Looking back at my crossroads...a really bad metaphor

People use the phrase "at a crossroads" far too often. They always say it the same way too. They take a deeper breath than normal and force themselves to speak the cliche with the utmost confidence. "Sounds like you are at a real crossroads in life," they say with a air of authority. Like they've been at that same crossroad before. When in actuality, I believe that "standing at a crossroads" is a fleeting moment in comparison to the road you just traveled and the road you end up choosing.

When I reflect on my "standing at a crossroads" moments, I see myself stopping, resting to catch my breath, looking in all directions and then taking the road my heart leads me to. Just like that, I am no longer at a crossroads. I am now on a different road. I am scared when I end up taking the "road less traveled." I am sad when there is no one "on the road" with me. And, often taking the new road is far more challenging and emotion filled than the "standing at a crossroads" moment. But, the saddest and most unfortunate thing is that the people who over use the "crossroads" phrase are generally the people still standing at them. I am not so far from my most recent crossroads that I can't still look back and see the ones I love still standing at them either scared to choose or more frightened not to try. Or worse yet, not able to admit that life moves on an endless winding road with twist and turns and if you continue to make house at the crossroads, you will only be forced to play a continuous game of chicken while dodging those who come to your crossroads and actually make a choice fully embracing the risks.

A metaphor that, now that I have over used in every way possible, will hopefully never find it's way back into my vernacular.

Sensorial Sentimentality from April 2004

Now, I pray this is not too much for you.
Please don't run. This is my retelling of it.

The smell is not pleasant. The noise obtrusive. The subway platform is sprinkled with passengers. I feel as though I can hear a collective sigh as we all gaze deep into the tunnel searching for the next approaching coach home. Alas, no trace. In my case, I am on my way to your home. I catch my self checking my reflection in the C LOCAL across the platform. Not in the window. But in the dark box designated for the train label. It serves me better.

Should I read? Listen to music? And my heart beats. I think people are looking at me. I pace back and forth. Eight steps North. Eight steps South. To the rhythm of my heart. I carry on like this. Only stopping periodically to check my reflection again. As if my nappy wisps of hair have really moved on the platform that seems to be devoid of any air. My coins are dancing the Tarantella with my fingers. I realize I am doing it, and I hate that I am. I can't stand that sound. It reminds me of old people. Of people in line at the grocery store. People from my hometown. People at a bar. People who aren't really listening. I stop.

Inside the train. I sit up straight, without my back touching the seat/bench. A sure sign of my uncomfortableness with my own nervousness and insecurities. I am such a control oriented person, I try to force my heartbeat to match the revolution of the subway wheels. Chung-CHUNG. Chung-CHUNG. To no avail. It disobeys me and continues to patter away briskly. The next thing I know. The street.

Your street. I am walking. Turn left, a gust of wind. "MY HAIR!" I feel like I might have said this out loud. Not at a volume anyone could hear but me, but, nonetheless, still out loud. The homemade bouquet/note I plan to present to you is being ironed out between my hands. Building number 712. Apt #52. "Should I ring the doorbell or just knock?" I think to myself. So, I do both. I also think to myself, "Why can't this door be more of a reflective surface?" You don't answer the door. I am actually glad. It gives me more time.

"Shit!" did I say that out loud? I hope not. There you are with domestic-esque, kitchen thingys in your hands. "God he is so handsome." I tell myself. "God my mom would say, it looks like he makes a good husband." I think to myself. "God stop thinking about your mom right now." "God just stop thinking and say HI."

Pleasantries exchanged. My unconventional bouquet. One kiss. Three more. Each one a little more brave than the other. Yellow looks so good on you. Red looks so good on me. We look good together. Being in the kitchen adds an aroma to the moment. Citrus in the air, bread too maybe. And a warmth. My nerves ease slightly. I detect excitement in your eyes. Could it possibly match mine?

Dinner. Savory. I remember wanting to remember the spice of the pepper mixed with the sweet of the citrus. I remember wanting to remember the moist beads of your forehead from cooking. I wanted to look at more than your ass in those gorgeous pants. I wanted to make you laugh. Typical of my nature. There is so much I want to remember.

My thoughts speed through me. Smell him. Dior? Right?
Kiss him, again. Make a toast. No, too many words. Words can scare people. Just make a memory.

The movie. Hilarious. Interesting. Your laughter sporadic but genuine. Your body pressed to mine. The instantaneous comfort lingering between. Both so unsure of what to do with it.

