A Mormon Saved in an Irish Pub

I have never had alcohol, but perhaps my most important sanctuary during my divorce was an Irish pub in Charleston called Tommy Condon’s. The front man for The Bograts is Steve Carroll. In 2000 we moved into the house two doors down from Steve. My wife at the time and our two kids, Breanna, eight years old, and Ethan, five, had met Steve and his family while visiting the lot on which we were building a home in the new and growing subdivision known as Village Green. That evening, when they came home they told me about the Irish singer who would be our neighbour and played for me a cassette tape of his music. I was hooked. I love Irish music, Celtic music, Scottish music, all that stuff.

In the course of time, the house was finished, I met Steve, and we began one of those friendships that will save you in ways you can't predict. Steve, a few decades my senior,was born in Dublin, Ireland and remembered The Troubles. He'd come to the States in the seventies, managed make a fortune for himself, managing musicians and the like and drank it all away. By the time I met  him, he'd been clean and sober for two decades, had married, started a subcontracting business and had begun playing music down at Tommy Condon's. As he tells it, some two decades before I met him, he strolled into Tommy’s with a guitarist, some songs in hand written tabs, and a bodhran, and announced that the pub needed a musical act. Only in the last year or two has  he stopped being a regular performer there.

A short time after we became neighbours, he invited us to go watch him sing. Long story short, I went as often as I could and nowhere near as often as I'd have liked. Steve Carroll and the Bograts released about half a dozen CDs after I met him and I was often the first to hear and critique the demos. He'd come over to my house with the audio cassette and we'd sit in my 1996 Saturn and listen to from beginning to end. I have all those songs on my iPod now.

The Fields of Athenry, Dirty Old Town, Dixie, Sweet Sixteen, The Unicorn Song, Spancil Hill. On his last CD he included Farewell to Nova Scotia as a nod to my little Canadian family. Of course, by that time my family had shrunk. My wife moved out and, thanks to her crazy nursing schedule, I had my two kids, much of the time, then most of the time, and then virtually all the time. This arrangement, lucky as I was to have the kids, did not involve any kind of financial help from her and, as a teacher working in South Carolina I had to work on the side as a DJ to scrape by. I worked all the time and still it was only with financial aid from my bishop and almost endless babysitting from an extremely kind family that I held it together at all.

About three years after moving into Village Green, my Saturn was repossessed, the house went to foreclosure, and I moved my two little ones into Georgetown Apartments. Somehow we managed to make ourselves happy there, but for several months we had drug dealers next door. Twice I had to rush into apartments from which smoke was billowing and screams were emanating, once to actually put out the stove fire and once to call the ambulance to come for a girl who had burned herself and much of her carpet with bacon grease. The third fire was in our unit, thanks to inept plumbers who let a glowing hot copper pipe come into contact with the dry wall. Oh. And one night as I headed out for some air I found the body of a neighbour by the side of the road, his oxygen tank next to him. Around this time my ex asked me to find a cheaper place so I could help her our financially. I declined. As it was, I often was down to less than ten dollars days before payday. No one knows what you mean when you say you have no money. They nod sympathetically and talk about how they had to dip into their investments and took a real hit. I finally told a friend that what I meant was, I had exactly one bank account and it has less money than I could withdraw at an ATM. The only one who really got it was Steve.

He'd watched the decline and collapse of my marriage and had been my mentor moving forward from one day to the next. And then there was Thursdays at Tommy Condon's. Not the weekend crowd, not loud, plenty of tables, and just the music. Breanna, Ethan, and I  could sit just three feet from the stage and imbibe the music for hours and, I thought, for free. You can't order food when you have no money until payday. On one of those moneyless evenings one of the servers came over to take my order. I declined and said we were just there to hear Steve sing. She, quite appropriately, said that to sit at a table in the restaurant I needed to order something. I had Ethan on my lap and Breanna was in the chair next us. I looked at my kids and for the millionth time died inside as a failing provider. This evening had been a tiny break from the stress of being a single dad with no money. The whole evening, just below the surface of the fun, I'd felt as though my little family would somehow just come apart for sheer want of money. That feeling surged to the surface and I gave up. I was about to explain to Breanna and Ethan that we were leaving because we could not afford to order food this evening, but Steve leaned down from the stage and said to the server, “They’re with me. Take their order, it's my treat.”

I still cry sometimes when I think of that night. Steve once repaired my roof when our front yard tree fell and punctured it. He often lent me tools. He did many, many, generous things for my kids and me, but nothing he ever did meant as much as telling the server, “they're with me.” That little sentence, “they're with me,” transformed one of the worst moments of my life, having to take my kids out of a place because of poverty, to one of the most important moments of gratitude in my life. That he fed us was nice and the kids loved it, but “they're with me” meant we were not three luckless losers on the verge of being economic outcasts.

Of course I thanked Steve for the meal, but I never thanked him for saving us. I should have, but it was too raw for me to even mention in those days. It's been eight years since I moved back to Niagara Falls, Ontario. These days I see Steve on Facebook. He's battled cancer and had other struggles. It appears as though he still goes to Tommy’s, but hasn't the energy for much performing. I needed to write this before it gets too late to acknowledge one of the true Angels in my life. Just a couple of nights ago on a lonely drive from Toronto I listened to The Bograts all the way home. Of course I sang along, just as we always did at Tommy’s.. And I remembered that night when Steve and his music and the words, “they're with me,” kept me from giving up.

Thank you, Steve.

Why Doesn't She Just Leave?

Why doesn't she just leave him?

Before my first marriage ended in shambles, I used to wonder why people, usually women stayed in controlling or abusive relationships. It seemed the most obvious thing in the world, especially if there were no children involved. Generally it was a woman married to a man who could not be satisfied by any of her efforts to be a good wife. On occasion, nothing she tried kept him from getting so mad that he felt a need to hit her, bite grab her ankle and swing her head and shoulders against the wall like a bat (true story). Obvious solution? Grab your stuff, get a lawyer and leave. Most common reasons given why women don't do that? He might kill her and she has no idea where to go.

The first one is an understandable fear, but, the media hype notwithstanding, the percentage of controlling spouses who actually murder their partners is small. I'm not down playing how horrific such a thing is or deny that it happens, but statistically it is not a good reason not to leave. More importantly, people in fear for their lives often do attempt to escape.

The second objection to just leaving, she doesn't know where else to go, may have been a factor fifty years ago, but most of the women I have known who were in such relationships were well educated, well-liked, successful in their careers, and well-traveled. In short, there was no way they couldn't find some place to go.

Both of these objections appeal to our sense of what makes sense and divert attention away from blaming the victim, certainly a worthy motive, but perhaps misguide. Everyone I know in such a circumstance has told that they were (or are) trying to do the right thing by staying.

Like I said, I used to subscribe to the above notions, until one day a friend said to me, “Why don't you just leave?”

This was in response to hearing about how unhappy my marriage was. For me there was the likelihood that I would lose my children because fathers do not do well in divorce when it comes to custody, but that was later and I knew she was going to leave me as long as I stayed where I was. Before that, though, this question from a concerned friend, perhaps the only one who even knew that things were so bad, caught me off guard. I realized a few things immediately and a few more things eventually. First, it occurred to me that to an outsider I was enduring controlling relationship in much the same way some of my female friends were. At the same time, aside from my kids, I had to wonder; why didn't I leave, or make preparations sooner for the virtual certainty that she would? I didn't think she'd kill me and I had options for other living arrangements. It took a long time to piece together the logic behind control, but when I did, it made so much sense and seemed almost brilliant in its simplicity. I could be wrong about this, but I thought I would share it and see if this makes sense to my billions of readers. 

