I drove to Chicago’s Lakeview neighborhood to purchase a book from a local merchant. I didn’t know which book, only that it was authored by Augusten Burroughs, who would be signing copies the following week. After buying the book, plus another on impulse, I walked Broadway Street in search of a restaurant.

I wasn’t all that hungry, but wanted somewhere to go and be. I chose a breakfast joint mostly because it was the only restaurant among many that was yet open. I ordered an egg skillet dish—which I never do and didn’t want—and an iced tea. I didn’t want the tea either. I wanted coffee. But for some reason, I didn’t order it. So, I sat uncomfortably with my decisions and decided the novelty wouldn’t harm me. I could go beyond my comfort zone, eat scrambled eggs instead of fried ones, and drink tea instead of coffee. The eggs were still eggs, and the tea still had caffeine. What’s the difference?

Always curious to know whose company I’m in, I looked around the room and studied the patrons. I noticed what appeared to be a father with his adult daughter, a young couple with what I presumed was their child. I saw two women sitting in a booth across from each other, and ahead was an older man alone at a table along our shared, wood-paneled half-wall. I watched a couple of men, sixty or so, eating at a table in the center of the room. They were gay.

How did I know they were gay? Subtle interactions informed me they were “together.” Through life experience and observation, I’ve learned to assess with success the difference between couples and friends.

You see, I am a highly social person and often interact with strangers, extending friendliness without prompting. Back in my twenties, I noticed this quirk of mine was often misconstrued as flirting when directed at a woman in the company of her boyfriend. His unease and jealousy would begin to bubble, sometimes boiling over into a rift—something I’d notice looking back after I left.

Eventually, I learned to hone my situational awareness by engaging the men first to determine whether they were friends or lovers. I don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable. Over time, I became adept at reading body language and the associated subtleties, revealing differences between couples and acquaintances.

As I watched the men in the restaurant, I thought about how most might not infer their sexuality. I was surprised the first time I realized that gay men weren’t always flamboyant scene-stealers but often people who behave as typically as heterosexual men, save for their predisposition for same-gender intimacy—that being the only difference.

This understanding presented itself in the early 90s while directing a photo shoot at a studio in downtown Cleveland. Upon the day’s conclusion, a couple of photographers invited me next door for a cocktail at a bar adjacent. Upon entry, I immediately assessed that all the patrons were men. There was a strange tension in the room. I consciously felt out of place.

I asked one of the photographers, “What’s up with this place?”

“I’m not sure what you mean,” he said.

“I don’t know; it seems eerily quiet in here. Almost sad.”

He said he didn’t know, but informed me it was a gay bar. I scanned the room again. It didn’t look like any gay bar I had been to. The gay bars I had experienced in my twenties were filled with other 20- to 30-year-olds, men and women, straight and gay, thumping music, swirling lights, color, and cacophony. At five o’clock on a weekday, this place was filled with unassuming, gray-toned men, twenty to thirty years my senior. These men were uncles, familiar faces at the supermarket, a neighbor on the block. They weren’t “Queens.” They were modest men, perhaps hiding away as if banished to a secret island. They were just like anyone else. I felt hollow and ashamed of my shallow understanding—not recognizing the difference.

I continued watching the men in the middle of the room eating their meals in a breakfast joint on Broadway. I wondered how long they had been together. I wondered why our country is so divided by the equals symbol added as the official logo for The Human Rights Campaign.

I wondered why we are debating the rights of same-sex couples and their right to marry. What’s the difference? Seriously, what difference could it make? How could the marriage of two people who happen to be of the same gender possibly negatively affect another’s livelihood or ability to function without undue stress? Don’t tell me anything about the Bible regarding this, or I’ll behave as hypocritically as you and kick you right in the shins.

I glanced back at the men and noticed another gray-haired man had approached the table. He seemed to know the man whose back was to me. They began to converse. The newcomer stood the entire time. The man who knew him never introduced the standing man to his partner. The partner — the man whose face I could see— never introduced himself to the standing man. I’m not sure why.

This went on for 15 minutes. The man seated facing me began fussing with his iPhone. The other two men engaged without end. I felt empathy for the man left out. I also felt he might have asserted himself more for his own sake. Eventually, he rose without a word.

Jealous was he, I guessed. But civil enough was he not to make a scene. He left the restaurant, crossed the street, and entered a black Mustang. I thought he was too old for a sporty Mustang, but who am I to judge? I wondered whether he would wait for his partner or leave.

Of course, he waited. This is the man he loves, perhaps, forever. Eventually, the man who ignored his partner in favor of the newcomer paid the bill, exited, and walked to the passenger door of the black Mustang. He opened the door and fell in beside the other. Maybe they argued. Maybe they didn’t. Maybe they recognize each other’s needs and understand the difference between their personalities.

Perhaps their relationship is like yours, or any with challenges and complexities. It sure looked that way to me. Maybe I see things differently.

1. I have never seen The Rocky Horror Picture Show.

No desire.

Friends would urge, “Oh, you’d love it, Eric. Everyone dresses up like the film’s characters. They even throw rice at the movie screen during the wedding scene.”

You don’t say?

If I want to join a cult, I want it to be somewhere tropical, like Jonestown, where we can sip refreshing Kool-Aid. Or maybe a cult offering a free pair of Nikes, an all-inclusive trip to outer space, and eventually my salvation. Again, cocktails included. But to sit among a bunch of wannabe thespians at midnight, where I most certainly would have to buy my own beverage from a pimply-faced teenager? Pass.

The only midnight movie I recall with fondness is when my friend and I went to a midnight showing of whatever was showing. We sat next to two unknown high school girls and spent the entire movie making out.

Damn if that stranger-girl from another school didn’t give me a hickey. And I already had a steady girlfriend from my high school, and the next day was Valentine’s Day, and I had to somehow back out of our planned date.

I guess I can’t say that I’ve never gotten a hickey. But rest assured, I never got another—not just because it created a dilemma that required the highest level of sensitivity and creativity to slither my way out of a volatile situation. No. It’s because a hickey is ridiculey. What’s the point —unless you’re a vampire—in sucking another’s neck to draw blood?

2. I have never denied that I have licked another’s eyeball.

More than a few times. Don’t judge. It’s awesome.1

3. I have never typed “lol” in any message whatsoever to express laughter.

I recall a time in the early 90s when AOL chat rooms were all the rage. I was comfortably chatting with an unknown, unseen woman. She typed the “lol” a few times, and I had no idea what it meant. So, I asked, and she told me, laughing out loud. I wrote something to the effect of Interesting, because I always saw it as symbolic.

I explained that lol looked to me like a glyph of a football referee signaling a touchdown.

From that point on, anything she or I wrote that the other found funny, we’d type touchdown, or TD. We played it up. It got to where an extra point would be awarded if something were slightly funnier than usual. If it was hilarious—like today’s LMAO — I’d type 2-point conversion. We altered the internet vernacular, expressing laughter exclusively in football terms. It was a blast. AOL was a blast—until it metastasized and became an untenable cesspool rife with debauchery and predation.2

After much fun and worthy conversation, my internet friend asked me why I was in the chat room named BBSW.

I wrote, I don’t know. What is BBSW?

She wrote back. It stands for Big Beautiful Single Women

Oh, I didn’t know that, I responded. Well, I guess I just like smart, humorous, engaging people… fatso.

She typed Safety! Then, she indicated she would punt back to me and that we were going into overtime. We chatted for another two hours.

4. I have never jumped out of an airplane.

I once wanted to. But now that we are not permitted to free-fall unless accompanied by some stranger riding on our back, I have lost all interest.

5. I have never had a hamburger with bacon on it.

I hope I don’t need to explain how dumb that is. I mean, pig and cow on the same sandwich?

6. I have never gotten a tattoo.

I don’t get it.

I don’t mind when other people get them. I especially liked the inked eagles on the prominent biceps of men from my youth. I also think that a well-executed “sleeve” has artistic merit. It’s just not for me. I’d be afraid I’d regret it. I know many young women who got their “tramp stamps” will—when they gain some pounds and begin to wrinkle.

Can you imagine all the Gramma Britneys at the pool with their grandkids having to explain that, “No, I’m not Chinese,” and, “Did you know that swimming pools used to have diving boards when your great-grandfather was a child?”

“Nana, what? Whose driving bored?”

“Never mind.”

If I had to get a tattoo, I might get a question mark signifying my inability to decide on a design. Perhaps when I’m seventy, if I last that long, I’ll get a bunch of question marks tattooed all over my body as if I were the Riddler. The guy at the morgue would be puzzled for sure.

7. I have never purchased a Madonna album.

It’s not that I don’t like Madonna. I always thought she was a relevant, talented pop star. I just never really needed to hear her on purpose. In a dance club, on the radio, sure. But to buy a whole collection was never something I considered.

My favorite Madonna song is Vogue. And I’ve downloaded it to listen to when I choose. For me, it is the quintessential house song of my generation. It is lyrically uplifting. She sings, “Beauty’s where you find it. Not just where you bump and grind it.” Vogue is an exemplar of musically complex feel-good-grooveyness.

It draws one instantly: its ethereal synth pitch paves the way for the layering of synthetic finger snaps, lazy bongo beats, and a patient, expectant baseline, foreshadowing the ultimate whirlwind of dance rhythms that culminate in a textural bombast of satisfying harmonics.

It’s sexy, but more so, hopeful, and boundless. It builds and delights without bore all the way to its final vocal echo.

I recollect Vogue at its peak. I was single for the first time in a long time— living alone in Akron, Ohio. In Akron’s downtown sector stood a colossal club called the Innerbelt. It was known as a gay bar, but because the city had a shortage of good dance clubs, it was also the venue for any straight person intent on pounding their feet into a floor, driven by the call of the beat.

I used to frequent The Innerbelt on weekends. It was a social cathedral. I was in my twenties, and this twenty-something was social–worshipping at the dancefloor altar.

I also reveled beating the butch lesbians at the billiard tables. They hated this; I could tell. I’m not sure if it was because they get pouty being schooled at pool, or because they couldn’t fathom that I might have been gay and found it an assault to their manhood.

One sweltering summer night, I found myself at the Innerbelt and noticed a striking blonde tearing it up center stage to Vogue. It wasn’t just that she was physically attractive. She was indeed a superior dancer. It didn’t hurt that a spotlight drenched her six-foot leanness as she buoyed rhythmically—her statuesque frame framed in a white pantsuit with bell bottoms as wide as her hips. I was smitten.

I waited for her to exit the dance platform and watched her saunter much like a runway model to the bar. I followed a few minutes later to let her catch her breath. I took my own deep breath, calmly walked toward her beacon, and started a conversation. After about ten minutes, she must have inferred my interest in her was beyond chit-chat. She looked me straight in the eyes and said,

“I’m a woman.”

“I know.”

She pushed back, “No, I’m… a woman!”

Confused, I said, “Yeah, I know, what’s your problem?”

Then she blushed, grabbed my wrist, leaned in with an embarrassed smile, and explained red-faced,

“Oh my God, I am so sorry. I thought you were gay and thought that you thought that I was a transvestite.”3

8. I have never had anyone sign my cast.

My only bone broken was the second toe of my left foot. Sustained after jumping off a nightclub stage. The doctor said that, due to where and at what angle the break was, fitting me with a cast was not an option. He told me to put as much pressure as my pain threshold could handle, and that would help fuse it back together naturally.

I flew to Palm Springs the following day with my brother to visit my other brother. I was gimpy and in pain, but I spent the week snorting cocaine, playing sand volleyball during the day, and dancing to 80s music at night, just doing what the doctor ordered. It healed up perfectly.

9. I have never donated money to a church.

My church exists on the paths I trek and the mountains I climb — literally and figuratively. And it never asks me to tithe. It is welcoming to all. It gives and judges not. It brings me to tears. It invigorates my soul. It is my guide. My debt is to praise its existence and to respect it as it does me without effort. Perhaps John Muir is my prophet.

10. I have never said “never” as a single-word response.

I never have. Not ever.

Jake is oblivious and lively. His nose buried in the tree lawn—content to inspect every blade of grass. Imagined, behind this façade, an elderly woman, planted in a wooden chair, reflects. A bending creak screams as she labors a shift. Her time-worn limbs too tired and brittle to even consider descending six stone steps to offer water for her best-laid plans.