The bedroom. A place that is yours not mine. A body that is yours not mine. Explorers on an expedition without a map. Where might X mark the spot on him? Where might X mark the spot on me? I believe in buried treasures. I believe in sparkling discoveries. I don't believe they happen in one expedition.

Morning. The cool breeze of the oscillating fan mixed with the warmth of the red sheets. It is a new place. It feels foreign to me too. I try not to be afraid. Even though I may not speak the language, can I get along in this place? I was happy. I was scared. Then I was happy again. Then I was with you. Then my concern, my heart, my mind, and my soul were with you. "Where is he?" I think. "Where should we be?" I question. A kiss good-bye unlike any kiss I have given or received yet. Not bad, but in an all-together different family than all the others.

The day continues. I smell you. It is sense memory. That damn cologne. It is not just in my sense of smell, it is now in my mind's nose. I read your email and write my own. I sigh. Relief that is. A sigh of comfort and joy. Another long breath out. Then I sense something. I need a breath mint. I had chicken with garlic sauce tonight. Thank God for curiously strong mints.
Thank God for curiously strong words.
Thank God for curiosity and strength.

We will talk soon, and let us both fear a little less and feel a little more.

Coming Home

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Blogfish (A blog that is selfish)

In a world of selfishness, a city of shallowness, and a circle of self-involvement I hesitate to even relay the experience from my last post and then proceed to use this post to comment on it.

In my world, when you talk about not being selfish you get reminders signed, sealed and delivered by your friends, your colleagues, your peers, and strangers telling you that you are just like them. Selfish. Because if everyone else is selfish like us we can rationalize it. It soothes the pain of our own embarrassing admission of being completely and utterly self-involved. We listen to a friend, a co-worker, a guest on Oprah talk about how they are trying to be more selfless and thoughtful and we roll our eyes and sigh. We call them self-righteous. Because we can't stand that "new age' bullshit. Don't start that "be a better person" tirade. Stay with me in this bottomless pit of self-involvement, seclusion and oddly enough exclusiveness. Because we actually believe (especially in NYC) that being selfish is important to survival. Because we believe in order to get anywhere in life everyone has to be (and I quote) "a little bit selfish." Maybe to a certain degree this is true. But, we metropolitan, cosmopolitan, 9-5ing, wine and dining, manhattanites have gone too far. We have cut out any middle ground between selfish and self-righteous. Because we need things to be cut and dry. Linear. Like the streets we tread on daily. A grid. Where each person can fit into their own categorized square box. And then proceed to not think outside of it.

As I continue on with my "tirade," even I can't help but think I am sounding self-righteous. But, if sounding self-righteous is the first step in realizing other people are around me, then I will risk it. If sounding self-righteous is the worst outcome of learning how to thrive in this world instead of just survive, then I will risk it. If my blessing from Sherman has me talking for days, weeks, months about the change it has stirred in me and that sounds self-righteous, so be it.

I want to surround myself around caring, nurturing, generous and selfless people. I want to stop letting all of my life's little issues bring me down. I want to stop using my issues and the state of down as an excuse for my attitude and behaviors. I want to stop expecting people to understand. I want to let go of my frustration when they can't. I want to stop making it about me. How do I do that?

I turn around and post on my blog. One of the most selfish things to exist. I fail miserably by writing in my blog, making it all about me, then posting it for the world (a dozen or so readers) to see.

Self-righteous is defined as piously sure of one's own righteousness; moralistic. And, pious is defined asprofessing or exhibiting a strict, traditional sense of virtue and morality; high-minded; commendable; worthy.
Those things don't sound so bad to me.

But, I have years of jaded, bitter, lonely, selfish learned behaviors to unteach myself.

Sherman's Blessing

3:58 a.m. Thursday, August 10th.

I called out to the driver of the taxi to stop on the far corner of my block on the upper west side of Manhattan. I handed him ten singles and said good night. I slid across the back seat to exit, according to the law, on the curb side of the taxi. As my tired ass slowly glided across the black pleather seat it bumped into something. I urgently fumbled for the object, assuming it was my precious razor phone falling out of my pocket or better yet my grip. What I found was a very bulky, black leather wallet. In my dazed state of exhaustion and confusion I almost handed it to the driver passing the ball of responsibility into his court. Just before making the hand-off, I remembered that I didn't trust an ounce of one single, solitary cab driver in this stinkin' city. So, with reluctance, I tightened my grip on the massive brick of a wallet and proceeded up the five flights to my apartment.