Most of the people I know are by nature helpful and friendly. I have been blessed to be surrounded by people of many faiths or no faith at all who step up when there is a need for their help. I like to think that I am such a person. It dawned on my very slowly that when I help a person, there seems to be a need for some kind of feedback that says one of four things.

1. Thank-you, that was helpful.

2. Thank-you, that was not helpful.

3. Thank-you, please keep helping me.

4. I don't need or want your help.

To be clear, this is not about needing gratitude but about being informed about whether or not my help was useful, still needed, or not even wanted. The message needed to be that my help was finished or not. The same thing was true of my efforts to help cheer up my first wife when she was in a bad mood. The underlying instinct for the need for this feedback seems to come from a sense of obligation to help others because we are all connected by compassion and mutual needs. Put simply we have a duty to be of use to each other that is grounded in our capacity for empathy. The greater a person's capacity for empathy, the greater the sense of duty they will feel. Empathy consists of two elements; the first is the ability to feel vicariously the pains and joys of other people and the desire to alleviate pain and augment joy in other people.

But what if you are trying to be helpful to someone who is not connected to you by means of empathy but who sees you as a tool or a plaything. Such people are hard to recognize even at times for experienced psychologists. Such people are much more common than you might think. Worst of all, such people have a genius for using your kindest instincts against you. I realized that in my first marriage that virtually everything I ever did for my wife regardless of whether or not she said thank-you, was also met with some kind of comment or signal to indicate that it wasn't really enough. Or was too much. Or was the wrong things. On some level, I was still obligated, not only to keep trying, but to make up for the successive failures that piled up almost daily over the years. They on the other hand simply need to lead you along with a tiny carrot – possibility that one day you will be good enough, or occasionally pull out that stick to beat you with the guilt of not being good enough yet.

See the genius? The control of another is accomplished best by getting that other to keep trying to measure up. The person being controlled does almost all the work necessary to keep that control in place. That stick I mentioned for the bit of guilty beating is often just one rhetorical question, with a myriad of variations based on the change of one word.

“What kind of a _________ wouldn't help someone who really needs it?”

That blank can be filled with any word that encapsulates what you believe to be your best qualities; man, father, husband, wife, mother, sister, Christian, Jew, Catholic, neighbour, and so on and so on....” And so you double your efforts to prove you are a dutiful or loving or kind or dedicated etc. man, father, husband, wife, mother, sister, Christian, Jew, Catholic, neighbour, and so on and so on....

The controller says one sentence, but the controlled adjusts everything in his or her life to accommodate the controller because the controlled believes it to be his or her responsibility to do whatever it takes to make things right.

The controlled feels they are doing something virtuous. This is a lie. And it is a cherished lie. And it usually crumbles slowly until a wearied victim realizes not only that they resent having made this effort for someone who will never reciprocate in any way, but also that the love that motivated this prolonged effort had long since died. 

Then the controlled no longer feels they are doing something virtuous. They just feel foolish.

And nobody, male or female, wants to be a fool.

The Death of the Nerd

I think part of this rant stems from the fact that there is no risk in being a nerd these days. I'm 46 and I read Lord of the Rings four times before I my nineteenth birthday (and four times since). I bought those tabloid sized re-issues of Actions Comics 1 and the Spiderman and Superman team-up. I read so much that I had the vocabulary of a high school graduate when I was in the seventh grade. When my seventh grade teacher asked if any of us knew any theories about the origins of the universe, I explained the Big Bang Theory so well that he didn't have to add to what I had said. He then told the class that, despite the fact that Grantley wasted all his time reading comic books, he could still surprise him with that kind of knowledge. I was literally too afraid to tell him that I had learned the Big Bang Theory from reading comic books. See that? Even my teachers made me think poorly of myself for being a nerd. And bullies? I got stories. All you need to know is that at my age, I am one of the more muscular people at my gym entirely because of those bullies (and a desire to look like either a Mike Grell drawing of Green Arrow or a Boris Vallejo Tarzan –  there, I said it).

These days very attractive girls declare themselves nerds because that they have read the latest book that tops the fiction best seller list. And guys think that watching The Big Bang Theory gets them “geek cred.” Seriously, is that really a thing? To be clear, I am glad that reading has come back in such a big way and I don't care that it was Harry Potter and Bella who saved it. I enjoyed the Twilight Books, and my Master’s Thesis was on the use of the word “entente” in the Canterbury Tales. One hundred pages on the use of one word used one hundred and fifteen times in a six hundred year old poem. So I can appreciate the hell out of elitist academic obscurity.

There is zero risk in claiming to be (or even actually being) a nerd in the 21^st century. When I was a kid, a scrawny nerdy bookworm, I was actually told I would be killed for being such an easy, obvious target. I wasn't killed, but I was beaten up and I genuinely believed those threats. When I was twelve I took my copy of Huckleberry Finn to church and got ridiculed by what I will generously call my peers. I made the unpardonable mistake of taking a copy of The Lord of the Rings to class in the ninth grade in one of the worst schools I ever attended. In the seventh grade, my teacher, that same teacher who thought I knew about the Big Bang in spite of, rather than because of, my love of comics had a contest. The prize was a Bee Gees 45 with (Nobody Gets) Too Much Heaven on the A side and Rest Your Love on Me on the B side. What’s that? You don’t know what a 45 is? Basically it was an early form of compact disc with only one song on each side that you played by dragging a diamond around its surface. The contest? To see who could find the most number of words with either “gram” or “graph” in them. The kid who came in second got around thirty. I went through my Dad’s dictionary from cover to cover and found well over four hundred. I think Mr. Spurgeon thought I was nuts. But I won that 45 and we played it over and over at that dance we had that afternoon. I still have that 45. It may be the only time that being an ubernerd worked for me instead of against me, but I think I have made my point about what a nerd I was.

I still am, by the way. I really enjoyed a book called Salt.  Know what it was about? Salt. The history of salt. For years I had a secret stamp collection. It was secret because nobody cared to hear about my stamp collection. Does anybody reading this even know anyone who collects stamps? Today, after I dropped my oldest son off at a Choir rehearsal, I went to the downtown branch of the St. Catharines Public Library and signed out four graphic novels about the Justice League and the Justice Society. Just so you don’t forget that I am a well-rounded reader, I was also looking to find books on the First Temple worship of Asherah in and around Jerusalem and Ugarit before the violent reforms of King Josiah and the Deuteronomists.

I guess nerds have come into their own. Even Peter Parker is no longer really an awkward outsider. It’s cook. I wouldn’t wish the life of pre-Google nerds on anyone. I just wish that people would stop “confessing” their nerdiness as though it were some kind of guilty pleasure (If you HAVEN’T read Harry Potter you face weird looks). I am glad there is still a New York Times Best Seller List. I am glad that even many people I know who never finished high school are avid readers. But we early nerds paved the way for nerdiness to be cool. We were lonely and awkward. We paid that price and it wasn’t because we were brave; we just didn’t know how to be anything else.