Thank you, dear readers, of Line by Line, as always. I feel the need to apologize even though there is no contract. I intend to publish weekly. Though it has only been nine days since my last, it feels longer. I have several essays in mid-production. Why I’ve chosen not to dedicate myself to shoring up one after another wasn’t clear until I ran into a colleague of mine at Wegman’s yesterday. I told her of my dilemma, and she reminded me of her diagnosis—that I am neurodivergent. I agreed without knowing what it meant. I refuse to look it up because it sounds like a negative, so I’m just going to tell myself it means I have a multiplicity of interests.

I have been commissioned to create a painting. I’ve begun repainting my deck, which is the length of a typical privately owned motor yacht. Multiple beds on the property require weeding. Fallen trees and branches need to be tended to. A trip abroad is upcoming. I’m an incessant clean freak. This list is endless. I’m devoted to all. Oh, and the hummingbirds have returned.

A few months ago, I painstakingly sifted through all the correspondence, photos, and memories saved from all the people I’ve loved, and organized them by person, each having its own labeled file folder. All of them hanging in a file cabinet: family, friends, acquaintances, girlfriends. All of them.

The handwritten letter:

August 6, 2008

Dear Dot,

I am gazing at a photograph. You are its subject. I am trying to locate some truth. Something. Anything. It is a striking image. It is a classic bust motif. It is stark, graphic. It almost looks like a sepia print. I know it is not, however. Time has faded the color, creating that effect.

While the overall tone is golden brown, your lips remain distinctly pink—however pale. Your shoulders are askew to the camera, filling an unassuming, quite humble-looking crewneck sweater. The sweater is so plain and drab, it must have been comfortable and worn often as evidenced by the uprooted threads running its entire silhouette.

If there is a Mihalyfi1 trait that I might claim in viewing your portrait, it is that we share a square jawline leading to elevated cheekbones. I mostly forget what my mother looked like, but I recall the severe eyebrows you and she, even Pearl all share. Perhaps subconsciously, this is why I initially fell for Karen, as she is clearly defined—in my eyes—by this drawing attribute.

I wonder who is the author of this photograph. I wonder where it was that you stood at its recording. The background is but an uninterrupted white expanse. Is it an unadorned wall in an unfurnished starter apartment? I can’t be sure of your age, but I suspect you may have been 20 or so, as you have barely a wrinkle lining your face. No matter—I shall always “see” twenty-year-olds then as full adults, and twenty-year-olds now, as children. Alas, I am soon to become twice the age of twenty-two.

What makes this photograph so extraordinary is the same reason Leonardo’s Mona Lisa has been found as such. I can’t quite tell if you are smiling or not. While your lips are parted, and I can see a glimpse of an upper row of teeth, your mouth corners are not quite tilted upward. Nor are you frowning. When I behold your eyes, they tell the same non-telling story. They appear not sad. Neither do they portray obvious joy. I might say you were caught in a moment of complete contentedness, if not complacent indifference. It is puzzling. Also, it is gripping in the subtlest way. It is an image for the ages.

What is clear is the depth of your brilliant soul. What’s most peculiar about your eyes is that they appear independent in their respective viewpoints. Just barely, they seem not to be looking in the same direction. While your right eye seems slightly uncentered, it is definitely targeting the camera’s lens. Conversely, your left eye is certainly centered but appears to be focused somewhere else. Not above, below, left, or right of the camera, but definitely not into the lens. It’s as if it is focused on a point a foot or so—if not a mile—beyond it. I’ve noticed my niece Hannah has acquired this same appearance. This trait truly makes her stunning. If she shares any other trait with you besides this one of physicality, I shall consider her blessed.

I love Hannah dearly. She is kind, considerate, and conscientious. She is not boastful but competitive and encouraging. She is not outwardly envious of her brother’s attention-grabbing star power. She is responsible and smartly responsive. Have I said that I love her dearly?2

Have I said that I love you dearly? I do. Whether aware or not, you have played an important role in my development. I thank you. You are forever in my heart. I am rushed with tears now imagining I might not share with you again the same space on earth. But I am also comforted knowing without doubt, we will once again share the same knot.

Perhaps the knot that anchors the fine, black ribbon and the bow around the equator of the sweet, simple hat that frames your melancholy face in this photograph that lay beside this paper as I write.3

The photograph that looks like a photobooth frame that I know isn’t because it is much larger and it is horizontal.

The photograph with the white paper exposing cracks in the corners. The one with the rip snaking inward from its right edge.

The photo with the scotch tape adhered to the lower left corner, angled oppositely to the tilt of your head, where the tape extends beyond the print itself. The tape that no longer holds adhesive, as it has collected so much dust and surface debris that it is no longer serviceable, other than as an accent reminder. A reminder that this image has been attached for viewing—not lain or disregarded.

The photograph with the three pinholes running horizontally above your head in the margin.

The photograph that also—I just noticed—has two almost healed pinholes in its upper right corner. And one more in the upper left. The lower left a hole as well. It is possible, and probable there once existed a pinhole at the bottom right corner that has since become a notch.

This striking photograph that I am gazing at has been displayed numerous times in numerous places.

And this image has never been lost­ (completely) since the day it arrived from COLORFAX LABORATORIES, INC. 1160 Bonifant Street, Silver Springs, Maryland.

Eric

As I re-read this letter before mailing, I held the photograph toward me to examine it once again. I noticed in certain light at a certain angle that I must have carelessly written notes about this year’s container garden atop the photograph as I composed this letter, as there is evidence of those notes embedded as downward embossing across the gloss.

The words I can decipher are: Flower? Needs little soil and Silvery green dreadlocks.

Perhaps I have located some truth.

1

I am now recollecting the West Coast trip referenced in my previous post, Dear Aunt Dorothy. Before our drive to San Francisco, we spent time in the Los Angeles area. We stayed a couple of nights in Marina Del Rey. My uncle Ernie entertained us with endless stories on our hotel room’s balcony. The sole job for teenage me was to bring him 16-oz tall boy cans of beer, one after another. The only thing I recall him saying verbatim was when he was on the phone, spelling his name to whoever was on the other end.

“Mihalyfi— “M, I, H as in hell, A, L, Y, F as in fart, I.

2

I’m not sure how old Hannah is here, but I’m happy someone taught her the importance of recognition through handwritten messages, envelopes, and stamps. Perhaps she, too, has saved and plans to share her history. I hope so. I also hope that Karen might, from this day forward, be willing, as a couple, be referred to as Ulce Erse and Ant Karet.

3

I wrote it all in pen. By page two, I needed another pen. By page three, I learned the function of paragraphs?

The following is our first piece of correspondence. I wrote it when I was 16. My aunt returned it to me 30 years later, not wanting to risk it being lost late in life. I was impressed that she kept it and maintained its guardianship.

While the fussy part of my brain wants to edit it, I, of course, can not. It is rife with misspellings and grammatical nightmares, but, as they say (not me), it is what it is. I thought about at least inserting commas where appropriate, then ditched that idea for the sake of authenticity. Readers, I am confident, will know where to pause. The message is what’s important.

I was pleasantly surprised that I correctly wrote “a lot” as an adolescent, knowing plenty of adults to this day who write it as “alot.” Bravo, Eric. But you couldn’t correctly spell Steely Dan and Tarkus when all you had to do was look at their album covers?

The best part is that the entire letter was written with a calligraphy pen and ink.

I suppose I found this 5 x 8 stationery in my father’s home office. Perhaps F. D. Robinson was a client of his. Imprinted at the page’s bottom edge is Diebold Incorporated, Canton, Ohio. Historically, Diebold is best known as a security company. At the time this letter was written, my father was a steel broker. Likely, my father supplied Diebold with material to build their safes. Interestingly, it turns out that 10 years later, I worked for an advertising firm that had Diebold as a client.

And now, the letter:

Dear Aunt Dot,

It sure took me a long time to write but you gave me such a good feeling when you were here, and when you left, I guess the feeling wore off, and I wasn’t sure what kind of letter to write you— so I guess I should write whatever I feel.

Well I would like to get to know you better next time we come in contact whether by voice, pen, or appearance most preferably. You see your easy to talk to. I never feel uncomfortable around you. You stood out in my vacation and yours of course.

Well I’m doing pretty good right now. And busy with school, friends and family trying my best to try and make each better. I just can’t seem to fulfill my private life with all this going on, but I enjoy myself a lot, thinking, drawing or whatever.

Right now I’m alone it’s around 1:00 A.M. on the 29^th of March, listening to music [Steeley Dan in case you’re interested] and thinking about you.

Tonight my Dad left for a week holiday in JAMAICA with his new girlfriend, whom I love very much in a similar way that I love you in fact. She’s 26 or 7 she has brown hair and eyes and dark skin. She’s a Hungarian which guess brings up the fact that she’s crazy and a lot of fun.

I can also talk to her easy. She’s around on weekends. She’s in love with my Dad as he is in her so they’re happy which is great for my Dad and it makes me feel better.

Dad’s a great guy as you probably know he gives me a lot of freedom. He’s understanding which is unheard of between a 16 yr. old. But I guess I’m just lucky to have him for a father. Yep, the no.1 Dad/Father.

I guess throughout the letter I will move backwards in time to some extent.

Kent came home from Germany in Feb. and I was astonished but sort of expectant of how well we got along we are very close brothers we like a lot of the same things and we get along great I can’t begin to tell what a great brother he is to me. We to not even be able to talk to each other but I guess we’ve both grown up and found the friendship that was waiting 15 yrs. to come.

As for Matt it seems I’m fading away from him but I won’t say why because I like to keep my comments nice. I guess I just got to know how to handle his LEO attitude when I probably won’t figure out till I’m dead.1 It’s mostly just constant, stupid skirmishes of arguing but otherwise we get along pretty well. So that’s the family.

This year I recieved skis from my dad for Christmas and did a lot of skiing and envy your trip to France. Kent was in Austria and said that he and I would go there after he’s out of the army and learns to ski in Washington State where he’s serving now. If at all possible I would like to go out to France with you in a couple of years or at least visit with you in San Francisco.

Earlier this year I went to the zoo with my art class and was enhanced by the size of the bears and right at that moment I suddenly appreciated your camping experience with your bear friend a little more

I still have my dog —Spitz which I wish I could change the name to Taurkus. I’m sure he misses you as much as I do.

Thank you for the knife2 everyone in the house uses it for something you were right it’s just a convienant thing to have around

Boy all that was easy now I’m drawing blanks…

Take care and I wish you all the luck in Psychology and all my love—

THANK YOU

Love Eric

1

It looks like I drew a cross inside a circle to represent death. Weird, but also hilarious (ish).

I left in the dark at 3:45 am to arrive at Akron-Canton Airport by 4:30 for a 5:30 flight. I was last to board the shuttle from the economy parking lot, so I was first to exit and first in line at the ticketing counter.

They literally moved the roped stanchions and opened their business for me, their first customer. I paid twenty-five dollars to have my bag checked. I wish everyone had. Instead, it was chaos. Passengers lifting and shoving, struggling to cram their week’s needs into the sphincter-tight overhead compartments — their crotches the only view of the seated passengers.

The airlines are bleeding money. They could mitigate these losses by charging not only twenty-five dollars per checked bag but also thirty-five dollars for all those with carry-ons that don’t fit under the seats in front of them.

I’m so impatient. So judgmental. Wait, how does one manage their anger?

I Have a Window Seat

Ten minutes into our flight, I see below us, lit by a full moon, the wide, lazy Ohio River, with Cincinnati glowing off in the distance to the west. For all its inconveniences, air travel is still exceptionally expedient, considering the hours I’d have logged had I driven to Atlanta versus the hour and a half it took to reach this first stopover. I’m beginning to see more clearly now the error in silently complaining.

Once in Atlanta, I searched for the gate that would lead me to my next transport into The Sunshine State. On my way, I spy a “Heineken Bar & Grill.” This is good news. I had been in one at Denver International years earlier. It had overstuffed couches where one could eat and drink and, best of all, smoke legally! With giddiness and surprise, I found that Georgia is also not a non-smoking state. Bless their rebel hearts.

I walked up the stairs, surprised it wasn’t down, to a damp and dank dungeon, to fire up my small offering to the Gods of Winston-Salem. I did not order a Heineken. It was 7:30 in the morning. Who the hell imbibes before noon?

I ordered a bagel with cream cheese and a cup of black coffee. It’s always black. Not because I prefer it that way. It’s just that I don’t know what coffee tastes like with cream or sugar. I am too high-strung and too impatient to be bothered by the routines of fumbling and unpeeling creamers, then repeatedly ripping tiny, pastel colored paper sacks of sweetened granules. All that debris. All that busy work. By the time one is finished wrestling with all the additives, they’d be wide awake, I think.

I thought about when I waited tables for a year back in the early nineties. I had a customer order a cup of coffee. When I brought her a filled cup and a couple of creamers, she said she needed more.

