly fat that pressed and stretched against the fibers of his American flag tee shirt like the desperate, regretful face of a how-many-people-can-fit-inside-a-phone-booth prank participant stuck against the glass, no relief in his future and regret on his mind.

That fat wanted out, real bad.

Adorning the man’s feet were brand new, super white, brand-less tennis shoes, accompanied by tan socks that he had pulled up to cover his calves. A camera with a lens that had to have been developed for a Cold War spy satellite hung from a strap around his neck. I say hung, but in reality the camera wasn’t hanging; it rested comfortably on his belly. The strap was in fact, superfluous.

This guy is living the ‘MURICAN dream…

I placed my order without issue, repetition, or volume, then took my receipt, joined the waiting and continued my observations.

The man’s wife stood beside him in a state of permanent befuddlement, as if wondering in each new moment who she was, as well as how, when, and why she had come to be where she was.

“I wonder what all the Mexicans think about these Orientals coming over on slow boats and taking over their low paying jobs that no one else wants except for hard-working Americans that were born here?” The man said aloud.

Is my mouth hanging open right now? Did he just say that out loud?

“They could at least learn to speak Engrish when they come here, am I right?” The man looked around, presumably hoping for a couple of good ‘ole boy nods in agreement.

From what I could see, he didn’t get any.

“Number 73!” the Asian girl said in a loud, clear, happy and accent-free voice, while holding aloft a tray of food.

“I tell you, this country needs more than a fence; we need enforcement.”

Okay, so I want to punch a geriatric, ignorant, loud-mouthed bigot with bad dress sense and a camera for a penis; does that make me a bigger dick than he is a racist?

“Number 73!” The girl repeated. She looked around the growing group of patrons awaiting food. No one stepped forward, so after a moment she set the tray down on the counter before turning to retrieve another.

“Number 74!”

The man that had ordered directly before me (and after Mr. ‘Murica) stepped forward and took his tray with a polite, even sheepish and apologetic thanks. I looked down at my receipt; my number was 75.

Wait; she’s been calling their number, but he’s been too busy ranting about the sad state of border security to hear her loud, clear, American voice.

I looked over at the angry man and his permanently mystified wife.

Well, that’s just precious.

“My goodness, I wonder if she even got our order right; didn’t that young man order after we did?” The man asked his wife.

“I don’t know,” she replied in the practiced, muted voice of a woman who knew her place.

Bet she’s lived a full life…

“Number 73?” The young woman repeated. “Black coffee?” She added.

“This is ridiculous,” The man huffed, heading for the counter.

“Number 73, black coffee?” She asked as his belly hit the counter.

I watched as the old man fumbled to read the receipt he had been given. He stuffed it into his pocket with a huff and a disgusted shake of his head.

“That took long enough,” he barked, taking the tray from her hands without so much as a hint of gratitude, as if he had earned it just for being born.

You know, maybe he’s right; maybe we do need a fence…

I watched the woman follow her husband into the dining area. She sat across from him and watched as he took a sip of his black coffee. She made no attempt to eat, but rather waited for him to dole out her food.

I just don’t think he’d agree with my thoughts on where we should build it…

Thursday, October 1, 2015

In John's Company

I hear you used to work for The Company…” My voice was quiet but clear, the words I spoke over the mans shoulder intended for his ears only.

Did I really just say that, and in that voice? Ive got to cut back on the spy novels

The man in the white canvas bucket-hat stiffened, and his back flexed into a capable shape, despite his age. As the old man turned to face me, I could see that he was poised for confrontation; his shoulders were squared with his hips, his feet set firm but ready to move, and his head was tilted down at a slight angle, as if he were about to come at me, lashing into me with his right hand, which held a plastic picnic fork in a way that gave me great pause.

I shouldnt have been intimidated; he was much shorter than I, his skin was spotted and veiny, and the tufts of celestial-white hair that peeked out from beneath his silly beachcomber cap matched the white wooly caterpillar eyebrows below its brim.

I shouldnt have been intimidated, but I was.

Is he going to drop that plate of potato salad before he comes at me?

What did you say?

Sweat ran down my lower back and into my underwear. I hear you used to work for The Company... My voice had lost its clarity and gained more quiet.

I havent heard anyone use that term for many years, the man said.

Ive read a lot of spy novels, I explained. Probably too many.

Well you gave me quite a fright; those arent words that someone like me wants to hear whispered over their shoulder, he chuckled, and I saw him relax, but just a bit.

Matt, I said, offering a hand in greeting.

John, but something tells me you already knew that. He stabbed the fork (weapon) into the potato salad and took my hand into his for a powerful shake.

Yes, I knew; Ive been looking forward to meeting you, I said.

Oh? Has someone been telling tall tales out of turn? John looked around my shoulder at my father-in-law, our one mutual acquaintance and host for the afternoon.