Grantley Gibbons: Lifelong Coward

"You walk behind me. Or I'll kill you."

It was not the thick hand around my throat that convinced me to accept this as sincere. It was not the pressure of the restroom wall on the back of my head. It was not his teeth, nor was it the quiet way he said it. It was his eyes. Terry was probably no taller than I was and  not more than a year older, but he was wide, strong, and feared in a school where it seemed like everyone knew kung fu. This might sound like the beginning of another one of those novels that are so popular these days, Hunger Games, Divergent, City of Bones, but it's not. William Beagle Junior Secondary School was a cultural mishmash and, no kidding, we had many, many serious martial artists. We had an a riot that made the news. What school in Canada has riots? During a lengthy strike by the Canadian Union of Public Employees it was vandalism, not cluttered halls or overflowing garbage cans that closed the school. I was part way through ninth grade in Surrey, British Columbia. This is not a fiction piece; nobody writes fiction about Surrey, British Columbia.... but I digress.

As an aside, I have changed the names of the brothers in this story…just in case they are out on parole.

As I said, it was his eyes. I first wrote about this on 9 June, 2011. It was not even intended for public consumption at the time. I just wrote because I couldn’t talk about the way the memory came to me with such force that I was unable to speak about it at all. I struggled for days to come up with an appropriate simile that would convey how cold his eyes were. They were a pale blue, but clear and razor sharp. They weren't dead like a vampire or cold like ice. But they were cold. It has been more than thirty years since that day and I am convinced that Terry is either dead or in jail for murder at this very moment. I haven't thought of him in years, but when his eyes came back to my vision I didn't know how to tell people this story and have them know just how brutal this experience was for me. Lest anyone think that I recovered a lost memory in the manner so trendy in the 1990’s, I should point out that I had not ever forgotten about this moment, I just hadn’t really thought about it much for decades. The image hit me while I was at the gym. I was warming up for chest day. I was sitting on the edge of the bench getting ready to recline and do my first heavy set. 

I don’t think now is the time to explain why my mind had been prepared to receive this epiphany, but my having been reminded of what it was like to be bullied as a kid was part of it. Moments before I got in position to grip the bar, I suddenly remembered Terry threatening to kill me. I didn’t have a panic attack and I didn’t freak out, but suddenly I saw my life in stark clarity and contrast to how I had seen it for many years. Underneath everything I had ever done, every decision I had ever made, there had been an undercurrent of fear that matched that moment. Even good decisions had been tainted by it. That is an epiphany that can’t be put off until you have finished wailing on your pecs. I looked in the mirror and saw in my face an odd mix of confusion and clarity competing to occupy the same face. I grabbed my stuff and left the gym. I told no one about this for days. Writing was the only way I could think of to process a memory that had resurfaced after three decades. I had literally never told anyone about this event. And I didn't know if I should, after all these years. Floods of clarity are unpleasant and hard to articulate. And it led to other memories that explain who I have become and even a small scar on my right hand. Again, I had not recovered lost memories; I had just suddenly seen the true impact and the lifelong damage of those experiences. I had been bullied before and had been that kid who learned to roll with it and often get out of situations by being funny, clever, or at the very least talkative.

This was different. Terry was feared by everyone. No one got in his way. One day, for reasons I still don’t understand, he pointed at me and told me I was dead if he ever caught up with me. For many days my routes from class to class were planned around dodging Terry in the halls via a series of sudden course changes and a strong reliance on the prey's instinct for knowing the predator's routine.

Of course, there came a day when I let my guard down and walked into a restroom before Terry did. I was washing my hands and looked up to see that he was standing at the urinal. Wouldn’t you know it, the urinals were between the sink and the door. I had to pass behind Terry and thought that he was too busy to catch me. I said everyone feared him, right? Here’s why; I kid you not, while still peeing he shot one leg out behind himself. With his foot against the wall opposite the urinals, that leg blocked the narrow space that led to the door. He finished what he was doing, zipped his pants up, and turned to deal with me. He didn’t need to stop peeing to detain me. That is cold. I was six feet tall and weighed 145lbs. He was a juggernaut. Perhaps because of those terrifying eyes, I really don’t remember anything physical about that moment. His hand gripped my neck and he smacked my head against the wall tile to get my attention, but I remember neither of those contacts. He reminded me of his promise to kill me. All I could think to do was ask him what he wanted. “You walk ten feet behind me from now on or I will kill you.” I managed to avoid being killed by simply accepting his terms. It didn’t happen often that I had to walk the same route that he did, but when I did I walked just a bit behind him. My total surrender worked. In fact, there was a certain safety in being in that spot because no one would ever violate Terry’s space. The surrender worked so well that you would have thought we were old friends if you'd seen us together.

And you would have been right. We were old friends. 

Surrey, BC was an awful place in the seventies and eighties. I did grades 1 through 3 at Hjorth Road Elementary and hated almost every minute of it. I have always felt too young to be where I am and that has made me feel like I was born to be taken advantage of. Being born in November means you are about the youngest in the class and one of the most immature, even if you are among the smartest (especially if you are among the smartest). It also means that if you are a gentle person and afraid of conflict you are a target. At times I don't even blame those who bullied me. I had it written all over me. I even got beaten up once or twice by kids who were shorter than I am but had no fear of losing and could sense my panic. To tell the whole truth, I had actually started grade one at another school and my teacher told my parents that I would never survive because I was too nice. So we moved to another apartment complex, where I first met Tim and Terry. This new school was also a nightmare much of the time, but when I got home, I would go bike riding with Tim and Terry. At first I simply ran along because, chicken that I was, I had not learned to ride. My parents had tried to help me, but… Anyway, one day at the age of seven I borrowed a friend’s bike and managed to teach myself how to ride and off I went. My parents got me a bike with a banana seat right away and from that day, Tim and Terry and I were pals.

After three years we moved. Then we moved again. And again. And again. By ninth grade I was back in Surrey and attending William Beagle Junior Secondary School, where I met Tim again but not Terry. Tim and I shared a couple classes, but the friendship was gone and we were just classmates. Terry was a year older so I didn’t even expect to reconnect with him.  In fact, when I was warned to stay away from this frightening monster named Terry, I did not make the connection. It was only days before he trapped me in the bathroom that I even connected him to Tim.

I had tried in the past to stand up to bullies. I had been hit a few times, even at church. So violence wasn’t new to me, but Terry’s coldness was. He didn’t hit me, didn’t molest me in any way. He just convinced me with his cold eyes that he meant it when he said that he would kill me. And I caved in to his demands.

And that was the real trauma. I saw malevolence and I folded. I have twice run into burning apartments to help the people I heard screaming. I have stood up for others at the risk of losing my job. I have driven to confront the parents of my daughter’s fifth grade bullies in their own homes. But I have lived in a perpetual state of fear when it comes to standing up for myself. Bosses, neighbours, coworkers, my first wife (especially my first wife) fellow churchgoers, etc. have all benefited from a powerful but nonspecific fear I have had of defending myself. This is true even of people who would have never had done anything to hurt me, but still had interests that conflicted with mine. I just accommodated everyone and believed it was because I was a nice guy.