“How many more?,” I asked.

“Three.”

Would she prefer I bring her a cup of cream and top it off with a splash of hot coffee? I wanted to ask. But I didn’t because people don’t appreciate smart-ass servers.

She caught my attention while taking another table’s order. When I approached, she told me her coffee was cold.

“Well, when you put a bunch of cold liquid into a cup of hot liquid, that’s what happens,” I said in the least smart-alecky way I could.

Breaking Bread

I forced myself to break the bagel in half. Then again, into quarters just as my mother’s older sister, Aunt Joanne, had taught me when I was a young teen. We were eating dinner at a restaurant. I grabbed a dinner roll, sliced it in half, and buttered both sides.

“No, no, honey,” she reprimanded. “Let me show you something.” The process: first, you always put the butter on your plate. Don’t butter your bread directly from the knife, directly from the butter dish. Then you break the bread in half with your hands, then break one half in half. Then you butter that quarter and eat it. Then you butter the other quarter, eat, and break the remaining half, et al.

This act may seem trivial and truly unnecessary. But I liked its civility and grace straight off and have been practicing this lesson since. I have also passed this routine along to my niece and my nephew.

Eyes Wide Shut

After sipping coffee, pushing the unwanted creamers around the table the server had brought me, unaware I didn’t need them, I performed the idiosyncratic tasks of breaking and spreading, breaking and spreading. And it was work. Because I was so fucking hungry.

All I wanted to do was mash the cream cheese onto the bagel straight from its soft foil wrapper and shove the whole boiled bread, doughnut imposter, into my impatient mouth. But I didn’t. Good thing too. When I looked up from my newspaper after filing the first quarter between my not-too-gaping lips, I saw an attractive, 30-something blonde woman staring at me.

Did she think I was attractive? Did she think I was just curiously fastidious? Or was she not even looking at me, but over my shoulder at the planes outside the window behind me? I couldn’t be sure. I was only sure that she wasn’t staring in my direction because I was behaving like a caveman.

Good, I thought. I kept stealing glances, as did she. I was certain we were attracted to each other, if only having company in a shared vice. Believe me, we smokers are so self-conscious of our filthy habit that when we spot a comrade, we are relieved and comforted somehow that we are not alone in this disease. In our fantasies, we imagine ourselves smoking together without complaint. We aren’t disgusted by kissing.

At some point, I decided to lessen the pace of stolen glances. I wanted to be less obvious—coy. So I buried myself in an article about how there is a large contingent of “American Idol” viewers who think front-runner and native Ohioan, Crystal Bowersox’s dreadlocks are a distraction.

How silly and judgmental I thought. Crystal has a gorgeous voice and beams with confidence and personality. She is a natural beauty and a natural talent. My distant attraction to Crystal reminded me of my distant attraction to my unknown, smoking blonde, so I lifted my head in hopes of meeting her eyes.

She was gone.

I never saw her stand and exit. I was temporarily crushed. I scanned the room to see if she had moved to ask a server a question. I was hoping she was still in the vicinity. No. She was gone. And I missed it. I so wanted to watch her stand at least and depart. I felt a connection with her. It was fleeting and irrational. Still, I felt in good company while her presence was present. At once, I felt calm and now alone.

I finished my coffee and bagel without joy, paid my tab, tipping 100% in hopes of bringing a little joy to another, and departed. I never thought about my stranger again until now, but I will always wonder why she existed in that time and space.

That’s just how I see things.

In the middle

Bound then for West Palm, I was relegated to the middle seat. It was dreadful. But I kept myself busy by massaging my own hands as overhead bin jockeys fussed with their square peg-round hole puzzles. I decided not to read the newspaper anymore. I had long ago given up trying to turn a newspaper signature without smacking my seat neighbors in their cheeks, while unsuccessfully attempting to hush the sounds of newsprint with a false cough. I suddenly fantasized about owning an iPad.

I sat to the left of a middle-aged man and to the right of a college co-ed, trying my best not to make physical contact with either of them as we settled into our seats with shared armrests. It left me with the desire to make incidental contact with the female rather than the male if I had a choice. It played out exactly opposite.

If I made incidental contact with the man, he might see it as a natural side-effect given the circumstances. Men are larger, therefore more inclined to bump elbows. And nothing would be construed. But if I had brushed against the woman, it might be uncomfortable for her, given our opposite genders. So rather than leaning in toward the woman, which would have been favorable, I leaned more toward the man so as not to invade her space.

How perplexing and downright neurotic.

When turbulence struck the aircraft and pushed me into the woman, I alertly asked if she was okay. She smiled and assured me she was and asked if I was.

When turbulence occurred and caused the man and me to come into contact, nothing was said. No one cared. I would rather have lain upon the young woman’s lap and taken a nap than accidentally brush limbs with the hairy-armed man to my right. But I didn’t. I leaned away from her toward a less satisfying alternative. Why? Etiquette. That’s my bread and butter.

I’ve got baggage

Just before alighting in West Palm, we descended and traversed over a narrow stretch of land separated by a narrow stretch of waterway and the mainland. I rather liked this topographic feature. It reminded me of my own oft-explored topography: the Cuyahoga River/Towpath/Erie Canal.

With all the chaos that ensues regarding carry-on luggage and the inevitable backtracking of passengers that were previously forced to stow their concealed extras in a row whose number is greater than their assigned seating row, I must admit air travelers have down pat the etiquette of filing out row by row—in order—without the least bit of incident.

I make my way, striding extra longish toward baggage claim. I make my way in a focused manner—dodging and judging the speed of other travelers—toward a point where I can smoke. I puff while the rest of my fellow passengers stand stupidly waiting too long for the audible honk and spinning red light announcing the spin of a carousel.

I say stupid, but I mean something else. I can’t think of the word. My point: Even if one didn’t smoke, wouldn’t one at least rather take a breath of fresh tropical air before checking to see if their bags have arrived when they know for certain they haven’t?

Yet.

Shit, I’ve got issues. Why should I care about the rest of us?

I met the balm and treated my addiction. I walked back inside just as the luggage circus began its dance. And I got to pick up my bag immediately. It was second in line. And that was pleasing, but I come with baggage. Literally and otherwise.

I grabbed my bag — smaller than any I saw in the overheads — and dragged it toward the curb outside, where I hoped to see my Aunt Dorothy. We had agreed to meet at a predetermined spot. Somehow, because she doesn’t own a cell phone, we trust the month-old plan that has her meeting me outside baggage claim exactly here. The way it was done in years past. And it is just as effective now.

Before my intended arrival, I gave my aunt the airline’s name and arrival time. She tells me, “Okay, I will drive up 15 minutes after your expected arrival and circle until I see you. I have a white Buick. But so does everyone in Florida.”

As I walked out the sliding glass doors outside baggage claim, I saw a white car just about to re-enter the loop. It’s her. She calls out the downed passenger window in a backward motion, “Eric?” She hasn’t seen me in 10 years or so.

“Yes!”

“Backseat,” she directs. This is so I don’t wait and assume the trunk will open. I open the back door and place my single piece of luggage on the back seat. I slide into the front seat beside the most intelligent and thought-provoking person I’ve ever met.

“I was just about to leave,” she said.

“I know.”

We pull from the curb. She tells me this was her first go-round, meaning she didn’t have to circle again. Or once, rather. I am pleased. Again. But not surprised. My aunt and I are tightly connected. And connected time and again.

Us

Dot and I have always comfortably shared open lines of communication. Sometimes, without ever saying a word. One might say we are curiously connected. We never question it. We embrace its existence. We sometimes confirm it via word adaptations, but mostly it exists in comfortable silence.

We arrived at her 55-and-over condominium complex an hour later. It was just barely noon. We sat in the sun drinking too much wine, and drinking in too much sun. We drank each other’s words and overcooked the roast.

The morning brought us hangovers. Hers more pronounced than mine. She is 70 and has a low red blood count, whatever that means.

I was sorry about that.

We swore off such binges for the remainder of the week.

We succeeded.

We bonded.

We.

As always, dear people, thank you for reading and taking the time to join me, allowing me to share my thoughts. I am grateful.

After prepping this for publication here, I recollected something else from this trip. It’s not pertinent to the overall arc, but I’d like to share it because it’s one of those magical moments that I'm so fond of

After exiting the shuttle at Akron-Canton airport, I walked to the entrance, rolling my suitcase with one hand while holding an open umbrella in the other. Once under the overhang, I closed and cinched the umbrella. I leaned it against the facade beside the entrance doors. I assumed that TSA wouldn’t permit me to travel with it—that it might be seen as a potential weapon. I certainly wouldn’t need it in Boca Raton.

When I returned to Akron-Canton Airport a week later, it was still standing where I left it. I smiled, silently thanking human decency. The little things that warm our hearts.

I didn’t smile because my brother had died; I smiled because I didn’t plan to begin this process on the anniversary of his death. I was unaware of the date, which confirms our bond. He, from beyond, I believe, or want to believe, chose that date for me to begin.

I remember contemplating what literary offering I should begin with. I settled on poetry as April was National Poetry Month.

I’ve shared 44 Substacks since. That’s eight short of my goal, as I intended to publish at least once a week. Tonight, in honor of Poetry Month, I will share another. It’s what’s called a Persona Poem.

A persona poem is a type of poetry where the poet adopts the voice of a character or entity distinct from their own identity.

In this case, I have chosen to embody a well-known fictional character. Throughout this short missive, I offer clues to the character without being too obvious. Though I think it’s clear to the reader if they're open-minded.

Regardless of how easy or difficult it is to decipher the code, I will reveal the subject at the end and possibly add explanatory Cliff Notes. Ready?

Half a century after our journey began, we sat in the chairs I built, in the log-by-log home I built. Each of us together bonding, one per side at the square table I built, inlaid with gemstones from the shoes dismantled: the cause of war.

What we shared was the same. But theirs were different from mine. Theirs would one day fail to ignite. Extinguished fires no longer able to see or follow any color whatever, ever. While I would step forever without them, the reason to have one to begin with.

No end beckons me nor my sorrow. Sometimes I rattle and think to take myself to the edge of the forest, unscrewing everything—an offer to any inclined to put a roof over their head.

Alas, I have not the courage, and I leak a little having written that word, missing my friend, gone first, in Summerlove—followed soon by a Gale force just days before the Luna conquest.

This day, I long alone—dull.

Shiny between my thumb and forefinger is a silver circle. It’s eye I thread with vine, and walk it to daylight, draping it on a branch of dogwood.

Near its trunk, I lay straw—a gift —for birds to fashion their resting places.

I hold back a hunk for me to line a basket. Nestled atop—a pair of bows in repose. One, the color of chicory, the other crimson, like the useless timepiece I received but did not marvel at, and no longer works, while I go on forever mourning my friends.

Aloud, I ache as memories echo across millennia.

Sometimes I catch a glint of gold from the path, mostly swallowed whole by papery flowers easily bent by the gentlest breeze.

I live every day reliving my favorite day when we were the wonder of the whirled, trimmed, clipped, brushed, and buffed.

A one hundred and sixty-four-year-old endling, I am.

The last one, my favorite, left me a decade after the universe heard the wave from America declaring three times the truth: I never got anything that I didn’t, didn’t already have.

What I have is broken.

Did you identify the persona?

Were there enough clues?

Do you want to read it again before I reveal the puzzle?

I’m just writing a bunch of words to make it so that when I show you the answer visually, it’s not a spoiler before you’re ready and want to test your instincts to see if you got it.

I’m writing more nonsense to disguise the answer. I hope this is enough space before the reveal.

It’s probably not, but who cares? It’s time for me to go to bed. Lots to do tomorrow. Thank you for your engagement.

Love, Eric

Okay, I think I’ve created enough textual space between the poem and the persona. So here it is.

My brain hurt like a warehouse; it had no room to spare / I had to cram so many things to store everything in there — David Bowie, “Five Years”

The remarks I delivered from the lectern, beneath the altar, at Matthew’s funeral five years ago:

I met Matt when I was 2.

Two days old. I don’t remember it. But Matt told me about it. He told me a lot of things over the years—too many to list here. Still, I want to give you a glimpse of the bond between us. A bond unbroken. A lifetime of intertwined threads that made us a pair. Brotherhood. Friendship. Us. Magic.

I wrote a poem for Matt some twenty years ago. Don’t worry; I’m not going to bore you by reading it here. It doesn’t even rhyme. And who wants a poem that doesn’t rhyme, right?

