I Can't Stop Thinking About This Photo

Okay, so you've got Sonny and Cher. Sonny is grinning and Cher is not. But then you've got, of all people, Bob Dylan with them and HE'S smiling with his arm extended beyond Sonny's head and his fingers doing I don't know what. Maybe he's reaching toward Cher. (Who wouldn't rather be touching Cher rather than Sonny?) We can see three people in the background no way of knowing who any of them are. One looks like he's drinking from a cup. One is a woman and the third is looking at the three people getting their photo taken. Looks like they could be in a studio or backstage. The photo had to have been taken in the 1960s. This would have been before the Sonny and Cher Comedy Hour which started in 1970. At least I'm pretty sure. I'm also pretty sure that Dylan was never a guest on the show because why would he be and he's not listed among the prominent guests the twosome had on the show.

I just don't associate Dylan with Sonny and Cher. I doubt he would have avoided them but he was fairly particular about who he hung out with and doubtless still is. Maybe they just "bumped into" one another after a gig. Maybe it was a Dylan show, maybe it was a Sonny and Cher performance, maybe they were seeing another act. Again, I don't know. Time to do a little research.

(Pause while the blogger opens another window and does due diligence.)

Here's what I found out (why I didn't do this before I began this post, I cannot tell you): the photo was taken in 1965 (told you!) at Atlantic Studios. That's all I could learn. I also was reminded of the fact that Sonny and Cher had a hit with a song Dylan wrote, All I Really Want to Do in '65. Maybe that's somehow related to the photo. 

Interesting trio. Cher went on to win on Best Actress Oscar, Sonny was elected to congress and Dylan won a Pulitzer. 

Anyway, I still find it odd to see them together and with Dylan smiling. The stuff you come across.....

"Just because someone is God doesn’t mean they’re perfect" -- My Exclusive Interview With God's Parents

Earlier this month I visited God’s parents. Though private people they graciously consented to an interview (they’re admirers of this blog). Floyd and Gloria live in a modest home in Arlington Heights, a suburb of Chicago, with their cat Bubby and a cocker spaniel named Fred. Floyd is a retired insurance salesman and Gloria still works part time as a middle school librarian. Floyd is an enthusiastic philatelist who admits using his son’s connections to bolster his stamp collection. He also enjoys puttering around in his garden, bowling and watching baseball. Gloria is an avid knitter and enjoys reading a good mystery. When I visited them Gloria served tea and oatmeal raisin cookies she’d baked that morning. 

Me: You must be proud of your son.

Floyd: Well, yes, he’s accomplished quite a lot, creating a universe and having all encompassing power is pretty impressive plus —

Gloria: But more importantly he’s always been a good boy, maybe a bit temperamental at times….

Me: What was he like as a child?

Gloria: Precocious. He was walking and talking almost from the beginning. 

Floyd: He was ahead of the curve on almost everything.

Gloria: Well, except for potty training, he struggled —

Floyd: Don’t embarrass the boy by talking about that.

Me: How soon did you realize that he had what it took to be the almighty?

Floyd: When he started creating creatures.

Gloria: Out of thin air, mind you.

Me: Would some of these be the animals that are with us today?

Floyd: Oh no, this was awhile ago. We’re talking now about dinosaurs. 

Me: I’d imagine that could have been terrifying.

Gloria: Dear me, yes. I was almost eaten by one.

Me: Did he gave you any trouble as a child?

Gloria: Not really except that he pouted a lot. The school counselor noted he responded well to praise. I think we overdid it. “Nice job cleaning up after yourself,” “oh look how nicely you got ready for bed” “thank you for putting your toys away.”

Floyd: Yeah he got to the point where he didn’t just expect praise but was demanding it. It’s a problem to this day. You know how he wants a whole day set aside to honor him —

Gloria: He’s a gone a bit too far with all that and not saying his name in vain, I mean that’s a bit extreme. We should have put him in his place right then and there.

Floyd: We were too lax with the boy.

Gloria: Still he’s been a fine son and done a lot of good in the world.

Me: But what about all the famine and pestilence and war. I mean the Holocaust alone —

Floyd: Just because someone is God doesn’t mean they’re perfect.