At 44 years of age, I was shattered with the sudden awareness that, where standing up for myself was concerned, I was not a nice guy, I was a coward. Confronted with the idea that maybe the only reason I was about to bench press 240 lbs was to compensate for choosing cowardice as a scrawny kid, I couldn’t face the mirror in the gym. 

And the gym is all mirrors.

Professional Grinders

Tactics for Getting Stuff for Free (That You Should Not Try When Making Hotel Reservations)

Despite the tone below, I want to be very clear up front about one thing. The vast majority of the people with whom I speak on the phone as a reservations agent are quite nice and grateful for whatever I do for them. I have been given praise, gifts, dinner invitations, shirts, hats, police business cards (to get out of speeding tickets in New York State), and a host of other things from the polite majority who go about their business looking for a good deal. There is, however, a yawning gulf between people who appreciate a good deal and people live to tell the story of how they managed to get stuff for free while enjoying the destruction of some chump at a desk. I am that chump, and this bit of writing is addressed to those who become psychopaths on the phone when trying to get something free from us that either does not exist or that we are not allowed to give.

First you need to keep in mind that the person on the other end of the line is a person who represents the hotel in a limited way. Agents have lives and feelings and experience. Remember that last one. You probably don't care about their lives or their feelings because they are not part of your Monkey Circle (you should look that up). In fact, you probably enjoy hurting their feelings. As I understand sadism, that is the bulk of the thrill of getting free stuff. That last one, experience, though, matters. I hear tell that there are courses you can take that teach you how to get stuff for free. Mostly they teach how to whine, badger, cajole, and abuse people in the service industry until they cave in to your demands as they ideate a murder scenario in order to rid the world of evil people like you. And the service industry is staffed largely by people who are new at it. There is a high turnover rate thanks to burnout. That is your fault, by the way. But some of us have had to do this for a long time. So we don't care if you get stuff for free once a day and are really REALLY good at the game. We do ONLY this for 37.5 hours a week. Thanks to that ten thousand hour rule of expertise that everyone is talking about these days, we turned pro after 5 years. And despite our polite tone, we are also callused. Also your fault. Here is what won't work with and will only get you worse service.

1. Musing aloud.

"That all sounds great, but could you throw in parking for free?"

"I'm sorry, sir, but parking is always an additional cost of $15 per night."

Then the client starts to mull it over out loud, "Well that is a great package, but I just wish there was something we could do about parking. That would be great."

I used to reply to this, but then it occurred to me that this was not a question. Now I just go silent until there is a question. Does this sound rude to you? If so, it’s because you are rude. Here's what's rude: repeating that wish for free parking, breakfast, dinner, whatever, over and over and over and over and over...tedious isn't it. I can't give you what you want; thinking out loud about how great it would be does not change what I am allowed to do. When I used to respond to every musing, calls would last forever. Keep this in mind, generally call center folk are patient, but when you make yourself a nuisance, I would give you anything I could just to stop talking to you. I am MORE motivated to give you free parking than you are to get it from me. If I could sneak it in without anyone who is in charge of me (which is damn near everyone) knowing, I would, just to shut you up. My saying no to you means I have to keep talking to you, and you have made it clear that you are unsatisfiable. If I get such vocal musings in a call on my last day, this is the reply I have prepared, "Yes, that would be great. In my mind's eyes I can picture how great it would be if I could give you free parking. Let's take a moment and ponder that Greatness that would ensue if you had free parking.....thank you for sharing that moment of hypothetical Greatness with me. Sadly, while we both agree that nothing short of the Rapture would be as great as my giving you free parking, I can’t."

2. Crying Rich.

Doesn't make sense, does it?

Happens all the time.

Let's stick with parking on this one. It goes something like this: "You can't throw in parking? Do you have any idea how much I spend at your hotel chain each year?" My Inner Dialogue Reply, "More than I make annually sitting at this desk? Ten times more than I make annually talking to people like you?" There are some people who genuinely believe that having more money means that things should cost less for them. I suspect, but admit that I can't prove, these people often spout off about Liberals who freeload off the system. Politics aside, you get no sympathy from an exhausted agent by declaring that the amount of time you spend vacationing at five star hotels around the world is a reason I should give you free stuff.

3. Price Comparing.

"You know, the hotel next door has a room like that for half the price." I have said on more than one occasion that the reason for the price difference is the difference in the quality of the hotels. I genuinely believe that; I work at a very upscale hotel. What I can't just come out and say is, "Well, then why are you talking to me? Stay at that cheaper hotel." We are not talking about the $1.50 difference between a bricks of the same brand cheese purchased at different grocery stores. This is hundreds of dollars’ difference between the prices of products of vastly different quality.

4. Claiming instant friendship and all the perks descending therefrom.

"Hey, Buddy, really need you to help me out with getting a great rate." We are not buddies. I am here to mediate a transaction between you and my employer. I have to see my managers aaaaaalllllll day, five days a week. Giving a freebie of anything to you, my new best friend, (whom I have never met, and likely never will or would want to, because the word "buddy" has lost any good meaning thanks to Buddies like you) means I have to face my manager. I have had good managers and bad, but they all would rightly reprimand me for such a stupid move. You, Buddy, are the reason the word “buddy” no longer means “friend.”

5. Blaming the employee for the rate. There are several variations of this and smart workers can honestly plead ignorance.

Q. "Why is it so much more than last year?" A. "I don't know."

Q. "Why is it so expensive?" A. "I don't know."

Q. "Why is that promotion not available?" A. "I don't know."

Q. "Don't you think that price is outrageous?" A. "I don't know."

See that? Asking those questions is meant to make the employee accountable for management decisions. The person on the phone doesn't have those answers and shouldn't even add the word "sorry" to make it "I'm sorry, I don't know." The employee has no power over prices or availability and can only guess at the rationale behind such things, but if he apologizes for his ignorance, he is admitting that he has made a mistake. The customer/bully on the phone knows this, but is just enough of a douchebag to make that poor sucker feel just a bit worse about his or her job.

I am going to stop here because my wife rightly points out that I rant far longer than is helpful. And if you don’t see my point by now you are part of the problem.

The Quest

When I used the word ‘mentor’ as a writing prompt, it was one of the few prompts about which they had no problem writing. In fact, they would have written without end, but we had a ten minute time limit, after which we had to discuss what they wrote. I wrote their comments on the dry erase board, but I listed their mentors separately.

My mom, my dad, brother, sister, best friend, youth pastor, grandmother, granddad, girlfriend, boyfriend, minister, Mr. Gibbons, my mom’s friend, my eighth grade teacher, my coach.

I removed my name as a matter of course because it seemed often to be a blatant attempt to curry favor with the teacher. After they had explained their choices I then drew a line through the ones that did not meet the basic criteria for a mentor in literature. In the case of the above list I would have left only, youth pastor, minister, mom’s friend, eighth grade teacher, and coach. Of course that left many of the students offended because they had assured me that these people I crossed off had shown the following traits of a mentor.
-has your back at all times
-always there for you
-always supportive
-believe you can do anything
-loyal to you
-wise
-really ‘gets’ you
-loves you
-is your friend
-want what’s best for you
-trusts you
So I would then start crossing out much of this list, leaving only ‘wise,’ and really ‘gets’ you. Again I would face a barrage of objections to my choices. So then the real conversation would begin. I usually started with the idea that a mentor doesn’t have your back at all times and will not always be there for you. In fact, one of the purposes of the mentor is to prepare you to be independent. Clearly family members want you to be independent, but often we have to claim our independence from them. Mentors thrust your independence on you. This is not to downplay the role of family in the life of the Hero, but merely to point out that the mentor is better able to do this because protective familial instincts are not a factor in the mentor’s decisions.

