Pathetic, And A Random Act of Kindness
His day began typically, but with a heaviness of pain and sorrow that had been building for days. Morning contemplation with coffee. What could be accomplished today? First lawn mowing of Spring? Surf the Net? Practice music! Maybe a little laundry or floor sweeping just to try to keep up with the chores. Go for a walk. Those seem doable. And they were. But by mid-afternoon, having accomplished these simple goals, his brooding, the festering emptiness below the surface, was noticeably trying to break through.
This should not be a cooking day. It’s time to go out. Get out. Time to change surroundings, have a drink or two. Order something he wouldn’t make at home. But that lingering feeling. Can he muster the energy to get ready and go. And where? Not to his, or their, favorites. Don’t need to compound stress with nostalgia. Again, to the Net; “Restaurants near me.” Nope, that one’s too far. Don’t feel like what’s on ‘that’ menu. What about that new one? Not too far. Not much selection. But should be able to find something to go with a Moscow Mule or Bacardi cocktail.
Comfortable Spring evening, but a little on the cool side. He sees the gas-fueled flames around patio seating. That would be nice. Just a few others. Plenty of room to be alone without being alone. “Are you meeting someone?” asks the hostess. He extends his hand, smiles and says “I’m ‘Joe’. Nice to meet you. Now I’ve met someone. But I’m here alone.” Once seated he knows it won’t be comfortable on the patio, so he heads inside to be reseated.
Agreeing with the hostess on a table, there he sits. And sits. And sits. After ten minutes or so he goes back to the hostess and asks to have a server sent to the table. “I’ll let her know”, she states. Back to the table. And sits. And sits. Losing patience, he goes to the bar and asks to speak with a manager, who is there, and turns. “I want you to know that I just waited 15 minutes for a server to even come to the table. See ya!” and walked out the door. Well, that wasn’t helpful. Didn’t need anger and frustration on top of loneliness and emptiness. Now what? Might as well go home to figure it out.
On to the place across the park from his house. He’d been there before, but not often. Good Mules! Probably get a burger and fries. That’ll work. He walked the 1/4 mile through the park. When asked “Inside or out?” he replied, “Hmmm. Outside chilly, inside noisy.” The hostess suggested the dining area beyond the bar was quieter. And it was. Sitting alone at a small, square table that would be intimate for two, but with chairs for four on its flanks. He takes off his hat and un-pockets his phone, unlocking the latter to the background photo of his late wife, propping it on its case’s stand. Some sort of connection, intangible companionship while he enjoys an impressive breaded tenderloin and two flavored Mules.
And yet the feelings fester, like lava rising in the cone. Smoke rises in the form of welled-up tears. Enough to pull the handkerchief – her handkerchief that he always carries – from his pants pocket. Covered eyes, gentle sobs. As if he’s hiding his grief from those around him. Maybe, maybe not. His server, Emma, does a good job checking in. When finished she clears the dishes and mugs.
Instead of returning with the check, Emma states that the bill has been paid. But by whom? “A very nice person who thought you might be having a bad day”. ERUPTION! He can no longer hold it in. No hiding in a handkerchief now. Emma gives an empathetic sigh and leaves him to his crying.
The fiery smoke billows as the minutes trickle by. Finally, as she passes, he asks Emma about the person who pitied him. “Do I know them? May I meet them?” The person asked not to be made known. “You don’t know her, but I will ask her and have her come over if she agrees.”
More time passes as the eruption settles to a constant heated surge. Then to a festering underflow. Eventually, to some sense of decorum. Guessing it’s time to leave, he tosses a ten-dollar bill on the table as an extra tip for the server, and in lieu of paying for the meal for which he had not had to. He thanks Emma on the way out. All the time wondering who it was that saw through his thin veil of normalcy. He’ll never know.
He nearly dropped to his knees with sorrow and uncontrolled crying as he made the lonely walk home. Was this a gift, or affirmation of his woeful state of mind? Does it really matter anyway? Hadn’t it been getting better? Will he ever be better again? All he could do was collapse into his easy chair. No music, no TV. No changing into sweats or brushing of teeth. Silencing the phone, he cried himself to sleep.
Book Title TBD
My son Daniel and I contemplate co-writing a book that highlights our backpacking experiences with an emphasis on how our successes and challenges affected us and how our relationship has been molded by them. The concept includes both of us writing about the same treks from our own perspectives.