Gloria: It’s easy to point out his mistakes but remember there are flowers, sunny days, mountains, beautiful creatures, music, all kinds of wonderful things.

Me: Bit of a mixed record.

Floyd: Now you’re getting into the whole argument about whether what humans do are his fault or theirs.

Me: Does he listen to everyone’s prayers? Seems a big job.

Gloria: Frankly no. He’s got a service. But they’re really good about getting important messages to him.

Me: Let’s talk about his son.

Gloria: Such a fine boy. 

Floyd: Very proud of him. Really sensitive kid. We were devastated when he died.

Gloria: But so delighted when he came back.

Floyd: Yeah, sure but then he ascended to heaven again. We rarely see him.

Me: By the way, where exactly is heaven?

Floyd: You head toward Saturn then take a sharp right at Titan — it’s one of Saturn’s moons, you know — and in a few light years you're there. Our boy’s a real stickler about people not coming unless they’re deceased. 

Gloria: He’s always been one for rules.

Me: Is there a hell?

Floyd: Are you familiar with CPAC?

Me: The Conservative Political Action Conference?

Gloria: Bingo.

Me: What do you call God?

Floyd: By his given name, Craig.

Me: He has a brother and a sister.

Gloria: Yup, Craig's the middle child. Our oldest boy Lonnie lives in Canada, runs a bait shop near a popular fishing spot. But you've met him. The baby is Celeste. She manages a Banana Republic in Stowe, Vermont. Divorced -- poor dear -- raising two lovely children.

Me: Does Craig visit you and his siblings often?

Gloria: Not often enough. Always claims to be busy overseeing the universe.

Floyd: You’d think by now he could leave a lot of the day-to-day operations to underlings.

Gloria: We do seem him on holidays. He particularly loves Thanksgiving. He has a fondness for my pumpkin pie.

Me: Is he married?

Gloria: Separated. 

Floyd: We liked LaShondra but they’ve had their troubles as some couples do. He can be pretty possessive.

Me: I sometimes hear people, athletes for example, say that all the glory goes to God. What exactly does that mean?

Floyd: It’s nice to hear your boy recognized but frankly neither of us can make heads nor tails of what that means.

Gloria: It’s a little much, if you ask me. I understand people thanking him for this or that but they do tend to go to extremes. He may be a deity but he puts on his pants on leg at a time just like everyone else.

Floyd: Well, actually now, dear, he can put them on two legs at once.

Gloria: It's just an expression, dear.

Me: Is there predestination?

Floyd: I’ve asked Craig that a number of times but he just winks.

Gloria: You’d think he’d tell his own parents.

Me: Does he remember you on your birthdays?

Floyd: He’s very good about that. If nothing else a gift materializes in the morning with a card. If he has time he drops by or takes us out.

Me: Do people recognize him?

Gloria: Some do. 

Floyd: Not enough, though. He loves the attention.

Me: Are you religious?

Gloria: Yes, we’re buddhists.

Me: Really? How does your son feel about that?

Floyd: We try not to argue about religion.

Gloria: I don’t like arguing with him at all. He tends to take a holier-than-thou attitude.

Me: How does he feel about organized religions, specifically Christian one?.

Floyd: He likes the singing but isn't too crazy about some of the strictures religions often put on people.

Gloria: Yeah, for example he's fine with consensual premarital sex between adults. 

Floyd: The one that bugs him the most is the Jehovah's Witnesses. He find the whole knocking on doors thing really annoying.

Gloria: Matter of fact the last time he was here some came to the door and he told them to take a hike.

Floyd: Slammed the door

Me: Some people claim that hurricanes, earthquakes and the like are God's retributions for people's sins.

Floyd: Hogwash. Craig has never figured out how to start or stop natural disasters. He's got some tech guys working on it.

Me: How does he feel about sinners?

Gloria: He's used to sinning. I mean, aren't we all?

Me: Have you ever been really angry with him?

Gloria: We were furious when he turned Lot's wife into a pillar of salt. We grounded him for a week for that. But lately not so much.

Floyd: We got a little peeved about AIDS, the ebola virus, Covid, things like that but he's grown man now, what can you do?