Who then on the list will not fear to let us fail? Coaches are by definition, unable to join you on the field or the court. For all the calls they may make, the team and the leadership on the field must make the plays and face the consequences. Ministers, youth pastors, and teachers also have a limited time for instruction and guidance and then the heroes have to make it in the real world.
In literature the hero progresses from test to test and with each test he is more alone. Gandalf leaves Bilbo at the edge of the darkest part of the forest and with nothing more than the advice to stay on the path. We don’t see the wizard again until the Battle of Five Armies.
Neo heads back into the Matrix alone to rescue his mentor. Mr. Miyagi temporarily heals Daniel’s knee, but then sends him alone to finish the fight. Huck, like Neo, has to rescue his mentor, Jim from captivity, even though it means undermining slavery, the most revered tradition in the South.

Modern movies and novels have made these forms an integral part of their forms and when done correctly, they become the most popular stories.

Whenever Forest Gump runs he is running alone, but his running changes from running from danger to running toward danger for the sake of others to running for sheer self-discovery.

Autumn's Perspective

On Monday I was driving with my daughter and I saw three leaves, still attached to each other, drop to the ground. There was nothing light or autumnal about it. It was raining and dark and we were coming home from having followed my Mom, in an ambulance, to the hospital. In the cone of my headlights the doomed cluster of leaves fell as fast and straight as a suicide. And I thought maybe that the season was threatening sadness and tragedy.

Today I sit at my desk in the reservations department, looking out at the Horseshoe Falls, and off to my right I see bright-yellowed leaves on a tree that sits on the edge of the escarpment. The leaves aren't falling. The updraft is lifting them from the tree. They take flight with joy, as though they have someplace better and higher to be; as though, like Jonathon Livingston Seagull, they have decided to be more than what their fellows have accepted. My Mom still has more tests, and more tests after that, but now I wonder if the season promises relief and, perhaps, more seasons to come for her.

Father John

A priest walked into a bar. It was a long bar which ran for 50 feet to the right and ten feet to the left. To the left was the billiards area, the dart boards and what passed for a dance floor when there was a band on what passed for a stage. The fifty foot stretch to priest's right had originally been the counter of a diner. When Mickey, whose name was in neon above the front door, bought the diner after he got home from desert storm, he'd kept the row of tables-for-four that ran parallel to counter so that those who wanted a place away from the pool players and the band could sit and eat. It also allowed Mickey's Tavern to double as a comfortable lunch spot for the local merchants. Father John sat in the booth at the far right end of the bar. It had the only table with a reserved sign down in the corner with no windows.

Mickey's Tavern was not the kind of bar that typically had reserved seating, but the locals knew that no one sat there except for Father John. He would come in maybe three or four times a month, greet no one and sit there and wait without a sound for Mickey, a large Desert Storm vet, to join him. Mickey always took Father John a beer and sat and talked with him.

Jane, the new girl was racking glasses. Mickey had hired Jane for her looks more than her bar tending skills. However, she'd proven in the first week that she was a quick study and her personality won over the women at the bar while her long black hair and sweet, farm girl face kept the men coming back and ordering more food and drinks than they normally would. She turned to a small row of regulars seated at the bar.

"What's up with Mickey and the padre?"

Everyone looked up and turned to her. Jane wondered if she had just asked for a dark secret. Stanley had barstool seniority and there was tacit agreement that he knew the tale best. Stanley had retired from GM 7 years before and had made daily visits to Mickey's since then. Even before that, he'd been one of Mickey's first customers and had been, by sheerest coincidence, present at every major happening in the tavern.

"Well," he leaned back in his chair so his moderate beer gut could enhance his authority, "some six years back, young Father John there came in and sat there in that seat right there. Not a word. Just sat there for an hour, looking out the window." Jane moved as though to correct Stanley because there was no window at that table. Rachel, Mickey's second hire after opening, and the unofficial mother to everyone at the bar, shook her head subtly and Jane demurred. Stanley continued, unaware that he'd almost been interrupted.

"Mickey finally went over with a beer and sat down. No one knows what they talked about, but later Father John was all smiles. That's when he introduced himself. We still don't know why Mickey needs to see a priest in here three or four times a month, but he's done that ever since."

"And the reserved sign?" asked Rachel. She knew, but she also knew her part in the telling of the story. Stanley raised his left eyebrow and nodded at the memory. "I was here for that one too. Some young punks came in and sat there and when Father John saw them there he turned to leave."

"What did Mickey do?" asked Jane, no longer interested in racking the glasses.

"He asked them to move, all nice and friendly like. You know, to make room for the Father."

"They said 'no,' right?"

Everyone looked at Ted like he had farted in church. Ted was new and knew neither the story nor the traditional manner in which it was told.

Stanley moved ahead to spare Ted undue embarrassment. "Yeah, they said 'no.' Mickey was even bigger then." Stanley shook his head and smiled to savor the climax just a little longer. "He asked one more time and then hauled all three of them at one time. You would think that it would have taken two trips but he had all of them in the parking lot in less than a minute. As they lay there on the pavement, he told them they ought to go and see Father John to apologize personally."

"So the 'reserved' sign is meant to keep the table free for Father John whenever he thinks he needs to see Mickey?"

"Yep." Stanley leaned back on his stool with the air of a cop summarizing a crime scene. "Mickey calls that his confessional. The Padre gets a free beer for his services." Jane smiled at this detail.

"Getting a priest drunk for confession? I gotta try that the next time I unload during confession."

Stanley raised his eyebrows in surprise. "How often does a sweet girl like you have to go to confession?" Jane bit her bottom lip to suppress a grin.

"I get into trouble sometimes that I don't always avoid. It amazes me that the priest doesn't go crazy-horny with all the details of my sinful ways."

The regulars at the bar all nodded in appreciation of the priest's dilemma.

Ted leaned forward across the bar, "What kind of details?"

Jane threw her drying cloth in his face. "Nice try, Ted. I tell my secrets to a priest exactly so I don't have to deal with a hormonal perv like you."

Ted sat back in good-natured defeat. "Why not tell a girlfriend?" he asked.

"The last time I told my secrets to a 'girlfriend' she posted them on her myspace page. I can't afford therapy so I go see a priest to unload. Feels great and I am forgiven in the process."

Ted threw the drying towel back at Jane. "Why don't you keep your secrets to yourself, if they are so dirty?"

"Boy," said Stanley, "the dirtier the secret the more you have to share it with someone. Everyone, even big-and-strong Mickey there, needs to unload. The first time he met with Father John, Mickey told me that he felt great. Now he seems tired after their little meetings, as though he carries more than when he was younger. I guess he has more of a life than just sitting and listen to us piss and moan about our lives over all this booze."

"And you gotta be able to trust someone who won't tell," said Rachel. "When I was being beaten by my ex, I couldn't talk to no one but my priest. I made the mistake of telling my dad and he got so angry it was all I could do to keep him from killing my Tony. After that, I lied about things being better and I saved all the worst stuff for my priest. It didn't really solve nothin, but at least I know the priest wasn't about to go all crazy and kill someone. They deal in charity and forgiveness and that was what I needed."