Our first trip together took place in 2002. Here’s an excerpt from my chapter one:
Chapter 1
Day One:
By the Summer of 2002, Daniel was 20 years old. We’d been doing the every-other-weekend thing for over eight years. I’d moved from Clear Lake, IA to Naperville, IL and back again, having made the weekend trips to and from, 6 hours each way, for a couple of those years. I’m a community college instructor and Daniel is a student at Iowa State University. Consequently, we both have summers off for the most part.
I really can’t remember how I approached the subject, but somehow invited Daniel to join me on a trip out West to visit some national parks and do some hiking. During Daniel’s early years, before the big split, the four of us, his Mother, his sister, he, and I went on similar trips beginning with Yellowstone when Daniel was about three, then on to Grand Tetons, Rocky Mountain, and Arches. We camped, hiked, toured several museums, and generally experienced nature in mountain splendor.
Daniel and I had great plans and expectations for our trip. We bought matching knives, selected other camping tools and gear, and made a rudimentary itinerary. When we took off for Glacier National Park in August, Daniel drove North from Clear Lake in pouring rain, in the dark, toward I-90 for the long westward trek across Minnesota, South Dakota, Wyoming, and eventually Montana.
I really don’t know how stressed Daniel was, but I was on the edge of my shotgun seat. I’m sure he knew that. I remember that the ramp for I-90 West, just North of Albert Lea, was closed. We had to go East to the next exit, get off the Interstate, then finally head West. Torrential rain for seemingly several hours. As we headed West, the external atmosphere improved. But within the vehicle things seemed rather chilly. To this day, I’m not sure what was going on with Daniel or between us for most of the trip. We both brought plenty of baggage with us, the weight of it much more than our camping gear.
We had no GPS, relying on Rand McNally to get us along. We reached the Badlands by early afternoon. Finally, something to see. It felt good to be out of the car and enjoying a mutual, nature experience. The overcast skies dulled the vast color richness of the eroded, sedimentary formations. But we could see almost forever and enjoyed a short hike, standing on a precipice or two, and taking in the fresh, dry air.
By late afternoon we were in Western South Dakota, with Daniel still driving – in the middle of literally thousands of motorcycles, cars pulling motorcycles, and campers with motorcycles in trailers, some towing cars! Yep. Sturgis. The traffic was crazy! Bikes lined the interstate for miles on the shoulder waiting for the exit intersection to clear from those earlier arrivals. Every inch of space on the frontage roads, parking lots, hotels lots, and grassy areas held the annual partygoers. Slowed to a crawl in interstate traffic, we watched cyclists challenging each other and the dirt-strewn hill they were trying to climb. Only later did I realize the irony in our attempts to hike up switchbacks on the sides of mountains. Just a different macho game.
Partygoers were everywhere. Consequently, places to stay were nowhere to be found. Hotels, motels, and campgrounds were full. So, on we went. Deadwood, Spearfish, Sundance Wyoming. Finally, we found plenty of campsites available at Devils Tower National Monument. What a sight! A huge column of solidified magma jutting up out of the desert. There were few trees and little grass. We pitched our tent, ate a bite, and headed to the tower base to look around. I think I remember that we did hike around the base, but decided not to climb to the top.
But Sturgis found us at Devils Tower too. Bikers for Jesus decided to stay away from the milieu around the party site (or maybe they were just late) and the whole lot of them camped near us at Devils Tower. The contradiction in styles was palpable. They certainly looked like bikers, mostly Harleys, tattoos, beards, the whole thing. But they didn’t drink or smoke pot. They sang and danced and had a great time. Fortunately, though their religious preferences were clear, they didn’t try to convert us. So, we got along just fine.
All-in-all it was a pretty amazing day. I think I took over driving somewhere past Sturgis. We talked about nothing serious that day, trying just to navigate communications of logistics and directions. Still, I found it difficult to open any meaningful conversation. I’d tried hard over the past several years to give Daniel space to feel whatever he had to, to get through the difficulties of divorce and family upheaval. I knew by then that he had some difficulties at home trying to maintain relationships with his Mother, his sister, and me. It takes two to tango, or tangle. But I still felt guilty for my part in the split and just for leaving two young teens without much notice.So by the end of the first day, it’s safe to say I really had no idea what this trip was really about, how it would play out, nor whether our relationship would survive it.