Maybe a little, but only because I am interested, I said.

The caterpillars twitched, just enough for me to notice. John moved the plate of potato salad to his other hand, as if to give it something to do in place of breaking my windpipe.

Interested in? he asked.

Working at Langley, I answered with as much confidence as I could muster.

Just what did your father-in-law tell you?

That you saw a lot of action in World War Two, that you walked away from more than one plane crash, and that you used to worked for the CIA, I replied.

Used to; now thats a funny way of putting it, John said without humor.


Once in, youre never really out, he clarified.

I watched as John took a bite of potato salad, holding the fork in the normal every day not-a-weapon way that I always held a fork when eating. After a few moments of chewing, white puddles began to form in the corners of his mouth, and I wondered at the fact that a man who had spied for the Free World during the height of the Cold War was standing beside me on my in-laws back porch, suffering the humidity of New Hampshires seacoast and leaking mayonnaise.

So, you want to work for the Central Intelligence Agency? John asked, returning his fork to the creamy white pile on his paper plate so he could put his hand on my shoulder.

I was thinking about it; Ive always like the idea, but wasnt sure I was up to it, I answered, my confidence in the whole idea waning after hearing it said aloud by someone who had already done it.

John looked around before nudging me a few steps further away from my in-laws and their guests, which included my wife and young son. He leaned in close but said nothing, so I stood hunched over and waiting, the scent of potato salad on his breath filling the tiny space between us.

This is it, my moment of recruitment

I had read about moments such as this, moments on dark and abandoned roads, behind dark and abandoned pubs, or inside dark and abandoned churches. An older, experienced agent draws a young protégée in close, gains his confidence, and extends an indirect invitation to change the world from deep within the shadows.

John broke the silence at last. What is it that you really want to do with your life?

Here we go

I want to live a life worthy of story-telling, I admitted after a moment of careful thought.

And you think The Company would be the best way to achieve that goal? John asked, somehow managing to avoid patronizing me.

I know it isnt all dark alleys, car chases, and dead drops, but yes, I think it would.

John stepped back and looked off into the trees, affording me some potato-salad-free-air. I waited for him to speak, hoping that I looked more patient than I felt, that I hadnt offended him with my approach, and that with his next words he would welcome me into the brotherhood of spies. His eyes gave nothing away as he appeared to ponder my future. Nervous at the sound of his silence and afraid that my stare was coming off as too desperate, I searched the immediate area for something else on which to focus without moving my head. Looking down, I noticed the paper plate in Johns hand; it had started to give way under the combined pressures of weight, moisture, and gravity, so much so that the creamy lump of potato salad had become a smear, sliding its way towards the edge of the plate and threatening to drop onto Johns shoes. I watched, wondering how long it would take to reach the dripping point, and if I would warn John before it did.

You have a beautiful family.

I looked up from the salad and saw that John was staring across the deck at my wife Elizabeth and young son, Caleb.

I heard those same words spoken to me not long after my supposed retirement, by a man that I had worked with for a long time, John continued.

A friend?

John turned his head and our eyes met. No, not at all, and he hadnt meant it in a friendly way, John half-explained.

It took me a moment of thought, but I figured out what John meant.

A threat? I almost whispered the question.

John reached out with his free hand and took my shoulder in a firm grip. He pulled me in close and locked his eyes on mine.

I live every day in regret for the time I spent away from my family, and the fear that my career instilled in them. I cant help but believe that I alone was the catalyst for my sons long struggle with extreme paranoia. I thought I was doing great things, and perhaps in the eyes of some I did do great things, but my wife and children paid the price, and I am spending what little time I have left trying to make amends. Were I able, I would trade every moment of my Agency life for the chance to be a better husband and father.

The words seemed to spill over Johns lips, fall from his mouth, and onto the deck, weighed down as they were with the regret of a husband and father who had too late into marriage and fatherhood realized the devastating loss of neglected years that couldnt be relived. There were no tears in his eyes as he spoke, but something told me that it wasnt because he thought himself too much of a man to cry.

After a brief but electric pause, John continued. I do not make it a practice to tell a young man how to live his life, but I am telling you now that to follow this ambition of yours will be your familys ruin. No matter what you do in this life; no matter the riches, fame, or glory you accumulate, or how many daring moments you survive, your life will amount to meaningless rubbish in the end if your career pushes aside your wife and children, and this career will do just that. Put your family first and your life will be a success, no matter what you do to provide for them.

There was nothing to say in reply, so I said nothing. I looked at Johns aging, shrinking frame, and wondered at the things he must have experienced while living a life of secrecy, intrigue, and unrecognized patriotism, and that he would, if offered the chance, exchange it all for a do-over. A little more than a year into fatherhood myself, my sons birth had done much to salvage my young and struggling marriage, but I remained fearful of our future, and ignorant of how I was going to manage holding on to everything that mattered most. Johns regretful advice had come at a watershed moment.