Jane was pouring herself a coke. "True enough, Rachel. That so-called girlfriend who put my sex life on the web? She got all self-righteous and was like, 'how could you?' and 'I'd never do that.' Then I found out from a friend that she was totally jealous because she liked the guy I'd been with. With the priest, I don't have to worry about him liking me, like Ted here, or judging me, like my 'friend.' I just thank God I have a priest to talk to."

"Well," said Ted, "I never go to confession. I'm not even Catholic, but I could so use someone who won't judge me, especially for what I am thinking about Jane right now."

This time Jane threw a coaster him, but Ted was ready and caught it.

"Thanks, Jane." Jane smiled, just a little impressed at the new guy's reflexes. He was, after all, kind of hot, for a mechanic.

Ted emptied his stein, smug in the possibilities he saw in Jane's eyes. recognized Jane's expression and began to plan what he would have to confess after he hooked up with Jane. "I think," he said, "I will see Father John next. Sort of a Pre-emptive confession. Do priests do that?"

"Nope," said Stanley. "I told you: that is Mickey's confessional."

The regulars all sat for a minute with their own thoughts.

******

Mickey rose from his seat and came from that far end of the bar. As he approached the regulars, he said, "Another draft, Jane."

"Slow down, Mickey," said Stanley, "You can only lay so much on a priest in one sitting. The man carries everyone's load and has nobody except other overloaded priests to help him carry it all."

Mickey looked at Stanley for a second and then narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips into a forced smile. He took the beer, thanked Jane and headed back to the table to sit with the padre. Jane looked at Stanley and the rest of the regulars.

"Wow," she whispered with exaggerated quietness, "Mickey must be getting his brew's worth. Wonder why Mickey looks so tired."

Ted said what they were all thinking. "If the average joe like my can't keep his few secrets all tied down inside, how does Father John keep everyone's from just gushing out?."

******

"Here you go, John." Mickey was worried; Father John looked like he had battle fatigue. Mickey had seen it enough times in combat. He'd even seen it in teachers, nurses, doctors, and cops. It was the look of someone who'd been stretched too far, seen and heard too much. "John, for years you have sat here and unloaded about the evil in the world in general, but this is something else, isn't it?"

Father John took a long slow drink of his beer. "Do you remember why I first came in here?"

Mickey looked out at the few clouds passing through the sky and pretended to think hard about this question. In fact, he'd always remembered the disillusionment of young Father John that day. "I think you were upset that everyone of your parishioners seemed to be living with secrets and sins on a scale you'd never thought possible."

The padre nodded. He did not even notice the weather. His eyes were glued to his drink. "I felt useless because nothing I ever did made them better people or the world a better place."

"As I recall," Mickey said as he took a drink, "I told you that's not what you do. You take away the weight people are carrying so they can make themselves and their world better."

"You saved my career, my calling, as priest with that insight." The prematurely grey priest took a long drink. "One minute I'm listening to a man who has beaten his wife…again, and feels so much remorse…again! Then I am listening to a beautiful young woman tell me about how much sex she is having…again. I swear she's not so much confessing as she is bragging. I wish they would all just grow up."

Father John hung his head low and Mickey heard his quiet confession, "And I wish I could be just like them.

His jaw clenched in frustration. Mickey waited for the priest to calm down. To himself he had to agree that Father John looked more worn down this week than ever. The man's hands clenched and flexed, even when he wasn't talking.

"Sometimes I burn from lust for the promiscuous girl whose silhouette is as clear as a cameo through the screen in my confessional. Other times I am consumed with murderous wrath towards this cruel husband. I tried telling this to Father O'Malley, but he's so judgmental I think I've begun to hate that old man."

Father John looked at his bartender friend for a long moment. "You know, Mickey, I thank God you let me unload on you."

Huggy

“I love you, Huggy. You’re the best. I owe you, Big Time.”

Huggy, or Scott, as his parents had named him, took in Esther’s hug like a drunk sipping the last of the foreseeable wine. Her breasts pushed against his ribs, her shiny dark brown hair blinded his eyes and the smell her perfume took his breath away.

“No, Princess,” he disengaged himself before his emotions became awkward. “You are the best. We’ve discussed this already.” This exchange was standard every time Huggy ran an errand or did some task for Esther.

He put the groceries on the center station in the Esther’s kitchen. He felt the usual mixture of satisfaction and resentment seize his chest. This meal that she was preparing was to help her celebrate with her boyfriend Mike again. He was being promoted, again. And Huggy was helping her cook the meal that would lead to just-got-a-promotion sex, again. Mike always got everything he wanted.

Esther turned to the cupboard and reached up with both hands to get a large bowl out from under a smaller bowl. Scott took in the view instead of offering to help. Her breasts were so large that he could see them on either side from behind. In her white tee-shirt, (without a bra because only Huggy was around) and tight jeans cut off just above the knees she was more beautiful than anything Scott had ever seen. She had a tiny fit body and took flak for it from the other women at work who said that it was easy for her because she was so tiny she could eat anything. These same women brought in donuts, cakes, cookies, and candy every single day of the week and made everyone who declined to partake feel guilty by saying, “but I baked it myself.” As if they could plan the eating habits of everyone at work by cooking at home the night before. Esther always declined and therefore was considered stuck up and unapproachable. The truth was, though, that those breasts and her beautiful face were her only free genetic gifts. Esther ate a healthy diet, ate it sparingly, avoided alcohol except for nights like this one, and hit the gym 5 days a week. And, unlike the women at work, when her emotions boiled over, she didn’t eat; she bought plants and called Huggy.

“Princess,” Scott said suddenly, “does this stack of groceries look familiar to you?”

She froze for a second and then spun around, her unrestrained breasts exaggerating the movement. Her hands shot to her mouth. She looked at the groceries in horror.

“Huggy,” she whined in frustration, “why didn’t you say something?”

“I am the dude in the room,” he retorted, “Details like this are part of the mindset of women and gay men. I only noticed it when you reached up to grab that bowl.” In Scott’s mind it was not the bowl but the view of her from behind that had triggered the memory of the last celebratory meal.

Esther put her hands on the counter behind her, shrugged and sighed. “I promised Michael something special. Maybe I can pretend this is the standard meal for celebrating a promotion.”

Scott could not stand to see her eyes look so disappointed. Her amazing body notwithstanding, the thing that had captured Scott’s secret heart from day one was her eyes. He had done many desperate things to keep them from looking disappointed. And here came another one.

“Listen, you get yourself ready. I will get the ingredients for lasagna. It takes 45 minutes to prepare and I’ll have it ready by the time you finished putting on your most seductive dress.

She bit her lip and smiled. There. There. The disappointment was gone from her eyes. She crossed the kitchen and hugged him again. In these moments he memorized the contours of her body and the clutch of her hands.

She buried her face into his chest and said. “Huggy, You. Are. The. Best. I owe you Big Time.”

He hugged her for moment longer and then put his hands on shoulder, pushed her back so he could see the eyes he adored. They glowed with relief, gratitude, and worst of all, friendship.

“No, you are the best. We discussed this already.”

This time she kissed him on the cheek before giving him an extra squeeze. “I have to jump in the shower.” She turned and trotted down the hall.