The truth is, it’s a lyrical poem, but everything in it would be lost on you, as it recalls a lifetime of memories between us. I’d have to explain all the references and secret code decipherable only to Matt and me.

But I will read the first and last stanzas today because they are the most essential to understand our bond.

It begins:

It is my very first memory of Matt, and it remains the most indelible.

I was three years old. The threshold of the front door to our townhouse separated us. Matt on the outside. And me, inside.

Our mother said, “Kiss your brother goodbye, Eric.”

We leaned toward one another. Our eyes met, and we pushed our lips together. I remember how soft Matt’s lips were. How noticeably small they were. A little cold too. A crisp morning in early September. The rising sun illuminated his left cheek. It was Matt’s first, first day of school.

I didn’t understand why he was leaving without me, alone. But what I’d come to understand was that this was the moment that forged our bond. This was the moment where it all began

.

Our connection solidified further in the immediate days after our mother died. He had just begun 5th grade, and I was now a second grader. We were practically inseparable.

I recall a couple of years after when he was 12, and I was 9. He told me he was meeting a new friend he’d made, who lived closer to town. It was a few miles’ walk.

Before he departed, I asked,

“Can I come?”

I could see by his body language that that was not his preference. After all, being 12 is wholly different than being 11. The start of adolescence begs for independence.

He paused for a long beat, looked me in the eyes, and said,

“Sure, c’mon.”

I followed him like a duckling up the gravel driveway and the numerous steps it took to get to his friend’s apartment. I knew fully—even then—the social sacrifice he endured by including his little brother. But I felt the love and empathy displayed by his willingness to put that aside to protect me, and not leave me alone in a sad, clapboard house tucked into the woods.

I was grateful he allowed me to tag along. I listened, watched, and followed.

I adored him, and it was enough to be in his presence rather than not. I reminded him of that gesture of love and kindness over time. I let him know that it was no small thing. Perhaps the most critical decision he could have possibly made at that moment. And it sealed our bond forever. Thank you, Matt. Thank you, brother.

Here, at the funeral, I broke from my written script to improvise, discuss various bonds, and scan the congregation, identifying specific attendees and sharing tidbits about them related to Matthew.

The absolute pinnacle of our bond—the point at which it was clear our bond was unbreakable —came by the oddest happenstance.

It was the mid-90s. I woke up to sunshine baking my face through a curtainless window in my Cleveland apartment. It was a Wednesday, and the sky was bluish blue with a few cotton-ball clouds suspended high. I called off work. I didn’t even say that I was sick. I just said that I needed the day.

I drove west to Huntington Beach in Lakewood. I’d only been there once prior. It’s not even that impressive as far as beaches go. It’s small, but it has natural sand instead of rocks like most of Lake Erie’s shores.

I parked and exited my car across from the tiny park that leads to the steps down to the waterline. As I crossed the road, I noticed a man walking directly toward me.

In the exact center of the road, we were eye to eye, smile to smile.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Matt said.

I told him I just decided to take the day off. For no reason, just because.

“Why aren’t you working?,” I asked.

“Same thing. I just decided to take the day off.”

I asked Matt what had brought him to the beach. It was a bit of a drive from his home in Sagamore Hills.

He said he had no idea.

“Well, I don’t need to see the beach,” I told him. “Let’s go do something.”

“Sure, c’mon.”

I don’t remember what we did, but I remember it being a perfect day spent with my brother. I know we talked a lot, as we always did when we were alone together. I remember that we spent a lot of time trying to assess how and why, and what it meant that we landed at the exact coordinates at the exact same time, without planning it.

Two days before Matt died, I was back in New York regrouping from the ICU visits and the collective family heartache. I wandered around the house, unable to focus on anything—lost in the fog. That evening, I had a dream:

Matt and I were throwing stars. They weren’t martial arts throwing stars. No, we were plucking real stars from the night sky and hurling them like the baseballs we did so many times, so many years ago.

One of us said, “Wow, look how far they go.”

All beauty and sensory. Anxiety was non-existent. Was the dream of my creation? Or did Matt send me the dream? Maybe? I don’t know.

I’ve settled on this: I believe Matt invited me to our celestial playground. I believe he was already in transit— partly here, but mostly there, wherever there is. He wanted to paint me a small picture of what might be—when we finally form our ultimate bond.

It ends:

Laura moved to Chicago sometime after we lost touch. We reconnected on Facebook just before I moved there in 2010. In five years, I’ve seen her three times: once for coffee in Evanston, once at her home in Itasca, and once for dinner in the city with her and her husband.

I woke up Saturday to sun and temperatures forecast in the 70s—the first agreeable day this spring. I wanted to ride my bike. I texted Laura to see if she’d be at Busse Woods, a multi-trail bike path intersecting lakes and natural preserves, including a large expanse of free-roaming elk in the aptly named Chicago suburb Elk Grove. I knew she trained there for the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer.

Are you walking Busse today? Was thinking of heading out there.

I am! Meeting my walking partner at seven for one loop. I got horrible blisters last week… We should be doing 17!

How long is a loop?

7.5

I’ll take my bike and look for you.

“Great! We walk counterclockwise from the elk.

It was 6:30 a.m. I still needed to feed and walk Jake and take a shower—not to get clean, but to wake up. There’s something about water hitting your skin that pings adrenaline.

I figured I had time. If I got there by 7:30 and rode counterclockwise from the elk, I’d catch her about halfway through the loop. When I saw who I thought was Laura from behind, I called out, “Ohio guy announcing his passing.” We’ve both complained that people in Illinois don’t warn when they pass on bikes. Rude.

I dismounted and walked with Laura and her friend for about a mile. We talked easily. I told her that Karen had accepted a job out of state and that we’d be leaving Chicago. We said we’d meet again. Laura said we’d probably see more of each other once I was gone. I knew what she meant, though I wasn’t sure it was true.

As we walked, we talked. Inevitably, we talked about the past. It’s what we have. I hope we have a future. Laura is generous, kind, and thoughtful—but not a pushover. Cross her on something that matters. You’ll find out.

About half a mile in, Laura reached for my hand. My left in her right. My other hand on the bike. It caught me off guard. I wasn’t sure why we were holding hands, but I didn’t pull away. I realized how long it had been. How much I’d closed myself off from something that simple. It felt both natural and unfamiliar at once.

At some point, Laura suggested I ride on while she and her friend continued walking. It was a seamless transition.

As I biked, I wondered when I’d last held someone’s hand. Then I remembered pedaling at 13 miles per hour.

It was at a photography exhibit at the Cleveland Print Room, featuring Angelo Merendino, who documented his wife Jennifer’s battle with breast cancer. Laura is a close friend of his. They both began in Akron.

Angelo’s photographs in My Wife’s Fight With Breast Cancer photo documentary are direct and unguarded. Raw too. You won’t look away.

As I studied his extraordinary images, I noticed him across the room, recognizing him from photos online. I wanted to say something but hesitated. He wasn’t just another artist at his own show. He’d lived what he was showing. What could I impart that was meaningful, I wondered.

My friend Arnold, who co-curated the exhibit, must have noticed. He asked if I wanted to meet him. I said yes.

I introduced myself and mentioned Laura. When we shook hands, I put my left hand atop our connected right hands, and he placed his left hand on top of that bundle of hands.

We stood like that and talked for fifteen minutes, maybe more—about his work, his wife, and love. Neither of us let go. It wasn’t awkward. It felt easy and grounded.

At one point, I told him I hoped he would find a way to give that kind of love again—not just for himself, but for someone else fortunate enough to receive it. Then I worried my sentiment might have been too much.

He told me that he and his Jen had talked about that before she died. She encouraged it.

Of course she did.

As I rode through Busse Woods, I thought about that—about Laura reaching for my hand, about standing there with his. How rare it is, and how easy it could be. That life might just be that simple. If it isn’t, it should be.

If it isn’t for you, ask for a hand.

It’s not regret. It’s an analysis.

When you’re 50+ and you’ve never had children, measuring time is not as conveniently linear as it is for those who have.

Having kids helps you mark time. You have photographs, grade changes, ever-changing interests, artwork pinned to a refrigerator that becomes more realistic over time, then possibly replaced by an essay that shines.

Eventually, nothing fronts the fridge, save for reminders; a calendar of sorts, your children’s whereabouts upcoming, and post-it notes for your own self.

What’s not on the front of a fridge to remind you of your child’s age can now be found inside chilling. Perhaps they have graduated toward a vegetarian diet, or choices beyond the palette of popsicles and chocolate milk.

A growing collection of car keys might hang on hooks somewhere.

Soon they’ll be off, leaving you behind, then deciding what to display on their own temperature-controlled appliances. I can’t imagine the gut-check this causes parents who love and adore the beings who rapidly outgrow their cradles. I guess one can hope they don’t advance too quickly and remain so financially dependent that affording a washer-dryer set isn’t in their immediate future, assuring future visits to wash and tumble.

I visited my former employer, Jerome, at his new office in Chagrin Falls at noon last Friday. He has downsized since we last convened. He still services one of the best clients I’ve ever designed for while I worked for him. I was relieved to find this out when I asked if they were still in his portfolio because I know what reliable income they provide.

He treated me to lunch, and we talked as comfortably and openly as we did when I was his employee. I told him that I could talk to him for hours on end. That’s how agreeable his personality is. I hadn’t seen him in close to ten years, but he looks no older to me. If anything, he looks the same or younger.

I told him how it is that we have bosses that are forever remembered for their grace and ability to garner respect, and that there are bosses who are flat-out assholes. He fits the mold of the former, and I’ve been fortunate enough to have experienced a few.

He recently returned from one of his daughter’s weddings in Italy. He seems not—at least on the surface—concerned about her departure from him and his wife. I could be wrong. I’m probably wrong. I’ll bet he wishes she were still at home.

From Chagrin, I visited a dear friend, Kim, whom I met in high school, then dated, hung out with on and off afterwards, and worked alongside years later. I haven’t seen her in close to 20 years. I told her it felt like three years since we last spoke, but I know it’s been much longer. The proof?

“I was so young the last time I saw you that the check I gave you as a wedding gift bounced.”

We laughed.

She, too, appears to me no older than the thirty-year-old I last encountered.

But I can mark the time without doubt after meeting her twins, both soon-to-be high school seniors. Her son, JP, is reserved on the surface, but I’ve seen photos of him and his exquisitely outlandish fashion choices, just like his mother. I commented in reminiscence that Kim, at his age, had such an extensive line of bangles parked on her arms that you could hear her approaching from a thousand feet away.

“She still does,” He pointed.

And she does. I missed it.

Are my observation skills waning, or is my focus redirected?

Kim’s daughter, Claire, is gorgeous. I think she knows it. But I see that she sees this as a bonus and not something to cling to with all her might. She is sassy, sarcastic, smart, and even smarter than that. She behaves with an all-knowing wryness that transcends her physicality. In short, she is in charge, she knows it, and her mother respects it, I can tell.

At some point, Claire began spreading peanut butter on a slice of bread while entertaining us with her dry sense of humor, as if on stage, portraying her best character with confidence rarely seen amongst otherwise awkward teens.

She owned the room. And her mother and I sat enamored watching the very same effect we had upon others when we negotiated that age. Soon, I asked Claire if I could take her picture, selling her on the fact that this might be the first time I’ve ever seen a teenager with something in her hand other than a smartphone. Permission granted.

From Kim’s house, I headed further west to visit my friend Maria. She now has a categorically major hurricane named in her honor. I love that Maria is easy to love.

I met a friend of hers, and we shared a conversation in a pub somewhere on the island of Put-In-Bay. Her friend and his wife had a son named Jake. He was beautiful—both physically and intellectually. He is a newly minted chemical engineer. I told his parents and him that I also had a son named Jake. I asked if they would like to see a picture of him. Of course they did. How could they not?

While scrolling through my iPhoto library, Jake asked me how old my Jake was.

“Eleven.”

I loved that as I scrolled, he expected to see a 6th grader soon. When I finally landed on a picture of Jake and handed the other Jake my phone, he did a double-take, then laughed out loud, then passed the phone around the table. Unfazed smiles ensued, and I no longer felt alone and childless. Because I’m not. We chose a different kind of child. And we adore him. He’s the sweetest pup on the planet.

Yesterday I posted something, and a person I don’t know engaged with it. I recognized her last name, the same as a friend I know from Akron. I assumed it was my friend’s sister. I assumed that because the friend I’m referring to is someone I haven’t seen in close to thirty years, and my brain still assumes she’s 20. When I cross-referenced their profile pictures, I realized the stranger was not my friend’s sister, but most likely her grown daughter.

Time flies.