Me: Does he ever ask you for advice?

Gloria: Not about running the universe but he asks me about cooking and Floyd about bowling.

Floyd: I love my son but he's headstrong about his work. Thinks he knows everything just because he's all-knowing.

Me: Still you must be enormously proud of what he's done.

Gloria: Creating a universe and so many species is something to hang your hat on, that's for sure.

Me: Thanks so much for your time. I really enjoyed meeting you.

Floyd: Well, we’re such fans of your blog that we’re honored to have had you as our guest.

Gloria: This was fun. Next time you're in the Chicago area come by again.

Me: Thanks and give my regards to your son.

Floyd: You can always do that yourself with a prayer.

Me: Oh no, I meant your other son Lonnie. Him I believe in. 

Remembering Steven, A Bright Shining Light That Passed Through My Life

"The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes “Awww!”  -- from On the Road by Jack Kerouac.

I was reminded of this when someone mentioned Orange Julius:

Steven, who was a very distant cousin and good friend and mentor (in the fields of alcohol and drug intake) along with a friend of his from Finland (Matti) were staying with me for a few weeks in the summer of 1972 at my parent’s place in Berkeley. We were prone to long evenings of debauchery and had just enjoyed one despite the fact that Steven had an early morning class at Cal.

Steven returned from the class noonish and told us the following: “I was sitting in the Orange Julius before class drinking a coffee. I was totally spaced out staring into the void in the throes of a vicious hangover. Someone came up to me and said: ‘it’s far out that you’re tripping, man, but try not to be so obvious about it.’” Steven then fell into paroxysms of laughter as did Matti and I.

I’ve always cherished that story. It’s so very reflective of Steven who was so singular a personality that I made him a character in my latest novel. He had a huge impact on my life starting the day I met him when I was fifteen  (he was just short of twenty, incredibly old to me at the time) he introduced me to alcohol that day. Steven (never, ever Steve) was the first openly gay man that I ever knew. I grew up in a very different time in which homosexuality was not discussed as anything other than a perversion. It wasn’t so much that I and my peers grew up homophobic but more a matter of queerness not even being acknowledged. Learning that Steve was gay — which happened a few years into our friendship — made homosexuality seem not just acceptable but somehow exotic and interesting — though nothing I wanted to experiment with.

To say that Steven had a facility for languages would be a massive understatement. He learned Finnish — starting with zero words — in a few months. And he was soon fluent. Not surprisingly he got an undergraduate degree in linguistics. I don’t know whether he completed a post graduate degree but he easily could have with minimal application.

Toward the end of his life Steven was a homeless advocate. I know little of those years. I lost contact with him when I “settled down” and got sober, married and entrenched in a teaching career. I don’t know whether his drinking continued apace but he was only 43 when he died, perhaps of AIDS.

Back to the day I met him. I was at a large July 4th gathering in Marin County at which there were many Finns including a few of my cousins. I was seated at a large table on a lawn with two of my cousins desperately bored when Steven appeared (the fete was, after all, at his once and future home). It was as if Mick Jagger had entered the room. Though not a conventionally handsome man he had the presence of a rock star. Charisma oozed from his pores. Noting that we were drinking lemonade, Steven produced a bottle of vodka and proceeded to spike our drinks. 

My first experience with intoxication was something of a case of love at first sight — or sip. The experience was enhanced by Steven who possessed a ribald sense of humor. He was instantly impressed by my ready wit and perspicacity. Steven was further impressed that I could sing along to Springtime For Hitler from the film, The Producers.

Over the next ten years I saw Steven sporadically often visiting him in Marin, sometimes bringing along a current girlfriend. The July 4th gatherings continued but moved to Mendocino. There was a small community of Finns dominating a tiny town inland from
Mendocino called Comptche. We regularly visited there and Steven was often there as one of the residents was an aunt. 

The parties in Mendocino were wild, sprawling affairs with oceans of booze and large barbecues. I managed a number of sexual conquests there, except when showing up already with  a girl. When not satisfying my carnal desires I was in revelry with Steven and others.