Inside my apartment, I immediately got to work on tracking down the individual who's wallet was left behind. I leafed through the right side of the bifold wallet. There I found Sherman's Driver's License, his four credit cards, his two bank cards, his social security card, his insurance cards, his Medicare card, his medical supplies delivery service card, his senior citizen Metro Pass, his crumpled instructions for what pills to take, how many and when, his veteran's benefits card, his library card, a few receipts, and two random business cards for Jewish organizations. On the LEFT side of the wallet was all of Shirley's cards. Her driver's license, her Medicare card, insurance cards, prescription cards, MTA pass, everything but credit and debit cards on her side of the wallet. I stopped and pondered why the man would be carrying all of his wife's life of identification in his wallet. The thought crossed my mind that she may be crippled. The thought crossed my mind she may be dead and he carries her with him this way. The thought crossed my mind that maybe when two people get this old together (83 and 80) they are together every moment of everyday and it only makes sense to carry it all in one place.

After a 20 minute 4 a.m. call with AMEX, no luck. I did close down Sherman's card for him but there was nothing I could do at 4 a.m. I rifled through the wallet again and created my own story for Shirley and Sherman. They lived in Brooklyn (at least when the licenses were issued). I wondered if they had a huge apartment. I wondered what war Sherman was a veteran of. World War II perhaps. He would have been 20 years old the year that victory came to the Allied Powers. I wondered how much money was on their senior citizen metro passes. The longer I looked at his photo on the veteran's card and her photo on her i.d., the more I felt for them. Losing your wallet sucks. But, imagine being a senior citizen with your life's most important documents and nearly $150 in cash gone in the 37 seconds it took to pay and leave your taxi cab.

I went to sleep. I think I had selfish dreams about winning lots of money or being given some cash reward for my find. Then I jumped to a completely unrelated dream where Travis from "So You Think You Can Dance," was in a play that I was directing and I asked him to create some choreography for me. We both (in the dream) loved the song "It's Not Up To You" by BJORK. He was delightful to work with and had massive amounts of respect for me as a director and an artist. The last dream I remember having involved me walking on this elevated runway that was probably 100 feet wide and the entire length of central park. It was just suspended in mid-air. I was walking with purpose and was sweating. It wasn't a cat walk it was like an airplane runway. There were very few people on it with me and I was walking/running much faster than all of them. I wasn't afraid of what was at the the end. In my dream I knew the runway was coming to an end at 59th Street and I knew that whatever happened I would be okay. I zoomed to the end and when the runway ended I kept going. I wasn't flying. I was still walking. But, I was suspended just above the streets at 20 or so feet. No one could see me. I was floating. But sadness came over me. I started to step inside my own dream for fear that I was dreaming of my death. I abruptly woke up and looked at the clock. 11:53 a.m. Thursday, August 10th.

I spent the remainder of my morning (ah..em afternoon) tracking down Sherman and Shirley again. I called a few more of their credit cards and finally found out that one of them had already been cancelled by Sherman himself. A few of the companies I spoke with tried to phone him but no luck. I gave each company I spoke to my name and phone number just in case they got in touch with him.

Finally, it dawned on me to try doing an internet search. (internet in my own apartment is a new thing...so I was a little slow on the uptake) There it was. His name and the matching address on his i.d. But, in order to get his number you had to pay for the "extra special" search. I did it. I got the number and I called. It rang and rang. Then it rang some more. I hung up feeling defeated and on the brink of fed up. This 'do-good' crap isn't paying off, I thought to myself. Ten minutes later I tried again. I must have let it ring a dozen or more times. Just when i was about to flip my phone closed, a fumbling receiver makes it's way to a quiet, scratchy voiced man with the sounds of phlegm forming in his sinuses...there is a least a six or seven second delay in his "hello."

"Is this Sherman _____________ ?" I ask.

"Who is this?" He asks after another six or seven seconds.

"Is this Mr. Sherman and Shirley ___________?" I ask once more.

"This is he. Who's this?"

"I have your wallet, sir. My name is Clem. I found..."

He interrupts me. "Who is Clem?"

"Sir," I say over him, "I found your wallet in taxi cab in the wee hours of the morning on my way home from work. I work in the service industry until very late that's why I was in a cab." I was so desperate for him to trust me that I had to try and prove my sobriety and responsibility for being in a cab at such a late hour. The power of our elders, I must say.

Then came a painfully long pause. I actually said "umm sir?" He finally spoke in an even more hushed voice than before peppered with more gravel in his throat.

"Bless you." He said so simply.