Our children grow wiser, and our faces grow wider. Hopefully, too, do our horizons.

Friday, March 13, 2026

I would see Kim and her children again. I last saw Kim at a friend’s New Year’s Eve party a couple of years ago. Her children, I hadn’t seen since our only encounter nine years ago.

The circumstances weren’t ideal, but having read the excellent book This I Believe (The Personal Philosophies of Remarkable Men and Women), I’ve since adopted the credo clearly stated in the title of one of the book’s essays, “Always Go to the Funeral,” by Deirdre Sullivan.

It begins,

I believe in always going to the funeral. My father taught me that.

The first time he said it directly to me, I was sixteen and trying to get out of going to calling hours for Miss Emerson, my old fifth-grade math teacher. I did not want to go. My father was unequivocal. “Dee,” he said, “you’re going. Always go to the funeral. Do it for the family.”

So my dad waited outside while I went in. It was worse than I thought it would be: I was the only kid there. When the condolence line deposited me in front of Miss Emerson’s shell-shocked parents, I stammered out, “Sorry about this,” and stalked away. But, for that deeply weird expression of sympathy delivered twenty years ago, Miss Emerson’s mother still remembers my name and always says hello with tearing eyes.

Kim’s former spouse and her children’s father, Joe, had died earlier in the week. All of them by his side as he lay unconscious with brain damage—the result of a sudden cardiac episode. I know the devastation. I visited my brother Matthew in the hospital five years ago while he was unconscious with brain damage—the result of a sudden brain aneurysm. Both men were too young to die.

I set out from Jamestown, New York, around 2:30 pm, expecting to arrive at the funeral visitation in Lakewood, Ohio, by five. I hoped to see Maria (from above) there too, as she was the one who shared the sad news with me.

The drive was dark and rainy, with unrelenting gusts of wind. The kind of drive that requires both hands wrapped around the wheel. When I was about 20 miles out, the precipitation eased a little, offering me a sense of reprieve. I dialed up my epic playlist. When I was 13 miles from my destination, angled beams of sunshine powered their way through the clouds. I know it was 13 miles because I checked. I checked because, at the same moment, M. Ward’s lyrics from his song, “Pirate Dial,” added to the astral nature of the moment. Its sweetly haunting tone hypnotized me, and suddenly the raindrops were replaced by tearing eyes as I sailed past the slate-hued shores of Lake Erie on the starboard side of my Ridgeline.

It’s alright if you don’t mind

It’s alright if you do

You’re still coming through

On a pirate dial

On a pirate dial

I can hear ya

I can hear ya

It’s alright if they don’t mind

It’s alright if they do

You’re still coming through

On a pirate dial

On a pirate dial

And I can hear ya

I can hear ya

I can hear ya

I can hear ya

I can hear ya

I can hear ya

I thought of Claire and hoped she would be open to whatever frequency it is to hear her father on a pirate dial. I made a mental note to ask if the number 13 meant anything to her. When I did, it didn’t, but I told her of the bars of sun and the song. And as I write these words this very moment, heavy snow spins chaotically while the sun still somehow shines.

When I arrived at the funeral home on Detroit Avenue, I turned left to park on a perpendicular side street. After bundling up, I made my way inside and spotted Kim immediately as she began walking down a flight of steps. Her smile indicated she hadn’t expected to see me, then waved me to follow. That’s when I saw Jim, the host of the New Year’s Eve party two years back. Jim is one of the greatest men I’ve ever known. I feel alive in his company.

The three of us descended together and entered an annex, then sat with a couple of others and Kim’s parents, whom I hadn’t seen in 40 years. They looked fabulous and are still fabulous people: sharp, smart, warm, and engaging. I hope I’m as age-defiant in my 80s.

Regardless of my hopes and the fact that I’m forever 35 in my heart, I’m also aware that I’ve entered the realm of elder people’s lines of conversation, as evidenced by my willingness to discuss my recent hip replacement surgery without provocation, as I did at one point during our round table. I’ve had one, Kim’s father, Thom, two, and Jim—the hippest of all— has had three.

Thom is an attorney, and it didn’t take me long to steer the conversation to the past because it’s what we have in common. I reminded him of the time he negotiated a one-thousand-dollar settlement for Kim after the two of us were t-boned by another driver in downtown Cleveland back in the 80s. “Where’s my bonus?,” I asked facetiously.

Perhaps my tone sounded serious. As Kim turned to Thom and said,

“Remember when my nose was injured in that accident?”

Kim and I were heading out for a night of laughter and revelry.

“Remember the song we were jamming to when that guy crashed into us?,” I said, smiling at Kim. “Human League,” I hinted. “Was it Fascination?”

“Yeah, not the other one,” she confirmed, which is the funniest thing she could have said, because yeah, Human League only had two songs of note. The other, I can’t recall.

I went on to testify that our light was definitely green, but when I got out of my car, I saw it turn red, and I panicked a little, thinking the other guy could lie and blame it on us.

“No, remember that guy with the box of chicken wings saw it happen and said it was the other guy’s fault.”

“Yeah, that’s right.” I’d forgotten that detail.

“He offered you a chicken wing, and you ate it while we waited for the cops to show up,” Kim said, with her trademark smirk teetering on laughter.

I’d forgotten that detail as well. It’s funny what we do and don’t remember.

I remember my car was totaled, and Kim (before cell phones) called her father (somehow), and he came to pick us up and drove us back to Brecksville, dropping me off at my dad’s house first. Thanks, Thom, you’re a good man and an excellent father.

I had already expressed my condolences to Claire earlier, but needed to offer the same to her brother, JP, so I excused myself and went upstairs to find him. I didn’t think I’d recognize him, so I looked for Claire to guide me. She wasn’t hard to find. She’s six feet tall. At least I think she is, because I am, and we stood at eye level to one another. She could have been wearing heels, but I never looked at her feet, so I don’t know. She pointed JP out to me, and we chatted briefly.

I am fascinated by genetics. In this setting, specifically what Kim and Joe’s children inherited. Here’s what I see: from her father, Claire grabbed his stature gene. Joe’s most notable physical feature was his height. He must have been at least 6 feet 3. From Kim, her extroversion. Whereas JP inherited Kim’s more diminutive stature and Joe’s chill, no-nonsense demeanor. Each child inherited intelligence and thoughtfulness from both parents. Anyway, that’s how I see it.

I realize that funereal events, in essence, are solemn affairs, but the gathering of souls mourning loss can provide comfort and, sometimes, I hope, bring a sense of community and sparks of joy. It is my wish that, when I die, any gathering that might follow be drawn to reflection, a reminder that life is temporary and it is up to us to make the most of our remaining days. With that, my encounters with Joe were limited, but the handful of times I was in his company, I found him gracious and thoughtful.

While sorrow is inevitable, the sun also rises.

I’ll finish with a few magical moments due to being in the realm of love.

1. The significance of the number 13 wasn’t revealed until I began to write. The visitation was on March 13. My hip surgery was exactly one year prior, on March 13. That we gathered to honor Joe on Friday the 13th does not make it unlucky. Karen and I got married on a Friday the 13th.

2. In the downstairs annex, Kim expressed an invitation, “You and Karen should come visit me in Scottsdale.” That lifted my spirits. I pictured it and wished we were there now. This has been the longest winter I can recall.

3. A group of multi-aged blondes crashed our annex party at one point. One of them, an elder teen, possibly 20-something, announced to our gathering, looking directly at me as she said it, “I’m Stephanie’s daughter.”

   “I’m Bob’s son,” I said in response.

   I thought about my father, who died on March 31, 13 years ago.

4. One of the visiting attendants asked where I was from. For some strange, unknown reason, I said, “East Mars.”

   Surprised by my own answer, I tried to make it make sense by adding, “I’m good friends with Elon Musk.”

When I left and got back in my truck, I texted longtime Cleveland friends Doug and Christopher. (I have Christopher listed in my contacts as Xopher)

Our text exchange:

Me: All done. Where u at?

Xopher: Lakewood border. Runnin an errand. Are you really in Lakewood?

Me: Yes. Detroit & Robinwood Avenues

Xopher: Meet us at Mahall’s? Or the Winchester both on Madison. Should be due south of you.

Me: Okay, but which of the ors? You decide.

I didn’t get a response right away, so I began heading toward the Winchester via GPS directives. I chose Winchester because Mahall’s sounded too much like MAHA. While driving north, I got a ping.

Xopher: Actually Humble Wine Bar. On Detroit about 8 blocks from you.

Me: OK

Xopher: On our way! Whoo!

I pulled over to reset my Waze and typed Humble Wine Bar. Waze gave me a new set of turn-by-turn directions. This destination change was divine intervention as the re-route led me to approach the bar by way of… wait for it… Mars Avenue.

18 February Barnes & Noble

I was there to buy some stuff. The checkout line at B&N is set up like this: you enter on the right, then wait for the next available clerk to call you to complete your transaction. You exit left. While waiting, you browse the infinite display towers deciding whether to purchase another thingy that you might find useful or giftable.

A clerk calls me to her register. I lay my merchandise before her. Then, from the left— the non-entrance left—a peculiarity of a man my age approaches and stands inches beside me, fumbling with a coin purse. I decide to pay him little mind as I perceive his invasion as friendly social ineptitude. Thirty seconds elapse. He’s still there. The creep-o-meter is dialed near maximum. So, I calmly ask without looking at him, “Why are we standing so close to one another? “

He responds boldly and defensively, “You’ll figure it out!”

I close with, “But I’m asking you for your assistance with the question, so I don’t have to figure it out.”

He backs away.

19 February

Karen and I are seated in a small booth ordering breakfast in the always crowded, always good café whose sign reads, Annie’s Old Fashion Pancake House. You read that right, “Fashion.” No E. No D. I’m not sure what constitutes old-fashioned pancakes. I doubt the recipe has changed over time. They got the spelling right on the menu, however. But not this coupon.

A mother, father, and child sit in a booth across from us. Not yet sure if the child is a boy or a girl. The family is across and behind me a little. They are across and in front of Karen a little. I hear a portable television emanate from their space. I hear loud television voices. I hear loud cartoon television voices. I am nonplussed (I think). I’m not sure what that word means. I’ve been using it incorrectly for years.

Bewildered, yes. I think annoyed is more accurate. Not just because the noise is more than inappropriately disturbing, but because I feel shame for the parents. Really, you can’t have a family meal without your child being connected to an alternate medium?

Then I wonder if Autism plays a role. I turn my head and espy the child. Nope. She’s just a brat with out-of-touch parents.

A few minutes later, Karen catches up. She’s glaring at the nuisance. “I was wondering when you would notice,” I said.

I watch Karen’s intense, beautiful, and naturally sculpted eyebrows provide support for her icy-blue eyes, focused like daggers on the targeted family. She states what is obvious (the unacceptable behavior). I decide not to intervene. She doesn’t either. But I know she secretly hopes the clueless parents overhear her repetitive, audible judgment. Frankly, so do I. I’m not in the mood to voice my opinion.

Thankfully, management finally and soon tells the family about their error, and the device is silenced.

I am waiting to pay the bill at the crowded front counter of Annie’s Old Fashion Pancake House. I have provided a little more than two feet of space between myself and the woman in front of me, who is poised to pay her tab. A woman behind me then nudges me. I turn around and look directly… over her head. She is 5-foot-zero at most. Then I look down and meet her eyes. She asks impatiently, “Are you in line to pay your bill?”

I confirm that I am. She challenges me. “Then why don’t you move forward?”

I look down at her minimalist stature and announce peacefully, “Because I don’t want to bump anyone. I respect people’s privacy. And I respect their space… I’m just not a pusher, ma’am.”

She stopped.

Until she inadvertently bumped me after I paid my bill in her effort to storm the cashier.

After breakfast, we head to a fresh market, where you can get the best quality and best prices on produce. Produce I’ve not even seen before. How does one incorporate cactus into a diet anyway?

When Karen returned the shopping cart to its corral to receive her quarter-dollar deposit, she noticed a bizarre, disheveled man whom she thought might be mute, as she told him a few times that he could just take her cart rather than pay a quarter to unlock another one.

Eventually, he proved not to be mute. After handing Karen a quarter, he announced in a voice so booming it was audible to me fifty feet away, “Ma’am, you need an occupation… trickery!

Yesterday

I took out a loan so I could buy a pack of cigarettes. Don’t ask me what they cost per pack. I’m embarrassed. I’m an addict, and I hate it. Please don’t judge.

After entering the gas station/mini mart where no one knows my name but all know my face, and what I want without me having to ask, I created a wider berth than usual between the person at the counter and me.