There have been few things in my life that have indulged my ego more than the fact that Steven liked me so much. In addition to my wild and imaginative sense of humor he appreciated my ability to drink throughout the night and remain ambulatory and with the power of speech (if somewhat slurred). We were peas in a pod — one flooded with liquor.

Steven was a party waiting to happen. So was I. Between us we put Dionysus to shame.

I suppose given that I am a recovering alcoholic one might claim that Steven was a bad influence. Poppycock. First of all I would have embarked on a nearly twenty-year drinking career even if I’d never met the man. Steven provided me with some of my favorite memories of my late teens and early twenties. 

I don’t know what adjective best suits him. Many are required. Unique doesn’t suffice. I’ve used singular and it’s okay. Hilarious. Genius. Brilliant. Loquacious. Charming. Certainly flamboyant. Sometimes prissy and a little prickly. Insightful. Occasionally silly. Well-read. For me he was inspirational. He made me want to be smarter. He made me want to enjoy life to the fullest. He made me want to revel in what was special about me. To be true to my nature. 

I should add that Steven was — like the rest of us — far from perfect. He suffered occasional depression (I don’t know if it was as bad as mine). I know that despite loving, long-term relationships he fought against his own true nature and tried to be “cured” of homosexuality. I’ll never understand this. But he enriched my life and did the same for those around him. He never said anything dull or expected. He was an exploding star.

Anytime I hear a reference to Orange Julius, I think of him. Extraordinary chap. 

Plans Go Kablooey After a Serious Fall But I'm Soon London Bound

They’re called the best laid plains and it’s said they often go awry. No kidding.

The wife and I were going to fly to London on May 1 and spent five days there. Then we were going to take the train for San Sebastián Spain for a week in this glorious coastal town where we were going to do very little that did not involve either sitting on the beach or eating in one of the city’s many renowned restaurants. From there we were going to return to London stopping for a couple of days in Bordeaux, France on the way. It was all simply too marvelous.

A week ago today everything fell apart as my darling missus fell and broke her kneecap. Our lives were turned upside down. Yesterday I quit my job to stay home and tend to her. My daughters had alternated staying with her since last week but they have careers to return to. My spouse faces a surgery in about a week and then a long rehab. 

The worst of it all is over for her. There was great pain, there was being loopy on pain meds and there was dealing with the fallout from the fall. She’d spent 11 months meticulously planning our vacation including finding just the right places to stay and mapping out our various train journeys. A woman who never has the blues faced horrible pangs of depression especially as she blamed herself for ruining a vacation I’d so looked forward to.

She’s better now.

So am I.

I was mostly crushed about what she faced and the tedium of being mostly bedridden as she is for now. I also felt the loss of the much anticipated trip.

However darling wife has insisted I still go on the beginning portion of the London part of the vacation and see the football (soccer to you, Yanks) match I have a ticket for. I have not yet fully transitioned from disappointment of the upturned vacation to excitement of the bit of it I get to enjoy but I imagine that will come soon enough.

At the emergency room and the orthopedic office I continued to be impressed by health care workers whether it is a nurse, an x-ray technician, an orthopedic surgeon or even a receptionist. They’re lovely people merely for doing the kind of work they do. Especially given that not all their patients are the most charming, patient, erudite of individuals. Waiting rooms can be depressing places.

I also had a medical appointment yesterday. Went in for an ultra sound that revealed that I have a hernia. This was not a surprise given the preliminary exam at my GPs and my own research after discovering a lump in my lower abdomen. It’s small and for now harmless and the feeling is that I should monitor it (while continuing normal activity). If it starts to change in negative ways then I should  perhaps schedule a surgery. The woman who performed the ultra sound was very nice. She put some warm goo on the area (which is not too far from what I’ll refer to as my private parts) then rubbed a doohickey of some sort over it — as was done when my wife was pregnant -- and looked at a monitor which recorded the images. The whole procedure lasted about seven minutes. One of the easier appointments I’ve ever had.

So there you have it. The latest update from your faithful correspondent. More to come in the coming days as I am free from work — and paychecks. More time to write and read and tend to my significant other. What a lovely woman!