After a twenty minute conversation about where my office was located, what my cell phone number was, how to spell my name, and a few repeats of all of that, we made a date to meet in the lobby of my office at 5:30 p.m. It was about 3:10 p.m. at this point. He had a very long commute ahead of him living on the extreme edges of Brooklyn. I flipped my phone closed and folded the wallet with the seeds of a smile planted deep within my soul. I flipped back open my phone to call a friend and share my story. I was only minutes into the story when a call beeped in. I was sure it was him. I don't know anyone with a 718 area code. (And that wasn't intended to be snobby) I hung up with said friend and retrieved my call waiting.

"Clem? It's Sherman. What time did we say we'd meet?" He then repeated the address again for the eighth time, the spelling of my name for the fourth time, and my phone number for the sixth time and we said good-bye. Well, I did at least. He just hung up the phone with no salutation.

I made my way downtown clutching to the wallet for dear life. God forbid I finally locate the guy and then I end up leaving it on a subway seat. I exit the subway in midtown and head toward my office. I try to imagine his height and if he wears his age or not. I step into the lobby of my building and his back is to me. I instantly know it is him. One, because there is only one other person in the lobby and they are a busy bustling by. Two, because he is eyeing the six elevators with such focus and anticipation. He is early. So am I. I hope he hasn't waited long. I pause for a moment and take in his frail little frame, his oversized white canvas shoes, the plaid button down that is also too large for him. He must be 5' 7" and weigh about 100lbs. I don't want to startle the gentle man, so I walk timidly around him in a sweeping circle so that I may have our first introduction happen face to face.

"Sherman?" I inquire with a huge smile that says 'trust me...I am harmless."

"Clem." He replies with an air of exasperation. Like he has been holding his breath all this time in the lobby until I appeared in the flesh. I am sure the thought crossed his mind that he made this long trip into Manhattan only to be played by some cruel teenager.

"Here you are, sir. " I handed him his wallet like it was the book report I wrote for "Lord of the Flies" in the fifth grade. With pride and honor.

"Thank you, young man." There are lots of breaks and pauses for breath in his speech. "You are...such an honest man....There aren't too many people like you." Periodically, I nod thank you and give an aww shucks expression. He is not finished talking though. Everytime the break in speech is long enough for me to believe he has said his peace, he begins again.

"May I call your parents?" What for? I think to myself. "I want to tell them how proud of you they should be. I want to thank them for doing something right in raising you to be the selfless, honest person you are today."

I thank him for the gesture. He says he wants to give me something for my troubles while reaching into his pockets. I explain how it was no trouble and reach out and stop his arm from digging any deeper into his trousers. He then proceeds to explain why all of his wife's identifications are in his wallet. And, without turning this into a hallmark commercial (if it hasn't already) let's just say his wife was in the hospital the night he lost his wallet. He needed to have all of her information in case any emergencies or formalities had to be dealt with. He looked so tired. Yet, when he looked at me, he looked surprised by the world. He began to mutter thank yous softly to himself while looking down at his payless shoes. I stood there silently. He just kept shaking his head in disbelief or of awe. I didn't know if I was supposed to ask questions or stay still.

Then the greatest thing happened. He reached for my right shoulder then my left one and with a grip stronger than you'd expect he started to shake me a little. It's hard to put into words. I am a much better demonstrator than storyteller. It was like he wanted to throw his arms around me but he shook his arms instead when they made contact with me. This was probably to remind himself I was a stranger and to keep me at arm's length. He knew my shoulder wasn't the one to cry on. He was looking down again. Finally his grip loosened slightly and as it did he looked up with tears down both of his cheeks weaving through the rivers of lines etched on his experienced face. I sank in his rivers. I dove into this stranger. I hugged him with all the emotion I could muster for a man I hardly knew. I told him things would be alright. I told him to keep his money and go buy some flowers for his wife. I cried with him. One, because I wanted him to feel safe in doing so with me. Two, because he moved me.

"God Bless you," He said. "Even if you don't believe in a God, and I am not asking you to, someone or something has blessed you. I hope you continue a blessed life and get everything you deserve."

I began to thank him repeatedly. I suddenly felt thankful for him and this experience. I wanted to ask him to keep in touch. I wanted to go to Lenox Hill Hospital and meet his wife. I wanted to walk him to a cab. Instead we parted with awkwardness and waved good-bye.

Sherman shuffled out of my lobby while I proceeded to the elevators of my work life. He ended up stopping twice before leaving the building all together to look back in my direction. He couldn't see me because the brightness of the sun outside contrasted and made the lobby appear dark.