Another man entered and positioned himself to my left and slightly ahead of me. I said nothing as I waited. A few seconds later, a synapse fired in his brain, and he said, “Oh, I’m sorry, you’re in line?”

“Good boy,” I said, but only internally. I confirmed with a nod and an abridged grin. He slid behind and to my right.

“One,” I said to the clerk as she reached for my brand. It’s not often I purchase only one, but I’m trying to trick myself that I’m quitting, and that’s all I need to get through this fix for what I hope is my last, but I know better.

I look at the box of beef jerky sticks on the counter and recall that it was an addiction as a teen, but the price, while not as outrageous as the one I’m prepared to be debited, is at least something I’ve tamed.

“Do you want the receipt?, she asks.

“No.” That’s like asking a person who witnessed a car accident if they’d like to see the victim’s severed limbs.

After exiting, I saw a youngish man on his knees who looked like a messier version of Keanu Reeves, fishing for smokable cigarette butts in the exposed receptacle of a smoker’s urn. I wondered if he was as curious as I was about where the monthly increases in cigarette tax revenue are distributed.

I sat in my truck with the door open as he walked away with three scavenged partials. He was the first person in a week I hoped would come near me. When he was within a foot, I said, “Would you like a real cigarette?”

He did and approached. “Is menthol, okay?,” I asked.

I unwrapped my new pack, pulled a cigarette out, and handed it to him.

“Do you have a real lighter?,” he asked

I handed him a sky-blue Bic. He lit, returned the lighter, thanked me, and offered a fist bump. Our knuckles met. His tattooed, and mine naked.

I had recently read an excerpted review of the book in the Chicago Tribune, so I was pleased to be reminded of its existence. I picked up one of the books for purchase and noticed a sign promoting that the author would be personally signing copies the following Monday evening. Excellent.

It’s not that I am, or ever was, a big Who fan, even if I did own nearly all their records. I was a Pete Townshend fan to be sure. I liked what he did with The Who. I liked what he did as a solo artist. Mostly, I loved that he was a writer.

I never paid much attention to him as a person. I always looked at him as a guitarist. Not until after reading a published essay he wrote years ago that appeared in a major periodical did I learn that he was quite an intellectual and thoughtful man. I was later surprised to learn that he penned nearly all the songs The Who recorded: Roger Daltrey, a pretty face with a silky voice to deliver them.

I bought the book.

The prospect of meeting Pete Townshend excited me. But did I really want to stand in a long line just for a moment with one of the true iconic figures of The British Invasion?

Yep.

It’s not like I’d have to travel into the city. The store was five minutes from our apartment, so I committed to attending. I would arrive early and be first in line, I told myself.

I returned to Barnes & Noble at 5 pm the following Monday. I wasn’t first in line, even though the signings wouldn’t begin for another two hours. The book-signing administrators were handing out numbers determining one’s position in line.

When I presented my book to one of the people in charge, she asked to see my receipt. I told her that I bought the book a few days ago and had no idea where my receipt was. She informed me that without a receipt… blah, blah—you get it.

“I bought the book three days ago. Didn’t think to retain the receipt.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t give you a ticket unless you have a receipt.”

“Explain that, please,” I said.

“Unless you bought the book at Barnes & Noble, we can’t…”

“But I did,” I said. “Bought it three days ago, right here.”

She was sorry again. Sorry indeed. A sorry excuse of authority.

“You’re just gonna have to trust me,” I pleaded. “I bought this book here. Just believe me. I don’t lie. I have no reason to.”

She was unmoved.

Mild indignation ensued as is often the case when faced with ineptitude.

Then I calmed down. I realized that this woman was not a good problem solver. She was young, but not that young. She was incapable of making a proper on-the-fly decision. She’s a worker bee with one specialty: following rules. I get it, we need worker bees. I needed to find a Queen bee.

I approached the checkout counter. I did not wait in line. That I could not tolerate, so I entered from the opposite end and stood a few paces from someone making a purchase, ready to plead my case to the clerk at the register when she was free.

I detailed my dilemma to the clerk. Fortunately, a manager was nearby and overheard my case, promptly looked up my purchase history, escorted me back to Ms. Unable, told her, “He’s good,” and asked her to give me a ticket for my place in line. I did not look my nemesis in the eye. I didn’t think gloating on any level would serve either of us.

I returned at my prescribed time and snaked my way leisurely with the rest of the seekers through aisles of shelved books before we’d finally meet Pete. I planned to ask him to sign the back of my iPhone as well, even though it was clearly stated that he would only sign the book, not any memorabilia. I reasoned that my phone wasn’t a piece of memorabilia.

At some point, I discarded the idea of having him sign the phone. I recalled years earlier when I tried to get Jimmy Carter to sign my World Party CD. One of his handlers informed me that he was only signing his poetry book.

I looked Jimmy in the eye and pleaded, “Can you just sign it? Laurie Anderson did.”

He responded in his familiar Georgian drawl, “Ah caint.”

“What do you mean you can’t? You can do anything you want. You’re the President,” I reminded him.1

He flashed a blinding grin and repeated, “Ah caint.”

I decided not to debate the President any further. A Secret Service agent had already told me to take my hands out of my coat pockets just before I reached the President, so I cut my losses, grateful for the opportunity to sit face-to-face with a Nobel Peace Prize winner.2

When I was five people away from meeting Pete Townshend, I also decided to ditch all the words I might share with him. I thought anything I might say would be inane and forgettable and of no value to him or me. What could I impart that would be meaningful? Probably nothing. I’m here to get a book signed and face a celebrity. That’s enough.

On the table separating us, I laid my book open to the page we were earlier instructed to. I watched him scribble his name with a Sharpie. While he signed, I sincerely and respectfully uttered, “Thank you, sir.”

He lifted his head and met my eyes, then cocked his head sideways like a dog does when seemingly perplexed. He then smiled sweetly and offered me his hand. We shook on it. Our eyes locked and we silently gazed at one another for an extended beat.

He has incredibly beautiful eyes.

2

Barack Obama would also win the Nobel Peace Prize 5 years after I met Jimmy Carter. And nearly 20 years after that, another U.S. President would win the FIFA Peace Prize, whatever that is. I guess it has something to do with soccer, or fútbol as it’s known outside the U.S. Maybe the prize has something to do with a hands-off approach.

---

As always, thank you for reading Line by Line. Perhaps one day someone will seek my autograph. For now, here are the ones relevant to this story.

The World Party CD booklet Carter couldn’t, wouldn’t, or shouldn’t sign, but Laurie Anderson did.

---

This was the book (a gift) I had Laurie Anderson sign for Karen. Only after did I ask if she would sign the World Party CD booklet.

---

Singer-songwriter Karl Wallinger of World Party signed this $100 bill when I met him outside after one of his shows in Chicago.

---

Pete Townshend’s autograph in the book I bought without a receipt to prove I didn’t steal it from Barnes & Noble.

The one aspect I hadn’t considered when taking on a student-teaching placement at the primary level was the need to serve as a guardian of sorts for these children. And it’s one of the most fulfilling aspects of the role.

I have tied no less than two dozen pairs of shoes. They know not that I never really learned to tie my own properly. My knots will hold until the child leaves my class, but how much longer is anyone’s guess.

I help them put on their art shirts. It’s like dressing a doll. They offer little support with the task.

I scrub their hands in mine because it’s more efficient. Otherwise, they’ll rinse their soiled puppy paws with no endgame. I attempt to wipe paint off their face. When I fail to complete the job, leaving trace color smudged on their nose and cheek, I tell them it’s a badge of honor. “You look like an artist. It looks cool. You’re a warrior.”

I had a child throw up on me. But for some reason, I embraced the occurrence and delighted in escorting him by hand to the nurse, wiping his trail as we traveled.

I’ve fixed glue bottle after glue bottle after glue bottle. “It doesn’t work, Mr. Johnson.”

Why hasn’t Elmer’s Glue—after nearly 80 years in existence—manufactured a bottle that doesn’t film over with dried glue blocking its aperture? I learned early on that the best tactic was to rip the sheath off with my incisors. Why hadn’t these children? I showed them how, after repeated failed attempts to scratch it off with my fingernails.

When they see me extract the glue with my teeth and ptooey it from my mouth, they shriek, “Ewww!”

But sticking their finger in their mouth after drilling their nostril seems practical and unconcerning.

I’m unfazed when I call on them after asking the difference between a shape and a form, and they matter-of-factly tell me they went to the Zoo over the weekend.

I high-five them in the hallways. I wrench my back to sit eye level with them in lilliputian chairs, and always accept their unsolicited hugs without issue.

Mostly, though, I cherish the moments when they raise their hands, patiently waiting for me to notice. Then, upon my arrival, they look up into my promising eyes and ask, “Can you help me?”

But I was dehydrated.

About a year ago, Karen transitioned our household from wasteful, singular water bottles. Now, we each have refillable glass bottles with gaberdine-like fabric sleeves. Her sleeve is green. Mine is grey. Mine used to be black, but I dropped it on the pavement outside the library. Fortunately, it all shattered inside the sleeve. We have more than a dozen bottles and sleeves of various colors for guests.

We used to refill our six one-gallon jugs at an osmosis water station at Wegmans until they discontinued that service. As far as we know, Walmart is the only one remaining in this area. So, I went to find a parking space close to a shopping cart wrangler and as far from the store’s entrance as possible. I succeeded—made doubly cheerful because clouds weren’t harassing the sun on a 40-degree afternoon

.

It was my first time entering a Walmart with positivity, which made all the difference. I noticed how well-appointed the produce section was. Note to self: Give that a visit someday. On a beeline to the rear of the store’s grocery section, where the water refill station is, I noticed the signage at the aisles’ ends was well-marked with large type in readable fonts. I read “Crackers” in a digestible list. I need crackers, I thought. Parking my buggy off to the side, I strolled down aisle 3. Crackers were at the other end, but I enjoyed timing my steps, so I didn’t run into any bottlenecks with other shoppers.

A few aisles later, “Canned Vegetables” caught my eye.

“I haven’t had corn in a while,” I said.

I know corn is pretty vitamin-deficient as far as earth-born edibles go. I don’t care. I like corn. Go ahead, call me a chicken. Karen does. I call her chicken, too. We used to call our dog Jake chicken as well. One nickname for everyone in the household! We’re goddam communists, I tell ya

I found another product I wasn’t looking for but needed, then filled my water jugs with enough joy to make the upcoming tedium at checkout bearable for my aversion to mindless repetition.

Scanning the lines, I fell in behind an elderly couple with perhaps more product than alternative lines but fewer total transactions than others with less product. Feeling good.

They had little interest in transactional efficiency, I decided. Not gleaned by anything I heard. It was their body language. I’ve become a self-proclaimed expert in the language of the body. I have a lot of experience in the retail environment. I always offer a 6 to 9-foot berth between me and those ahead of me in line. Sadly, I miss Covid sometimes.

It’s going to be a bit, Eric, I think to myself.

So, I distract myself by reading People magazine headlines: Kids of Celebrities, Celebrity Breakups, The Death of [that guy from Friends].

Reminiscence ensues as I take inventory of candy bars from my childhood. I pick up a Hershey’s with Almonds chocolate bar—my all-time favorite— rotating it in my hand, admiring its perfection, and adding it to my loot.

Peeking at the clerk, I watch her in admiration. Her demeanor is calm and collected in the face of hand-wringing customers with puzzled eyebrows and flapping lips that appear combative to me.

She had soft jeans—my clerk—to soften the stress on the legs of a long day of standing, requiring a particular kind of patience—one customer after another. And she did it all with a believable smile and the most glorious, oversized false eyelashes, which somehow made me adore her more. She was a large woman. Perhaps late 20s. I couldn’t be sure if she was Black or Hispanic—probably a blend of both.

I began to narrate her story in my mind: watching her kick it in clubs on weekends, then shifting to Walmart the following day. Then I noticed the couple in front of me paying for their purchase—distracting me from my own distractions. They weren’t paying once. They had split certain items and would be sticking a credit card into a slot, not having it work, turning it upside down, pulling it out, holding it up, having Ms. Eyeluscious quietly guide them toward success, and then doing all that again—a married couple making two separate transactions [faceplant emoji]. I caressed my Hershey’s bar, seeking comfort.

Eventually, I rolled my cart full of gallons forward, trying to keep pace with the speed of the conveyor belt conveying my other items for purchase. The can of corn, the box of Saltine minis, the candy bar, and the other item I can’t recall

.

I slid the Hershey’s toward my clerk and asked,

“Do you like these?”

“Yes,” she answered with conviction.