*****

The store was two blocks away. Scott walked in a fog of the image of Esther in the shower. He both hated and imbibed that image. Beautiful and out of reach, except for Michael. The same cashier he’d seen 30 minutes before joked that he must be very hungry. She was cute, gorgeous actually, but all women paled next to Esther.

On the short trip back to Esther’s place he ran through the familiar dialog with himself about why Esther did not love him instead of Michael. How had Scott become the “Good Friend?” How had he become Huggy? Mr. Reliable. The titles that might describe his place in Esther’s life scrolled like movie credits in his head.

Gopher.
Key Grip.
Best Boy.

Why God can’t Esther love me like I love her?

*****
He paused at the door and considered his situation. Many times he had sat on a couch with a pillow on his lap and Esther’s head on the pillow. They’d watch DVDs and she would invariably doze off for 20 minutes. When she fell asleep, she would unconsciously hold his hand in hers like a teddy bear under her cheek. This put his forearm between her breasts or on top of one of them for 20 minutes. He was glad for the pillow then. Then she’d wake up and ask what had happened while she slept. He’d pause the video and tell her what she’d missed. She would kiss her finger and touch his cheek, tell him he was the best and they would finish the movie. Then he’d go home and think of all the things he should have done and said and curse himself for a coward.

*****
Groceries in hand, he entered the kitchen. Esther was singing in her room, now out of the shower, getting dressed and choosing the underwear that Michael would remove in less than 2 hours. Scott put the unneeded groceries away and started the new special meal. He had to hurry because Michael would be on time and Esther would be of no help with the food. This same girl who had caused accidents with nothing more than a t-shirt and knee length skirt could spend hours primping for her man. Scott had to admit, though, that the effect was worth it.

Sixty-five minutes later he was lighting the candles. The aroma of lasagna filled the house. The table was set and the food was on heated plates ready to be uncovered. The chairs on the end of the table had been removed and the dinner accessories had been set on the ends for easy access. The remaining two chairs were set up opposite each other across the width of the table so that hands could touch, and glasses could clink. Anything that had cluttered the dining area, or in anyway compromised the romantic atmosphere, had been removed. The candles were placed off to the sides so that the couple could see each other and not have to look through the flames. He’d arranged every one of her many plants around the dining room so that it looked more like an exclusive dining suite in a restaurant for the super rich.

As Scott finished the candles he heard a gasp behind him. He turned to see Esther with her hands over her mouth and tears in her eyes. She walked slowly toward Scott. He had never seen anything so beautiful as this woman at this moment. The limited light seemed to gather around her face and was amplified. Her dress was modest in length, but held her body like a jealous lover.

“This is the sweetest thing you have ever done for me. You’re the best. I owe you, big time.”

“What do you owe me?” he heard himself ask. He felt something coming loose in his heart.

She smiled. “Everything. This is way above and beyond.”

“So when do I get this everything you owe me?” He couldn’t believe this was coming from his mouth, but maybe it was time and he suddenly wanted an answer. His voice appeared to have a mind of its own.

She stepped back, “What’s wrong, Huggy?”

“Scott,” his calm, low voice sounded like a young Clint Eastwood, Tense but restrained. “My name is Scott. Huggy is what you call a teddy bear. It is what you call me to keep me at a safe non-threatening distance.”

She was at a loss for words because this was not the Huggy she knew. “I call you Huggy,” she stammered, “because you hug me so nicely.”

He continued as though she had not spoken. It was an overdue release to let his mouth just have the reins. “You keep saying that you owe me, but as near as I can tell, I do all the work in this so-called friendship. You have noticed that I am a man, right?”

“Yes, but…”

“Do you think I’m gay?” He was on a roll, but this was not how he’d planned this going.

“No you’re not gay…”

“Am I so unattractive?”

“No! You’re very…”

“I have loved you and respected you and served you for three years. You sat in your underwear and cried on my shoulder for three hours when your last boyfriend cheated on you. Do you know any other man who would have respected you enough not to try to have sex with you in that situation? I don’t even fondle your breasts when you fall asleep in my lap. I practically built this relationship you have with Michael, and will probably be your shoulder again when he cheats. But that’s okay, isn’t it, because Michael is a real man so he gets a man’s name. I get ‘Huggy.’”

She stood their crying, but he was not done.

“I have never asked you for anything in return because I have been in love with you for three years and always believed that you do whatever you can for the woman you love without explanation.”

“You love me? You’re in love with me?”

“Are you for real?” He was working to keep the strain out of his voice now. “The problem with beautiful women is that they are so used to having men act the way they want, they assume that men can’t think or feel anything that is not approved. You don’t love me so you can’t conceive that I might love you. You think I don’t have the right or the capacity.”

“That’s not fair, Huggy, Scott.”

“Damn right it’s not fair. So now I am not ‘The Best’ anymore?’ Just a jerk?”

“No Huggy,”

He stepped up to her. “Scott. My name is Scott. I am a man who fell in love with women who believes that others should do for her, but feels her royal presence is all that she owes in return.”

Esther was crying now because she knew that she really did very little for this man she had always relied on. If her eyes had registered disappointment, Scott would have withered and apologized. But those perfect eyes showed that she knew he was right and she was wrong.

“Scott…”

“Don’t. I get it, Esther; you don’t love me…you can’t be in love with me. I have treated you like a queen for three years. I know everything about you. And I know this as well as anything else. Tonight you will eat a meal I prepared with a man who will reap the erotic payoff for work that I did. Michael will peel off that dress that you spent an hour putting on and I won’t even matter.

“I love you Esther Yale. This dinner is the last thing I will ever do for you.” He kissed her cheek. “Good-bye,” he whispered in her ear. He picked up his jacket on the way to the door and without looking back walked down into the late sunset.

Michael was just arriving.

“Hey there, Huggy.”

Scott clenched his fist but kept his cool in front of the lucky bastard. In less than an hour he would be enjoying a side of Esther that Scott could only imagine.

“Hey, Mike.” Scott paused. “Listen, Esther asked me to tell you to give her 15 minutes to make herself perfect. Just walk around the block and let her think you were late for once. It’ll make her feel good.” He turned to leave.

“Good idea, Huggy. Hey, this evening works out like I hope, I owe you, big time.”

He turned back to Michael. “What do you owe me?” He asked.


*****

“I said I guess I owe you a big kiss.” Esther stepped up and kissed her Huggy on the lips. The kiss lasted longer than Scott expected. He looked down at her as she backed away.

“I love you,” she smiled

“I love you,” he smiled back. Two identical sentences with entirely different meanings.

He didn’t deserve her. He would never tell her all that he dreamt of saying because much of it was not fair and the rest was his problem, not hers. He’d keep doing stuff for her in the useless hope that she would owe him love. But love can’t be a debt.

She wasn’t the problem; for all that he loved her, for all that he had done for her, he had never told her the truth. In his cowardice, he would never risk losing a second best, secret, one-sided, pathetic romance by speaking up, telling Esther the truth, and letting the chips of his heart fall where they may. He would stand six inches from her and love her desperately from a distance. He could give her anything except courage.

“Enjoy your evening.” He kissed her cheek. “And say ‘hi’ to Michael.”

*****

As he descended the stairs into the late sunset, Michael was arriving.