Ding. The elevator arrives. I step inside and ride it to the seventh floor alone, allowing myself to squeeze out all the tears I could in the seconds it takes an elevator to climb seven floors. I must have looked like I was ringing out a wet rag. I scrunched up my face and wept silently for five to ten seconds. I was trying to get it all out and not carry it with me.

Sherman fell into my lap and walked out of my life in 13 hours. But he did so with the deepest sincerity I had ever witnessed and a flourish of vulnerability that will stay with me for a lifetime... I hope. He made me think. He made me feel. He made me proud. He made a difference.

The Visit...Part I

He sits next to me, and after 29 years of being my father and not always playing the role I might add, he still can't say it, admit to it, embrace it, apologize for it, see it or hear it.

"IT," being most of his actions.

The rationale he creates for his behaviors in the past has only gotten worse over the years. There is an excuse for everything. Everything he kicked in 1985. Everything he threw in 1991. Everything he left in 2000.

He sat on my couch for the first time in ten years with little forgiveness, remorse, self-reproach or sadness. He did admit to having regrets. That's a step. But, not a step in the right direction. No complaints and no regrets is my motto. "All you give is all you get," goes the song. I will admit that just the fact that he wanted to talk this candidly about the past and the present is his way of giving all he can in order to get back all that he has wanted from his son throughout our life and relationship. I am not overlooking the leaps and bounds he has made as a person since the divorce, since my coming out.

"I know I got out a hand a few times, Clem....but...I wouldn't call that abuse." He says to me facing forward as I sit to his left looking right at him. If he really believed he didn't abuse me (and my brother) wouldn't he be able to look me square in the eye and say it with confidence? I didn't even bring up the topic. He did. How did we get here? He asked if there was anything about my childhood that still affected me. I talked about all the financial hardships we faced and the way we dealt with them as a family still has an affect on me now. He took this sharp turn himself. He wanted to talk about this part of my childhood. He was still haunted by my childhood. Before jumping up off the couch to explode, I realized this. He does know, somewhere deep inside his mind and/or heart, that he was abusive. He does know it shouldn't have happened. He does take some of the blame. Before I began my tirade on the meaning of abuse and who can decide what is considered abuse, I took into account how difficult it must be for a father who wants his sons to love him in a way they never have to sit and fully accept blame and call "IT" abuse. It's an nasty word. It's an ugly misdeed.

But, I told him. I told him that was exactly what "It" was. You did abuse me...us.

I could have sat on that couch and given him specific examples. I could have used the most horrific ones. The ones that left spider vein bruises across both of my buttocks. The ones that sent me flying over the loveseat. The ones where my head came close to cracking the pavement while I humiliatingly pissed my pants at 12 yeas old. But I didn't. I didn't need to. He didn't need to hear it. He knew. He knows the times. He mentioned the time Cole and I disappeared to the creek to play and shouldn't have. He mentioned the time I begged to come in from the rain with my sore shoulder and I just couldn't throw (didn't want to throw) another pitch.

He didn't say he was sorry. He said he regrets "some" of what he did to me...us. I realized that if I want to continue to have a relationship with my father, if I want to send him into the afterlife with no resentment and anger, if I want to make the most of the last half of his life on earth with me, I was going to have to forgive him without an apology. I have grown used to this throughout my life. It wasn't something new I had to do. I had forgiven him for each instance when they happened and he didn't say sorry. He might have said the words back then but they didn't come from him. Mom would always be standing right beside him coaching the next phrase out of his mouth...

"Tell the boys your sorry," she would coax.

"I'm sorry boys." He would say mechanically.

"Tell the boys you love them," mom would encourage.

"I love ya." He would mumble.

He still gargles those words to this day. But, I know that he does indeed love me. I love him too. I know that he is sorry. I forgive him too. Some things are just known. They don't need to be said to be known. I would love to hear 'I am sorry' someday. But, I don't NEED to hear it in order to forgive him. I don't NEED two little words to move on in my life. I don't NEED those words in order to patch the remaining holes in the tattered and torn relationship between us.

I think, maybe, that is unconditional love? When you don't need anything from the other person and you can love them wholly and fully? Maybe? When there isn't one or two little requirements you need to meet in order to share my love with you? Is this close to what unconditional love is? Maybe.
Maybe it's just between me and my Dad.

There's more to the visit to come.

Can't take the heat!

No matter how often I shower...
No matter how little clothing I wear...
No matter how much darkness I surround myself with...
No matter how high the AC is on...

I still fee like a raisin. Wrinkled, sticky, chewy, gummy, gooey, doughy, not that tasty but still good for you.

Make it stop!