“It’s yours,” I said.

“No, that’s yours,” the clerk countered.

“I spent some time gambling on which candy bar you might like. I watched you. You’re relaxed, patient, and possess a restraint I sometimes struggle with. I can’t imagine this job is easy. And I know you can’t judge people out loud. It’s yours.”

“Thank you,” her grin like a beacon. “You seriously just made my day!”

“Good,” I smiled, “that’s what I was hoping.”

What I didn’t tell her was that the gift wasn’t just for her but also for me. Mark Twain summed it perfectly,

“The best way to cheer yourself up is to try to cheer somebody else up.”

Recalling our experiences from the weekend prior—hers, mine—essentially the same but separate, I began tapping to record the memory, then print. That would be my offering instead of confections in a heart-shaped box, where half would surely be tested and tossed. We, after all, were two halves of a whole, inseparably connected.

Friday Morning, February 10

I was walking with Jake1 when I noticed a squirrel sitting on the windowsill of one of the many uninspired block-style two-flats that populate this Skokie neighborhood.

At first, I puzzled whether the squirrel was on the inside or the outside of the window of this basement-level apartment. Upon closer inspection, it was clear it was on the inside and clearly didn’t belong there. Was it stuck? I reasoned there must be a way out. There was obviously a way in. Perhaps the squirrel had forgotten where the breach was and was forced to take up residence in this vacancy. I hoped it had a food and water source.

Why did I care? I’m fairly indifferent considering these “city rats.” Sure, I marvel at their industrious nature as they scurry up and down from the crooks high in the Maples to fashion their nests with twigs and leaves and urban litter. I chuckle as they chase each other for no apparent reason, as this activity can cease as suddenly as it starts. Their dexterity along the telephone lines is impressive. I find it entertaining watching them hop everywhere. They never run. They never walk. But did I really care if this one in a thousand squirrels made it to tomorrow? I did.

The fluffy-tailed rodent and I regarded each other for about a minute before it darted off the ledge, passed the makeshift curtain, and disappeared into the darkened space “for rent.”

Saturday Morning, February 11

Karen was driving me to work when she started telling me about that morning. While walking with Jake, she saw a squirrel sitting on a windowsill.

“In a basement apartment?” I said.

“Yeah!”

Then I proceeded to finish her anecdotal discovery with questions — her confirmations.

“Did he jump down past the curtain after about a minute?”

Yeah, that’s funny.”

“You weren’t sure if he was on the inside or outside at first, were you?”

“Nope,” she smiled.

“Did you wonder if he was trapped in there?”

“Yep.”

“And you’re worried.”

“I am. You should throw a brick through the window and set him free.”

We laughed.

But still, we talked a bit further about the squirrel’s circumstances and how he got there. And whether he had a way back to the earth and the trees and acorns. It became our business on some level. It was certainly our shared business. We witnessed the same thing and had the same inner dialogues on successive days independently of each other. I love that we were connected in this way. I know that we are connected through Jake, even as our lives have taken on a multitude of challenges and day-to-day, unfun, requisite duties.

It seems too often we go through the grind’s motions, and the days turn into weeks, and the weeks, years. I love Karen. I love how we have built a nest together in the second flat of a three-flat, in need of upgrades that we would have already made in our condo in Cleveland.

Also, we’re used to Insta-earth access, not descending, and climbing as if we were members of a scurry. Though I love that we hop about for no apparent reason when inspiration strikes.

Sometimes I feel we are trapped in this apartment in this chilly city. We found a way in. We can find our way out. I believe we are teamed for life.

I will search for a brick. Not to smash a window, but to place as a cornerstone for tomorrow.

When I was in high school, I thought about the future. I imagined I had children. I told myself if I ever had a daughter, I would name her Taylor. How rude of me to decide without asking her future mother, whoever that might be. It wasn’t even a girl’s name back then. It probably was, but I’d never heard it. Ms. Swift wouldn’t be born for another 9 years, and the wider world wouldn’t know her name for another 14.

When I was in college a met a young woman named Michael. I thought it was the coolest name for a girl I’d ever heard, so I changed my mind and decided I’d ask my future wife if we could name our daughter Michael. I could lie to my childhood friend, Michael, and say she was named after him.

In my early 20s, I saw a young woman at a gas station/mini-mart. Her face was so arresting I couldn’t avert my gaze. I can’t describe it. All I knew was I’d never seen anything like it. I approached her with an excusatory tone and, somehow, without any filter whatsoever, said something about how taken I was with her appearance and told her of what I believed at the time was my ability to determine a person’s particular lineage or heritage, but couldn’t in that instance, so I asked, “What’s your nationality?”

She smiled and said, “Well, my father is from West Virginia, and my mother is from Japan.”

“You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen,” I said, and left her with that, quickly turning away—heading for my car, not wanting her to think I was hitting on her.

As I drove, I thought, I have hillbilly ancestry from West Virginia and Tennessee. Maybe I should marry a Japanese woman, and we could have a daughter turning heads.

In my 30s and childless, I asked a photographer friend of mine who had two sets of children with two different women from two different eras what it was like to have children. He said, “Don’t have children unless you need them.”

I met a young woman in a local writing group a couple of years ago. I’ll call her Taylor. We became fast friends. I was 38 when she was born. She is now 23. Did I see her as a potential surrogate daughter? Not really. I already have a surrogate—my lovely Goddaughter, Hannah. Being a Godfather is weird when I don’t believe in God. That’s not true. I believe in something akin to God, but I don’t have a name for it, and it certainly doesn’t have a gender. Can you imagine how lonely the Bible God would have been before he decided that enough is enough and, “Damn, I’m lonely, I need to create something I can punish.”

I wondered if Taylor saw me in any way as a surrogate father, knowing that she was estranged from her own father. That thought crumbled after she asked if she could bring her grandmother to our place. She wanted me to meet her. Or her me. Or just see the place. It’s a pleasant place after all. I obliged.

When I got a text from Taylor that they were on their way, I was picturing what Gramma would look like. Was she frail, white-haired, with a cane? When they entered the house, my eyes widened. Her gramma was pretty. Maybe even “hot” depending on one’s libido. But of course, she’s only two years older than me. Grammas aren’t what they used to be when I was young. They are real people living real lives. Not muted matronly women in housecoats.

At one point, I wondered if Taylor saw me as a grandpa surrogate. Oh God, please, no. I would need a therapist if that were the case. I know I’ve been a source of unintended therapeutic mentoring for Taylor, as is evidenced by the thoughtful birthday card she gave me. And for sure, she sees me as a friend. She wrote:

Things I have learned from our friendship and talks

• let shit go that you can’t control!

• be authentic

• ask for help if you need it

• be proud of yourself

• love yourself

---

Eric,

I’m glad we have formed a good friendship, and it continues to grow. To more memories, porch talks, and philosophical convos.

Love you, friend

Taylor

One of my favorite features of the card—because it requires a different, creative kind of energy—is how she wrote my name on the envelope. As if it were a ligature logo. In addition, the markings tapped my own creativity as I spun it 90 degrees three times and saw new imagery. I added minimal additions to help clarify what I saw.

It’s been almost 20 years.

It wasn’t long before Facebook became less about socializing and more about recounting my daily encounters. A public diary of sorts. When we moved to Chicago in 2010, I hit my stride. Every day, it seemed, the city offered experiential muses. My posts became longer and more personally reflective, even in the most mundane aspects of life. It was like a gift.

At some point, a comment from a friend back in Cleveland gave me a boost of confidence. He was an editor (still is) at Ohio Magazine. He wrote to say he hoped I had a central location for all the missives I’d been creating for Facebook. I didn’t. I wrote straight in the Facebook app and only did cursory editing– mostly correcting for typos and spelling errors. I promised myself that I would go through my history and copy and paste the best into text documents. I didn’t.

Eventually, I started a Blog and linked my Facebook account to it, then Google acquired the blog site and ruined it, like they ruin a lot of things in my opinion. Kind of like how Generation Whoever ruined—for me—written language with their insistence on opting for abbreviated or shortened words to such a degree that language languished to the point where paragraphs look like mathematical formulas, but nothing is being solved other than a desire for brevity. I mean, FFS, is it too much work that you’d rather say, “tevs?” If you know, you know. And what’s with the preface, “If I’m being honest…” when speaking out loud? That makes it longer. If you don’t start with clarifying your honesty, should we surmise you’re lying? SMDH.

I finally graduated. All my work is organized by place and time, and it all exists in Microsoft Word. Okay, knock it off, Eric. You made your point. You can write MS Word or just Word. Word is where all my work starts now, if not inked on paper.

As I continue to craft new material and gather older pieces to revise and improve, the database containing my words keeps growing. I have a problem, though. The past work sourced from Facebook is haphazard, relying mostly on “On This Day” memories fed to me. I need to go through year by year until I’ve captured everything relevant. I began that process last week. I started at the beginning—2007.

That year was easy. Not a lot there. It was more like texting back then, but without photos, and we weren’t even creating our own content. We wrote on each other’s pages, or walls as they were called back then. It was a sweet and simple time. The following are the most interactions I had in one day that year.

Michelle wrote

That was the longest dog walk...still waiting!?!?

Judy wrote

You love me!

Donna wrote

You are TOO funny...and it’s been way too long! Got your message the other day...as in a day later after you left it! Let’s get together soon. “The Giant Hand” will show us the way...kiss kiss!

Donna was quite fond of ellipses, apparently.

Rachel wrote

You are also so sweet! I hope all is well in OH! We are buried under a little snow today. Have you had any exhibits lately?

How times have changed. Sometimes, though, the more things change, the more they stay the same, depending on what you hold dear. I received the following reply to an instant message to a friend, a few days ago.

Tom wrote

The feeling is mutual, Eric. I love you too, my friend. You are a beautiful soul.

And now…

When Doves Cry

While going through my Facebook history last week, I came across a short piece about stirring up a flock of pigeons in Chicago. I copied and pasted it into an email to myself and forgot about it. Synchronicity, however, kept reminding me.

The following day, I saw a short statement designed for engagement(?) on another social media platform. The author wrote something like, “Just so you know, pigeons and doves are the same thing.”

I didn’t comment. Why would I? It’s true. They are essentially the same, save for differences in size. There’s nothing to argue, but isn’t social media geared toward debate? While pigeons and doves are the same animal, they have different names that conjure different feelings. Like, you wouldn’t walk up to a mourning dove and tell her, “You know, you’re just a pigeon.”

Why hurt her feelings? She’s already sad, mourning whatever she’s mourning. And the white dove, a symbol of peace? You’re not going to tell a magician’s partner he’s just a pigeon—he’ll shit on your head for disrespecting beauty. Think about how you’d feel as a human if someone called you a Homo Sapiens. Both terms mean the same thing, but c’mon. I’ll tell you what’s not the same—a fetus and a baby.

Furthermore, can you imagine Prince or Stevie Nicks crooning about pigeons? I also doubt that anyone would choose Pigeon Beauty Bar skin care products.

Another day, I was reminded again, as evidenced by the 9-across clue in The New York Times Mini crossword puzzle.

Wednesday, I watched the army of birds swarming the finch feeder, the multiple suet cages, and the high-volume decorative glass feeder filled with the irresistible mix of mealworm, fruit, nuts, and sunflower seed. All those birds like a 3 am rave scrambling for Molly and poppers—blue jay, cardinal, chickadee, titmouse, junco, sparrow, finch. The upside-down gang—red-belly, downy, hairy, red-head, nuthatch. And of course, the peaceful posse of mourning doves scavenging scraps on the ground. Poor things, I always think. Too fat to fly up and land safely on the feeder rim, I guess.

Thursday: I set up an iPhone on a tripod to record the action on the big feeder inches from the bathroom window where it hangs. When I ran through the footage an hour later, I couldn’t believe what I saw halfway through. It was as if the Universe heard me insult the doves, calling them fat and inflexible, so Mother Nature flipped me the bird and said, “Don’t be a dick, dummy. Do better.”

“I’m sorry, you’re right. In ten years, I’ve never seen a dove on that feeder, but as the corrective principle states: absence of evidence is not evidence of absence.”

Friday: Facebook shows me how long Chris Sorno and I have been friends, and of course, her profile picture includes a decorative addition—a white dove with an olive branch, which is indicative of Chris. She has a knack for seeking peace, and I admire that.

January 2010:

Exited the El train at Bryn Mawr and took a look around. Looks as though this area might be interesting on a day when temperatures aren’t as unbearably frigid as they are today. Though it is sunny. It’s sunny a lot in Chicago.