I hope I didnt frighten you, John said, his hand still gripping my shoulder.

No, you didnt. Im sorry to hear that you have so many regrets, but Im glad that you felt comfortable sharing them with me, I replied.

Well, I wouldnt say that I felt comfortable about it, but I am hopeful that you can learn from my bad example and experience, John confessed.

I will, I promise.

An hour later, John and I were still talking. Or rather, John was talking, and I was listening. That hour laid the foundation for our friendship. John had indeed lived a fascinating life, and so he had many stories to tell, stories about life-altering moments on dark forest roads, the guilt that comes from being the sole survivor of a plane crash, and what it is to witness the moment when power corrupts. I took in every word of Johns stories, did my best to read between the redacted lines, and devoured the spy novels he would pull out of his personal library and lend to me with a wink, which I took to mean that he could vouch for their authenticity.

I had always imagined myself living a life worthy of storytelling, but time spent in Johns company made me realize that what I truly wanted was to live a life telling stories.

John and I became close friends, and over the course of the next couple of years we spent a lot of time together. I would sometimes bring Caleb along with me, much to Johns delight. He loved Caleb like a grandson, and the two of them would chatter away about the things I had chosen to forget about the world. I would often end up playing chauffeur, driving the two of them around the seacoast, listening as they discussed butterfly wings, air conditioning, how much they loved trees, and the happy taste of cold milk and cookies in a grandmothers kitchen.

Throughout our friendship, John continued to express his regrets, and to make amends with those he loved.

One day while out for lunch with his son, John fell down some steps and broke his neck. The sight of him unconscious in that hospital bed, his body broken and his head locked inside a metal cage put a lump in my throat. Elizabeth stood beside me and held my hand as I held Johns and tried not to sound afraid when I told him that I loved him.

Later that week, Elizabeth and my father accompanied me to the hospital to visit John again. Dad had accompanied me on visits to Johns house many times, and the two had become friends. I was too timid to ask him, but I had often wondered if my father saw shadows of my grandfather, dead since my fathers teenage years, in John. Both had seen the worst that men can do to each other in the name of God and country, and both had won medals for acts of valor that must have haunted their dreams, as so often is the case with heroes of war. I had often imagined my grandfather to be a man much like John, and hoped that one day, after meeting my grandfather, I might introduce them to each other.

Johns room was empty, the bed stripped to the mattress. I turned and stepped back into the hall just as a nurse was passing.

Hi, were looking for the man that was in this room; his name is John. They must have moved him, do you know where he is now? I asked the nurse.

She stopped, and her face took on an anxious look. She pivoted on her feet and glanced down the hall towards the nurses station, then turned again to face me.

Are you family? She asked, her voice low and secretive.

Yes, we are, I lied.

Her face twitched, then filled with warmth and concern. She fidgeted for a moment, and then clasped her hands together as if in prayer before taking a step closer to me.

He passed just a few minutes ago, Im so sorry, she said, reaching out with one hand, as if to soften the blow, or perhaps catch me in case I collapsed.

I made it into the elevator and out to the parking lot before collapsing. Elizabeth scooped me into the car and held my hand while my father drove us drove over to Johns house to be with Johns wife Fae.

A few days later, Fae asked me to speak at Johns funeral. I thought about what I was going to say while mowing my lawn, just hours before the service. It had been a couple of weeks since Id last mowed, so the grass was thick and tall. Sweat and tears ran together as I punished the mower, shoving it without mercy into grass it couldnt hope to cut very well.

Johns funeral was for me a first, and a very painful experience. I hadnt yet needed to say goodbye to a friend in that way, and I didnt want to let John go; we hadnt shared enough time together, and he had more stories to tell me.

Just last week, while going through an old filing cabinet, I found the words I wrote for Johns funeral after mowing that damnable lawn. Tears wet my cheeks as I read about our first meeting, Johns stern warning, and his promise to me that my success would not be measured by my career status, but rather by the time spent with and attention paid to my family. I had written about the amends John had been making, the joy he felt in loving his wife and children, and the silly, childish, wonderful conversations he had with Caleb. I didnt want to say goodbye, but I was grateful for the time wed had, and I couldnt wait to see him again someday.

I imagine our reunion will go something like this:

Standing alone at a welcome-to-heaven picnic, fork held (not like a weapon) in one hand, and a plate of anything but potato salad (probably cake) in the other, Ill sense someone approach me from behind. Before I can turn to see who it is, Ill hear the following words, spoken in a quiet but clear voice over my shoulder, intended for my ears only

I hear you used to tell stories…”

Thanks John.