Some of the Films I've Watched Lately a Few of Which I Enjoyed Greatly

The Royal Tenenbaums

The Royal Tenenbaums (2001) Anderson. I unreservedly love this movie. And I loved it all the more with this latest viewing. Dysfunctionality has never been funnier. Gene Hackman as Royal Tenenbaum steals the show with lines like these:

“Anybody interested in grabbing a couple of burgers and hittin' the cemetery?” 

“I'm very sorry for your loss. Your mother was a terribly attractive woman.” 

“I've always been considered an asshole for about as long as I can remember. That's just my style. But I'd really feel blue if I didn't think you were going to forgive me.”

“Chas has those boys cooped up like a pair of jackrabbits, Ethel.”

“Hell of a damn grave. Wish it were mine.”

“You wanna talk some jive? I'll talk some jive. I'll talk some jive like you never heard!”

“Hey, lay it on me, man.” This said when meeting a distinguished African American man. 

Royal, as should be obvious from the above, has a propensity for being totally inappropriate. But it’s not as though he’s surrounded by sanity. His family is a wacky crew. His sons (Ben Stiller and Luke Wilson) are, to put it charitably, eccentric (albeit successful) and his daughter (Gwyneth Paltrow) — who he introduces as his “adopted daughter” — is so far out there you couldn’t find her with a telescope. Attached to the family is more madness such as Raleigh St. Clair (Bill Murray) and Eli Cash (Owen Wilson). Only his ex-wife (Angelica Huston) seems at all normal and only just. This and Rushmore are peak Wes Anderson, for my money only Moonrise Kingdom has matched these two.

The File on Thelma Jordan (1949) Siodmak. Barbara Stanwyck stars opposite Wendell Corey. Wait, what? Wendell Corey the leading man? That can’t be right. He was always the protagonist’s buddy -- notably in Rear Window -- never the main man. Actually Corey  was fine in this picture though it would have been better served with someone else in the lead. Like a leading man. William Holden? Melvyn Douglass? Dana Andrews? Maybe they and others all turned it down. TFTJ is being shown on Criterion Channel as part of their "1950 the Peak Year of Noir" series. There’s always one basic problem with noir: you know the “bad guys” aren’t going to get away with it. The mystery, such as it is, is what is going to trip them up. The plot here is not worth detailing but suffice to say Stanwyck is the villainess though not half as interesting as she is in Double Indemnity. Of course this one wasn’t written and directed by Billy Wilder. TFTJ is a solidly mediocre picture, certainly no waste of time but nothing you’re going to much remember after watching it — unless you blog about it.

The Immigrant (2013) Gray. Simply a terrible movie. The first really bad one I’ve sat through in a long time. Marion Cotillard stars, or rather she goes through the motions. The brilliant Joaquin Phoenix similarly reads his lines and hits his marks. Jeremy Renner plays a thoroughly uninteresting character with little evident enthusiasm. The film starts off dark in confined spaces and one imagines we’re being set up for wide open vistas and large spaces with brilliant light much as John Ford would do. Nope. It stays that way through the entire running time. There is nothing interesting about the film except to imagine why some critics liked it. Cotillard plays an immigrant from Poland in 1921 coming to New York with her ailing sister. It’s a great set up but the rest of the film is a complete disappointment.

The Passenger (1975) Antonioni. Sometimes I amaze myself. Prior to my latest viewing I’d watched The Passenger once before many years ago and didn’t like it. In the intervening years I’ve read and heard so many good things about it that I decided it deserved a second chance. After all, I’d disliked another Antonioni film the first time I saw it (L’Aventurra) and thought it masterpiece after a second viewing. Guess what? Same thing happened with The Passenger. Who was that person who didn’t like it? What a great film! Jack Nicholson stars as a disaffected journalist in North Africa who assumes a dead man's identity. Turns out the recently deceased was running guns for rebels and had some serious enemies. As was his custom, Antonioni took his sweet time in telling the story with long lingering shots that allow the viewer to breathe and think and take in any of the various locales that the protagonist travels through. Maria Schneider co-stars. The Passenger ranks up there with Antonioni's best. The closing scene has got to rank with one of the best endings in cinema.