“Hey, Scott.”

“Hey, Mike,” He stopped. “Listen, Mike. She has worked all afternoon to make tonight perfect. Compliment her on her cooking and the table setting more than you compliment her dress. She’ll appreciate that you noticed.”

Mike nodded thoughtfully. He seemed about to ask something, but then changed his mind. “Good thinking, Scott. Thanks for the heads up. I owe you.”

“Have a good night, Mike.”

Bully

How bad do you have to be, without being a murderer or a rapist, to have people glad that you are dead? People who normally get along with people and just want to go about their lives. My best friend is a dedicated high school teacher and very successful basketball and volley ball coach. Two years ago she was the South Carolina State coach of the year. She played NCAA volleyball and basketball and she is a beautiful blond who retains her physical prowess and her teenage figure well into her thirties. The problem with such people is that they engender jealousy and pettiness in smaller people. When she added volleyball coaching to her already busy life, she had an idea that was brilliant in its simplicity and changed the color, literally of sports at our school. I was lucky enough to be her sidekick in much of what she did coaching wise and so I saw the implementation and the benefits of her plan.

In Charleston, South Carolina Basketball is largely a Black sport and Volleyball is largely a White sport. To keep her basketball team in shape and reverse the volleyball team's losing record, she encouraged her basketball players to try out for volleyball. With similar logic, she encouraged her volleyball players to consider trying out for basketball. This altered the complexion of both sports and somehow she was called racist by parents of both races. Volleyball parents said she favored Black players and Basketball parents said she was favoring white players. Of course, most parents just let things be and were wise enough to see that both teams benefited from the Coach's unorthodox approach.

If this were another story about race relations in South Carolina, you'd have all the facts you'd need to take sides. The complicating factor is that the disgruntled parents, Black and White were organized by a wealthy White man who was upset that his daughter was losing court time in both sports. Let's call her Kara. Kara's dad thought she deserved to be in the starting line up for the basketball team. Among my duties as sidekick to my best friend, I was the one who announced the starting line up, and Kara was rarely on it. The truth is that Kara was a coach's nightmare; loads of potential but no fire. Kara was tall and attractive with a lean athletic build. I was only one of many who noted that she was physically identical to Coach herself. But, where Coach did everything to realize her potential, Kara thought being young and pretty was enough. And her father agreed. He managed to rally a small but vocal group of parents to complain about everything they could think of.

Coach was a racist. It didn't matter that both races were throwing the diametrically opposed grievances.

Coach was unapproachable. It didn't matter that she had given every player and parent her cell number.

Coach coached like a man. It was hard to imagine what that meant, but her male athletic director actually demonstrated two different ways of hugging female players. And he demonstrated it on Coach herself in front of the principal in the principal's office.

The district superintendent got involved and said that changes needed to be made because the athletic director, who had more authority almost than the principal, had said that both the volleyball and basketball programs were in disarray. Kara's dad was telling the entire community that he'd offered to buy the school two new score boards provided they fire Coach. Rumors of her impending firing were without foundation, but they flourished and that emboldened parents to speak in public about what a lousy coach she was and how the school should do something about her. That her winning record was unparalleled at that school didn't seem to deter this group of liars.

Coach coaches hard and cares for her players like they were her children. She believes that sports is a way of truly defining and revealing character. She loves to win, but she loves to see her players grow as young women even more. For all that, I am one of the few people outside of her family who ever get to see her vulnerable side. And so it was that I sat with her one night on her couch and she rested her head on my shoulder and said that she wondered if she should just give up. It was difficult because I was only three months away from moving back to Canada with my kids, a move I was reluctant to make, but was really powerless to avoid. However, I gave what comfort I could and told her that she was the strongest person I know. Summer came and we had a month to have our kids together before I left. The school was strangely silent about the whole affair and Coach was not going to stir things up.

I moved July 1. Our friendship became a daily phone call that could last as much as 2 hours. We talked of her divorce proceedings, my search for a job, any number of things that had to be worked out and that needed support and an ear. Then she called to tell me that Kara's dad had died of a heart attack. He'd been a rich contractor. His company built the school our kids attended. He'd also been a cocaine dealer when he was young and it turned out that he'd never really left that behind. The IRS had seized his assets, law enforcement was closing in ,and finally Kara's dad's heart gave out.

"You're glad aren't you?"

This conversation was late at night and I was on my cell, walking along some train tacks near my house.

She was hesitant to answer.

"It's okay," I assured her. "It's just me. You coached Kara and those other girls for several years and gave them everything. And then her dad decided to take you down with no other authority than wealth. He tried to take away the means to feed your kids. He was a bully. And nobody mourns their bully."

"I talked to my Mom," she said, "I never really told her the whole thing, but I told her that I felt nothing at hearing that he was dead. Then I kind of felt relieved."

"And now you are kind of happy aren't you?"

"I think so."

"Now you know how I felt when Dr. Hooper died."

Dr. Hooper had been the principal at my first school in Charleston. I have never met a woman able to destroy so thoroughly. She bullied people until they walked away from their teaching careers. In one case, a sixth grade history teacher went home on a Friday and just didn't show up ever again. An art teacher vowed never to set foot in a classroom again. This woman was so bad that we had to have a special team of professional mediators come to the school to help "heal" the rift between the faculty and the administration. Of course, that made things much worse.

A few years later, when she died and I read about it in the paper while I was helping out in the library at my next school, I ran down to the classroom of another teacher who had spent two years under Dr. Hooper and who had looked like an abuse victim when I first met her.

I burst into her room.

"I already heard," she said with a big smile on her face.

"Really?"

"I had four voicemails on my cell singing, 'Ding Dong. The witch is dead.'"

Later I called my mom and said that as a good Mormon boy I was struggling with the joy I felt at this woman's death from complications of lupus. My mom said that she was a bully, and no one mourns their bully.

And that was the truth that I passed on to Coach. No one mourns the person who made their life hell just for the fun of it.

Coach was relieved to hear my perspective. And then we rehashed the previous four months of misery that she'd been through. The next night during our late night conversation, she began to tell me how all of this had made her wonder what kind of a person she was and how she could be both better able to protect herself from another such blindsiding and how she could make sure that she treated people better from that point on. It was just like Coach to take that kind of persecution and use it as a reason to examine her own life and improve from it. I guess that is the difference between her and her bully. My guess is that Kara's dad's funeral was attended by people pretending to mourn. When Coach dies (many, many decades from now) they will likely have made a movie about her and named a school after her.

Why Blog?

I can't speak for anyone else, but my reason for this blog is to write. Aside from a small group of writers in Charleston, South Carolina, with whom I spent 10 Wednesday evenings a year for seven and half years, I can't imagine why anyone would want to read this. But I need to write it.

So here is what it comes down to for me. While in Charleston, I could quite legitimately say that my ex wife had created a financial situation that was both crippling and insurmountable. In order to provide better for my kids I had to move back to Niagara Falls, Ontario and at the age of forty move us in with my parents. I have great parents. I know you rarely hear that, but it is true. Anyway, back to my original point: now that I have the support that I have been saying that I needed, will I actually knuckle down and do the things I told everyone that I could do once I had this support.

And let me say that the kids and I are super busy getting settled in, but in quiet moments I find I have the time to feel both the joy of having come home and the loss of so many good friends in the South.