I stirred up some birds—spooked a flock of doves. People often ask why we never see juvenile pigeons. I know the answer: they are hiding. I know this because I saw one once. I crossed a no-longer-used steel bridge spanning the Cuyahoga River. I looked up and saw in the trusses a mother and “child” pair of pigeons. When the younger met my eye, it ducked back behind. It tentatively snuck a couple of peeks at me after, only to retreat for good.

And that’s my weird, but lovey dovey stack. Thank you for reading. Thank you for subscribing. Time to take flight and work on my next piece.

I watched one boy lift the top of the hot water dispenser and pour the contents of what I assumed was an oatmeal packet into its tiny aperture. He then closed the lid and pumped. A trickle of water flowed into his cup. He looked at me, puzzled.

“What did you put in there?”

He held up the packet for me to see. It was powdered hot chocolate.

“You could just pour the hot chocolate mix in a cup first, then put the hot water on top of that.”

“That’s a really good idea,” he said as if I’d just solved something quantum related.

Then he reopened the dispenser lid and attempted to remove the brown powder with his fingers like a carnival crane claw game.

“Or you could just start over,” I said, promising.

I thought about alerting hotel staff about getting a replacement hot water dispenser, but I still hadn’t procured my first cup of premade coffee. So, I pumped an urn, pocketed the prepackaged foods I thought would give me the best shot at food pyramid success, and left as if I’d never seen it happen.

Doors parted, and I elevated to my room, showered, then returned to floor zero from the sixth floor. I got more coffee, walked to the smoking area, and braced myself against the winter wind.

Kid Troop, led by an adult, marched by. Hot Chocolate-less Boy locked eyes with me. Whether his look was with gratitude or “Please don’t tell anyone what I did” is a toss-up.

Later, I was assessed for what I earlier guessed while walking past another faction of blue-capped boys (and a girl) seated on benches between the lobby and a rear exit.

“You guys are 10, right?”

“I’m eleven,” said one of the boys.2

“Hockey?”

“Yes,” said the boy.

Then they giggled because that’s what tweens do when strange adults engage children they don’t know.

I recalled seeing a motor coach bus in the parking lot and asked, “What state?”

“What?”

“Where are you from?”

“Tibet.”

“Huh?”

“Quebec. Quebec City.”

“I’ve been to Quebec City,” I said, lying but feeling justified that I’d at least been to Montreal. Twice.

I saw a Facebook post from Lisa, a high school acquaintance, asking her friends—those who I assume knew her father—to wish him a happy birthday. What a thoughtful gesture. I didn’t know her father, but I was drawn to the request and wanted to participate.

My recollection was that well-wishers would share their goodwill in the comments of Lisa’s post, but I can’t be sure. All I know—based on the first line of my message—is that I intended to mail my correspondence. I don’t remember asking Lisa for her father’s mailing address, but I must have. How else would I attain it, and how else would he receive my letter?

While I tend to edit and revise my writing—often multiple times—before publishing, I couldn’t in this instance. It was sent as is. To alter it in the slightest would diminish its value, no matter my desire to improve it.

Here’s what I sent Lisa’s father:

December 3, 2020

Dear Anthony Randazzo,

First, I’m typing this in a font size larger than I might otherwise, given your age. I hope it is helpful. This decision to enlarge the type goes against my intuition. When working in the advertising industry in my 20s and 30s, I used to design printed communications in smaller type sizes because I thought it was visually more appealing than larger type, and therefore more likely to be read. Inevitably, my superiors would tell me to increase the point size, reasoning that older people would have difficulty reading it. I always argued that because people age forty and older needed reading glasses, their eyesight was better than people my age, and that the smaller type shouldn’t be an issue. I sometimes won this argument. Mostly, I didn’t. But certainly, I know now that making the words here larger won’t make it harder to read, and it might make it easier. I’ve learned to do what’s potentially best for others and not what’s best for me.

We learn by experience. It’s something that those younger than us can’t always know until aged and discover the beauty of what experience is. It’s a rite of passage. I’m sure you know this.

I am writing because I saw a prompt from your wonderful daughter Lisa asking friends to send you birthday wishes. That’s an extraordinary request, speaking to her innate thoughtfulness and desire to brighten your day. It shows me how much she loves and adores you. And even though I don’t know you and have never met you, I am compelled by the request and more than excited to be part of the collective generosity that Lisa hopes to mine.

How shall I wish you a happy birthday? I could send a card. I could say, “Happy Birthday, Anthony!” But what would that mean from a stranger? I suppose it doesn’t need to mean anything other than another well-wishing, which certainly won’t make your day worse, and it might make it better. I’ve learned to do what’s potentially best for others and not what’s best for me.

For your birthday I’d like to tell you how and why I’ve carried Lisa in my heart for over 40 years. How because of her, I learned a lifelong lesson to do what’s potentially best for others and not what’s best for me. Something I failed to do before the experience.

1978: Our eighth-grade class, as all eighth-grade classes around the country do, traveled by chartered bus to visit our nation’s capital. I don’t remember much of the historical sites we visited other than the fuzzy snapshots in my mind’s eye; The Smithsonian and a perpetual pendulum, Kennedy’s eternal flame Arlington Cemetery, Ford’s Theater, and the chair in which Lincoln sat, Valley Forge. I might have lost the Valley Forge memory forever had I not gone there with my wife last summer at her request. When we visited, I got chills.

I said, “Karen, I’ve been here! I remember these stone encampments. It’s all rushing back.”

I told her of our eighth-grade school trip. And then I told her what stuck out in my mind most: A lot of our time was spent on a bus, shuttled from site to site. In those closed quarters, I watched the social dynamics of young teens play out before me. I witnessed the cruelty of teenage girl elitism. I watched silently at the mistreatment of Lisa.

Lisa was a well-liked, popular student with a smile that brightened every room. But on this trip, a shift occurred between her and a handful of other popular girls. I knew nothing of the details. But I could see; clearly, they shunned Lisa. It was typical “mean girl” stuff; gossip, whispers, ganging up. And it broke my heart. Lisa was a kind person. But somehow, an insidious hierarchy formed, and Lisa was cast away and victimized by friends. I hated watching it, I’d suffered the same years before. But my desire to stay in good standing with the other girls prevented me from doing what was right— coming to Lisa’s defense. I chose what was best for me rather than what was potentially best for others.

I don’t share this lightly. And although it was a painful experience for me, and most certainly Lisa, it helped inform my future, how I looked at the world, and exposed—wide open— the value and power of empathy. And although Lisa suffered—to what extent I can’t be sure—her experience begat a life-altering lesson I’ve carried in my arsenal since—reminding me of what is fair and just.

And though I haven’t seen Lisa in person for years, I smile every time I see her broad smile image and read her kind words on Facebook, knowing that her perseverance and goodness are a model of goodness and decency. Your daughter will always hold a special place in my heart Anthony. And I’m sure you are, no doubt, much responsible for her success.

Happy Birthday, Anthony. I hope your day and days to come are with love and good cheer.

PS. You share the same birthday with my mother. I’ll be thinking about both of you tomorrow.

Sincerely,

Eric Johnson

---

Note from Lisa in return:

Eric, I just read the beautiful note you sent my father for his birthday. How kind of you to do that. You are such a remarkable man. Your words brought tears to my eyes. How sweet of you to remember our trip. It obviously left an impression on you. My father is blind. We just read it to him… it brought tears to all of us! Thank you so much, Eric! May God bless you!

In March of last year, Orkin made their bi-monthly visit to our home to fill bait stations around the exterior of the house. Rodent bait stations are enclosed containers designed to safely deliver poison bait to rats or mice while reducing risks to people, pets, and wildlife. Here’s how they work, step by step:

Attracting the Rodents

Inside the station is a rodenticide bait (often blocks, pellets, or paste) made from grains, fats, or sugars that rodents find appealing.

Rodents are guided in by:

• Small entry holes sized for rodents

• Dark, enclosed space (rodents prefer shelter)

• Placement along walls or runways where rodents naturally travel

Controlled Access

The station is designed so that:

• Only rodents can fit inside

• Bait is secured on rods or trays, preventing them from carrying it away

• The bait stays protected from rain, wind, and sunlight

This prevents accidental exposure to children, pets, and non-target animals.

How the Poison Works

Most modern rodenticides act after a delay, so rodents don’t associate illness with the bait:

• Anticoagulants: cause internal bleeding over several days

• Non-anticoagulants: affect the nervous system or calcium balance

The rodent typically leaves the station and dies elsewhere.

I need to find out from Orkin if the rodenticides are anticoagulants or non-anticoagulants. The language in the latter option sounds less cruel than the former. Language is fascinating.

Perhaps you’re asking yourself, “Why does your home attract rodents, Eric?”

It has nothing to do with anything unkempt. If you know me, you know I have a strain of Felix Unger genetic code running through my veins, so it’s not that. Our home is rural. We’re surrounded by forest. We are not in the middle of nowhere, however. We are in the middle of Nature.

While the reality of what happens to the mice is unsettling to think about, the alternative is exposing ourselves to whatever disease they might carry, and so, a compromise is made to protect us over them.

The Orkin guy also rebaits the two snap traps, placed in the corners, just inside the garage. They haven’t been tripped in over a year because the bait stations are doing their job.

A reader in the back of the room raises her hand, and I call on her. “Yeah, um, Mr. Johnson, you said earlier that you witnessed first-hand the cruelty, but if you never see the mice after they leave the station– well, I don’t get it.”

“That’s a great question… Carla, is it?”

“No, it’s Mary.”

“Right, Mary.”

We left for Indiana soon after the Orkin man did his thing and didn’t return until the middle of April. Hip surgery, recovery, all that misery. While unloading the car, I noticed one of the garage traps had caught a snake. I slid it outside the garage, hoping Karen wouldn’t see it. While my level of respect and empathy for animalia is high, hers surpasses mine.

Later, Karen said the snake is still alive and asked if I could take care of it. Gulp.

The trap wasn’t the usual snap trap set, but a sticky trap. I never asked for them and wasn’t sure why the Orkin guy changed it up.

I scooped up the snake and the trap with a piece of cardboard. I attempted to gently pull the snake off the surface as it curled itself. It wasn’t budging. The glue is super duper adhesive. I started to panic. Am I going to have to bludgeon it to end its misery? I pulled a little harder, and it began to peel off the surface, but only for a moment. I clenched my jaw and tried with more force, but now the trap was peeling the scales and belly off the snake, and the snake began to cleave, and its innards were now exposed, and I began to sob, and “Fuuuuck!”

Finally, I half looked away and ripped it off. It was horrifying.

“Please die soon, and I’m so sorry,” I told the snake as I walked it toward the woods and placed it among the pachysandra.

When the Orkin man returned for his next visit, I told him about my nightmare and told him never again with glue traps. “It’s inhumane. It’s horrible.”

Now it’s 2026, the year of the horse, and mine began like a horse with blinders on.

When I first looked at the latest Consumer Reports cover, I thought I was looking at a stack of bagel varietals. The second from the top was definitely an Everything bagel. I quickly realized my eyes were deceiving me because, of course, that’s a stack of tide-spun beach rocks, duh.

Then I read the headline. Oh, come on, who swallows 5-inch-long supplements? Not me. Though I did pop a pair of half-inch solubilized ibuprofen capsules in my mouth a few days ago. The problem was that I was chewing a stick of Extra peppermint sugar-free gum at the time, and for some reason, I didn’t remove it first. I just parked it between my cheek and gum. As I attempted to swallow the liquid-filled softgels, I proceeded to chew on the gum, and a molar inadvertently pierced one of the capsules, and my God, whatever they are filled with tastes like what I’d assume snake guts or battery acid does. It was so hot, stinging, and bitter that it took me two full brushings, three shots of mouthwash, and a good minute rinsing my mouth under the faucet just to feel semi-normal.

Then I thought about how I had days before brushed my teeth for a full ten seconds before I realized something wasn’t right. I picked up the travel-sized toothpaste tube and saw that it was Neosporin. It wasn’t that bad. It didn’t really taste like anything, surprisingly. The only reason I knew it wasn’t toothpaste was its consistency and the lack of mint. I rinsed my mouth and started over with a normal-sized tube of Crest.

“These might be symptoms of early-onset dementia, Eric.”

I know that’s what you’re thinking. And it’s not a vision problem either, because you know what? While I was writing this piece, I glanced out of the office window, and even with astigmatism, I knew the orange blur I saw a good fifty yards away was a fox. I’d seen her around the property several times this past year, but I’d never been able to capture an image before she slyly disappeared.

Today I did.

Ha!

Hello, Foxy.