The Lady Eve (1941) Sturges. One of the ten greatest screwball comedies of all time for me and countless others. Hell, it's one of the great films of all time, period. In Barbara Stanwyck’s great career she was never better. Certainly never funnier nor sexier. Henry Fonda proved here that a great actor can play in any genre as this was a rare foray into comedy for him. A supporting crew of Eugene Palette, Charles Coburn, William Demarest and Eric Blore round out a picture worth seeing again and again. And again.

Prizii’s Honor. (1985) Huston. Such was the state of American cinema in the eighties that this was not only a very popular film but a highly acclaimed one. Honestly it’s not bad but sure ain’t great either. Jack Nicholson shines as always, Kathleen Turner is sultry, as always. Angelica Huston (directed by her Dad) turns in a nice performance (it won an Oscar?) the supporting players are just fine. But Huston who directed some of Hollywood’s great films (Maltese Falcon, Treasure of the Sierra Madre, the African Queen, The Man Who Would Be King, Key Largo) was not in great form in this his penultimate directoral effort and more importantly the script was not up to the actors. The line “do I ice her or do I kill her” is memorable but not much else is in this in one ear and out the other film.

Mirror (1975) Tarkovsky. Critic Antti Alanen called the film a "space odyssey into the interior of the psyche.” That’s as good a description as any. This was my fifth or sixth viewing and I found it just as mysterious, enigmatic and enthralling. It’s like free form jazz on film, hopping from one scene to the next, cutting in actual footage of the Spanish Civil War or a bullfight. A woman floats in mid air. A woman we haven’t seen before upbraids a main character. A barn burns. It’s a puzzle why we’re watching certain things but they are compelling and it makes sense just as it doesn’t. I love this film.

Bernie Gets Out of His Chair, a Short Story

Bernie sat alone in his house, slowly rocking in his rocking chair. The stub of a cigar in one hand the other opening and closing rhythmically to some unheard music. Bernie was staring at his fireplace which was empty of logs and clean, for it was late May and warm outside.

The morning paper was on the end table a few feet away and it kept occurring to Bernie he should read it. He read the paper every morning. Why not this morning too? But the paper seemed miles away. Any effort to pick it up, let alone try to read it seemed incomprehensible. 

Bernie’s cat, Rex, appeared at an open widow and meowed loudly to announce himself before leaping onto the floor. Bernie wondered where the damn cat went when it was gone for hours at a time. Sometimes it brought in a bird. Not today. Rex rubbed against Bernie’s leg then leapt onto his lap. Bernie absently petted the cat who started to purr like an engine. Did the cat love him? Or if they magically reserved sizes would Rex kill and eat him? If Bernie moved out and someone else moved in, wouldn’t Rex be sitting in that person’s lap? Bernie liked that Rex was big. Thought not initially happy about being stuck with Edith’s cat, Bernie was at least happy that it was a sizable beast, not some frou-frou sissy thing.

Damn Edith. It had been almost a year now since she’d left. Moved in for awhile with her sister, Clara, but a few weeks ago Clara told him that Edith had found a fellow and was living with him. Fuck that guy and for that matter fuck Edith. Didn’t like my moodiness, she’d said. What the hell was all that for better or worse stuff about, then? Sorry, Edith, I wasn’t perfect every fucking second of every fucking day. I was also a good provider, a good lover, a good friend. Helped with chores even after working all day. So I got blue sometimes, who doesn’t? I was a damn good father too. Look how while Clyde is doing. I was a damn good role model for him. Never hit the boy. Never yelled at him. Well fuck Edith anyway. Twenty-four years of my life I gave to that woman. Wish I could get it back.

Wonder what Clyde is up to right now. Just started a job at some big company. Hired fresh out of college. Damn good salary. Proud of that boy. Bet he's getting a lot of tail. Just like his old man had. Had. That’s the thing there. It’s all past. What have I got to look forward to now? Collecting pension checks. Making shitty dinners. Going out sometimes. An occasional ball game. Bowling league. Maybe a trip now and again to Tahoe to visit his cousin and gamble a little. No love in his life. Alone most of the time.

Bernie started to rock more vigorously. Rex was having none of it and jumped off. Bernie could feel himself getting more agitated. Depression usually followed. Could take a pill but not before trying to calm himself. The pills relieved the nerves but left him feeling dulled, tired, uninterested. 

Then the vision: In Nam, in the jungle, on patrol, VC in the area. His buddy Lange babbling nervously, the colored fella, Horton, chain-smoking. Then the explosion. The remains of the Lieutenant flying past them. Crenshaw lying on the ground his guts hanging out. Screams. Shouts. Bullets zipping everywhere. Horton, yelling, “I’m hit!” As he fell into the mud. Crouching, aiming but not sure, initially, where to shoot. Finally seeing where the gooks were and opening up on them. Watching a few charge toward them. Hitting one for sure, a bullet tearing through his throat. Thinking, Christ, I did that. For sure I killed another human. Never mind that he was a gook. But he kept firing. Might have killed another. Impossible to tell. So much shouting. All that blood. Horton crying for his mama. Used to be such a tough guy. No one is tough when they’ve been hit and are lying in the mud on the other side of the fucking world. The VC retreating. Relief but mixed with that post engagement adrenaline that seems like it’ll stay with you forever. The terror of what you’ve just seen and what you’ve done and how close you came to dying and how dead some people are that you’d been talking to twenty minutes ago. 

The vision faded. Gone at last. They came when he was somnolent. Vivid. Like he was watching a goddamned movie.

I was alive then. Not like this, not like sitting in a goddamned rocking chair in a house with only a fucking cat for a companion. This is not living.

Bernie thought about the gun in his desk drawer. He thought about the nearly full bottle of pills. They would do the trick. He thought about taking a drive to the bridge and jumping off. But he thought about Clyde. He didn’t want his son to have deal with that. He cared too much about the kid to do that to him. As for Edith: fuck her. Why would she care, anyway? Maybe it wasn’t too late. Bernie’s friend Grady had mentioned his sister being newly single and looking to meet someone. He’d initially dismissed the notion out of hand but maybe he should talk to Grady about it. He’d met her once. About his age. Not bad looking. Might be just the ticket.

The hell with it. Why not? Why was I so dismissive? Aww hell she’s probably met someone else by now. That was, what, a week ago. Maybe. Maybe I should take advantage of opportunities. Not be so dismissive.

That night Bernie gave Grady a call. Yeah, she was still available. Why didn’t Bernie come over for a barbecue on Saturday? He’d make sure Krista was there. She’d been separated from her husband for six months and was finally ready to date. The divorce would be final soon enough. Grady was sure they’d hit it off. She liked bowling and trips to Tahoe too. They’d have plenty in common.

The barbecue went really well. Grady’s wife had confided to Krista that it was a set-up and she didn’t object. Bernie had a nice chat with Krista and they made a date for dinner a few nights later. Bernie had made a point of only drinking beer at the barbecue. Usually he and Grady had a few snorts of whiskey. Bernie took no chances. He didn’t slur his words. Hell, he was pretty articulate. Downright charming. Krista was a healthy, handsome woman. A nurse. She’d be sensitive. Kind. Not like Edith.

That night Bernie — for the first time in awhile — slept like a log. Sure he dreamed about the jungle, the fire fight and some of the other shit he dealt with in Nam, but that was par for the course, never woke him up.

He spent a happy Sunday puttering in his garden during the day and bowling that night. When he got home that night Rex was showing off a rat that he’d made short work of. Bernie was proud of the mighty hunter. He also got a call from his son. Clyde was doing great, had moved into a new condo and was seeing a girl. What a great kid. He told his boy, you’re old man has a date in a few days. Clyde seemed pleased.

Monday morning Edith called about some left over business. Bernie was in such a good mood that he actually had a nice chat with his ex. He even asked about how she was doing. More than that, he told her about his forthcoming date. Edith was clearly happy for him.

Jeez, Bernie thought, sometimes your life can change pretty quickly, if you just get off the chair. All it had taken was a phone call. Yeah, sure, maybe it wouldn’t work out but at least he was trying. Staying in the old ball game. That’s what’s it all about.